#was treated like i was ‘high strung’ for saying so

[wosospacegirl]

Enjoy your treat - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Something about Alexia being a provider makes my legs weak.

a/n: Not really a fic-fic--more like a soft rant because I needed a break from studying virology (send help). It’s messy, unpolished, but full of love for the idea of Alexia casually spoiling you <3

..

Alexia isn’t loud about the fact that she makes bank.

She’s quiet about itt, almost casual–like the way she slips a shopping bag onto the table without a word. You’ll be doing something totally normal, studying on the sofa, reading, journaling, and she just… walks by. 

Drops it. Kisses the top of your head.

And then leaves.

No announcement. No explanation.

The first time it happened, you stared at the sleek black bag like it was going to explode.

“Alexia Putellas,” you called, squinting suspiciously. “What is this?”

She appeared in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, brow raised innocently.

“You said your sneakers were getting uncomfortable.”.

You looked inside.

They weren’t just new sneakers. 

They were handcrafted, limited-edition, in the exact colour you said you liked to wear.

A colour you mentioned once. Half-asleep. Two weeks ago. Sage green.

Alexia shrugged again like it was nothing. It’s never nothing.

She listens. Stores it all somewhere behind that pretty face of hers, waiting for the right moment to use it against you, with love, of course. She just goes around buying stuff and hides them away until she’s ready to give them to you.

It starts to become a thing.

The surprise bags. The quiet kisses. 

The no-comment luxury dropped into your everyday like it doesn’t mean anything.

Until one day, you snap.

You’re tired, high-strung from back-to-back classes, your laptop balanced on your knees and flashcards falling everywhere, when she sets another box down in front of you.

You don’t even look up.

“Alexia,” you say, voice tight. “You don’t have to keep buying me things.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you with that maddening calm of hers, hands in her pockets like she’s done nothing but breathe.

“I have a job, Ale”, you say, sharper this time. “A real one. That pays me, I can buy my own stuff.”

Did you work part-time on an internship that paid you half a living wage? Yes. Could you really buy your own stuff? No. But you didn’t want Alexia to actually know that.

Alexia tilts her head slightly, then speaks, very softly, completely unfazed.

“I know,” she says. “You work because you want to. Not because you need to.”

She leans down, kisses your cheek, and walks out of the room.

You look at the box.

It’s a watch. Sleek, elegant, and, when you look up the model later, worth more than your rent.

 Which you haven’t paid in six months. Because Alexia bought you the flat.

Yes. She bought a whole flat once she learned about the whole rent situation

You tried to argue about that, too. You lost.

Alexia’s love language is acts of service. Providing. Protecting.

If you are getting sick, she’s already called your doctor, moved your meetings, tucked you into bed, and, somehow, gotten your mom on FaceTime even though you definitely didn’t give her that number??

Your period starts? She’s already next to you with painkillers, the most expensive chocolate on the market, and her big warm hands pressed gently to your lower stomach. Like she could draw the pain out of you if she just loved hard enough.

You’re cold? She doesn’t say “go get a hoodie.”

She leaves and comes back with the hoodie—the one you pointed at online and didn’t buy because you were trying to be smart, trying to be careful.

You let her dress you in silence.

And she never, ever asks for anything in return.

You tried to talk her out of it. The gifts. The money.

You argued. You begged. Damn you even cried once.

And so she stopped, kind of.

Instead of new things appearing every day, you started getting silent deposits into your account. Small at first. Then not-so-small.

You didn’t ask for them. You didn’t use them.

You lasted two months. You didn’t use Alexia’s money for two whole months.

“Teimona,” she muttered every time she checked your untouched balance. “Dios mío, you’re so stubborn.”

But then it happened. 

The coffee shop happened. :) 

It was sunny. Warm enough for a jacket but not quite coat weather. You were both in sunglasses, fingers laced, laughing about something dumb when you stepped into the café.

You ordered (Alexia was the one who talked to the man on the counter actually)

Then you sat down and waited.

Alexia reached for her bag, then froze.

“Shit,” she muttered, eyes wide. “I forgot my wallet.”

You blinked. “Oh?”

“I’m going back to get it, I’ll be quick.” She said, already getting up.

“No,” you said, stopping her with a hand on her arm. “Stay.”

She frowned.

And you smiled.

A slow, smug thing.

You reached into your bag. Opened your wallet like it was a grand reveal. 

Slowly. Deliberately.

Alexia narrowed her eyes like she knew she was being played but couldn’t stop it.

“Don’t worry, amor,” you said, too sweet. “It’s on me. Enjoy your treat.”

Her coffee suddenly didn’t taste quite right.

You watched her sip it anyway, expression murderous.

You sat back in your chair, victorious.

And yes, you used her deposit to pay for it. And no, you did not feel bad. 

At least this time.

[earthtooz]

when i was your man | oliver aiku x reader, shidou ryusei x reader

in which: an unlikely candidate comes to replace oliver.

cw: gn!reader who gets fucked over, oliver is an asshole, shidou is WILD and a pathetic loser who wants you badly, toxic relationships, one suggestive line from shidou but who is surprised, description doesn't really capture it all

it was your fault for believing you could change oliver aiku.

when he came blazing into your life with his scruffy appearance, baritone voice, and the smell of leather clinging to him, all of your expectations and assumptions were subverted the moment he flashed you a boyish grin. a budding feeling bloomed in your heart that day, blossoming into something more the more you saw him. 

with every chair he held out for you, every door he opened for you, every coffee date, every conversation that made you felt heard and listened to, every time he asked to see you again, every time he texted you after a date to let you know how much fun he had- it felt like the possibilities were endless with oliver. he had taken your affections and nurtured it into something beautiful, a garden of roses as he tended to each one so delicately. he treated you so delicately. 

so delicately, that you refused to see the first signs of corruption.

your relationship suffered a slow decline, with small things occurring like him no longer planning for dates or booking reservations, telling you to come over instead because he ‘prefers it’ when it’s just the two of you. doesn’t really invite you to his games anymore, doesn’t ask for you to wait near the change rooms so he can see you immediately, doesn’t really want to show you off or let you say anything to his teammates.

the second was blaring in your face, and you should have ran the second you knew about oliver’s extensive dating background. instead, you stupidly did not think too much of it, diving into his honeyed words blind. he reassured you that you were the only one for him right now, and that his eye was on you and you alone, and that was enough. however, whenever you had your back toward him, his ‘loyal gaze’ would wander. 

typically, run-ins with exes never go pleasantly, and when oliver ran into his past relationship with you next to him, you heard something snap. her radiance, her attitude, her smile and grace when she turned to you to introduce herself, a part of what oliver had built within you crumbled.

she was, in the essence of the word; flawless, and you couldn’t help but doubt yourself because of it.

something in him changed the day you met her. he became… distant. not enough that it was obvious for you to cut him off and say your goodbyes, but just enough that it strung you along

you wonder what you did wrong for him to treat you like this. still, hope was abloom in your chest, assuming that it was just the stress of his busy lifestyle that was sinking him under, and because you’re his partner, you should be helping him bear that brunt too, right?

yeah, this was just you bearing his brunt.

and like domino pieces, you went falling down with him. the garden became overgrown, weeds grew through the cracks of your weakening confidence, something sour and vindictive settling in- was it directed towards you, or him? you don’t know, the line began blurring when you heard his friends talking about you behind your back, in the comfort of your own home, and oliver did nothing to ever stop them when you felt too small to defend yourself. 

the last piece crumbled when you were, unsurprisingly, alone under the blankets of your shared bed. you were scrolling through social media, trying to avoid the hollow feeling in your chest when something made you stop.

a video of a woman rearranging the flowers her partner got her, and that’s when it dawns on you. 

he’s never gotten you flowers. not even once.

***

the adrenaline in the change rooms was at an all-time high, filled with sweaty athletes who were all cackling over a sweet victory, celebrating and congratulating each other with resounding slaps on the backs. there’s the sound of clothes rustling, cleats hitting the floor, and showers running as the winners of the match get ready to go out and celebrate their successful season.

oliver, slinging his bag over his shoulder, leaves the change room first so he can meet up with a new chick he’s started talking to, farewelling his teammates who he will see at the bar in an hour.

he was not, however, expecting to see you waiting outside, he had to do a double take to make sure it was actually you and not someone who looked perfectly alike. your hair was down, you were busy on your phone, and there was a jersey in your arms, matching the design of his team’s. 

wow. you broke up with him months ago, and here you are, waiting outside for him, dressed and looking all cute? shit, the thought makes him so prideful, he almost wants to laugh. he doesn’t even need to call out your name because you’re already looking up from your phone, eyes widening when you recognise him. 

“aiku,” you murmur, clinging the jersey tighter to your chest as you hold his gaze. you’re strong, steadfast, confident, exactly like the version of you when you first met, the version he found endearing and charming. “you played well today.”

“thanks. it’s nice seeing you again, what are you waiting out here for?”

you open your mouth to say something, but there’s this wicked howl coming from behind oliver, and it’s followed by a serious of very loud, very obnoxious, and very proud cackles, and you immediately sigh at the sound. 

“y/n!” the voice sings, and of course, it belongs to no one else but shidou; nightmare incarnate, and a menace of a human being.

but he saddles up to you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, looming against you with his impressive figure, leaning on the wall with one arm as he all but cages you in. it’s a terrifying sight, unnatural, in fact. shouldn’t you be slapping him away and calling for a more dignified man like oliver to help?

“hello, shidou,” you greet, expression stern and unchanging. 

oliver wonders if the world is going to end. you? and shidou? friends? or maybe something more? 

no, ‘friends�� don’t lower their faces so close to each other that their noses are centimetres away from touching, but it’s only shidou that tiptoes that line, and he’s looking down at you with something wild in his eyes.

“hey, sweet thing,” the soccer player grins, all bark and bite, but you don’t shrink away. “i see you’ve got my jersey there, did it keep ya warm during the match?”

you huff, pushing it against his chest and shidou removes his hand from the wall to catch the piece of flimsy clothing. “don’t leave your stuff with me, or i’ll burn it next time.” 

“as if you’ll do that. you’re too sweet, sugar, i know you’ll just give it right back,” for some sick reason, shidou’s grin widens when you narrow your eyes at him. “plus it gives me a reason to see your cute face again.” 

you sigh before pushing yourself off the wall. “i’m leaving.” 

“aww, c’mon, not even going to tell me i played well?”

“are you a dog or something?”

you said to oliver that he played well… what’s that supposed to mean for him?

“i love it when you insult me,” shidou shudders, “i could get off on it.”

“freak!” you exclaim before turning around and practically stumbling away, your clumsiness betraying the cool facade you tried to maintain in front of shidou, and of course, he notices this, and begins to follow, hounding after you to close the distance. “don’t leave your stuff with me next time! this is your final warning!”

“aww, sweet thing, come back! i got you flowers!” 

true to his words, in the hand of his teammate, was an expensive-looking, well-arranged bouquet of red roses, and oliver is stunned as he tries to recall what you look like when you receive flowers. happy? delighted? no, none of those, because for some reason, there’s no image that appears in his head, as if there’s a gap in the large weave of memories he shares with you. how could that be? did he not get you flowers at all during the time you were together?

a giggle echoes down the hallway, and this time, oliver knows that it doesn’t belong to shidou. instead, the sound is honeyed, sweet, even in the dreary hallways of the stadium. it’s you who laughs so vibrantly, and if he closes his eyes and thinks for a moment, he can still recall how it sounded when you were in front of him, laughing.

the scent of real, well-nurtured flowers still linger in the air. 

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[eiightysixbaby]

just some brief belated valentine’s nonsense with older!eddie

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing alone on Valentine’s Day?”

His voice comes out with a deep rasp, his hand coming up to light the cigarette he places between his lips.

Your mother always taught you that it’s rude to stare, but in this instance, you can’t help it.

The man beside you must be in his forties, curly brown hair going ever so slightly gray. Salt and pepper scruff decorates his face, giving him a sort of rough-around-the-edges look. His eyes though, soft pools of rich espresso brown, they tell you he might not be as gruff as he first appears.

He’s gorgeous. And you remember that he’s waiting for an answer.

“Guys suck, that’s why I’m here alone,” you tell him, a scoff escaping you. “I’m tired of wasting my time.”

Your response is true; you’re tired of putting up with games, tired of being strung along. You need a man, not a boy.

He’s nonchalant, perched on the barstool beside you. Black leather jacket with black jeans to match, a ring on the smallest finger of his right hand and the index of his left.

“Good for you,” he says, tipping his beer glass out towards you. “Guys aren’t mature enough at your age, promise you it ain’t worth it.”

“I’m twenty five. I’m not, like, fifteen,” you say, finding his comment interesting.

“Yeah, sweetheart, that’s what I assumed. My point still stands.”

You quirk a brow at him, sipping from your glass of wine as you regard him in your peripheral vision. You try not to think too hard about how glorious sweetheart sounded in his subtle drawl.

“If you want a man to treat you right, you gotta go older. Even in their twenties, they have plenty of growing to do.”

He’s not even looking at you as he says it, still feigning that complete nonchalance. Like he didn’t just sit his pretty ass down next to you and suggest you date an older man — someone more like, say, him.

“Oh, really?” you ask, trying to hide your amusement. “How old, would you say?” You twist your body so you’re facing him, your skirt riding up dangerously high on your thighs.

A flood of heat rushes through you when you notice his gaze snag on that very spot, where the fabric ends and the meat of your thighs is exposed.

His dark eyes look up to meet yours, finally. A slight smirk graces his lips.

“I’d say about my age.”

“You know, if you wanted me to get naked with you, you could’ve just asked. We’ve wasted all this time talking back and forth when I could be on my knees in that bathroom already,” you reply bluntly, making his eyes widen slightly. He wasn’t expecting you to take the bait so boldly.

He recovers quickly, though, running a calloused palm over his scruff.

“Oh, sweetheart. That bathroom?” he asks, motioning towards the dingy one in the corner of the bar. He tsks. “You want someone to treat you right, don’t you? Surely you’d rather be spread out on my bed than getting those pretty knees dirty on that floor.”

You swallow, feeling heat pool in the pit of your stomach at the way he looks at you.

He lets his cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth, awaiting a response from you. Suddenly you’re not sure your brain works anymore.

But you want this. You’re sure of that. You want him to take you home, and you don’t even know his name. Screw it though, you deserve to have some fun.

“Inviting me into your bed already? And they say chivalry is dead,” you muse, enjoying the huff of air that leaves his nose in amusement.

“Come on, darlin’,” he says, standing from his seat and extending a hand to you. “Let’s get out of here. I’m gonna show you how Valentine’s Day is really done.”

[the-californicationist]

Brisance (1/2)

When Johnny MacTavish finds the woman of his dreams, he didn't expect her to be strapped with ten pounds of C-4... but he kinda likes it. Or: How Johnny MacTavish learned to stop worrying and love the bombmaker...

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2

Brisance

— August —

Ghost sighed, knocking his bootheel on the edge of the desk where he was perched, smoking his last cigarette, and scrolling through Reddit threads, bored to death and letting everyone know about it. 

“I can hear ye, Ghostie. I’ll jus’ be a wee bit longer,” Johnny called out over his shoulder. 

His masked lieutenant sighed audibly. He thought Soap looked ridiculous in that lighted, magnifying headset, the plastic lenses making his big blue eyes look like saucers. The sergeant had been hunched over an inert explosive device and its mechanical guts for the better part of four hours now, inspecting every inch of the thing, commenting on technical mambo jumbo that Simon hadn’t ever heard - or cared - about. Bombs were not his forte. He knew how to set one, and he knew how to avoid them, but that was about it. 

