#we smudge pastels here

[n0-n1c]

[imagine a joke about plot armor]

[lovebugism]

rockstar!eddie x shy!reader , christmas party shenanigans, shes so sweet she made cookies & sweets for everyone but she wasn’t asked to , run ins w celebs 🤭

hope u like it angel!! — a rockstar flirts with eddie munson’s girl minutes before corroded coffin plays a show (shy!reader, established relationship, fluff, 1.4k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Corroded Coffin’s got their own green room — backstage at one of the biggest music festivals of the year. There’s a team of people dressed in black waiting at their beck and call. Eddie’s pretty sure KISS is in the suite down the hall. As a boy from Middle of Nowhere, Indiana, he doesn’t feel very deserving of any of it.

He feels like he’s dreaming, really. The only thing keeping him from pinching himself is Dustin and Lucas’ roughhousing and Steve’s stupid belly laugh. Having all his childhood friends here is strangely humbling.

Eddie lazes on an expensive leather chair, totally unsure of what to do with himself when he’s not holding you. He’s trying to get comfortable in the foreign leather drab that stylists put him in when the door yawns open. It swings with such ferocity that the metal knob slams against the opposite wall with a low thud. It isn’t any surprise that the culprit is Robin Buckley.

She storms in first, followed more quietly by you some seconds later.

“Woah, woah, woah— what happened?” Eddie wonders aloud, already on edge with anxiety. Robin swooping in like a dark grey storm cloud doesn’t make it any better.

You shrug with a tin of Christmas cookies in your hand. Some are already missing because you wanted to pass them out to the workers. “It’s not like I don’t have enough to go around,” you’d said with a shy chuckle, nodding to the table lined with homemade pastries. You always bake when you’re nervous.

“We bumped into someone on the way back,” you explain in a gentle murmur, mindful of the emotional girl across the room. “I think she might’ve known him…”

“You didn’t recognize him?” Robin blurts from where she’s flopped on the leather couch. Her eyes go wide, the edges of them smudged with brown eyeliner. The look she gives you makes you cower.

“…No?”

“That was Roger Taylor,” she tells you. And then, when it still doesn’t hit you— “From Queen.”

Your doe eyes flood with a similar, more innocent look of shock. “That’s who that was?”

Robin groans and shoves her face into the fluffy throw pillow beneath her. She decides to talk to the only person in the room who could understand her and her wild emotions. Steve, sitting next to her with cookie crumbs all over his mouth, somehow manages to cipher her mumbled, emotional slurs.

“You don’t get it— it was like seeing an angel, Steve. He was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen— and I don’t even like men!”

“Yeah, so that’s definitely saying something,” the boy mumbles through a mouthful of pastry.

Eddie, still wide-eyed with amazement, turns to look up at you. You’re lingering at his side, a sweet thing dressed in pastel pink. He reaches over to smooth a hand over your pale tights. His ringed fingers are almost achingly warm when they curl around the back of your thigh. He tilts his chin to smile at you with all his teeth.

“I thought you loved Queen, babe,” he chuckles, squeezing gently at your leg.

“I do,” you insist, always shy in your way, as you shift your weight on your feet. Your sheepish gaze flits to the tray in your hand — to the hand-made snowmen, trees, and snowflakes. “I just didn’t know that’s what he looked like.”

“Was he pretty?” Eddie teases with a knowing squint in his chocolate eyes.

You shrug, burning with misplaced embarrassment. “I don’t know… I didn’t really look,” you mutter. His chest swells with something short of pride. “They just wanted to try my cookies—”

“That’s what she said,” Gareth quips. Followed by an audible slap when Jeff reaches over to smack him. “—Ow!”

“Was Freddie Mercury there?” Dustin wonders from across the room, smiling wide at the thought. His giggle is boyish and high-pitched. “That’d be insane.”

You shake your head in response. “No— but now that I think about it, that’s probably why they said they needed to take some extra for Fred. There was another guy there, though.”

“Yeah?” Eddie lilts to egg you on.

“Yeah. He kinda looked like a poodle—”

“Brian May!” the room choruses.

“Um…” you mumble under your breath. “Maybe?”

“One of the best guitarists of our time Brian May?” Robin wonders, a tad bit dramatic, and filled with life all over again. “Astrophysicist and super genius Brian May?”

Your smile is innocent and utterly sincere. “Oh, he’s an astrophysicist? That’s so cool!”

Robin groans again, and you flinch.

“…What?”

“Nothing,” Eddie answers for her, squeezing your leg to bring your attention back to him again. His rosy grin widens when your eyes meet his. “You’re just cute.”

Your face heats like it’s the first time he’s ever complimented you. Your warm cheek tilts to your shoulder as you smile quietly back at him. “Well, thank you,” you mutter shyly.

“Why can’t anything good happen to me?” Robin whines.

Steve doesn’t mean to laugh, but it tumbles out before he can stop it. “It did happen to you. You were there.”

“Well, it didn’t feel good at the time!”

The door creaks open again. Nancy and Jonathan walk in together, fashionably late. It wouldn’t be surprising if she stopped a couple of musicians for impromptu interviews and didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer — bound to be on the front page of Hawkins Post come Sunday morning.

Jonathan, however, looks a little bit dazed. “Is that— Is that Queen in the hallway?” he whispers to the group of you, like he’s scared the band might hear him.

“Yep,” Robin deadpans in response, popping the p.

“Ooh. Smells like a bakery in here,” Nancy lilts with a pretty pink smile.

You get all shy because it’s entirely your fault. “Yeah. Sorry. I kinda… went overboard with the cookies.”

“Don’t be sorry. I love when you bake us stuff,” she assures you, then bites the head off of a sugary snowman. She sighs at the heavenly taste and nods with it stuck in her cheek. “Don’t ever, ever be sorry.”

You giggle all pretty in response.

Jonathan reaches into the tray and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. “Woah. What’s this?”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry. I meant to throw that away—”

Nancy rips it from his hands. She straightens it out as best she can and squints when she finds writing on the back of it. She grins like she’s found some kind of hidden treasure. 

“Wait, this is someone’s phone number,” she announces to the rest of them room. She reads it out loud for all of you, each of you on the edges of your metaphorical seats. “Thanks for the cookies, but I bet you taste sweeter. I’m free after the show. Call me. Roger.”

The room goes deadly silent.

Eddie is among the gaping mouths of shock, unsure if he should be jealous or amused.

“He wanted to try your cookies, alright,” Gareth chuckles under his breath. Jeff snorts out a laugh, then reaches over to slap him again. The curly-haired boy cowers. “Oh, come on! You thought it was funny, too!”