Soap let out a low whistle of admiration, and Ghost rolled his eyes, knowing some brainy quip was coming next about the “detonation velocity” or the “elastomer bonding” or whatever demolitionist jargon he was moved to speak on. 

“Innit tha’ the bonniest thing there ever was, mate?” Johnny crooned, sounding like a proud father. 

“Does this one kill us real special-like?” Ghost snarled, tired of Soap’s preening exploration of this device.

“You dinnae understand, LT. This is… well, it’s the bloody Mona Lisa of IEDs.”

“Come off it.”

“No, I’m serious. Come see,” Johnny moved his chair over to show off the open, black box where the device’s innards were housed, pointing to a series of tightly-strung wires and cables, “Ye ken how the last one cut through three layers of concrete at the Kadurin silos?”

“Aye,” Simon sauntered over, peering into the mess of wires, trying to divine what his sergeant was seeing.

“See this block here? It would take ten times the RDX to get a high enough brisance to pound through all three layers at once,” Soap sounded like a kid at Christmas, “But, look at how this bastard staggered his fuse layers. He used a visco fuse, cut it like a flying fish, and only had to send one electric match to charge it! Bloody fuckin’ brilliant.”

“English, MacTavish,” Ghost groaned, “Please…”

“This wee box survived because it contains the initial housing, but the bomb itself was in the fuckin’ room, not the detonation package.”

The lieutenant furrowed his brow, taking one last drag of his cigarette, and begging Johnny to clarify,

“So, you’re sayin’ that the bomber was in the cafe before the device was planted?”

“Aye,” Johnny’s eyes got even wider, comical when set behind his magnified lenses, “And tha’s not it. They made this box to last. Someone is sendin’ us a message.”

“What does it say?” Ghost looked back into the wires, expecting them to spell out H-E-L-L-O or F-U-C-K-O-F-F. 

“I dinnae ken. Not yet. But, I think he left me a clue.”

“A clue? The fuck…”

“See this? This is a visco fuse alright, but it’s Cordtex, and its got traces of collodion.”

Johnny was waiting on the edge of his seat, buzzing with anticipation, praying for Ghost to have the same, nearly-orgasmic eureka moment that he was. And yet, bored dark eyes glared down at him, waiting for the punchline. So, Soap gave it to him,

“He’s makin’ these from scratch. And,” Soap ripped off the headset and stared down into the box in amazement, “I think he’s a Brit. He could’ve just used any old visco fuse, but he didn’t. He went bloody far out of his way to make these, and I wonder…”

The headset slid back on and Johnny returned to the device, picking around the mechanisms like a dog hunting for a treat, sniffing his way around for anything to chew on. 

“British,” Simon hummed, “Hm, I’ll tell Cap. Maybe he can get Laswell to send it off for testing.”

Soap didn’t respond. As Ghost left the room, he called back over his shoulder, 

“Don’t stay up all night, Johnny. Got PT at 0430.”

“Mm-hm…” Soap replied, not bothering to look up when Ghost finally made his exit, too busy making eyes at his one true love: a beautifully crafted bomb. 

— October — 

The ticking was the worst part, but as he stared down into the blackness of a rigged, plastic tote, Johnny almost wished he would have something to keep him company, even some of that infernal ticking sound that should be happening. But, it wasn’t. The room was silent like the grave, and if Johnny made one wrong move, it would become his own. 

A voice crackled through his headset,

“Five minutes, thirty seconds.”

Gaz was keeping count for him, checking in at regular intervals, his voice trembling from the stress. Johnny wished he wouldn’t worry. This was a timebomb, yes, but it needed input. Someone was waiting for something, and if he could figure out what, maybe he could stop it.

“Aye, any movement from overwatch?”

A short pause and then his lieutenant’s voice came through, 

“Negative.”

This bomb was truly a piece of work. There was no indicator, and in fact, no traceable fuse. All of the ignition was internal to the RDX modules, and there were eight of them altogether, each with its own unique housing. Johnny had disarmed five of the eight, and he was working on number six as quickly as he could. 

The bombmaker had a great deal of skill, but so did Soap, and it was less of a race than it was a fluid, complicated, one-sided conversation. With every choice in material and fuse design and chemical agent, the bombmaker was telling Johnny all about himself. 

The Semex block and guncotton in housing three, wrapped in flash paper and copper-coated fuse links? This bloke had access to high-quality chemicals. The wooden housing and saltpeter dusting in number five? When he didn’t have access to those high-quality chemicals, he was resourceful enough to know how to make do without them. The way the fuse line lay independent from the center of each housing, and yet initiated from different grafting points? Making bombs was more than just a hobby. The bastard was designing these devices like challenges, giving Johnny puzzle after puzzle, testing his abilities. 

Soap should have been angry, but he wasn’t. In fact, this particular model of IED hadn’t taken a single life. The bombed buildings were strategically placed against Makarov’s forces, almost as if this terrorist was on a mission of rebellious freedom. The Russian oligarch’s people were fighting back against their own leader, rejecting his authority. This was the work of a highly intelligent man out for justice, not a simple murderer. 

Johnny had spent the last two months discovering more and more about this particular insurgent, and now that he could see the pattern of his behavior, Soap was more likely to label him as a true freedom fighter. Laswell didn’t seem to care about labels, but Johnny felt like he almost had the captain convinced. 

“This might be someone we could pull to our side, Cap’n,” Johnny had suggested.

“Just make sure you end the day with all your fingers still fuckin’ attached, lad. How about that?” Price had sniped, but it was toothless. Johnny knew he was starting to see the pattern, too.

Staring down at his hands, all ten fingers still hard at work, he marveled at the commitment to craft in everything from the fuses to the housing shells. The sergeant cut through blocks of C-4 in cubes six and seven before Gaz had given him a seven-minute warning. As he inspected housing number eight, Johnny almost felt disappointed that he and the maker of these bombs would never meet. The things he could learn from an artist like this… 

A green laser trembled and danced in front of his face, pointing directly to the bottom of the eighth block. Johnny’s eyes shot up, finding the source right away. Through the window, a cloaked figure crouched on the roof, dressed all in black, tucked behind an air vent, their eyes pinned to him as he gaped in disbelief. 

It was him. The bombmaker was here. 

“Overwatch, target at eleven o’clock, south rooftop, copy,” Johnny’s voice gave away their position, and as soon as he heard the confirmation from Ghost, his ears also picked up on a soft, almost delicate ticking sound. Gunshots popped wildly outside, and the bombmaker disappeared, his body lithe and quick, avoiding danger and leaving Johnny to die at the hands of his creation. 

As quick as he could, Johnny cut through the eighth housing, searching for the fuse. But, he came up empty. Then, he remembered where the laser had been pointing. He turned the dark layer over and saw a hole in the RDX material. On nothing but instinct, he cut down into it and hit something solid. The housing broke open to reveal a wristwatch. 

There was no fuse. And all of the other housings had been rendered inert, so there was no danger. 

Why would the bombmaker start the timer without anything to blow? Johnny’s mind swam with possibilities, and then he turned the watch over to inspect the back. Written in big, bold pen, Soap saw the letters JFM on the dull metal. His initials. John Fergus MacTavish. Not even Ghost knew his middle name.

Suddenly, Johnny heard more ticking. It sounded like a collection of clocks had just come to life. He dug around in the box, finding it empty, but he discovered the final clue too late. A small lip on the edge of the crate hinted at another layer of explosive material, hidden from plain sight.

“Shite! Fall back!” He shouted.

There was a false bottom, and when Johnny pulled it up, he discovered ten more tightly-packed Semex blocks that were fused up together with that same Cordtex line, ready to explode. All over the plasticine blocks, the letters JFM were cut into the material, recurring like an endless pattern. As he looked down at his initials littering the bomb he was trying to diffuse, his head swam with confusion. But, there was no time for that.

Johnny slammed the lid shut and bolted, running for cover. His legs burned as they hauled him out of the stone building, his feet sinking into the dirt and sand outside of the door. Soap could see the cover wall, and he dug in, using every bit of strength he had to reach it and scale it before he was just a stain on the dirt. He barely made it, and as he tumbled behind the sturdy wall, he could feel the searing heat of the blast on his back and legs. It felt like needles were stinging his skin; it was so hot. 

A few moments went by, and although the world was quiet for Johnny, he knew that was just the hearing loss. In fact, he understood that the reality was quite the opposite. As he looked up, he saw Price stomping over to him. The captain was yelling something, but his voice couldn’t reach his ears. All he could see was the bearded man hollering and carrying on with a wrathful look on his face. Then, bits and pieces came through. 

“... could’ve… killed… fuck.. thinkin’... Johnny?!”

Price tried again, pulling his sergeant up from the floor by his gear vest, 

“Do you hear me? What the fuck was that? Almost lost you, boy. Jesus Christ!” Captain Price sounded like he was underwater, but at least the words were coming through. 

“Sorry, sir. But, I needed to find the last clue,” Johnny held up the watch as if it was his well-deserved trophy.

“You were almost the last clue, you bloody idiot,” Price ran his hand through his hair and knocked his boonie hat onto his shoulders, totally exasperated. 

Soap knew he should feel guilty, or at least a little fearful, but everything was different, now. After the realization that the bombs were designed specifically for him, Johnny found himself actually looking forward to the next one. 

— November — 

The mission had gone sideways right from the start. Their comms had been nothing but staticky garbage while they were clearing out the Kotovo Blocs, trying their best to evacuate civilians while simultaneously managing Makarov’s squadrons. It was a crapshoot every time they opened another door. Half the time, a mother and her children rushed out screaming, and the other half, they were greeted by bullets. 

Even worse, they’d been separated by a particularly nasty collection of smoke-filled pipe bombs. It was nothing nasty, but it was enough of a hindrance that they’d lost formation. The plan was to regroup at an abandoned fueling station one klick southeast of their current position, and that’s where Johnny was heading. He tried to connect on comms again, but all he got was soft static. 

“Ghost, Gaz come in! Bravo-seven to Bravo-actual. Do you copy?”

No one replied. He was flying solo. His senses were on high alert, and all of his movements were carefully calculated, measured, and aligned to his new mission: survive.

Luckily, Makarov’s men had been retreating, and there was enough gunfire to scare off most of the civilians, but it was still a long way to the fuel station. 

Suddenly, in his ears, he heard a voice loud and clear.

“Bravo-seven, huh? I think we both know that’s not your name, soldier.”

Johnny’s mind reeled. It was a woman’s voice. She had a sort of blended accent, something he’d heard all of Laswell’s spies use so that no one would be able to tell where they were from. 

“Who is this?” He asked, checking his six and making sure to stay tucked below the window ledge. It would make moving through the bloc much slower, but if someone was in a sniper position, he couldn’t take any chances. 

“Mm,” she whined, “You wound me, Mr. MacTavish. I thought you’d know me by now, especially after I left you that little gift basket in Levin.”

Soap stopped in his tracks, whispering even though he was very much alone,

“It’s you…”

Her voice turned sinister,

“Vladimir is mine. Stay out of Kotovo. You’re too handsome to be in more than one piece.”

The noise in his headset went dead and he knew that she was gone. When he saw movement out of the corner of his eye – a flash of a black cloak, tattered and torn like a destitute comic book hero – Soap looked to the rooftop to find her. 

The moment his eyes met her face, she pulled back her hood to reveal her eyes, piercing and furious, and a full, pouting mouth. When she caught him gaping at her, crouching far out of cover and in a state of pure shock, her lips turned up into a slight smile before she jumped down the opposite side of the bloc building, disappearing into the pelting snow.

“... –vish! Co– … John– where ar– … Johnny!”

“LT?” Johnny tried to listen in to his comms, ducking back under the window and rushing out of the building, “I found her. In pursuit west north west to the docks.”

“What? Soap, we need to RV at the fueling st–”

“There’s no time! I cannae let her get away.”

“Wha’dya mean her?” Gaz asked, interrupting their back and forth, “The terrorist is a fuckin’ bird?”

“Aye,” Johnny panted, running flat out through the thick snowfall, chasing her across the parking lot of the bloc complex, “Bonnie as fuck, too.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind, MacTavish?! Get the fuck back to RV. Tha’s a bloody order!” The captain demanded. 

“Aye, sir. Be there in two shakes.”

Johnny muted his mic and ignored the protests from the other end of the comm line. They were coming for him, predictably, so if things did go south, he knew he’d have some backup. 

Suddenly, just as his wee birdie was making her way down the main road to the docks, gunfire popped across her path. On instinct Johnny raised his weapon and returned fire, getting her attention. She peered over her shoulder at him, surprised that he was not shooting at her instead, and pulled her handgun to help him take down the small group of Makarov’s men who were advancing on their position. 

Enemy squads were in direct pursuit, and it was hard to tell if Soap or the bombmaker was their main target. It didn’t matter, in the end. Johnny took out the first squad in a matter of moments, barely reducing his speed to return fire, but there were two stragglers from the second squad, hidden behind a small electrical shed, popping off stray shots in her direction. 

He altered his course, but she stopped him in his tracks. She’d shot at the ground right in front of him, keeping him away from the shed. Soap slowed, but he changed back to his original path, not understanding her motive. It wasn’t until he saw a blinding, golden blaze of fire erupt out of the electrical housing and felt the shockwave of her bomb rattle around in his chest that he understood why she had stopped him. 

“Holy fuck…” he breathed.

Her teasing voice cut through his comms, silencing the chatter from the 141,

“Did ya like that, baby?”

Soap peeled his gaze away from the fiery explosion and found her perched behind a shipping container about fifty meters ahead of him. She was breathing hard, and her body was tense, but she was looking straight at him, a clever smile pasted across her mouth. 

He smiled back,

“Tha’ was bloody beautiful, lass.”

Then, her eyes left him, turning back to her path towards the boat slips, and her tone became resigned,

“You can’t come with me, soldier.”

The line went dark. She had cut his entire communication. He couldn’t even hear Price barking orders anymore. Soap peeled the buds out of his ears and let them hang down by his throat mic. Still, he pursued her. He wasn’t going to give up that easy. 

He was also gaining on her. She was trying her best to weave between shipping crates and huge piles of knotted ropes, but it was no use. He was faster, stronger, and by the time he was ten paces away, she knew she was caught. Suddenly, she ducked into a rundown storage building and disappeared into the room. 

Johnny followed right behind, ignoring his training to stop, assess, and plan his ingress. 

He came into a large, nearly empty room. At the far end, the ceiling was missing from the roof and it cast pale sunshine down into the open area. It illuminated two large wooden crates where his fiery little bird was sitting, waiting for him. The floor was covered in sand and snow, and he couldn’t see the boards beneath his boots. It was like there was no floor at all. The outside was inside, and the destroyed roof let in the wilderness where there should have been cold, clean civilization. 

Johnny stopped in his tracks, holding his gun at the ready position, staring up at her like she was the winged Nike, shaken by her power and amazed by her beauty. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Her lips were pillowy and expressive, her eyes full of her sharp intellect, her body soft with curves yet heavy with muscle… to mix her stunning appearance with her phenomenal talent with demolition engineering seemed almost blasphemous. No one woman could be so perfect, and yet…

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Her voice was soft like rain, and it hit his skin in the same way, leaving little drops of its effect behind to remind him of it. 

“Why?” He asked, standing very still as if any movement might scare her off again. 

“I’m going to a place where no one ever comes back from. Alone. Vladimir Makarov killed my sister, and he has to pay for that. I will make him pay.” 

As she finished her explanation, she smiled in a sorrowful, resigned way, understanding that she was on a suicide mission but unwilling to change her course. 

“He will, bonnie. We willnae let him get away this time. You have my word,” Johnny promised her, earnestly. 

“My hero,” she teased. Then, after a short pause, she asked, “Do you have a sister, Mr. MacTavish?”

“Aye. Three wildlings, in fact,” he had taken no truth serum and yet it came pouring out of him anyway. 

“Bridgette, Maggie, and Jenny…” She reported back, “All older than you, right?”

Johnny’s heart stopped in his chest, 

“How’d you –”

“When a handsome, young, black ops soldier comes in and defuses a sixteen stage daisycutter that I designed myself, I make sure to learn a thing or two about him. And,” she unzipped her jacket and began to pull it off of her shoulders, “I also know that a man like that, a man with sisters… is not the kind of man who just gives up.”

“No, lass. I willnae give up. Let me help you. If we… oh, Christ,” Johnny watched in horror as she pulled the jacket the rest of the way off to reveal an intricately woven vest packed with explosives with perfectly laid Cordtex wires winding in and out of each of the housings, live and ready to blow. 

“Hands up!” Price’s voice echoed through the empty room as he, Gaz, and Ghost filled in the space behind their sergeant, guns pointed right at her, their red laser sights dancing on her chest like fireflies. 

Johnny held out his hand with the signal to halt, and everyone froze. She, however, slid off of the crate and walked over to him, little white flecks of snow sticking to her hair and cheeks, taking each step slowly and deliberately. As she got closer and closer, Soap could smell her sweat, heady and musky, and he could hear her breaths, hanging on each of her exhales like it was some heavenly edict, memorizing the pace of them like it would unlock all of the world’s many secrets, a passcode to the truth. 

She whispered, inches from his open mouth, 

“You can help me,” she put her hands on his neck, using her thumbs to rub against the scruff of his five o’clock shadow, letting the stiff hairs burn under her touch, “By staying the fuck out of my way.”

Despite the warning timbre of her voice, she was open and pliant for him, letting her lips hang open slightly, like she was expecting his kiss. Johnny leaned toward her, his mouth slotting across hers, tasting her on his tongue and moving his body into her space. He ignored the danger, well aware of the fact that she was strapped with enough Semtex to blow a city block into a dirty crater, and he kissed her deeply, as if they had been lovers for years, as if this was not their first touch. 

She stepped back, pulling away from him, and he took a step forward to follow. 

Click.

Time stopped. Johnny’s skin flashed hot and then cold, all of the adrenaline he had left flooding his system. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” She chided him, backing away while he remained frozen in place, “Sit… stay…” Then, that same sad smile, “Good boy.” 

She climbed up on the crate and escaped through the hole in the roof before any of them could react to what had just happened. 

Captain Price gave an order to Gaz,

“Go after her!”

“No!” Johnny protested, “All of you, get the fuck out of this room. I stepped on a wee mine, and if I know her, this whole dock will be at the bottom of the bloody ocean the moment I lift my boot.”

Ghost came up behind him, shifting his feet carefully through the sand, searching for secondary devices. Then, he used his pneumatic tool to blow the snow away from Johnny’s left foot to reveal the device. 

“Well, she got you fair and square, didn’t she, Johnny? I’ll tell your mum you died a hero’s death,” there was a joking tone in Ghost’s voice that made Soap peer down at the toe of his boot. 

He had stepped on an empty soda can. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny sighed, feeling the tingle of relief skitter through his limbs. 

Then, panic again as Price’s voice growled darkly behind him,

“I should send you on the first flight back to Glasgow with your papers in your fuckin’ hand, boy. What the hell are you doin’, MacTavish? You’ve got one fuckin’ chance to explain yourself before I replace you with a damn bomb robot. At least then I won’t have to write a letter home when he gets blown to bits.”

“I put a tag in her pocket, Cap’n. Should be able to watch her on the SAT-NAV now. She already mapped where Makarov’ll be next. I think we should help her.”

“What’s your deal with her? Are you…” Gaz asked, bewildered by his friend’s unusually careless behavior.

“I dinnae ken how to explain it, but I need to see this through.”

Price’s exhausted sigh was the only response he received, but Johnny knew that the silence was a form of assent. They would help him, and he would help her, if only he could get to her before she did anything too permanent.

Chapter 2

AO3 Link

[cosmica-galaxy]

Had an idea for a story for a long time that I shared with some friends and thought I'd share with you...it's sorta based off the stories of y/n turning into a cookie but more...realistic and bloody and with more potential for hurt/comfort.

Imagine if the reader was a human the cookies adored (lore for this if you want, y/n acts like a gentle giant and just observes the cookies and stays far away so they don't hurt anyone but when cookies do approach em...they are kind and gentle. Like treat everything as if it was as fragile as a butterfly, beliving living sweets shouldnt be eaten but loved...just like the witch who created earthbread in witch's castle) and they decide to bring y/n to their world...y/n being a human living with the witches or is a witch themselves... so the cookies enact a plan to bring y/n to themselves...

Y/n wakes up one night to cookies in their home...no big deal right? Maybe they came to say hello...they try to get up buuuuut quickly realized: the cookies found a way to tie them down!

That's when y/n notices the knife the cookies have on a rope over their bed...cue screams of terror, flood of apologies for whatever they did to the living cookies, begging not to die then...knife drops right onto y/n's throat. Dead...

...cookies use moon Magic to grab y/n's soul and, using the discovery of how to make living cookies thanks to matcha and butter roll, transfer the soul into dough...then bake it...but make sure to pull it out before y/n wakes up because they didn't want y/n to feel the terror of running out of an oven.

Later...y/n wakes up in the hospital, surrounded by cookies constantly checking their vitals and making sure nothing went wrong during the transformation or anything. Y/n is confused, ofcourse: they just died so how are they alive? Where are they? Why are the cookies suddenly human si-

They notice a reflective surface...HOLY SH- THEY ARE A COOKIE! cue panic and stuff...

Later on...can imagine the cookies would flock to try to help y/n walk again (even offer to carry them and stuff)...ofcourse they will have cookies helping them with the mental terror of being murdered by the sweets you love because they wanted to do the phrase 'one of us'...

And yeah...curious what you think of this and your take on this concept lol!

Just the concept of a human in their world is intresting...but what if the cookies want you to be one of them AND stay in their world? Yeah this method is a little more...bloody. but hey, the witches that were turned into cookies did so to be saved from death in witch's castle so...

This is a very interesting concept indeed! It's kind of a like a more violent version of Pokemon Mystery Dungeon, in which Y/N remembers being human and knows that the cookie they are in isn't their real body. I think in relation to this concept--I personally believe that this version of Y/N would be more prone to corruption/falling to darkness because they believed that cookiekind had betrayed them. If you gave nothing but love and kindness to a race that eventually murders you against your will, I think anyone would be spiteful or grieving in response to such a horrific act. Plus, since they still have a witch soul inside of them, I think the difference in power-level would interfere with their body or how they manage their magic abilities. I imagine that their mana would leak through their dough and be painful to a certain degree. They would probably have less control over their powers in a smaller body and high-strung emotions can cause flare ups or damage to their form. That's not even going into if they miss their old human form. Which has either rotted away or turned into a skeleton by that point, which doesn't help their grief. I envision that they would be rather reclusive and reluctant to trust cookies after what they did to them. Because their story is a sad one, a tragedy in it's own right, and if Y/N feels justified in lashing out at the cookies who did such harm to them...well, we may have another beast or raging witch cookie on their hands. But, I digress. I really enjoyed this bit of lore and story from you! Thank you for sharing it with me! <: )

[storiesofthev01d]

You Thought Wrong

Pairing: OPLA Sanji x Fem Male Reader

Summary: The flirty waiter mistakes you for a woman. Might as well amuse them, no?

TW: none

Word Count: 1.9K

A/N~ Testing is OVER. And I way overthought this. Apologies for the messy writing, it's not proofread, and I might've gotten a bit lazy with the writing at points. Thank you for reading!!

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

You had been apart of this strange crew for... about a week now, you'd like to say. They had offered you a place alongside them when they had crashed into the tiny island you had always called home. The captain, Luffy, had seemed to watch you throughout that day, the idea of you joining him solidifying when he saw you sitting at a campfire, ukulele in hand and children surrounding for the stories and songs you were known for. You kept a simple beat as you told of pirates who had traveled both land and sea, watching the expressions of the young beings. You loved seeing so many different views on the stories you told- some fearful, some in awe. They were curious and wary as you grinned in the firelight, your hands moving dramatically and the story moving like a fast paced river. In the corner of your eye you could see the Strawhat pirates, the way some of them watched you. A slight shiver coursed through you, feeling as if you were being... judged. Considered.

So now here you sat. At a table at what must be the fanciest restaurant you've ever been to, your uke strung across your front like a sidebag. The casual chatter yet obvious high-class amongst the crowded eatery easily made you and your crew feel out of place. But nobody else of your party seemed to mind, which was a tad comforting.

You sat in between Nami and Usopp. While she and Zoro were quiet, Usopp and Luffy definetly weren't.

"No, no, I'm *telling* you. The flags gotta be something scarier!"

"Our flags plenty scary! And it represents *us-*"

The two's bickering was quickly hushed by a swift crash of two men falling to the floor, their eyes darting over to see a man of blonde standing casually above the two, tray still in hand as he regained himself a split moment.

"No cause for alarm, folks. Please enjoy your meals."

Luffy looked back at Usopp, that signature smile of his as his eyes danced with a certain light that hinted of promise. "Good fighter."

You watched with a slightly surprised quiet as the waiter approaches, the fork your were boredly fidgeting with now still in your hand.

"Hi, welcome to our shitty restaurant where the only thing worse than our ambiance is our food. My name is Sanji. What can I get for you?" The waiter's- Sanji's- voice spoke with a barely noticeable huff, as if already tired of the day despite the smooth smile that played his lips.

Your captain gave a quick, 'one of everything, please!' and your initial surprise of the moment was disregarded, turning the fork in your hand once more as your friends ordered. The waiter, though, seemed much more than your common server. His attention was soon turned to Nami who sat beside you, flirting and giving over-the-top offers much unlike how he treated the rest of the crew.

"-something sweet for someone sweet," The man smiled, and you turned away to give a badly disguised laugh as a cough. Sanji's eyes flicked over to you, still holding that flirty smile as you bit back your amusement at the waiters' flirting.

"Ah, and of course, you as well, ma'am," he spoke politely, though you could hear the subtle hint of confusion at the last word. Your lip twitched up as you recomposed yourself, also seeing the downplayed amusion of your crew noticing the waiter having though you were a woman.

'*Why not play on with this? Might get us a free meal,*' you bemused yourself, so you refrained from correcting him, rather shifting to look more feminine.

"I'll just take a water, thank you, doll," You hummed sweetly, your head resting on your hand propped up.

"Still, sparkling, mineral? With ice or without? Cubed or crushed?" He returned, repeating what he had said for Nami. His eyes didn't leave yours, as if waiting for you to trip up in someway so he could so elegantly come to rescue.

Admittedly, you didn't know the difference. Not really. But the man seemed to type to appreciate a more 'refined women', so who were you to disappoint?

"Mineral, and without ice," You said after basically no consideration.

Sanji's eyes contained a faint spark of interest, his lip twitching up a moment before giving a small bow. "Right away, madam."

The crew fell quiet, watching the waiter walk away, before you felt their eyes on you. It didn't take long for everyone to dissolve to a fit of snickers.

"'Madam'?" Zoro teased with a rare smile while you faked a look of innocence.

"What? I can't enjoy a bit of flirting every now and then?" You spoke simply, jokingly twirling a piece of hair. You couldn't really blame Sanji for thinking you were a woman. Your hair had gotten quite long compared to how you usually have it- now a bit lower than your shoulders. Plus, you were always told you had that sort of confusing charm. Nobody could really tell what you were.

Nami playfully nudged you, a wide smile on her face as she glanced at the waiter coming back with the beverages. "That's actually so mean. I can't wait to see how it turns out."

The blonde reappeared then, balancing a tray on his hand with the ordered beverages, a soft smirk as if trying to prove he could treat a woman right. Which was obvious. You didn't know him much, but like- his *vibe*. Green flag right there.

"Drinks for the madams," he hummed, placing Nami's and your's water in front of you with a gentle bow, before adding, with slight distaste, "-and company."

▪︎●•°○○°•●▪︎▪︎●•°○○°•●▪︎▪︎●•°○○°•●▪︎▪︎●•°○

You stiffled a groan on the boardwalk, holding your head and wondering where your crew was. Your mind felt fuzzy after taking that hit- you could take a punch, but wow, those fishmen weren't messing around-, having knocked you down for a good few seconds. Hopefully only a few seconds. Right?

You ignored the throbbing in your head and chest, forcing yourself to focus. Your crew.

Zoro was still... resting from that stupid cross with what you assumed was a bounty hunter, Mihawk, and Usopp was likely hiding. Nami had- betrayed you? The thought felt sour in your mind, as if lying to yourself, but no. You saw the tattoo. Plus, the scene infront of you didn't help her case either.

A bit away from you on the deck, you saw Luffy struggling in the grasp of the fishman, Arlong, holding him over the water. A sick grin rested on the larger person's face, his eyes dancing with a light of sick mischief as if already considered which ways he wanted to toy with your captain's life. Nami stood beside Arlong, her body and emotions controlled alike that of a soldiers.

You couldn't hear what their words, but whatever Nami said convinced the indigo-tinted creature to not brutally murder him his own way. Instead, he hold Luffy farther out to the water, before releasing him to the ocean below.

Your breath hitched as the salty water splashed on the wood of the deck, bubbles of air flicking up, but no Luffy.

The freezing temperature of the blue quickly grabbed your attention, all possible sounds muffled- or maybe that was just your panic. Seeing Luffy fall into the water pushed you into an automatic movement, throwing yourself in- not so elegantly- after him. Your arm hooked around his waist, failingly trying to convince yourself *'he'll be fine, he'll be fine, he'll be fine,*' even as you saw his eyes start to close and his breath fade, the stillness an eerie promise that stole your calm.

The break of air welcomed you as you pushed Luffy, then yourself, onto the pier with the help of Usopp pulling you up, only momentarily noticing the fact he seemed lighter. You were only focused on making sure the almost-drowned person was alright, fully ready to perform CPR if needed. You had shed your flannel, drying off Luffy even as he coughed up water and began to sit up on his own.

"You're a guy..?" You heard beside you, a small feeling of self-consciousness as you realized the person beside you. The chef from before, who had helped patch up Zoro, was currently soaking beside you. You blinked at him, realizing he must have aided in getting Luffy out if the water, which would explain why he felt lighter. Still, your bare chest now exposed felt off-putting, so you looked away and huffed out, "Does now seem the time for that?"

Sanji's eyes dashed away, an awkward apology on his tongue though interrupted from your captain.

"Where's...Nami?"

▪︎●•°○○°•●▪︎▪︎●•°○○°•●▪︎▪︎●•°○○°•●▪︎▪︎●•°○

The repeated, soft clicks of your hand tapping your ukulele was one of the few sounds that could be heard beside the crashing of waves against the ship and the whistle of wind running through the sail. It was abnormally quiet for the crew, reflecting their confidence on their newest mission- to find Nami. You know your captain hoped to get her back, but your captain was... a bit too optimistic in your eyes, sometimes. Yet even he looked affected by Nami's betrayal. You could see him on the opposite side of the deck from where you sat, beside the chef, whom was currently leaning against the railing of the ship, awaiting a bite with a fishing pole in hand.