“Let me see that,” Eddie insists, rising on his feet to take the paper from Nancy’s painted fingertips. 

His brown eyes flit back and forth as he reads it for himself. Once, then twice, then a few more times after that. He’s about to play a show for thousands of people, yet this is somehow harder for him to grasp.

“Roger Taylor wants to fuck my girlfriend,” he murmurs in amazement to himself.

For some reason, feeling the need to defend yourself, you rush to get the words out. “I didn’t know that’s what that was, Eds, I swear— I figured he thought I worked here, and he was just giving me his trash to throw away.”

Eddie turns to you, still silent. His chocolate eyes are slightly glazed over as he blinks at you — the sweetest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on, so polite in her shyness and aloof with it, too. 

Still in a state of subtle disbelief about all of this — the phone number, the looming performance, and the fact he ever landed you in the first place — he shakes his wild head with a dumbfounded smile.

“I love the shit outta you, you know that?” he says with a burst of low, boyish laughter. He doesn’t give you the opportunity to answer before wrapping you up in his leather-clad arms and pressing a smothering kiss to your mouth.

[bkgsbratt]

Sweet Like Candy

Warnings: cursing, light smut, probably mischaracterization (If I’m missing any warnings please tell me!🫶)

Background: Bakugo hated sweet things, he thought they were a gateway to give people diabetes. So it wasn’t weird for his class to see him not even eat more than half a slice of his own birthday cake. It’s not like he hated sugar, he just didn’t like the gross aftertaste in his mouth, the way his hands get all sticky depending on what he’s eating (fuckin neat freak), the aching in his stomach that could come if he ate too much, what idiot would put themselves through that much torture just for 5 seconds of deliciousness? You. You would. So when Class 1-A decided to visit a sweet shop to celebrate a big rescue, best believe he grumbled about the suggestion until he arrived and saw- you.

After their latest mission, Class 1-A decided to celebrate, and someone suggested a sweets shop. Bakugo’s reaction was immediate and definitely wasn’t sweet.

“A damn candy store?” he grumbled, arms crossed, glaring at everyone like they’d betrayed him. “We just kicked ass, and you wanna celebrate with a sugar high?”

“Oh, come on, Bakugo!” Mina insisted, practically dragging him along despite his protests. “It’ll be fun! This place has everything—chocolates, pastries, even dark chocolate. You might like something!”

With a scowl, he stepped into The Sugar Nest. Pastel pinks and blues covered the walls, fairy lights twinkling around the room. The warm scent of baked goods filled the air, and Bakugo looked like he’d just entered his worst nightmare.

And then he noticed you. You were behind the counter, handing a cupcake to a kid who immediately took a big bite, grinning as frosting smudged his nose. When you looked up at the group, you greeted everyone with a bright smile. Class 1-A stampeded toward the displays, but Bakugo kept his distance, arms crossed, shooting death glares at the cakes and cookies.

You noticed his sour expression and couldn’t help but tease. “Not a fan of sweets?”

Bakugo scoffed. “Hell no. I don’t eat sugar-coated crap,” he muttered, practically daring you to argue.

You didn’t back down. Instead, you leaned on the counter, smirking. “Maybe you’ve just never had the right kind.” You reached into the display and picked out a small square of dark chocolate with sea salt. “Here. Dark chocolate—no sticky fingers, no sugar overload. Just the good stuff.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a grenade. But he took the chocolate, biting into it like he wanted to hate it. Only he didn’t. The bitterness and salt were perfectly balanced, with no sugary aftertaste.

“It’s… fine,” he muttered, chewing slowly.

“See?” you teased. “Not all sweets are just sugar bombs.”

From that day on, Bakugo told himself he was only at the shop to “keep the idiots in check.” But every time Class 1-A ended up at The Sugar Nest, he somehow found himself in front of the counter, accepting whatever dark chocolate creation you’d saved for him. Then, one day, he came in alone. You noticed him walking in, arms crossed, pretending it was a coincidence.

“Back again, huh?” you greeted him, a small grin on your face.

He shrugged, attempting his usual scowl. “Nothing better to do,” he muttered.

You handed him a dark chocolate truffle dusted with smoky sea salt. He took a bite, his eyes narrowing slightly as he savored the intense, smoky flavor.

“So, do you really hate sweets, or do you just hate everything on principle?” you teased, resting your elbows on the counter.

“Most sweets suck,” he replied immediately, then shrugged. “Not all of ‘em.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Guess that’s as close to a compliment as I’ll get.”

He rolled his eyes, but you saw a flicker of a smile, which felt like a victory.

In the weeks that followed, Bakugo kept showing up, sometimes with his classmates, sometimes on his own. Each time, he’d lean on the counter, muttering about whatever new treat you handed him. You fell into a routine, chatting about anything and everything, and he started bringing things for you, too—a rare spice he thought you’d like, an herb he’d grown, even a small cactus he’d claimed was “just in the way.” He’d hand them over with a gruff “figure you’d know what to do with this,” and each time, your face lit up, and he seemed secretly pleased.

One afternoon, he stayed after the shop had closed, leaning on the counter as you finished cleaning up.

“What?” you asked, noticing his intense gaze.

He shrugged. “Didn’t know you’d be workin’ this late.”

“Well, I own the place. Sometimes, I’m here all night,” you replied, glancing at him. “Why? You sticking around for something?”

He paused, his usual glare softening. “Maybe,” he muttered, looking away, and you felt your cheeks heat up.

Gathering your courage, you handed him a last treat—a dark chocolate infused with chili. As he bit into it, his eyes widened, the smoky heat mingling with the bitter chocolate. “Damn,” he muttered. “Didn’t think I’d like this.”

“Oh?” you teased, stepping closer. “So you don’t hate all sweets after all?”

He looked at you, his cheeks tinged with pink. His hand brushed against yours almost unconsciously. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “you’re the only sweet thing I’ll ever want to taste,” his voice dropping as his gaze fixed on you.

Your heart skipped as he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was unexpectedly soft, his rough exterior melting as his hand found your waist. You could taste the chili chocolate on his lips, and you smiled, feeling his grip tighten.

When he pulled back, he smirked, his eyes glinting. “Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, though the way he lingered, his hand still holding yours, told you everything you needed to know.

You smiled, whispering, “Guess you don’t hate all sweets after all.”

[comatosebunny09]

He dreams about you again.

Of course, it’s rare that he doesn’t.

He wakes up to a sea of endless blue, speckled with cotton-white clouds and something hard and textured at his back.

He’s a little groggy when he fully comes to, groaning against the grit of sand in his throat. Sits up carefully, mindful of the dull ache in his temple.

The earth beneath him rocks something steady, soothing. It takes him no time to realize that he’s on a boat, and his vision blurs and bends to make out discernible shapes and colors.

He isn’t surprised to see your back to him, silhouetted by a sky so endless. And you’re a pretty cutout, clad in flowing ivory with bared shoulders and your hair fashioned into something effortless.

The faux angel wings and halo are a nice touch, he notes with an inkling of a smile, pushing some hair out of his face and blinking away the last vestiges of sleep.

“Took ya long enough,” you say against the steady slosh of the sea below and the croak of the wooden boat.

There’s an oar in your hands. He realizes you’re rowing him to nowhere when your outline blurs, and he ingests the space beyond the dip of your shoulder.

The line between sea and sky smudges like pastel sticks. The water beneath is mirror-clear. Devoid of sea life, but it’s peaceful when he reaches over to dip a hand in, and it’s deceptively warm. He studies the ripples his fingers make a moment longer before you speak again.

“Thought you’d never wake up.”

There’s a taste of amusement lancing through your tone. Of course, you’re always like this. Playfully chiding and always so warm-toned, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything so mellifluous. Makes his heart all pitter-patter-y and his cheeks all hot.

“How long have I been out?”

He’s surprised by the grittiness of his voice. Clears his throat, playing it cool as he shakes the water from his hand. Leans back in an easy slouch against the boat’s stern, watching you easily cut through the waters.

You shrug. “Who knows? Time moves different here, ya know?”

Leon finds himself shrugging behind you, fiddling with the buttons of his linen shirt. Linen pants to match, feet bare and sun-kissed.

There’s a stretch of silence between you. Not awkward, but comforting like the summer breeze kissing his skin and the peaceful rhythm of the boat meandering along the water’s surface.

“Where we off to?” asks Leon, sitting up with fingers laced and his elbows propped on his knees.

He’s genuinely curious today, though he’s not worried. It no longer alarms him when he drifts into uncharted dream worlds. Mostly because he knows you’ll never lead him astray.

“You tell me.”

He scoffs, pitching himself forward to poke the small of your back. You give a little yip, reaching back without looking to swat him away. And he wonders how you manage to keep the boat straight with just one hand.

“Alright, smart ass.”

Your responding laugh is like warm milk and honey, and he doesn’t think he could ever tire of the sound.

“Seriously, it’s your dream.”

He throws himself back against the stern, studying the sky for answers. Tries to hide a chuckle behind his hand and mask the swarm of butterflies stewing in his belly.

“Makin’ me do all the work even on my day off. You slave driver.”

Another shrug. “It pays the bills.”

Leon snorts.

“Whatever you decide to do, you better make it quick. You wanna end up on an island with talking animals again?”

He visibly shudders at the recollection. Zombies and BOWs, he could do all day. Bug hunting? Yeesh.

Never again.

[inkykeiji]

character: zayne genre: fluff! notes: wrote this as a teeny tiny comfort piece for myself!! deciding to share it here in the hopes that maybe it can bring some comfort to someone else, too! warnings: daddy kink without the kinkiness, reader takes medication and suffers from unspecified health issues, reader is female words: 880

Thinking about Daddy Zayne who is also Doctor Zayne, who is simultaneously and consistently both, the line between the two smudged and blurred and bleeding into one another as they infuse his soul, a caretaker in the purest, rawest form; who is rigidly meticulous when it comes to your health, especially your daily medications and vitamins.

He knows you sometimes forget to take your pills, sometimes forget if you’ve taken the correct amount, or which ones you have yet to take for the day—it’s okay, he understands, he tells you tenderly when he raises his concerns to you. It can be overwhelming, especially on the days where you’re feeling extra sick, where even the most basic of tasks feels impossibly monumental; he knows, sweetheart, he knows—and so, he resolves to do everything in his power to aid you. 

If there’s anything, anything at all that he can do to make your health just a teensy bit easier, he wants to do it.

The pill box he brings home one night is a pretty pastel pink, plastic embedded with silver sparkles that glitter brilliantly as he pulls it from his work satchel, tiny twinkles catching on fragments of light, streaming from the kitchen pot lights. 

“To help keep you organized,” he says softly, placing the container down on the island’s marble countertop, gently, as if he’s afraid it may shatter otherwise. 

“It’s super cute,” you say, gaze swapping between him and the box, a small smile on your lips. “Thank you, Daddy.” Dainty fingers skim along the days of the week, each one etched into the plastic in a bright fuchsia. “This was really thoughtful of you.”

“You like it?” he asks, hesitant hope tingeing the edges of his voice.

“I do.” 

“Good,” he roots around in his bag again, producing a hefty stack of glittery packets from the depths, each wrapped individually in thin shimmering plastic. “Because I saw these, and I just couldn’t resist—they reminded me of you too much.”

Splayed out across the countertop sits pages and pages of cute kittens, hearts, and stars, twinkling delicately up at you.

Blinking twice, your head tilts. “Stickers?”

“Mm,” Zayne hums, nodding. His fingers traverse the sheets, one by one, pensively. “I thought we could decorate the pill organizer together.” 

And, oh, the way your eyes absolutely shine, brilliant and beautiful as they search his face, makes all of the trepidation he had accumulated in his chest on his drive home so worth it. 

It melts away in your warm blaze, mollifies into something doughy and pleasant, something that fills his ribcage and stuffs his heart and he feels satisfied, he feels right, he feels whole.

“Really?” 

“Yes.”

“Now?”

A light chuckle falls from his lips, gaze gone syrupy as he traces along the curve of your cheek, eyes following his finger’s trajectory for a moment before they find your stare again. 

“Yes.” 

Your smile grows impossibly wider, impeccably brighter, a sweet little squeal of excitement sticking in your throat, and he can’t help but laugh again, holding out an arm in invitation as his other hand pats his thigh. 

Scampering over to him, he pulls you into his lap, one strong arm curled protectively around your waist as he holds you tightly to his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder. 

“Alright, princess,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose along your jaw, then planting a smattering of kisses behind your ear. “Which first? The hearts, the stars, or the kitties?”

Ninety minutes and two paper cuts later, your pretty pink pill box is finally finished, embellished with meticulously arranged stickers, each one placed just right—spread out perfectly from one another and organized in a way that makes it feel flawlessly balanced, each sticker methodically and systematically assorted with careful attention (a dire requirement, apparently, so you don’t end up with too many of one kind too close together!, you had told him). They glimmer in the low light of the kitchen as you tilt the box in your palms, one way, then the other, admiring yours and Daddy’s handiwork.