Briefly, you heard a small commotion of Zoro and the damned clown head you had to bring, for he was the only one who had any idea where Nami could be. The latter had begun to sing, though soon to be cut off with a soft 'thud' accompanied with the closing of a barrel, and quiet greeted the ship once more.

Eventually, the crew began to drift to their sleeping quarters, leaving yourself, the moon, and the stars. In your focus, at least. After a moment of consideration, you picked up a simple beat on the stringed instrument after only tapping the wooden body. You took a slow breath, choking on the air in surprise when you heard Sanji speak.

"You always try to surprise people when you first meet them?" The chef spoke, his eyes still on the sea, fishing pole still in hand. It seemed pointless at this point, with how long he'd been doing it and yet to get a bite, but you weren't one to talk.

Your fingers faltered on the strings, though continued after a moments hesitation. "I could say the same for you. Why, you thought I was pretty?" You tease, a small smile playing your lips as your eyes linger on the silky drifting of the moon hung so far in the sky.

A beat, then two. You take note of the chef's lack of response, glancing at him to watch the way he shifts on his feet. You weren't sure which way to take his silence, but then again, you were a bit too tired to care. You hum, before ending the quiet tune and sitting up with a small sigh.

"Well, then. Reckon we best get some sleep, then. It's certainly gonna be a day tomorrow."

[thesassypadawan]

Nurse Stephen, Mr. Glass (Stephen x FemReader)

Summary:  You’ve been begging your boyfriend for a boo basket for Halloween this year and he certainly didn’t disappoint…

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there sooo much of the smut.  Switch, sub/dom nerd, adorable nurse, handy, fun from behind, and… Stephen’s cute, big dick.

Notes: Happy Kinktober all you, lovelies! 🖤🧡

- Slowly you shed your clothes.  Wicked smile spreading across your face.  Eyes hungrily looking him up and down, taking in the ghoulishly delightful sight before you…   

- Dozens of flickering candles and pumpkin lights, placed and strung throughout the room.  All your favorite candies lay scattered on the bed, along with… 

- Your sweet boy…sat patiently waiting on his knees… faint dusting of pink on his cheeks…dressed up in the skimpiest, most darling nurse costume…cute, chubby cock peeking out and leaking from underneath the skirt…big bow tied and knotted at its base…  “You…you've been BO-BOO'd."

- “Awe, baby,” you coo, coming to kneel before Stephen.  Your hands resting on his firm chest; giving each pec a gentle squeeze through the thin, sheer fabric.  Length bobbing in response, a soft whimper falling from his plump lips.  “I love it…the perfect little treat.”

- “Real…really?”  He stammers, watching your fingers intently as they descend.  Fiddling with the red laces, the top of his thigh-high.  Snapping the lacey band, drawing out a small squeak.  “You d-do?”

- Leaning forward, pressing a kiss to his nose.  “Yeah, such a thoughtful gift…”  Loosely you wrap them, slide your thumb over the prominent veins that lace around his girth.  Stroking slowly, pausing at his flushed, pretty pink tip.  To spread, coat it in the glistening beads; adding a glob of your own spit for extra measure.  “…such a good boyfriend.”

- “I t-try.”  The words come out more like a groan; adam’s apple bobbing deliciously, tantalizing.  From the sensation of you picking up the pace, grip tightening.  Slick sound of saliva and pre against your palm filling the air, while it drips down…splatters on the sheets and assorted confectionaries below…along with your own juices.  “Just want t-to make you hap-happy.”

- “Doing a great job,” you praise.  Reveling in the way his head tilts to the side.  Brow knits in pleasure, covered in a light sheen of sweat.  Mouth hanging agape, the most darling pants coming from him.  “Always.”

- Warm breath ghosts over his neck, lips and tongue trails across his salty skin.  Nipping, sucking in those sensitive spots that have him gasping…hips bucking, seeming to seek out more friction.  “I…I…”

- Hearing the strain in his voice, feeling him twitch in your hand.  It’s easy to tell that he’s close, about to go crashing over the edge.  And he’s been so well behaved, so generous.  You decide to…

- Fingers tug at the bow, trying to free his dick…  “That’s it, cum for mommy.  You deserve it after being such a good boy.”  But just as it was about to come undone…

- He snaps…

- Hooking his arms under your legs, he tosses you onto the bed.  Squeak of surprise escaping you while he manhandles, turns you around so that you lay on your stomach.  Roughly yanks up your hips, holds them even…flush with his. Fat tip prodding, poking at your soaked core.  “Baby, what are you-”

- “Shut up, I say when we’re done,” he growls low.  One hand slapping your ass hard; making it bounce and ripple.  The other winding, squeezing the back of your neck…cutting off your air supply slightly.  “And we’re far from it.”

- Slamming into you, Stephen doesn’t give you a moment to adjust.  Thrusting fast and punishing.  So deeply that you he seems impossibly larger…like he’s splitting you open on his cock.

- Desperately, you suck in every breath you can.  Only managing a constant stream of broken mewls and cries instead.  Practically punching them from your lungs as he pounds mercilessly, hits that small bundle of nerves over and over.  The heat in your stomach pooling, rising up…the coil growing incredibly tight.  “I…I…”

- “That’s it, cum for daddy…”  He mocks, pressing your face more firmly against the mattress.  Stray pieces of chocolate melting underneath, sticking to your cheek.  “You deserve it after being such a good girl…”

- A strangled moan flies from your throat, walls clench and clamp down on him.  As waves of blinding pleasure come crashing over you…as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm.  Speed increasing, drives become more brutal.

- Weakly, you whimper.  Fisting the stained sheets, body trembling.  Second release quickly approaching.  “Dad-daddy, I…I…”

- Gripping your neck harder, stars start to fill your vison.  “Love your perfect little treat?  I know…”  Head swims, tears prick at the corners of your eyes.  “You’re going to keep loving it all night long, until you’re sore…numb.  Until Mr. Glass is through with you…”

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @wifeofasith, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen, @adorbzliz, @sythethecarrot, @divineani, @decaffeinatedunicorn, @fuckmyskywalker, @jediavengers, @anisangeldust, @fredswrite

[stars-in-a-jam-jar]

I'm seeing a notable handful of posts in the Amazing Digital Circus tag disagreeing on Gangle's character and I think the big thing about the difference in perspective is really just: How seriously are thou as an audience member taking the 'minimum wage job for a day' premise? (I will singlehandedly re-introduce 'thou' into the english lexicon you watch me, it's so much better than the general-you)

In a world where this is meant to be treated like a shitty little game, Gangle's behaviour in response to Jax misbehaving is really kind of unacceptable. Ragatha's more fucked up by the Stupid Sauce that Caine somehow decided was a good idea to include than she is by the dump in the deep fryer, Gangle did not need to threaten Jax with "horrible punishment" from the most powerful thing in their lives over what amounts to general disrespect and a minor inconvenience. Mr. Orbzman is an NPC and not a person, Jax shouldn't have to hold his tongue about it like he would at a real job where the customers are real people with real feelings. Pomni's feelings over and attachment to Gummigoo are more important than being a good little cashier and playing the game properly. Gangle putting Jax on cleaning duty for the bathrooms when they 'look like a biohazard' is absurd and demeaning because it's a long established fact that this is a digital world where bio-anything is completely meaningless, and she's just making him do unpleasant shit for no reason other than she wants it done and she wants him doing it. And her responding to his continued refusal to play along by locking him in an isolated room, strapping him to a chair, and Doing A Brainwashing To Him is Fucking Horrifying and borderline irredeemable.

Also: "If you have time to lean, you have time to clean." Is frankly an evil thing to say.

But in a world where this is a situation with real stakes, where failure or success in this endeavor Means Something, where Jax dumping Ragatha in the fryer is something that is hurtful and disruptive and unnecessarily cruel, where Jax refusing to keep his mouth shut until he's on break and out of earshot of the customers makes the day of the person he's badmouthing worse and might result in penalties from people above their heads, where Pomni leaving her post to try and talk to Gummigoo is both actively letting down her coworkers who are relying on her to do the job she's been assigned and an imposition on Gummigoo because They Are Strangers Now and there is no taking him back to the circus with her, where Gangle has been trusted with a position of responsibility and authority which has knock on effects for everyone beneath her and Jax won't even clean out the stupid bathrooms when they need cleaning— in that situation, Gangle's very manic and high strung about it and perhaps crosses a line with the whole 'summarily breaking Jax's spirit complete with a horror movie reference' thing, but She's Still Right.

Jax needed an attitude adjustment and nothing was working, so she goes a little nuclear on him. Pomni shouldn't be piling all this emotional baggage on someone who, right now, is a random customer. Gangle's very gentle with Ragatha when she's clearly out of it because she understands something is causing Ragatha to behave loopy and out of character, and in response, Ragatha says the colorful thoughtful gift that's been keeping Gangle together and allowing her to independently function at a level she's usually not capable of makes her annoying!!!

That's somehow so much worse than Jax saying he likes her better sad??? Because at least with Jax, he's expressing his displeasure at being ordered around by someone he previously called "submissive and agreeable" and not having any control over this situation. Ragatha's just saying something mean after telling Gangle she doesn't need help (she does) and thinks she could do a better job as shift manager (she has no proof of this).

And regardless of how seriously thou as the audience member are taking it and why, Gangle is taking it Incredibly Seriously. She is on 'If you die in the game, you die in real life' levels of emotional investment, this is all So Real to her, and anytime the others treat it like it's dumb and useless and hollow, it kicks up So Much Distress within her for reasons I'm gonna trust you guys to think on. And thou might think that is a detriment to her character in and of itself, or thou might be more endeared to her by it, but that is what's happening. So basically the reason some of y'all are coming out of this episode liking Gangle less and some are coming out adoring her is mostly dependent on if you personally are predisposed to take her side by taking the Hard Day's Work At Spudsy's Family Diner seriously.

[diodellet]

stress (jamil viper x gn!reader)

where: jamil sort of interrupts your self-care session, but makes up for it with fervent participation. all for mutual stress relief. content warnings: -bottom!reader -reader is yuu/ramshackle prefect ++confidants-to-bedmates(? lovers? there's hints of mutual pining if you squint), swearing, masturbation, fingering, foreplay galore, sex toys, so so much banter, reader is unserious, there is no plot here. assume everything here is safe, sane, and consensual. word count: 2.6k words minors do not interact

Alone time is sacred. Especially when your weekly agenda consists of you running to-and-fro across a magical campus, constantly being buried under tasks tedious and menial, and keeping egotistical mages from ripping out each others’ throats over affairs concerning the student body.

Well, a “thank you” made you feel less shitty at the end of the day.

Sure, a good nap could revitalize you.

Being treated to an actual meal instead of Mystery Shop brand-instant food was great. But, your alone time, you’d kill if anyone desecrated that.

A sigh leaves you. You click on a higher setting, angle the vibrator against a spot that has your thighs trembling. Your free hand plays with one of your nipples. You’re past fantasizing about phantom sensations and honeyed words.

For a brief moment, you think of firm and callused hands holding you down. Long silky hair brushing against your heated skin. Perceptive gray eyes drinking in your every reaction and the way you arched yourself for more stimulation. They are the last coherent thoughts that flicker through your synapses before your mind is overrun by the singular desire to rut until you come your brains out.

Sadly, the universe does not believe in the sanctity of your alone time.

The vibrations abruptly cut off.

This can’t be happening.

Not even left teetering on the delicious cusp of release, you’re dropped back into your body. Nerves hyperaware of each silicon inch of the toy as you pull it out of you. You click the button multiple times, confirming the worst—

“Stupid batteries. Fucking useless…” Similar curses strung together fall from your lips. You slip on a graphic tee and head to the bathroom, carrying the toy in one hand. 

Your phone powers on as you sit on the toilet, the device buzzes with the simultaneous arrival of message notifications. The sound is a mockery of your interrupted alone time.

Maybe you could rub one out in the shower… That thought will probably become more appealing in about fifteen minutes.

Your eyes catch the first line of a text preview that makes a cold pit open up in your stomach.

J. Viper: I am going to lose my mind. I’ve had it with…

Reading the full text doesn’t ease your worries. There isn’t any more of that dulled neediness tugging at the back of your mind. Your hands move automatically, dumping your cleaned toy and unused towel on your bed’s mattress. While slipping on the first set of bottoms you could reach for, you fire off a reply—Hey don’t say that and other similar placating messages—then pick up your discarded blazer off the floor before finally leaving your room.

[...]

“You’ve been making that face for a while now.”

“What face?” You ask, feigning obliviousness as you keep your attention focused on the electric kettle.

Maybe there was one exception to your need for alone time. Fitting, that it would be one of the few confidants you made in this place.

Never mind about the last thirty minutes before this moment. Like a switch, you’re back to being a dutiful errand-runner, a sympathetic listening ear.

(Once, Jamil called you one of the few other sensible people on Sages’ Island and you have yet to stop riding the high of that moment.)

“Like my being here is making you uncomfortable.”

No shit, Sherlock. Feeling his sharp gaze on top of the sensation of your clothes chafing against your oversensitive skin was uncomfy as fuck. “Look man, I could give you a mug of tea or we can open a new can of worms. I suggest you take the tea.” You lean back against the counter top and tug the end of your blazer a bit more protectively around you.

His lips press together in a thin line. “I can see myself out. Thank you for the offer, though.”

The sound of boiling water reaches its apex. In that split-second, you backtrack. “Wait—I’m sorry, I’m just, I was busy.” Your hand readjusts the pair of pajama pants you hastily threw on, index finger dipping just a fraction of an inch beneath the waistband. Your eyes don’t miss the way his gaze follows the movement of your wrist before it returns to rest itself atop the counter. “I’m not…uncomfy because you’re here. I was just nervous and—and I thought I could serve you tea instead of bothering you with my…current predicament.”

“Oh.” Very eloquent, you’d say the same thing if the positions were reversed.

“So, could we focus on you first? Over a cup of tea, as friends?”

The kettle finally calms down, announcing the newly-boiled water with a loud Clack! of its switch.

Jamil doesn’t immediately respond, scrutinizing you with an emotion you can’t parse. Until it settles onto one of faint interest. “We can have tea later.” He stands up and walks over to you, placing a hand on your waist. “Right now, I think we can both use some stress relief. If…you’ll have me, that is.”

“Really? I hear it’s better to talk things out though. Not that I wouldn’t be open to that second thing….” Your hand lays itself atop his.

“Oh, I’m sure this will be better for the both of—” He pauses, runs his fingertips along the expanse of your lower navel a second time to confirm. “—no underwear?”

Your cheeks warm. “Yes, shut up. I actually got worried for you—ah ah ah! No touching yet!” You slip out of his hold. “Give me five minutes to clean up or something, my room’s a mess.”

Jamil doesn’t let you escape so easily, arms coiling around your middle, your back against his chest. Close enough for him to mutter against your ear in a low voice. “There’s no point to that if we’re going to make a mess in the end.”

(And it’s unfair how the implication—the invitation hidden underneath that—stokes the fire in your gut anew, almost makes you ruin the set of bottoms you threw on.)

Any restraint either of you carried snaps once the lock to your room twists shut. Jamil tugs you close to him, pulling you into a fervent kiss. Once you shrug off your blazer, his hands slip under the hem of your t-shirt, teasing at the sensitive skin of your waist, hiking higher and higher—damn.