“It’s perfect,” you sigh, resting your cheek against Zayne’s. “We did a wonderful job.”

“It is, and we did,” he agrees, chest puffing a little against your back as his spine straightens, raising himself back to his proper height and pressing his lips to your temple, brushing along the throbbing veins in a gentle caress. His voice vibrates against your skin as he speaks, little tingles permeating your blood. “Now it’s time to let Daddy allocate and distribute your medication for the week.” 

A large hand taps the side of your thigh twice, a silent demand to get moving. 

“Come,” Zayne instructs as you both stand, taking one of your hands in his. “Help supervise and make sure Daddy puts everything in its proper spot.” 

He hopes this will help, even if it’s only a little. He hopes you’ll think of him, every morning when you’re popping open the corresponding little compartment, and he hopes it’ll make you smile, even if it’s nothing more than a slight quirk up of your lips.

If he can ease your pain, no matter how incremental the amount, then he’s doing his job. A start is a start, no matter how small. 

[wontheworld]

7. FUCK YOU CUTE CAT BOY🤣🙏‼️

"Maybe using pastels would be better since they'll smudge more and they blend colors pretty well," YN spoke as Sungchan nodded.

"Hey YN, I was wondering if I could get your number so I could text you about the project. Maybe we could meet up sometime, not during class, to work on it," he said, looking at her before playing with the ring on his hands.

YN's heart started beating fast.

'OF COURSE YOU CAN, YOU FINE ASS MAN,' she yelled in her head before nodding. "Yeah, sure," she responded, smiling at him and getting her phone out before giving him her contact information.

"We could maybe go out for coffee this week? We're going to be working on this for a while, so we might as well get to know each other," he suggested.

YN's face started getting red. "Yes!" She replied excitedly. "Oh, sorry, I mean yeah, sure!" She said, laughing, making him laugh.

"Ynnie, I enjoyed going out with you. Do you want to hang out after class?" Jungwon said, coming next to her suddenly.

Sungchan rolled his eyes as Jungwon looked at him. "I have to be somewhere after class," she lied.

"Aw, that sucks. Text me when you're free. I found this cafe I really wanted to take you to," Jungwon pouted.

She hummed, "I'll text you when I'm free, though, haha," she said as he nodded before going back to his partner.

YN smiled at Sungchan before they started talking about the project again.

taglist (open): @haeeeeefer @livelaughlovetaesan @junstulip @seokiekiss @wk2org @ribbioniki @pinktrl @nujeskz @woonagi-lemon @ningnovas @seunghancore

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(Let’s pretend I spelled “here” instead of the ear one 🙄)

[k00325944]

Week 8 LSAD 07/11/2024. Workshop with Brian O’Shea

Brian O’Shea an artist named Ireland 3000 gave a talk on his work and practice on Thursday. Brian works on large scale print and does creative performance of historical scenes as well.

Our task was to choose a well-known work and respond to it creatively. My team chose “The Birth of Venus”, with each of us embodying a different character from the painting. Inspired by the artist Brian O'Shea and following his advice, we quickly grasped the idea and began implementing it. We posed as the figures, took photos, cut objects in Procreate, and combined them into one composition. Under the guidance of Paul Tarpey, we projected our work onto the wall and began creative experiments. We traced, moved the image, made dynamic gestures, smudged dry pastel with our fingers, and added ink. The group experience was exciting and surprising. This project gave us a unique way to reinterpret a classic piece using modern methods while enjoying a collaborative process.

Here is Brian’s instagram:

https://www.instagram.com/ireland_3000?igsh=MXdvNmwxMTByM3Uxdw==

[lychnobitten]

5 Horror shorts

I can’t stop shaking. There’s a metal bar embedded in the cell wall, and they cuffed one of my wrists to it before leaving me here. The rattling of the cuff is just arrhythmic enough that it never fades to white noise: it’s always present, always distracting. I try to make myself still, and fail again and again.

The cell is cold, but it’s not that. The cop didn’t say a word to me after the first spray of terse questions: I’ve no idea how fucked I am—but it’s not that, either. The horror which has me Jacob-Marley-ing my chains is just the knowledge that there’s someone’s blood soaked into my jeans, smudged on the heel of my hand, dried across my fingers. I tried to find a pulse in the wreck of a body under my car, just made a mess. His blood seemed to shine in the headlights.

My eyes sting.

Maybe it wasn’t my fault. I was tired, but I felt safe to drive. I was even alert enough that I saw the old man standing there in the dark on the side of the back road, balanced on the curb. I was the only car coming, so I didn’t slow down. He could have waited five seconds, and I’d have been past.

I didn’t expect him to just—step out. If that’s even what happened.

The door of the cell swings open, and the cop walks in. He’s carrying a metal box. He places it on the table before sitting opposite me.

“It was an accident!” I burst out. I know, I know. Don’t talk to police without a lawyer. I can’t seem to shut my mouth any more than I can stop shaking. “He was just there, and then there was this—flash of light, just, out of nowhere, and it was...its colour, or…” I trail off there, but not consciously. I’m trying to find words for the chaos of that brief flash of light, the alien colours coiling in its refulgence, the way it pinned my eyes wide and gulped down all clarity. “He must have jumped in front of the car.” I didn’t see it happen. Didn’t see anything but—that light.

“Of course,” says the cop. “Not your fault.”

“What?” I say.

“I guess the old guy just decided he’d had enough.” He shrugs. “He had a hard life. It happens every day: people just decide to...step into the dark. Stopping that is what we’re here for.”

He shifts, centring the metal box on the table.

“Oh,” I say. “So…”

“Or maybe the body wore out, and it needed a new one. It’s not your fault.” He smiles. It’s complacent. “But if you kill the previous vessel, you become the next.”

“What?”

He flips the lid of the box up.

The light crawls out, blazing, consuming, agonising.

I shut my eyes, but it’s already inside.

“It needs a host,” he says. “And we’re here to fight the dark.”

###

The other girl and I are almost identical. We’ve got the same rounded features, the same slender build, matching pastel dungarees. But I have Rorschach blot bruises smeared over my exposed skin, and she has an expression of raw hatred as she spreads them further with a series of short, sharp pinches.

“Thief,” she says as she works. “Thief. I’m gonna tell Mom.”

I try to squirm away, to swat her pinching hands off me, but they always return. “You’re not. She wouldn’t listen. And if she did, she’d know it was a lie.” Mom knows better than to listen to girls like her.

“You’re the liar!” Her sharp nails dig viciously into my cheek. I can feel a bead of blood roll down to my jaw.