“Bed first,” you demand once you pull yourself free. You aren’t panting—you try to convince yourself—though one of your hands is fisted in the front of his hoodie. When he sits on your mattress, you get pulled straight into his lap. His fingers hook against the waistband of your pants, sliding them down to bare your thighs.

Basically, confirming what he already knew. Felt, rather. Your hips buck against his palm as he cups your groin.

“How long were you at it?” There’s a sly smirk pulling at his lip, like he’s pleased to have you and your need for pleasure resting in his hand. All for him to control.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you huff. “I was already—ngh—washing up when you messaged.”

His smile doesn’t abate. A finger slips into your entrance. “And you couldn’t find the time to properly dress yourself? I’m flattered.”

You’re about to fire off another retort, but the digit curls infuriatingly into a come-hither gesture, slowly rubbing against your inner walls. What leaves your throat instead is a soft, needy noise. “Come on, you’re gonna make me come too fast…”

“So?” And he keeps that irritatingly steady pace. Letting the pleasure in your lower stomach build and build, until you’re shaking from exertion. “Go ahead, then.”

“Mmgh, I want—”

“More? How greedy of you.” Another finger joins the first one, a delicious stretch against your insides combined with each thrust of his wrist.

“No, fuck….wait, I mean—” Words longer than two syllables were suddenly harder to manage. “—you, what about you…?”

“...Me?” 

Maybe, just maybe, your insistence on having mutual reciprocation was biting you in the ass, you’re right on the edge of sweet release. Just one more stroke against that bundle of nerves inside of you, or maybe if you just clenched down hard enough—

“...You’re too considerate, really. To someone like me.”

His words are soft, barely heard over your mounting need. Your insides throb in time with the beat of your heart. But your voice can only manage a dismayed whine when Jamil’s fingers pull out of you.

(That you’re still on the cusp of an orgasm is another thing, but it helps to have your head clearing up a bit.)

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chides you, palms caressing the sides of your thighs. But the smile on his features tells you that he’s drinking in your hazy gaze, simply endeared at how you were reduced to neediness just from his touch. “You wouldn’t want this to end too quickly, would you?”

…he has a point. Your tongue wets your lower lip. “Lose the hoodie then, so—so we can continue.” One of your hands reaches for the hem of his top.

It’s no secret that you find Jamil Viper attractive. Hell, the way he carries himself suggests that even he knows it himself. At least sneaking a few glances gave you some plausible deniability. But in baring just a sliver of his midriff, you might as well have broadcasted the very thought.

Better to get that sorted out before getting him inside of you, right?

Your eyes trace the toned lines of his stomach, the lithe muscles of his arms, the way his loose ponytail hung artfully against his shoulder. Off his hoodie goes, joining your discarded pajama pants and blazer. 

“Easy, there.” The way he drawls your name has your stomach flipping somersaults. 

“I guess you look fine.” You could burn a hole through him with how hard you were staring.

“Mhm, sure.” A warm palm cups the back of your neck, guiding you into an open-mouthed kiss. Tongue swiping against your bottom lip, pulling a surprised moan from you.

What else can you do but melt into it?

Even though the two of you were urged on by fervent need, there’s an undercurrent of tenderness—something more delicate than your mutual pent-upness—with each graze of your skin against his. You could barely hold a candle to Jamil’s seemingly-innate grace and sensuality, yet he meets each of your tentative touches without pulling away, as if insistent to keep your hands on him too. To keep at least some point of contact on you as much as possible. Your hand dips beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, to palm at his hardening dick.

You’re rewarded with a languid roll of his hips. The painful yet pleasurable scrape of his canine against your lip. That needy sound bubbling up from his throat, only to be swallowed up with another feverish kiss.

You could live in this moment forever.

Until you fall back against the mattress and feel the shaft of your forgotten vibrator digging painfully into the small of your back.

“Ow!”

Jamil’s palm soothes against the pained area. “Are you alright?” 

(You could’ve sworn you felt his clothed erection twitch at the sound you made.)

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you grunt, fumbling blindly for the culprit. Guess you forgot to put it back in your nightstand’s drawer.

Well, you were in a hurry.

Jamil eyes the discarded toy in your hand. “That shade of purple is…a choice.” Yet he accepts it when you pass it to him, telling him to compare it to his own.

Which earns you a flustered huff, no trace of genuine malice in the look he gives you.

“It matches the school colors, doesn’t it? Go, Night Ravens, go…or something…?”

“That is not how the cheer goes.” Your grin widens at the scowl sent in your direction, though his eyes are soft with fond exasperation. “Hand me that.”

 “The lube?” And that too.

Oh, forget your room, you were the mess all along.

(You sneak just a glance at his groin, he’s still sporting a half-erection, so hooray..? There may yet be hope for getting dicked down? Maybe you should have asked him to remove those first…)

“What else?” And he pours a copious amount onto the toy. Drawing your gaze to the way he curls his fingers around the shaft of the thing, how he gives it a slow and obscene pump to coat it with lube, sending a rush of heat through your frame.

“The batteries died, it’s useless.” Still, you spread your legs as he presses the slicked-up tip against your entrance.

Jamil keeps a hand on your knee, eases the vibrator in slowly—even though you’ve been more than sufficiently stretched out with his fingers. “Don’t need it to vibrate to fuck you.” 

Well, there wasn’t much arguing against that logic. “Then, please…please…!”

He adjusts his grip on the base of the toy, accidentally clicks the button as his pace quickens.

What you don’t expect is the sudden pulse of vibrations against your core, you’d snap your legs shut from surprise if Jamil wasn’t keeping you lightly pinned down.

“Mm, that was a nice sound…” The smile on his face is evil. 

“Oh, motherfucker, don’t tell me you’ve got—” Your words taper off into an embarrassingly loud whimper as he presses the vibrator against that sensitive bundle of nerves.

Who’d have thought the thing kept one final spurt of energy, if not to spite you?

“Would you look at that? It still works.” The pressure doesn’t let up, in fact, he’s meeting each desperate buck of your hips, making sure that each thrust brings you closer and closer to that peak you’ve been aching for. 

Your own coherence, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found. A choked sob falls from you, and your abdomen clenches, and—

“That’s right, just let go,” Jamil croons.

In those few moments, the batteries of your vibrator truly and finally breathe their last. It doesn’t stop Jamil from prolonging your release with gentle thrusts. You’re lost in the waves of your orgasm, each motion pulling a high-pitched keen from your throat when it tips into overstimulation. Vaguely, you’re aware of the sparks of pleasure radiating up your frame, the feeling of his free hand interlacing your fingers together.

You didn’t know the touch of another person could also feel so grounding.

“Mmgh…don’t pull it out yet.”

“I wasn’t going to. You’re holding onto it really tightly.” Jamil gives the vibrator a little tap which makes you squirm away from him.

You’re past embarrassment though, letting the sorely-craved happy hormones flow through you. Your nerves have calmed down just enough to pull out the used toy. This time, eliciting a pleased sigh from you.

This time you make sure to set it aside properly.

“...you’re quite the treasure, do you know that?”

There he goes with another of those quiet remarks, making your cheeks burn. “If you said that a while ago, I was too busy coming to hear it.”

“I said, you’re hopeless.” 

“Nooo, say it one more time, at least!”

“Don’t be insufferable.” Even as he says that, Jamil lets you clamber into his lap to cuddle against his chest.

“So…”

“Hm?”

You trail a suggestive palm against his inner thigh. “...would you want me to use my mouth or…”

Surprise flickers over Jamil’s expression, eyes widening for a fraction of a second. “Ready to go again this quickly?” But there was no denying the amusement coloring his voice.

It takes a bit of maneuvering for you to remove your t-shirt. “Well, you haven’t had your fill of stress relief yet.” Jamil’s palms steady themselves on your waist as you properly straddle him.

Were you basically propositioning him to use you as he saw fit? Maybe.

“I’m afraid I’m quite the insatiable type,” Jamil utters, leaning close to you, breath fanning across your lips. Maybe he means it as a warning, you know this reflex. You were guilty of it too, sometimes.

But if he could still look at you with such warmth and tenderness, sentiments you could easily reflect back onto him, then—

“That makes two of us.”

a/n: icb jamil just dodged the impending heart-to-heart talk and just wanted the spicy smuttenings 😤 like that'll stop me from writing more angst and hurt/comfort scenarios. anyways i hope this was an enjoyable read! thanks @jessamine-rose for betaing this with your (slightly less) sleep deprived eyes, your assistance makes editing so much less stressful. to all my readers, thanks for enjoying my silly writing, i hope to bring more this coming 2025!

tagging: @viperwhispered @twstgo @just-a-little-silly @bakedgrape @mama-m1na

@cataclyysmiic (hehe i think ull also enjoy this) @sillystr1ngs @scint1llat3

(lmk if you wanna join the taglist for jamil writing in the replies!)

[majinbangus]

Gonna sound weird but can you do something where after soap gets shot him and the reader meet up again during that and the reader sees his arm wound and licks at the blood. She doesn’t have to be a vampire but she just happens to be a little weird.

doesn't sound weird, nonnie, i like this a lot! i actually had a similar thought here (our brains must be on the same wavelength ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)) and another one where soap licked up reader's blood here

》 18+

He's not a medic, but he's pretty sure—given common sense and his basic first aid training—that wounds are typically cleaned with an antiseptic of some kind. So to say he is a little caught off guard to your unique approach is an understatement. In all his experiences with wounds and getting them treated, never has he experienced a more unorthodox method of cleaning them.

"Uh, lass?" His voice is unintentionally raspy, Scottish brogue a little bit thicker, but he can't help it. Not with you doing what you're doing. Soap doesn't blink as he stares at you, swallowing thickly. The muscles in his bicep spasm, but it has nothing to due with the bullet wound he suffered from. He's barely aware of it. "What're y'doin'?"

You don't answer him right away, too focused on your task, eyes closed and cold fingers holding his warm forearm to keep him still. The caress of your tongue, wet and warm, dragging against his skin and lapping up rivulets of blood is something he never knew he needed to feel. He can't look away from the intense concentration on your face, unaffected by the taste of iron, nose not even crinkling in disgust. He feels a little twitch in his pants.

When you pull away, the look on your face doesn't help the sudden tightness pressing against his zipper. You look beautiful. Chin and lips smeared lightly with his blood, you appear almost drunk, the adorable drowsy blink doing nothing but enhancing your intoxicated appearance.

"Sorry." You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip and suck it into your mouth to lick it clean. "I know we gotta meet up with Ghost soon, but that looks like it hurts. Hope you don't mind I cleaned it a little; I know it's still kinda messy, but I don't have anything to wipe it with."

"It's okay," He croaks weakly, doing his damnedest to ignore the raging hard on in his pants. "I don't even feel it."

"You sure?" You squint at him as if you don't believe it, but it's true.

He's too high strung on the phantom feeling of your tongue on his skin. On the near blissed-out look you had after tasting him. He wonders if that's how you look when you—

Soap clears his throat and gives you a tight smile, resisting the urge to adjust himself and firmly keeps both hands planted at his side as he stares at the blood still smudged on your face, imagining a more milky white color to the fluid. "I'm sure."

[p1utofairy]

PAC: “one hit of your love addicted me. now i’m strung out on you, darlin’, can’t you see?” 🕊️🕰️✨📨

• what will your first love be like?

disclaimer ✩: take what resonates, leave what doesn't. i wanted to try something new by including edits but ofc tumblr is annoying and doesn’t let you post more than 1 video ugh. hope you all enjoy this though! love you much.

PILE ONE.

hey pile 1 🎀 right off the bat i gotta say…your person could possibly give anakin skywalker vibes visually lolololol very tall, handsome and broody. i'm also thinking of jon snow from ‘game of thrones’ hmmm i think this just ties into the fact that your person is in their bag a good 85% of the time! they analyze and process their thoughts & emotions a lot, and this won’t change especially when it comes to their love and devotion for you. they are very intense and purposeful when it comes to love — there’s no faking it or forcing it. they say what they mean, and mean what they say. they hold themselves to a very high standard so i think they’ll be in their head a lot when it comes down to approaching you/courting you. they want to make sure that they’re doing and saying the right things…they want to make sure that you’re comfortable. they will prioritize you and take the time out to really get to know you! they don’t want to do the whole cliché “wyd” texts or just take you out to the movies. no, they want to be able to take you to places you’ve never been before & treat you to beautiful experiences that will stay with you forever. that’s how highly they think of you, pile 1! they think you deserve the best of the best and they will do everything in their power to give you just that. this person has been through a lot in their life and they’ve felt so alone and misunderstood. 9x out of 10 if they just got out of a relationship, their ex didn’t understand them or couldn’t match them emotionally. your person is big on “everything happens for a reason” so when you come into their life they’re going to feel so much joy and relief, it’s like you’re their saving grace. it’s that energy of — where have you been all my life? that scene of anakin and padmé in ‘star wars: attack of the clones’ on the balcony is coming to mind…the longing in their eyes before they share their first kiss. a lot of people may talk about y'alls relationship/how y'all got together. it's nothing scandalous…i just see people being infatuated? i’m picking up a lot of outside influences/opinions so just be careful of that…don't have too many people in your business cause i’m picking up that some of these people don’t have the best intentions and are secretly jealous. it’s giving very much “fan behavior” hm they might keep tabs or ask lots of questions about you and your person’s relationship…it’s weird. i think for some of you, you’ve been single for a long time, so it’s going to be a shock to a lot of people when you pop out with this person. once your person comes into your life you may start to notice multiple people show romantic interest in you and you’ll be like??? where tf were y’all at when i was single for ____ years?! LMFAOOOOO that’s hilarious but back to your first love, it’ll be beautifully intense. i see you giggling a lot, staring at your person with big starry eyes and a lot of physical touch between you two. it may not even be in a flashy way? i can just see you coming up behind them and placing a hand on their back to make your presence known…i see a lot of moments of them holding you in their arms and resting their forehead against yours — they’re looking at you with so much intensity…deep concentration and passion etched across their face and you just break out into this bright smile and they just melt. you look so innocent compared to them like there’s this light in your eyes that’s left their own a long time ago, but they feel so safe…so free to be themselves when they’re with you. you’re their heart, pile 1. i’m hearing that scene from ‘the bear’ when carmy tells sydney “i couldn’t do it without you. i wouldn’t even want to do it without you…” AWWWWEEEEEE.

via tnqkins on tiktok

other channeled messages:

who's that girl? by eve, shravana moon/rising, doe eyes, baby pink, curly hair, strong arms, yin & yang energy, younger/age difference, vishaka scorpio moon, hypnotic gaze, 10:10, mirroring each other, distinct cologne

PILE TWO.

heyyy pile 2! you will NOT expect to fall in love with this person wow, your feelings for them will actually catch you off guard. this person is not your usual type and that's what's so intriguing about them…you’ll never know what to expect with them; they’ll keep you on your toes. i think that you keep repeating cycles or keep going back to someone who is no good for you, but once you meet this person there’s no going back. you’ll gravitate towards them like a month drawn to a flame lol you can’t fight these feelings even if you wanted to. you might meet this person through a mutual friend or meet them in a group setting, i see other people around you both as you talk and get to know each other. there’s so much warmth that this person radiates…they feel like home to you. a hug from them could fix your bad day, a kiss from them could make your heart skip a beat 🥹 and their smile?! to see them smile at you will give you an instant serotonin boost. this relationship feels divine…it feels fated. it’s giving “right person at the right time” like everything leading up to this connection will make so much sense once you’re actually together. some of you that chose this pile are quick to self-sabotage or cut off a relationship before you can get too emotionally invested. you’ve built these walls up because you’ve been through a lot of shit and you don’t want the extra baggage a relationship can sometimes bring, but it’s gonna be different with this person. you’re going to be so open to receiving their love and reciprocating it, there’s going to be such a healthy balance between you two. i’m hearing that this person is going to be a wish fulfillment, pile 2. this might be a long distance relationship at first — you might have to travel to see each other or you both will like to travel to different places together. they will value you so much! they will wine and dine you, surprise you with your favorite things and make sure you always have whatever your heart desires. they love you and they will have no problem showing that.