I jerk away one last time. “Let’s go see her, then.” Then I run into the house. My twin is on my heels, but it’s me Mom reacts to as we enter the kitchen. She drops the dish sponge as she gasps, her hands flying up to cover her mouth.

“Rose! What happened?”

My twin bobs on her toes. For a moment I think she’s going to shout out her confession, but she drops her chin and looks away, staying silent.

“I fell,” I say. “We were playing outside, and there was gravel, and rocks, and I just…” I mime landing face-first. “But it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

Mom comes hurrying over to grab my chin and tilt it from side to side. “That’s...are you sure? When did this happen?”

“I guess an hour ago.”

“The marks have come up fast…”

“I was running, so I fell pretty hard.” I shrug.

“Liar,” whispers my twin. Mom doesn’t hear her, of course.

“Let’s put some cold packs on it,” Mom says. “My poor girl.”

I slip my arms around her waist and squeeze, my decorated cheek pressed against the cool cotton of her blouse.

“I hate you,” my twin whispers from behind us. We both ignore her.

Later that night, I wake from a warm dream to the feeling of a painful weight on my arm. I try to push up against it, and my arm rises, but the weight clings, refusing to be dislodged. The pain separates into into distinct patterns, running from shoulder to wrist: there’s just enough moonlight in the room to make out the letters my double has pressed into my skin.

N-O-T…

I laugh.

N-O-T R-O-S-E.

“Won’t work,” I tell her. “I can just wear a sweater.”

“I’ll keep hurting you, then,” Rose says. “Again and again. Until you give my body back.”

I laugh again. “You can, if you like. You’ve no idea. After feeling nothing for so long, even pain is worth experiencing.” I eye her floating, incorporeal form. “Well...You’ve no idea yet. You will, though.”

She screams. I’m the only one who can hear her, and I admit it hurts my ears.

But that’s just fine with me.

###

I wasn’t a runner before the end of the world. I wasn’t sedentary either: just...slow. I liked to absorb the view as I went along. I thought it was undignified to sweat in public.

It feels strange to even remember those times, as I enter what must be at least the fiftieth hour of this marathon. My shoes filled with blood more than a day ago, and the last of my toenails sloughed off before dawn this morning—I felt them go, and for a long time they were loose in my socks, biting my feet with every step. Not sure where they are now. Maybe embedded in the flesh somewhere. I can’t feel any individual pain down there any more: my whole existence is nothing but fire and razor-blades—but I can’t stop.

I look over my shoulder, a quick frantic glance to confirm They’re still behind. No, I can’t stop.

I hadn’t known, before everything changed, that there was a more potent engine for life than simply not wanting to die. That had been enough at the beginning, giving me strength when I needed it—and I had needed it, because living after the end of the world was just running, running, running. Nowhere was safe for long, and nowhere had enough food for everyone who wanted to stay. Keep moving, keep breathing.

But now something more is driving me. It’s not so much that I want to live. It’s just that I don’t want to die like this.

They clamour up the road behind me. Their heads are full of teeth. Their hands are full of teeth. They’re made from fear, not appetite, but they will still eat.

They’re catching up.

I run until I’m just raw momentum, airless, numb. And finally I stumble, just for a moment, just one hitch in my stride, a brief feeling like I’m going to fall—and I hear their screams of jubilation.

Keep going. Not like this.

I stay on my feet. I force myself back into rhythm. I can go faster. I can stay ahead.

It’s almost too much, so I do what I always do on the brink of failing: I look over my shoulder. Remind myself what my fate will be if I stop.

They’re still behind. Still pursuing. But...something else is wrong.

I throw a zigzag into the pattern, swerving to the edge of the road so that I can look past Them. I’ve never needed to before, but now—

There’s a body lying on the road. Familiar. Worn thin from constant effort. One shoe fallen off, revealing a red-brown sock.

She’s dead. Heart failure, maybe.

She's me.

I’m dead.

It didn’t even hurt.

And They—They haven’t stopped for the body. They’re showing it no interest at all. They’re still coming for me, spirit, figment, memory, momentum, whatever I am now, their heads and hands full of clacking teeth.

Not like this.

Maybe it’ll never end.

I run.

###

“This is not a prophet,” Rajeev said. “This smells like shit and corpse juice.”

Michaels was unmoved. “Just do your job.”

It took a while to set up the lighting to take photographs. Rajeev muttered to himself as he worked, and Michaels—watched him, blank, like he had no feelings whatsoever about the dead woman at their feet or the arcane scrawlings she’d painted onto the walls in her own blood.

“But seriously,” Rajeev said, depressing the shutter release. “Why would the boss want to scrape any of this for the Codex? It’s meaningless. Worse than that crap they pulled out of the underwater temple scrolls, going on about fecund tongues and...what was it, vengeful dust? Howling stars?”

“Not for us to judge,” said Michaels. He’d turned stony in the past year. Before that, he’d always agreed with Rajeev that Codexchat itself was a crazy project, some Madame Blavatsky bullshit for the new era, and pursuing it meant the boss was a few nodes short of a neural network.

That’s what you get for getting involved, Raheev told himself, and took the rest of his photographs. He’d just never expected this gig to have a body-count.

The woman was—had been—a regular user of Codexchat. Regular by both definitions. Nothing special. She’d asked it what to do with her life, how to feel less empty. Instead of the usual platitudes or abstracted prose-poetry, it gave her literal directions. Sent her here, to this cave in the middle of nowhere, to ‘find her purpose’. She’d come. She’d died, from who knew what, and now the boss wanted her ravings to feed into the scratch-built LLM with every other religious text they’d trained it on, which was all of them, no matter how esoteric or how recently pulled from newly discovered ocean temples.

“What do you think killed her?” Rajeev asked.

“Same as killed the others,” Michaels said, and wouldn’t elaborate or explain, even though Rajeev spent the entire trip home trying to pry answers out of him.

So maybe Rajeev wasn’t as in the know as he’d figured. That didn’t make him oblivious. When he got sent out again to record another body’s last testimony, then another, then another, he worked out he wasn’t the only one getting ordered on these clean-up trips. The corpses were piling up, and the LLM was swelling with their final words.

He didn’t believe in gods or spirits or demons. He didn’t even believe in true AI. But things were getting weird.

Then Michaels stepped off the office building’s roof, and the weird landed like—well. A ton of bricks, or a former friend who fell ten storeys.

Michaels didn’t leave a note. He didn’t need to. His blood, splattered all over the pavement, writhed into words by itself. higher purpose give thanks listen watching. fecund stars. howling tongues.

That night, four whiskeys deep into crisis, Rajeev used Codexchat for the first time. Prompted: Help us. Please.

Soon, was the only answer.

###

“I don’t need a lullaby,” I snapped, looking up into my mother’s thin, anxious face. “I’m almost eight!”

She pressed her hands together, fingers twisting around each other so tight that the skin on her knuckles pulled into thin folds. “I know you are, sweetie. I know you’re a big girl now. But honey, you were always so scared of—”

“I’m almost eight!” My voice squeaked with indignation. “I know it’s not real!”

“But—”

“It was never real, Mum!”

She was supposed to be an adult. She was supposed to know that.

She shut her eyes and sighed. “All right. All right, if you’re sure. But if you can’t get to sleep tonight…you’ll just have to deal with it, okay? No getting your dad or me up because you think you hear something… scary. Okay? Okay, Juliet?”

“Mum!”

I was still angry with her when I went to bed that night. I wasn’t a baby anymore. Did she always have to bring up the way I got scared when I was little? I hadn’t asked her for a lullaby in over a year: it was always her who wanted to do it.

Maybe soon I’d get rid of my little yellow nightlight too. Soon. But first I’d prove I was old enough to go to bed on my own.

I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek into the pillow. The cotton felt warm against my skin, uncomfortable, so I rolled. The bed creaked loudly underneath me. The sheets rustled as I resettled my limbs. My breathing seemed unbearably loud in the small box of my room, but not as loud as my thoughts. Why had I ever been scared? My room was just my room, plain, boring, the same as it had been for years and years. There was no space for anything dangerous in the dark. There was no such thing as monsters.

Not real.

From under my bed came a sound like pouring sand.

No. Nope. Not real.

A sound like scratching.

I was a big girl now.

A low whisper, deep and hoarse.

I should stop imagining things.

I tried to stop. Tried not to listen. But I just couldn’t sleep like that, not with the sound of something scraping up the headboard, getting higher and higher, closer and closer. I opened my eyes again, blinked through the tears. I might not have been able to make out the shape in the darkness if I hadn’t known what I was going to see—if I hadn’t remembered those long fingers, the pointed nails, the folds of milky skin peeling off the bone…

I didn’t scream. I was a big girl now. I knew better. And I knew what I needed to do.

The thing under the bed was wide awake.

I opened my mouth and began to sing, shaky, tremulous—its lullaby.

[rainwaterapothecary]

"First Kisses" pt 2

#serennedyprideweek prompt: First Kiss

[part 1]

“Oye, Sancho! Over here!” Tanned knuckles barely showed over the high grasses in the wheat field Luis had directed them to. Leon had long since ceased to ask questions when his friend got the glitter in his eye that promised mirth and mischief…usually just off the beaten path. But Luis had finally gotten the ‘ok’ to cross state lines and Leon was currently between missions so when his boisterous roommate bounded into his bedroom and bounced on the bed beside where Leon was cleaning his service pistol. Leon had only made out the words ‘adventure’ and ‘surprise, Sancho!’ before he had grabbed his keys and his scientist and gotten out of dodge.

“Alright, alright! Keep your shirt on…” Leon shook his head, pocketing his keys and striding into the field of gold. Stalks rustled like fairy music around Leon’s ears and the laughter of his partner wove in and out of the sunshine dappling his cheeks.

“Keep up cowboy! I’m getting old here!” Blue eyes closed to take in the unfiltered joy in Luis’ voice, laughter cresting each syllable like sunset's light over the waves.

“Yeah, yeah!” Leon called back, lengthening his strides to follow the trailing laughter. Feet made light by SpecOps training danced along the thin growths while laser-focus to match his tech guided Leon straight into the other man’s arms.

“What’s this?” The American looked around the small clearing, summer-green grass soft in the sanctuary of the wheat field. Gray eyes turned whiskey-brown in the golden light danced.

“It’s a place where we can be quiet, Amor.” Leon felt the air get punched from his lungs as his eyes widened.

“Giving the windmills a rest for a second, eh?”

Luis tilted his head back and laughed, a wild sound that seemed at home in this parallel dimension where sunset rested around their shoulders while the skies remained blue and big and far off.

Leon’s eyes began to sting as he pulled Luis in by the hand, lacing their fingers to hold this beautiful, beaming man as close as sunlight can get to a man of Leon’s shadows. Strong hands gripped and didn’t let go as Leon lowered his eyes, long eyelashes fluttering as he looked and looked and looked. Strong shoulders wrapped in a heathered shirt, seeds like starlight in chocolate hair, lips framed by smudged pastels of stubble…

“Is this okay?” The words weren’t spoken so much as breathed through the quiet, heavy air. A swallow went down a neatly trimmed throat as Leon met Luis’ eyes through his pollen-dusted eyelashes.

“Yes.” Luis breathed, letting Leon’s hand go so the man could cup his jawline. As much as Luis ached to take in every second, every moment of this first kiss, he felt his eyes slipping closed at the feeling of warm skin on his cheek, a thumb free of leather tactical gloves tracing across the crest of his smile. Leon had showered before they left, his hair dripping when Luis had brought up their little ‘adventure’ to the one place Luis could think of where two men could kiss under the sky in Smalltown, USA in 2005. Who would judge him for taking in the perfume of Leon’s body wash as it drifted through the baking stalks, filling his nose and mouth with Leon as warm lips brushed against his? God Himself had turned His back on them, and even the sun in his jealous sky could not touch them in these forgotten fields of gold.  

-

A/N And here we have it! There's an epilogue I'll post on ao3 when I upload this at the end of the week. Have fun y'all! See you in Raccoon City. :wink:

[cellard0ors]

Fic: Unrequited Love and Fanciful Wishes (Part of The Full Deck Series)

Fandom: The Quarry

Pairing: Travis Hackett/Laura Kearney

Rating: Teen

Summary: Another moment in the 80s.

Warning(s): None believe it or not.

Notes: This is for Tay! (@spookyscaryscully ) They wanted some jealous!Laura and while I definitely have plans to write that in the present in The Full Deck verse I've been watching 80s movies to cheer myself up (school has been a bit of a nightmare) and it's put me in the mood for some more young!Travis shenanigans. Hence this!

Also, I absolutely hate the name of this...but couldn't think of anything else! If I do, I'll change it later when I put it on AO3.

"I made this for you!" Becky Willingham holds out the neatly cross-stitched handkerchief for Travis to take.

His eyes go wide behind his glasses as he takes it from her, "For me? Really?"