other channeled messages:

short king, sagittarius, bisexual, when harry met sally, opposites attract, capricorn man, matcha latte, boyfriend by big time rush, saturn dominant, west virgina, virgo/6H placements, ruby, freckles

PILE THREE.

pile 333 🦢 whoa i'm already picking up that this is a love that only grows stronger and better with time; it ages like fine wine. WOW WOW WOW. i'm ngl i feel like this person is your divine counterpart…when i say you two are a match made in heaven — i mean it. you complete each other in ways that other people will never truly understand. there’s this unspoken love and desire between you two initially; i see you both stealing a lot of glances at each other, waiting for the other to cave in and say something…anything. you both want to close that space between you but don’t know exactly how to. i don’t think either of you has ever felt this way before about anybody 😮‍💨 this love is strong AF. it’s never a dull moment between you two, there’s always that underlying passion and spark ready to consume you both. i’m picking up that either your ex or their ex is going to be very envious of this relationship. they almost feel blindsided in a sense…they thought you were going to come back to them and give them another chance, so it's going to make them feel some type of way when they see that you’ve moved on. please be cautious of this ex pile 3…they don’t have good intentions at all and i pick up an obsessive vibe from them. we are blocking that all the way out 🧿 anyways! your person’s love language is more than likely quality time…they loveeeeeee spending time with you and stepping out of their comfort zone to try things that you like. there’s a solid friendship at the root of this connection pile 3…like not only is this person your lover, but they’re also your best friend wrapped into one. you will give them the key to your heart and vice versa. any other options or third party situations will be cut off/left behind because all you both can see is each other! nothing and no one can tear this relationship down because it’s built on such a strong foundation, you can see yourself with this person years down the line from now and they feel the exact same way. you’re home to them. i know this is your first love pile 3 but i wouldn’t be surprised if they popped the question 💍 — i'm just sayinnnnnnnnnn!

other channeled messages:

feel it by jacquees ft. lloyd & rich homie quan, la perla lingerie, just left a toxic relationship, rock the boat by aaliyah, air sign placements, 26, 111, lemon drop, leo, jaded by drake

[dstryvampres]

Lab Assistant

MINORS/AGELESS BLOG DNI !

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Reader

Warnings: smut LOL, dub con, pnv, unprotected sex, use of fear toxin on some dude, he smacks your ass like once

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: this is my first time writing just pure smut, sorry if the set up is super long.

For the past week your heater had been broken, and despite multiple calls to your landlord which always ended up with the promise that he would come over to fix it eventually, you were still freezing. Though you could escape the biting cold throughout the day by taking up a second home at your university, you always had to eventually come back to your shitty studio apartment and suffer through the night. You’re excess time spent on campus was well spent, studying in the library, napping under stairwells or in-between shelves in the library, stirring around coffee you didn’t even like but knew you have to drink to stay in the cafe, or staring longingly at your psychology professor Dr. Crane. The lack of any privacy throughout your day had started to get annoying after the first three days, not helped by the fact that because you saw Dr Crane more than you usually do, leading to you feeling more high strung. Gotham was not treating you kindly.

“Excuse me,” a voice called out quite loudly above you, forcing you out of your final exam induced coma. You gritted your teeth, knowing that you were likely overstaying your visit to the campus library, especially since you had just finished your last exam of the season, who knows how many hours ago.

Looking up you were met with the face of your favourite professor, Dr Crane. Another horrible coincidence, it was embarrassing for someone so put together and professional to find you so vulnerable, especially someone who you had in mind when your hand was shoved down your pants most nights. 

“The library is closing soon, I would recommend getting your stuff and heading out,” Dr Crane says, his voice oddly empathetic. A jarring contrast to the usual mix of hostility and boredom his voice held during lectures. He sighs and takes off his glasses, pinching his eyebrows together, seeming conflicted over what he wants to say next, so instead you fill the space with your own voice.

“Of course, I’m so sorry sir. I seemed to lose track of time, and was too exhausted to walk home. Again, I am so sorry. I should have set a timer or just maybe not sleep in the library, that was so-“

“You have been spending a weird amount of time on campus for the past week,” Dr Crane interjects, giving you a once over. “Is everything okay at home?”

The question was so genuine it made your brain short circuit. Why would he even care about you?

“Not really,” you laughed, the two words coming out of your mouth before you had time to think. A habit only recently picked up due to sleepless nights.

A smile crept over your professor's face, one that didn’t seem to reach the rest of his face. You couldn’t tell if it was from the shock of your honesty or something more sinister. He sat down in front of you, scratching his nose, letting a silence stretch out. Just long enough for pricks of discomfort to stir.

“Well, I’m running a program here at the university over the winter break. Just need an assistant to help me over at Arkham for an experiment I’m conducting. The job would include housing closer to Arkham, since it’s a little out of the city, and it pays about a dollar over the minimum wage. If you’re interested,” he slides a business card over the table, smile now dropped, “just email me in the next 48 hours.”

Taking the card eagerly between your fingers, mumbling a small ‘thank you’ under your breath before pocketing it. When you look up he’s already halfway gone. Packing up your things as fast as you can, you leave the library and hop on the train back to your shitty apartment. An email is sent to Dr Crane that night, and the following day you are confirmed as his assistant for this experiment the next day.

𝜗𝜚

The space provided for your three week stay was slightly better than your studio apartment, mostly because it had heating, but also because you shared a wall with Dr Crane. Besides the housing, the internship also came with an average pay, some work experience, and enough credits to compensate for one class. Your first week there had mostly been mundane tasks, taking notes outside of interrogation rooms while Dr Crane interviewed patients, making coffee for the two of you, making patient profiles, and making sure no one took any of Dr Crane’s “special medicine” for the experiment. Despite the easy work and the decent benefits, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something more sinister that Dr Crane wasn’t telling you about the experiment. With a thesis based around the concept of fears, you had yet to notice any great dive into the topic beside a few one-off questions.

“Before we start this week,” Dr Crane starts, sitting down in the chair opposite to you, “I want to just warn you that this is when the experiment starts to become a little more intense.”

He holds a coffee mug in his hand, as he talks the liquid sloshes around the cup. It's all information you already know, you signed an NDA, he trusts you, do what he says, and that he needs you to stay out of the room no matter what. Last week you learned just how Dr Crane enjoys his coffee, no milk and one sugar, you can’t understand how he can drink it. One sugar can’t mask the bitter taste. He drinks it quickly though, remembering the taste makes you gag.

“Before we begin today, can you prepare the variable today in syringes? I will be introducing it into the experimental group today.”

He sets down the now empty mug, a loud thump echoes through the room, startling you. Dr Crane smiles at your reaction, it’s the same one he always gives you, the one that doesn’t reach the rest of his face. You ignore the stone that has formed inside your stomach, picking up your clipboard and pen.

“I’ll meet you in room 283B,” your professor puts a hand on the small of your back, leading you both out of his office. A shock is sent through your body at the contact, once out of the room you turn to look at him, but his hand is gone and he’s headed in the opposite direction as you.

Something else that you have noticed throughout this week is just how close Dr Crane is now. He’s more touchy than you would pinpoint him as. Which isn’t saying much, but the small lingering touches he lays on you, a hand on your shoulder, maybe on the small of your back, doesn’t seem to be too professional. One… two… three millilitres of solution per syringe. The questions he asks also seem to be a little weird, especially due to the matter of the study. A common thread being his prying into your fears, and a look of hunger when he asks the questions. Soft thud of the storage container hitting the ‘chemical waste’ bin. Though you can’t really complain, this past week has given you enough content for your late nights to satisfy you for your whole university career, Masters program included. Laying out each of the syringes in a row on the tray, and counting them out. Three syringes on the top tray, six needles on the lower tray. Rolling the tray out of the room and over to the elevator to head up to the second floor.

You softly knock on the door, waiting for Dr Crane to open up the door to the observer section. The door opens in a matter of seconds, only a crack for a couple more seconds, before it is completely opened. 

“Thank you,” Dr Crane says, looking down at the tray of syringes. He takes one in his gloved hand, holds it up to the light and nods, a stamp of approval given to your handiwork. “Remember: that if anything goes wrong, do not enter the room, just call security, and take as detailed notes as possible on the patient’s behaviour and the levels on the monitor.”

You nod, taking a look at the monitor set up beside the one-way glass, all vitals seem to be steady at the moment. The door to the room holding the patient opens up and shuts quickly, Dr Crane slipping in and greeting the patient, thanking him for his time. The patient seems to be a middle aged man, scars run across his arms, roughed up from whatever he did before his time in Arkham, he’s bald and seems to be displeased with his situation. Still, when Dr Crane comes to insert the syringe into his arm he stays still and takes it. The opaque liquid disappears as Dr Crane pushes down on the syringe, removing it once all the liquid has entered into the man’s system. A ‘thank you’ is expressed by Dr Crane before he exits the room, syringe in hand. Once the door is locked, Crane disposes of the syringe in the toxic waste bin in the observer’s room.

“The solution will take about five minutes to kick in,” he says, looking at you and it’s now that you realise just how excited he seems to be. 

The heart rate on the monitor starts to speed up, taking your attention away from Crane, and noting it down.

“Are you sure you estimated the time correctly?” You ask hesitantly, not wanting to offend your professor.

“I did. No worries. Injections can do this to people.”

The next five minutes pass by slowly, Dr Crane behind your chair, his breath tickling your ear. It’s almost impossible to focus like this, you just want to do something about the growing wet spot in your pants. Screaming immediately breaks through the tension you were feeling, you look at the patient. His eyes are wide, his pupils expanded, and his heart rate reaches around 140 bpm. Alarm sets into your own heart, you didn’t expect this big of a reaction from the patient. Dr Crane nudges your shoulder, reminding you to start writing your observations.

11:06: patient’s heart rate reaches 140 bpm

11:07: patient starts uncontrollably screaming at seemingly nothing

Your continued scribbling of notes doesn’t seem to discourage Dr Crane from talking.

“I didn’t know it would be this effective. I’ve been waiting years for this to be approved and this is better than I could’ve ever expected.”

Nausea settled from the mix of pleading for mercy and screaming from the patient, and Dr Crane’s glee from his reactions. Unsure how you could continue on with doing this almost every single day for the two weeks. Writing soon became sloppy due to your own lightheadedness and nausea, every moment you begged someone to make this stop. It was too much. It stretched on for over fifteen minutes before the patient finally came back from whatever drug induced hallucination he was forced into, yet he was still crying. Wanting to distance yourself so far from this experiment, you place the clipboard down.

“Wonderful isn’t it?” Dr Crane asked you, placing a hand on your shoulder. Whatever response you thought you could muster was stuck in your throat, so instead you nodded. “I call it my ‘fear toxin.’”

Once his hand left your shoulder, you immediately stood up, head spinning so much that you stumbled right into Dr Crane.

“Are you okay? Did the ‘fear toxin’ effects startle you?” He asks, putting his hands on your shoulder to stabilise you, his voice bridges between mocking and actually concerned.

“I just need to go to the bathroom,” You squeeze out, stumbling into the hallway and waving goodbye.

Stumbling around, unable to find the bathroom, you slide down the wall of an empty hallway. Sitting on the floor and curling up into the fetal position. Nausea slipping out of you slowly, eyes closed, just wanting to forget about the whole experience. What substance could even make a man react so horribly? Why would anyone make that in the first place? What purpose could a substance like that even serve? How will this even help-

“There you are,” a voice comes from above you, Dr Crane. You open one eye up, becoming flustered at your unprofessionalism, and enraged at the sight of your cruel professor.

He kneels to your height, offering you his soulless smile. “I’m sorry if that startled you, but I thought you would be better than them. I thought you could fully see my vision, look past the gruesome bits and understand what I’m trying to do here.”

His words both enrage you even further and make you feel even more embarrassed. He created a horrible substance, tested out on a man that, from what you know, didn’t deserve it, and essentially tortured him. On the other hand, this is a man who you have dreamed about and only want to please. For the past three years, you have sat in his class and dreamed about only him. For him to think that only you could understand his plans and dreams, is a flattery you could only dream of.

“Maybe I just didn’t prepare you well enough for this. Can I make it up to you?” Dr Crane asks, offering his hand to you. It takes a couple seconds, but you take it and he leads you upwards. 

His hand is oddly cold, his grip on your own hand is firm, but not harsh. His skin is smooth. It’s embarrassing that he has to lead you out of this room, has to coax you to continue.

“Let’s go to my office, hm?” Quirking an eyebrow, but not waiting for a response he led you down the hallway.

Everything seemed to blur together for you, the trip to the elevator, down the elevator, and into his office. He clicks the door shut, locking it, then turns to you. Stepping forward until he’s cornered you onto his desk.

“You think I don’t hear you at night. Calling my name. The walls in that place are very thin,” Dr Crane whispers into your ear, his hand slithering up your thigh.

A gasp escapes your lips, both at the hand now dangerously close to the warmth growing in your pants, and also because you didn’t think he would be able to hear your late night pleasure sessions. Soon he’s cupping your sex and you moan into his ear softly, earning a hum from him. Finger wander up from your sex to cup your chin, he brings you into a kiss. It’s bruising and hungry, he’s biting at your lower lip and you swear you can taste your own blood. His fingers make quick work unbuttoning your pants, sliding them down your legs until they drop to pool around your ankle.

“You're so wet already, how interesting,” He teases, tracing a finger over your clothed slit. Moaning in response you chase after his lips, but he pulls away. 

Your underwear is pushed over to the side, and his middle and ring finger breach your entrance. A loud ‘oh’ comes from your mouth, crane presses his lips to yours again to silence you. His fingers move slowly in and out of you, he catches each moan you let out with his mouth. His lips are soft, but the kiss is rough, his fingers speed up. They stretch you out so nicely it stings a little bit. It’s been so long since someone else has pleasured you, at all.

His fingers pulled out of your sex slowly, deliberately. A painstaking motion that left you close to pleasureless as he pulled out of your kiss. Quickly flipping you around and pressing you into his desk, the shock between his warm body behind you and the cold desk pressed against your front sent you spiralling. There was shuffling behind you, before you felt him lineup his cock with your cunt.

“Beg for it.” 

Your mouth opens and you spew out a string of ‘please’s and ‘need it’ that seem to satisfy him enough for him to push inside of you. He’s girthier than you expected, but not as long as you expected, which is fine for you. The stretch makes you ache and he won’t be bruising your cervix. Without giving you a moment to adjust he starts to move in and out of you.

“You have to be quiet, okay?” He says, before picking up his speed.

He sets up a consistent speed, hitting a spot inside of you that makes you grip the edge of the desk so intensely that your knuckles are turning white. The desk creaks as he moves in and out of your cunt, his breathing speeds up, one hand twists into your hair pulling your head back and you can’t tell if it’s to ground himself or as a reminder for you not to be too loud. Another hand comes to smack your ass, it's a swift hit, but it makes your knees buckle. 