Becky nods shyly, the curly ponytail on the very top of her head visibly shaking with the movement, "I made it in Angela's crafts class. I thought you might like it."

"Oh, wow! Well, thanks!" he returns as he inspects the craftsmanship. Laura is sitting nearby, halfway through her lunch break. She chews on her apple slices and watches the exchange in amusement. She chose to eat outside today, the weather cool and crisp from a midafternoon rain.

While it's been an adjustment (what with time traveling into the past and all) Laura has to admit it's been somewhat refreshing being here. The camp is almost exactly how she pictured it, but also leagues different.

Mostly due to the fashion choices and Becky is wearing what has to be the quintessential outfit for a fourteen year of the 80s. The lilac purple, bright pink, and neon blue pastel shirt print she's wearing is beyond outrageous and her acid washed jean shorts have just that hint of fringe that she probably feels speaks to her maturing.

The over-the-top makeup approach she has signals the same - bright pink lipstick and smudged pink eyeshadow clear attempts at trying to look 'older', but only really highlighting how very young she is.

Very young and very obviously crushing on Travis.

Travis who, naturally, is completely oblivious to the young girl's romantic overtures. He holds the handkerchief up and offers a grin, "I can use this if you and Natalie fall again when we do another round of tug of war."

Becky giggles like this is the best and funniest thing she has ever heard in her life. Travis just continues, "Can you believe how muddy you two got? Not Bruce's best idea - having you guys do Field Day events after that big rain."

"I know! And it rained today too! It's just so crazy!" Becky flutters her eyelashes at him, clearly happy he's talking to her, and Laura can't help but roll her eyes.

Poor baby, Becky doesn't recognize that it's simply Travis being kind. But then she remembers being that age - nothing like unrequited love and fanciful wishes. Laura remembers thinking that Max would have to go through something like this.

Long before the drive to the Quarry and the two months of hell and nightmare that followed, Laura had had a lot of ideas of how things might go at Hackett's Quarry Summer Camp. One of those had been how, no doubt, a group of little girls would flock all over Max, stars in their eyes.

Instead, she's seeing it with Travis Hackett of all people. Laura would say she doesn't understand it, but well...

She pointedly picks up another apple slice and chews it, breathing in the fresh air. The scent of pine and freshly wet earth fills her lungs even as she hears Becky let out another peal of giggles. Laura senses movement nearby and sees Travis approaching her, the handkerchief in hand.

"Hey! How're you doing?" Travis asks kindly as he sits across from her at the wooden picnic table, one finger going to push up the bridge of his glasses while he does so.

...those stupid, stupid glasses...

Laura just shrugs and sees that Becky has found a group of her friends. Laura recognizes one of them as Natalie, but not the other. They're grouped together and whispering and laughing, pointing in her and Travis's direction. Or, much more likely, just Travis's direction and she scoffs, shaking her head as she mutters, "You should be careful about stringing her along."

Travis's eyebrows draw together in confusion, "Huh?"

She juts her chin out in Becky's direction and Travis turns to see her there. Becky, Natalie, and the other girl go bug-eyed before hightailing it, nervous chitters trailing in their wake.

"Wait-? Who-?" Travis turns back to Laura, then back to where Becky was, then back to Laura again, as if he expected to see someone else over there, "Becky?!"

Laura simply smirks and grabs her capri sun, sipping it like tea. Travis's mouth drops open, "I'm not-!? She's a camper! A-!? A kid!"

"Yeah, well - she's a kid with a HUGE crush on you."

Travis regards Laura as if she's lost her mind and Laura can't help but find that hilarious, considering not more than twenty-four hours ago she told him about how she'd been held hostage by a cop. A cop who was him, but that was neither here nor there at this moment, "Travis, are you telling me you didn't notice the hearts floating over her head? Especially after she gave you that?"

Laura gestures to the handkerchief and Travis gently sets it down, eyeing it now with distaste, "I-? I thought she was just being nice! She's told me I'm her favorite counselor!"

"Mmm, bet you you're also her favorite boy, period."

"She-?" Travis's skin takes on a red pallor that Laura refuses to acknowledge as cute any more than she refuses to acknowledge his startled embarrassment as cute, "She's been coming here since she was ten! I-? I've known her since she was like-?"

He holds his hand up so it's not very far from the ground, "This high! She's just-? She's-?"

"A kid?" Laura repeats and Travis scowls at her, crossing his arms as he huffs, "You're wrong."

"Oh, I am not." Laura argues airily, "But don't be so worried about it. Girls have crushes. Especially at that age. There's nothing to feel bad about."

Travis shifts about uncomfortably, "But girls don't have crushes on me! Especially not campers! Bruce and David, sure - but me? I'm just-? I'm-?"

He plays with his hands and shifts some more, "I'm nobody."

Jaw tightening, Laura gives him a cool eyed glare, "You really have to stop talking like that."

Travis's head shoots up and his eyes meet hers, even as Laura finds her mouth running off without her truly thinking about what's coming out of it, "I wouldn't consider someone who does what you do a nobody. I wouldn't consider someone who I help a nobody. I wouldn't consider someone who kept me lock-!"

The last cuts off awkwardly, because Laura almost - almost, almost, almost - said 'locked up' and boy would that have been a shock. Because Travis hasn't locked her up. Not yet. Not this Travis and this Travis looks very confused and very troubled as he repeats, "'Lock- what?'"

"L-locked lips with." Laura falls back on because, yeah, okay - she has kissed him. More than once. And liked it. Goddamn her life. Goddamn it a step further, when he blushes and ducks his head and smiles that big, stupid, crooked smile of his.

His teeth are slightly unaligned in this time. Did he get braces later? Invisalign? Either one was probably used, considering when she met him, he had a fully straight set. Not this endearing, slightly oddball collection that's on full display when he grins, "I kept you locked lips with?"

Another shrug, "Something like that."

She goes for her capri sun again, needing the distraction, the little vacuum bag sucking in hard as she drags on the slim straw. The taste of orange floods her mouth even as Travis picks the handkerchief back up and looks at it, "Still think you're wrong. Still think she was just being nice."

"Well, wait a couple of years and you can marry her if you want." Laura offers, unsure of where that comment came from, only for him to look up and let out a bark of laughter, "Why, Ms. Kearney! Are you jealous?"

Laura now lets out her own laugh, "Please! I'm not-!"

"Because while I know green is your favorite color, I never took you as the jealous type."

"I'm not jealous." Laura intones and she completely ignores the fact that she's crushing the now empty capri sun pack in her hand. Travis, however, looks delighted, "I mean, you really don't have any reason to be. Like I said, Becky is just a kid. And besides, I'm sure you know there's only one person that I'd ever consider marry-!"