“You're so much better than I thought you would be,” Dr Crane strains out between grunts.

He presses his front to your back, the hand in your hair softening its grip but not leaving. His breath tickles the back of your ear, the grunting coming from him makes you bite your lip to suppress your moans so hard there will be an indent left there tomorrow.

“Dr Crane, can I cum? Please, I’ve been so good, please let me cum,” you babble, the side of your face pressed into his desk making your words slur a little bit.

“Cum for me,” he says, moving the hand not tangled in your hair to your clit. Pressing small circles into your clit, he starts to speed up. 

Soon the pressure in your stomach releases and it goes black for a couple seconds. You feel Dr Crane’s hand press into your mouth to silence you as your legs buckle. Once you’re conscious again, he has already pulled out of you and you can hear him zip up his pants. You stand on your shaking legs and follow suit, trying to press your hair down into a more professional shape.

“I would recommend you get cleaned up,” Dr Crane says, giving you a smile, “Was that enough motivation to continue aiding me in my experiment?” “Uh- Yes,” you answer, not fully aware of what you were even saying, too embarrassed and lightheaded to even compute anything he was saying besides ‘getting cleaned up.’

“Perfect. After you get cleaned up, please meet me in room 256B. We can meet again here tomorrow during our lunch break if you continue to need the motivation provided,” He pats you on the shoulder, and leaves you in the room alone.

[rafeobx]

KNEW YOU WERE TROUBLE

plot: the pogues decide to throw a keggar to draw attention away from them after discovering a wreck in the marsh and isobel runs into the one person she was dreading to see.

warnings: talk about drugs/alcohol

note: this is the second chap to the burning red series! if you have not yet read chap one, i recommend it so you can understand the plot. hope you enjoy xx

MASTERLIST

THE OUTER BANKS WAS as alive as ever, with the sun hanging high and the salty breeze sweeping through the streets.

the pogues and i geared up for our keggar, a chaotic flurry of grabbing anything that might vaguely contribute to a decent party. red solo cups stacked precariously high, a few extra warm twelve-packs pilfered from god-knows-where, the dented keg smelling faintly of stale beer from its last adventure, and jj wrestling with the stubborn keg coupler like it was a particularly aggressive kraken. finally, a semblance of order achieved, we piled into the twinkie, the van groaning in protest at the added weight, and rattled our way towards the Boneyard.

you couldn't understand the outer banks without understanding the boneyard. it wasn't just a stretch of sand where old boats went to die; it was a social ecosystem, a kind of three-layer burrito of human misery and occasional drunken joy. first, there was us, and our kind – the working-class derelicts, the salty dogs and sun-baked dreamers who actually called the cut home. the pogues. then, hovering above us in their air-conditioned mansions and gleaming yachts, were the kooks. mostly trust fund babies fresh out of some poncey-ass boarding school, all designer labels and vacant stares, rich trustafarian posers who treated the obx like their personal playground. our natural enemies, locked in a perpetual, low-grade war of stolen waves and muttered insults. 

and then, bringing up the oblivious bottom layer, were the tourons. as we pulled up to the familiar bonfire pit, a gaggle of them, sunburned and bewildered, wandered past, clutching oversized souvenir cups. "want a beer?" john b mocked under his breath, mimicking their wide-eyed wonder. the tourons were totally clueless, fresh meat. here for a week on vacation with their families, snapping photos of seagulls and complaining about the humidity. chum for the sharks.

the keg was tapped with a satisfying hiss, and the boneyard quickly devolved into its usual beautiful chaos. jj, fueled by cheap beer and an insatiable need for attention, was already attempting to surf on a discarded piece of driftwood, much to pope's muttered disapproval and kiara's exasperated sighs. john b, ever the charmer, had latched onto a group of wide-eyed tourons, his practiced grin and fabricated tales of local legend seemingly working their magic on a blonde girl. pope, true to form, was hovering awkwardly near the bonfire, clutching his red solo cup like a lifeline and occasionally offering hesitant, fact-based commentary that sailed right over everyone's inebriated heads. kiara, her voice animated, was deep in conversation with a guy I didn't recognize – definitely not a usual pogue face. she was gesturing with her hands, her brow furrowed in that intense way she got when she was explaining something she was passionate about. "virgos are, like, so organized" i heard her say, her tone conspiratorial. "like, all my friends that are virgos are like all about the details, the practicality, the need for order." the poor guy, who looked slightly overwhelmed by her astrological fervor, just nodded slowly, taking a cautious sip of his beer. 

and me? i found myself gravitating towards the familiar face amidst the throng of unfamiliar ones. james. he leaned against a weathered fishing net strung between two driftwood logs, the bonfire light catching the warm brown of his eyes. we worked the same dreaded shift at the country club, navigating the endless demands and casual disdain of the kooks. over the past few weeks, stolen moments between serving overpriced cocktails and clearing half-eaten shrimp platters had blossomed into something... more. and yeah, there was no denying it, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead and the easy curve of his smile definitely didn't hurt. 

kiara walked up to me while i was mid-conversation with james, her usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a tight-lipped frown. her gaze was fixed on something across the bonfire, and a distinct note of disgust laced her voice. "what is she doing here?" my eyebrows furrowed in confusion as i turned to see who had elicited such a strong reaction. sarah cameron. kook royalty, practically. beautiful, blonde, and dripping in privilege. she also happened to be topper's girlfriend and, more significantly, rafe's sister. a complicated history simmered beneath kiara's disdain. apparently, they'd been inseparable best friends back in ninth grade, only for some dramatic kook betrayal to turn them into bitter enemies by tenth. and then there was topper, sarah's equally privileged and decidedly unpleasant boyfriend. the kind of guy who genuinely seemed to believe pogues were put on this earth solely to mow the lawns of figure eight estates. kiara rolled her eyes, annoyed, walking back to whatever she had been doing before. 

i continued to speak with james, laughing and talking, however, that familiar prickling sensation returned, like a pair of eyes were physically boring into the back of my skull. it was the same unnerving feeling i'd had all evening at the club. i subtly turned, my gaze sweeping across the bonfire-lit faces, and it didn't surprise me in the slightest to find him. rafe stood slightly apart from the main group, leaning against a weathered truck tire, his jaw tight, the earlier disheveled look replaced with a chillingly composed demeanor. but the way he was staring, his gaze flicking back and forth between james and me with an intensity that made my stomach twist into an unfamiliar knot, sent a shiver down my spine. it wasn't anger, not exactly. it was something possessive, territorial, and it set my teeth on edge. curiosity, that persistent, often troublesome companion, got the better of me once again. "hey james? i'll be right back, i have to um," my mind blanked, suddenly devoid of any plausible excuse, "use the bathroom." 

the lie felt flimsy even to my own ears, but i needed to know what rafe's deal was. this possessive staring was creeping me out but the thought of confronting rafe directly, especially with jj standing just a few feet away, practically radiating protective older brother vibes, was a non-starter. jj would absolutely kill me if he ever caught me within ten feet of rafe cameron, let alone engaging in a conversation. their rivalry was legendary, a petty, ongoing feud that almost everyone on the island knew about. for rafe, it seemed to be rooted purely in a visceral dislike for anyone who wasn't part of his privileged inner circle. for jj, it was a potent cocktail of resentment at rafe's silver-spoon upbringing – the endless opportunities, the effortless access to everything we had to fight tooth and nail for – and a genuine, deep-seated loathing for the entitled prick himself. we got nothing, had to scrap for every damn thing, while rafe just had it all handed to him on a platinum platter. no way was i about to give jj another reason to go nuclear. 

instead, i made a point of catching rafe's eye as i subtly veered away from the bonfire's glow, moving towards the shadowy edges of the boneyard and i didn't need to turn around to know he was trailing behind me. once we were as far from the music and laughter as we could possibly get, shrouded in the darkness beneath the skeletal ribs of a decaying fishing trawler, i finally stopped and turned, the sudden movement causing me to collide squarely with his chest. the impact knocked the breath from my lungs, the unexpected closeness sending a strange jolt through me despite my apprehension. 

a heavy silence hung between us, the distant sounds of the kegger a muffled hum in the background. neither of us pulled away, the unexpected closeness a strange, magnetic force. i knew i should break the contact, step back into the cool night air and put some much-needed distance between us, but for whatever reason, my feet felt rooted to the spot. his hands, initially a bracing hold against the unexpected collision, slowly trailed down my sides, his touch sending a faint warmth through the thin fabric of my shirt, finally settling on my hips. my eyes flickered involuntarily from the intense gaze locked on mine to the curve of his lips and back up again, a nervous flutter in my chest. i desperately hoped he hadn't caught the betraying glance, but a slow, knowing smirk spread across his face, and i knew he had. he always did.

"what do you want, rafe?" i asked, clearing my throat, my voice barely a whisper above the crashing waves as i forced my self away from him. he just continued to stare at me, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. "you know why i'm here, isobel." his voice was low, a husky rumble that sent another shiver down my spine and his speech slurred.

my eyebrows furrowed in confusion. he wasn't just drunk, there was a jittery energy about him, a wildness in his eyes that screamed something else entirely. high. the realization hit me like a punch to the gut, and suddenly, the strange pull i'd felt vanished, replaced by a cold, stark fear that seeped into my bones. his slurred speech, the unfocused intensity of his gaze, the way his hands twitched slightly – it all mirrored a ghost from my past, a ghost i'd fought so hard to keep buried. my father. the memory of his unpredictable moods, the sharp edges that emerged when he was high, sent a wave of nausea rolling through me. the intoxicating danger i'd momentarily felt was gone, replaced by a primal urge to escape.

"rafe," i hesitated, my voice cracking, the sound swallowed by the roar of the ocean. "what are you talking about?" i knew ignoring the feeling in my gut was a stupid idea, a flashing red warning sign i should heed immediately. but a strange paralysis had taken hold, a terrifying blend of morbid curiosity and a desperate hope that i was misreading the situation, that the wildness in his eyes was just too much beer and not... whatever this was.

he took another unsteady step closer, the scent of salt and something sharper, something chemical, clinging to him. "you know," he slurred, his gaze intense and unfocused all at once."it's different with you," he murmured, taking another small step closer. "you're not like your brother or the others. there's this...pull ." he reached out a hand, his fingers brushing against my arm, the touch sending a jolt of revulsion through me. it wasn't the casual brush of someone flirting; it felt possessive.

i flinched away, pulling my arm back as if burned. "no, rafe. there isn't." the lie felt weak, pathetic even to my own ears, because a small, treacherous part of me had, at times, felt that dangerous pull he exuded. but that was before. before the haze in his eyes, before the echo of my father's unpredictable rage filled the space between us. just as rafe was about to respond, a sudden roar erupted from the direction of the kegger, the sound raw and violent enough to cut through the rhythmic crashing of the waves. shouts and panicked yells followed, the festive atmosphere instantly shattered. my head snapped towards the commotion, and through the flickering bonfire light, a horrifying scene unfolded. topper, his face contorted in rage, had john b pinned down near the water's edge, pushing his head relentlessly beneath the churning surface. john b was struggling, his arms flailing weakly against topper's brutal force. he was drowning john b.

my breath hitched in my throat, a primal fear for john b overriding the unsettling encounter with rafe. for a split second, my gaze flickered back to rafe, a silent, almost subconscious weighing of two urgent threats. then, without another thought, adrenaline coursing through my veins, i abandoned the strange, dangerous pull of the kook and sprinted towards the chaos. i threw myself into the fray, grabbing at topper's arm, trying desperately to pry his suffocating grip from john b's head. just as i managed to get a precarious hold, a glint of cold steel flashed in the firelight, and jj's furious voice sliced through the chaos. 

"yeah, you know what that is," jj's voice seethed, the metal click of the gun echoing in the sudden hush that had fallen over the boneyard. "your move, broski." my eyes widened, the raw, unhinged fury in jj's face sending a jolt of fear through me. slowly, carefully, i backed away from the struggling figures of topper and john b, putting precious distance between myself and the potential violence. "jj!" sarah cameron, topper's girlfriend and rafe's sister, yelled, her voice a desperate plea cutting through the tense silence. 

"did you say somethin', princess?" jj mocked, his voice still tight with adrenaline as he kept the gun trained on topper. i rushed over to my brother, my hand outstretched, palm up. "jj, put the gun down." his eyes, wild and furious just moments before, flickered to mine. i gave him a look, a silent plea that conveyed the gravity of the situation, the potential consequences of his actions. he hesitated, his gaze flicking between me and the still-struggling topper, as if he was genuinely contemplating whether or not to pull the trigger.

"kie! can you check your psycho friend, please?" sarah yelled, her voice shrill with fear and anger as she tried to pull jj away from topper.

i turned on her, my own anger flaring. "how about you check your psycho boyfriend first? he's the one trying to drown john b." the words spat out of me, the injustice of the situation fueling my own protective instincts. i had nothing against sarah, not really. she was just caught in the middle of all this kook-pogue bullshit, same as always. but the irony of her calling jj a psycho when her boyfriend had literally been trying to drown john b two minutes ago wasn't lost on me. it was the classic kook move – deflect, blame the pogue, ignore their own shitty behavior. it made my blood boil.

jj pushed topper hard, sending him sprawling back onto the wet sand, finally releasing the pressure on john b's neck. "okay, everyone, listen up!" i watched in horror as he raised the gun, the moonlight glinting off the cold metal, pointing it directly towards the inky black sky. a deafening crack echoed across the boneyard as he pulled the trigger. "get the hell off our side of the island!" he roared, the sound laced with a dangerous mix of adrenaline and fury.

"are you crazy?" i shoved him hard in the chest, my own fear and anger boiling over. "you idiot!"

"god, jj, you're so stupid! you're gonna jeopardize everything" kiara and pope yelled, their voices tight with frustration and the terrifying realization of just how close they'd come to serious trouble. 

we all rushed out of the boneyard, a chaotic scramble to avoid the inevitable arrival of the police sirens we could already hear faintly in the distance. john b was still gasping for air, his chest heaving from topper's idiotic, near-fatal move. jj, ever the getaway driver, wrestled the twinkie's stubborn ignition, and we rattled away from the scene, leaving the remnants of the kegger and the lingering tension behind. but as the familiar, bumpy ride back to the chateau lulled the immediate panic, my mind drifted, unbidden, back to rafe. and his words, hanging in the salty air: you're not like your brother or the others.

what did he even mean by that? and why, god why, did i suddenly care? a frustrated sigh escaped my lips. i hated that his face, the intensity of his gaze, the unsettling pull i'd briefly felt, was all i could think about right now. i hated the way what he said made my stomach do stupid, embarrassing somersaults, like i was some lovesick idiot. i hated it. i hated him. the rich, entitled kook who somehow managed to occupy so much unwanted space in my head and i had absolutely no idea why. it was infuriating. he was everything i loathed, everything we stood against, yet his words, his attention, had burrowed under my skin like a damn tick.

[mossgh0st]

As If It’s Heaven’s Gate (Levi Ackerman x Reader)

Summary | Levi is caught in a dark place following the battle of heaven and earth. Believing he’s undeserving of life’s sweetness, he deprives himself until you show up on his doorstep. Inspired by and based on Too Sweet by Hozier.

Content | Angst, Fluff. Sort of slow burn? No use of y/n. Levi is a grump, reader is shorter than him. Brief mentions of off-screen sex. Italics are song lyrics that each section is inspired by.

Pairings | Levi/Reader. Mentions of Jean/Pieck.

Notes | As soon as I heard Too Sweet, I knew I needed to write about Levi. Header is from ‘kii on Pinterest. Hope you enjoy!

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It can’t be said I’m an early bird, it’s 10 o’clock before I say a word. Baby, I can never tell, how do you sleep so well?

After the war, Levi becomes a creature of the night. His meticulous bedtime routine and eves of deep, restful slumber have become wrought with nightmares, teeming with the faces of everyone he’s ever loved having succumbed to their bitter ends. He’s forgone the tea, a relic of a previous era; he now prefers an amber liquid that stings on the way down. A balm that numbs, heavy bottomed glass filled only a quarter of the way. When he ventures beyond the confines of his home, he asks for the tippy top of the top shelf - Levi always takes his whiskey neat.

You know you don’t gotta pretend. Baby, now and then, don’t you just wanna wake up, dark as a lake, smelling like a bonfire, lost in a haze?

Some days, he’s lucky if he retires before the sunrise peeks over the hills and pulls itself up to the high point of the sky. Letters go unanswered, bookshelves less sparse as he fills the majority of his time with thick, leather-bound tomes. The newspaper has becomes the perfect kindling, headlines boasting peace negotiations melt and turn runny with the heat of the blaze. When Levi wakes each hazy afternoon, it’s with the lingering scent of bonfire strung about the atmosphere. His once grey eyes have turned deep, a color so sharpened it resembles the water on a lake just before the claps of thunder rumble and bring down swells of rain.

But while in this world, I think I’ll take my whiskey neat. My coffee black and my bed at three.

He knows he won’t live forever. He’s not at all interested. At this point, he’s pleading for the same sweet release from the world he afforded Erwin. Levi has spent so much time dwelling in the night, the darkness is threatening to become him. Then, you show up, one damp afternoon. Modest sundress, two small bags, a green ribbon tying back your hair. The glow you emanate is too much for him. He wants to be angry, filled with a rage so intense it convinces you to leave running in the midst of the spring storm, ribbon flying behind you. The pit in his stomach solidifies when he can’t bring himself to be irate, softened by the cold flush of your cheeks and the sheepishness of your smile as you stand, delicate in his doorway.

You’re too sweet for me, you’re too sweet for me.

At first, your presence does nothing to alter his routine. You rise with the sun, the first blinks of morning are spent brewing a sweet coffee in his kitchen, silent save the chattering of the birds. The dregs of his previous evening’s fire catching in the wind and mingling with the scent of bitter coffee grounds. Levi rises long after the sun has hit it’s peak, emerging in loose slacks and a half undone shirt, the sleeves rolled. You cross paths only briefly, while he pours his glass of amber whiskey and you prepare your cup of evening tea. A silent understanding has occurred - you can stay, if you don’t intervene. So you read in the overgrown garden, take your coffee with milk and two sugars, visit the bookstore, the seamstress down the block from the town’s main square, and worry about him only when you are tipping over the ledge into sleep.

But who wants to live forever, babe? You treat your mouth as if it's Heaven's gate.

The first change is subtle: tea leaves are disappearing faster than you’re brewing them; you know he’s dipping into the store after you retire each evening. Then, when the usual night terrors creep up again, plaguing your mind and leaving your lungs in a vice grip, the second change occurs. Levi waking and comforting you after a string of particularly violent dreams, a different sort of understanding passes when he murmurs, “I still see them, too.” You find him in your bed then, most mornings. Your routines still separate, bodies occupying different halves of the day for weeks. Coffee, bookstore, seamstress, reading, garden. It continues on, life in your solitary bubbles, except the brief overlapping in the early morning when your breaths mingle in the same space between your sleeping forms.

I wish that I could go along, babe, don't get me wrong.

The paradigm shifts once more when he begins to rouse the same time as you. A brief wave of shame washes over you as you realize he’s already awake, you cannot observe his closed eyes and smoothed forehead, the lines of his face set in peace, the soft parting of his lips, or the slow rise of his chest beneath the thin blankets. That morning, you show him how to make the coffee, and he grumbles after burning the first pot, squinting in the bright light. He notices you smiling out of the corner of his eye and something rattles around in his chest. You add three sugars to your cup. He accompanies you to both the bookstore and the seamstress, his silent presence a new comfort. Levi wants to ask why you chose him, chose his home, when there are happier and more accommodating friends, current or former members of the 104th. There’s no doubt in his mind that you’d be better off with someone like Mikasa, in her quiet cottage by the sea. Even Jean and Pieck, or hell, Reiner and his family.

You're bright as the morning, as soft as the rain.

Within a few months, Levi’s world has changed. It’s brighter, fuzzy around the edges. There’s a few sundresses in the closet of his room, a growing stack of books on his dresser. A knit shawl is draped over the chair in the living room; and the guest bed hasn’t been used in several weeks. He lets her brew the coffee in the morning, his palate now well suited for the taste, and takes chrysanthemum tea in the evenings. The garden has a bench now, front row to the beds of geranium, lavender, and snapdragon. When you smile at him through the kitchen window, an understanding dawns on him, an awakening blooms inside of him. He’s seen this look before, many times; over a shared water jug during an expedition, sleepy and exhausted over a fire surrounded by their comrades, during meetings with military leadership, after the battle of heaven and earth, and on the day you were assigned to his squad. You would never go to Mikasa’s, or to Jean and Pieck, even Reiner, or anyone else. He would never let you.

Pretty as a vine, as sweet as a grape.

The first touch of morning is chill, a breeze dancing its way through the open window, sheet gathered at his waist as Levi rouses from sleep. He hears your hums from the kitchen and swings his feet over the bed. He’s drawn to you like bees are to flowers, cloying aroma and sunlight and all things good. Forgoing the tie of his robe, he begins purposeful strides down the hall. Then, you’re there, back turned and hair down. The hem of your pale nightgown sways as you wait for the pour of coffee, glowing in the sunrise, hands over your upper arms to stave off the late summer air. You’re lost in a daydream. Levi comes to stand behind you, listening to the melody you hum quietly. The deprecating, nagging voice he contends with daily in his mind is quieted - it’s just you now; always you.

If you could sit in a barrel, maybe I’d wait.

It’s quiet when he slides an arm around your waist, body warm and flushed. It’s quiet when you turn in his hold, meeting his grey gaze with lingering surprise and pink cheeks. It’s quiet as he pulls you in closer still, hands coming up to rest on his chest. Quiet, as Levi brushes his forehead against yours, eyes closed, fingers flexing in their hold of you. Completely silent, as he tilts your chin up, up, up, and brushes his lips with yours. The taste of you nothing like he had ever dreamed, and oh, had he dreamed. When you push up onto your toes to deepen the pressure, sigh into his mouth, his black bitter heart nearly bursts through his chest.

Until that day…

And when he takes you shortly after, coffee long forgotten, limbs so tangled it’s near impossible to discern where you end and Levi begins, lips parted and dewy with sweat and each other; he can only think of the sweetness this life has afforded him in you, how the bitterness of his past has made way for this belonging.. well. There’s truly no such thing as too sweet, is there?

[ruinaimagines]

OMG I THOUGHT THIS ACC WAS DEAD GLAD TO SEE U BACK THO!!!!!

anywho could u write some outis x reader hcs pls

Project Moon is a chronic ailment to my brain so I am always here, lingering. I will be back. Can’t promise when I’ll be back but it will be eventually.

Outis x Reader Headcanons:

This is a woman who has been through a lot, done a lot too. Not all things she may see as warranting forgiveness. She is saddled with a personal sense of responsibility to see things to the end even if it takes sacrifice. 

But she is loyal, deeply so, fiercely so. And should she place trust in you then so too will she abide by your will. She has an undeniable sense of faith for those who she believes even if some of their suggestions or ideas.. Are not the ones she would find herself making.

Outis is used with working in high-caliber strictly professional settings where everything is meticulously planned out. This makes for her sociability to be a bit difficult with those she considers inept.

She aims to impress and this no doubt extends to you. High-strung in public everything must be perfect, whatever outings you have she has organized and outlined them so you can’t even fathom a moment of concern.

She wants everything to be up to par for you which often means that people aren’t free from her scrutiny. While this might work well in a work setting, it can extend outside and to times when it’s not necessary. 

What she does comes from the genuine hope of making things more enjoyable for you but it can be a bit much. It can end up making things more stressful when she is so focused on managing the menial things and holding others to absurd standards –not even for herself, but for you.

However she will listen when you tell her to stand down. Once again it isn’t malicious just misguided. 

There is an incredibly homely and domestic quality to her that comes more naturally when it is just you two. A refuge where after the long day’s work, after all is said and done, she can return to the hearth that you offer.

You’ll find that her cooking is better than what you can find at restaurants anyway. We know from the Hell’s Chicken event that she prepares food from the heart, and there is nothing as cozy as a homecooked meal. It allows her to be more relaxed and whatnot when away from the buzz of people.

Not to say that her confrontational nature is always a bad thing. If people are treating you rudely, or you are off-put or uncomfortable by something there is not a universe where she’d sit by idly. 

If you are adverse to conflict yourself it can be incredibly difficult to speak up and let people down easily. This is not even a thought that crosses her mind. Someone is heckling you? Damn right it might lead to conflict, but there is no justification in her mind for you to be treated poorly like this. People are often dissuaded or give up once they see how undeterred she is.

She doesn’t experience anxiety when she is stepping in for you because she sees it as a reasonable action. That said, you might be a bit anxious and fear escalation. If you communicate this to her, even if she doesn’t fully understand why, she will tone it down a notch.

That doesn’t mean she will do nothing, but you can rest knowing that perhaps with a derisive comment towards them sprinkled in here or there that she will acquiesce and leave with you. 

I do believe that there is little that you could do that would stop making her love you. It is unconditional because she has done many awful things, and yet you love her still. She doesn’t believe herself to be entirely worthy of the love you give, but she will vow to return it. 

I do not think Outis would be overly affectionate in the traditional sense when it comes to in public or in front of those she knows. It’s not a case of being embarrassed by it, but more of an act of safety. A woman with a history like hers means one who has been in many situations where loved ones can be held at a point of ransom. Wouldn’t be surprised if she had quite a few enemies.

The sinners would probably think you were more of a superior than her partner, funny enough. But seeing how much more relaxed you are with her, and even physically affectionate it sort of clues them in.

Might become a point of teasing for some of the more devious sinners, but they would quickly learn not to. It’s one thing to face a lecture on their inadequacy from her, it’s entirely another to bring up her personal life. There’s a sense of immediate wrongdoing and foreboding that most would rather not experience again.

There is an unmistakable tenderness in her regard to you. Every action she does is another pledge to you. For as much as she would do for you, she greatly enjoys acts of service in return. Take her coat off her shoulders, brew her some tea, maybe even draw a relaxing bath, do what work you can for her so that she doesn’t have to worry.

Outis’ time spent with you is one she can unwind in, a seldom opportunity otherwise. To say she would be appreciative when you try to support this is an understatement. 

I’m sorry I just thought about her coming home with flowers for you and a tear came to my eye. I can see it. After trudging through the day and poor weather at last she returns with a bouquet. It’s nothing super extravagant, perhaps an assortment of hydrangea or whatever your favorite flower is.

Speaking of which, on her journey, I can see her returning to you with keepsakes that remind her of you. Most of these are picked up when she’s trailing behind the others and are stored safely in her room until she sees you next.

You can not tell me this woman doesn’t have a little locket with your picture in it. She’s viewing that thing periodically and it helps remind her why she is doing what she is doing.

Anything you give her that she can smuggle onto Mephistopheles or herself she will hold tight. Not the superstitious type, but finds your gifts to bring some kind of prosperity even if it’s logically because of a shift of mindframe.

I can’t help but think her hands would be very nice to hold, they are worn and weathered, but she has a firm grip, a grounding one. 

Overall a very devoted person though her actions might be more prominent than words. You help defuse what irritation she might have from the day and instead sink into a sense of security, and she commits to giving you that same security.

[filialdisciple]

Dark protective Hermes will forever be my favorite and I love the way you draw him and Luke!

Like, it’s so interesting because, Hermes is a god, most importantly a trickster. It wouldn’t be hard for him to just take Luke away and keep him from danger.

Even if it does require him to…break, a few bones in the process so Luke doesn’t leave

YES ❗❗❗❗ And thank you hehe dark!Hermes is also one of my favorites 🥰🥰 I adore the idea of Hermes taking advantage of his domains (boundaries, travel, etc.) to manipulate the world around Luke.

And since you mentioned trickery, I couldn't help but imagine Hermes hearing sixteen—almost seventeen, oh, his boy was growing so fast—Luke's fervent prayers pleading with his father to give him a quest, please, dad, let me prove myself—

The sweet plea dances across the empty space inside of him, where a mortal's heart sits and a black hole in a god's lies.

Humor the boy, a voice from long ago within him whispers. The past years have been oh, so droll as time marched on as it did, interspersed only with fleeting romance and occasional sex. Nothing has stirred his interest and attention like his little Luke.

His Luke, adorable Luke, who ran away from May's home, unconsciously manipulating Hermes' domains to his benefit as easy as breathing. The way he took care of Hermes' other sons and those under the protection of his cabin only made Hermes want to spend his days watching him all the more.

Every good boy deserves a treat.

Hermes gives Luke a quest to fetch a Golden Apple at the Garden of Hesperides. Luke's offering of thanks to him was delicious despite the sour aftertaste of mild disappointment.

Hermes hums to himself. Should he give them a bit of a challenge?

The power beneath Hermes' fingertips sang. He isn't sure if it was because he issued this quest himself, but he could feel the chains that bound him to the limitations of godly interference in the mortal realm loosen. As the god known for his wit and cunning, Hermes slips away from the loosened chains with ease.

The freedom makes him wonder just how far he could go before Fate pulls him back. His eyes trace Luke's movements, the way he slid past a monster before stabbing it in the back before a charming smile of triumph stretches across his face. Just how much can he slip from the eyes of Fate?

Hermes follows them in amusement. From the smooth, easy path that they started with, Hermes began nudging them in different directions. He turned short roads into winding paths, open spaces into dead ends. Hermes chuckles to himself when Luke's eyebrows furrowed in confusion and annoyance.

An ancient, buried piece of him claws at him as he watches the way Luke's own questmates begin to question his judgement and sense of direction—a direct insult masked as concern. He watches as Luke bristles and barely holds himself back from snapping at them.

They were all obviously tired and high-strung after the several detours Hermes forced them to take. It made the quest more exciting.

Less exciting, however, was the wound that Ladon etched into his son's face.

Hermes hears Luke's heavy breathing and gasps of pain before he sees him.

He walks casually past the corpses of Luke's questmates; his poor boy uselessly dragged them away from the Garden of Hesperides. If he hadn't he wouldn't gotten as injured as he did.

A glint of gold makes him look down. Hermes ignores it, kicking away the shiny apple that had rolled against his shoe.

"Who's there?" Luke calls out, his hands pressed against his face in an effort to stem the gush of blood pouring from his fresh wound.

Hermes chuckles. "And what do you think you can do in that state? Silly boy, you can't even see."

A stuttered breath. "...Hermes?"

Hermes clicks his tongue.

"...dad."

Hermes smiles. "Good boy," He places his palm against Luke's cheek, ignoring his son's flinch. Poor Luke, he can't even open his eyes. "Now, what do we say we take you away from here?"

He observes the way Luke pauses, the way his head twitches towards the direction of his dead questmates. Hm, could this be a minor ability from Hermes?

"You'll take us back to Camp Half-blood?"

Hermes doesn't have to think about it.

"No. You and I aren't going back to Camp Half-blood."