Travis stops and now it's clear he's said more than he planned to. Bashfulness takes him quickly and he clears his throat, clutching the handkerchief in one hand. Laura herself, is also taken with nerves. Marrying? That's a big word. A big idea. A huge commitment.

It's the type of commitment one shouldn't take lightly or embark on impulsively and the Travis she knew would never do such a thing. Or, then again, maybe he would. The Travis she knew probably didn't plan on imprisoning her and Max for two months.

That had, no doubt, been an impulsive decision.

But marriage...

It's only because you brought it up, Laura's mind calmly reminds her, he doesn't mean anything by it.

Laura's sure he doesn't.

He has to.

Because anything else is unthinkable...

Clearing her own throat, Laura reaches across the table between them and pats the top of the hand Travis is clutching the handkerchief in, "I-? I'm sure you'll find that person someday."

Travis just looks at her and the heat in his eyes - the pure want and need...

Laura needs to make a getaway. Fast. She rises up abruptly, gathering her lunch tray and trash as she does her best to keep her voice light, "M-Maybe I'll see you later tonight? At the bonfire?"

...he's still looking at her in that way.

That way that, while he didn't mean to say those things, now that he has he's just-? The idea is there. The idea of marrying that one person. That one person that, Laura is terrified, is her. She's terrified. But she's not exactly sure if it's because she's terrified at the very thought or because she's terrified at the very thought that she isn't terrified...that she'd actually be okay with-?

Travis's lips on hers, warm and soft, his tongue carefully parting the seam of her lips to come inside, to taste and caress as he whispers her name lovingly, as they share breath, as he looks at her with dark brown, nearly black eyes from behind his thick glasses...

Fuck.

The memory of one of their kisses hits her hard and she finds herself turning and running away. No, no - not running, not running - walking. She's walking away. But Laura knows the truth. Deep down inside, she knows the truth.

She's running.

Running from him in the past, running from him in the future - running from those intense eyes and handkerchiefs and jealousy, jealousy-! Jesus, fuck, did she wish it was just jealousy she felt.

Jealousy...and not the million other, more intimate things she's feeling for Travis Hackett right now.

...and maybe always.

[5and3nevermind]

Ok, should we try to tackle the meaning of this?

During the D-Day documentary, we see this picture sitting on a piano. People became curious about this painting/drawing because: 1. fans are curious about any item the guys own and 2. that sure does look like mint/orange!

Spoiler alert: I don’t have any grand theory here. However, I’m hoping we can at least make some headway in solving this mystery. If you have any thoughts on this, I’d love to hear them!

So…what do we know?

☑️ This would have been filmed at some point post-PTD LA when Yoongi was working on D-Day.

☑️ Yoongi was not at home here. Therefore, we can assume this is either an item that Yoongi travels with or an item that he acquired during his travels.

☑️ To me, this looks like a drawing that was made with oil pastels. But I’d love a second opinion on that.

☑️ If so, that’s a medium that is easily transportable. Unlike paint, oil pastels can be packed in a small box and carried in luggage without fear of it becoming a huge mess.

☑️ The artwork appears to have been placed inside a white mat (the white border around the picture), but it is unframed. It looks to me like it’s been covered with a plastic cover, which again suggests oil pastels or chalk as a medium since those can smudge if left unprotected.

☑️ This fandom is amazing at tracking down items/brands used by the guys. We’ve also seen artists/musicians proudly share things on social media like, “ABC of BTS listened to my song!” If this work was created by an artist, doesn’t it seem like that person would have promoted their work by mentioning it? Their art appeared in the D-Day doc! It is owned my the one and only Min Yoongi! But no, as far as I know that hasn’t happened.

☑️ How incredible is it that we don’t know where this work was sold or who made it?!

☑️ It seems reasonable then to believe that this piece was made by someone who is not a professional artist.

☑️ We know Yoongi likes to paint and to draw. This has been mentioned several times. It’s also interesting to note that Jimin has seen Yoongi’s work and has mentioned that he’s talented when it comes to painting/drawing.

☑️ The subject matter: we see two figures who seem to be huddled together. One has orange hair and the other has mint. And that is definitely mint, not blue. The blue background provides a great comparison.

I think those are all safe assumptions, right? I don’t think I’ve taken any huge leaps; I didn’t even need to use my “warning: speculation” emojis (⚠️ 🤡) in that list!

I’ll just conclude with one more thought: what are the chances? What are the chances that during his travels Yoongi made and/or acquired an artwork that features two people with mint/orange hair, 6-7 years after he and Jimin had mint/orange hair? Is coincidence a possibility here?

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

49) nightfall, Haldryn

It’s a beautiful sunset. She’s not used to how red they are here—the whole sky afire.

What are you thinking about?

“Can’t you tell?” Haldryn smudges another thumb-smear of crumbling red pastel over the page, resolutely not looking at where she knows Neht is lowering himself to the ground to sit beside her, cross-legged like he does.

No. So tell me. You don’t want to stay in the city. You’d rather stay out here on the road because…?

If he can’t tell then maybe he really didn’t see. He’s never commented on the contents of her dreams before, anyway—some small relief that maybe that at least isn’t going to change. She switches back to her ink, hesitating.

It’s safer, he says, gently, somewhere with more light, at least.

She flicks a magelight over her shoulder at him. The brilliant red of the sky is dimming, less ruby, turning muddier with every passing minute. She still doesn’t know what to say, in this letter. The solid gold faces in the city—the gold face next to her—the gold mask, last night—

When she’d woken up she couldn’t tell. Too dark, indoors, windowless, to tell the difference between awake and asleep.

She’s not going to worry Ma, crying about nightmares like a little kid. So she’ll draw the sunset, and she’ll press another flower into the page, and Ma won’t worry because there’s nothing to worry about and she’s fine.

Haldryn. Look at me.

“I don’t want to look at you,” she says with sudden venom, the page creasing with the force of the swipe she makes across it. “I’m—losing the sun.”

The Blade—you don’t have to run his errands, you know.

“He asked for help.” Haldryn squints into the dying sun. She doesn’t have enough variation, in her reds, to get it right.

He can ask someone else.

“He asked me.” She can feel her chin getting stubborn, tries to force it neutral again. “We do the kind thing. We help when someone asks, and we offer when they don’t.”

Silence, for a moment. The sun is too far gone to offer light; the sky has faded from red to an ever-darkening bruise. Her magelight washes out the red of her pastels, anyway. She puts them back in the tin and starts to scrub at her stained hands with her rag, harder than she probably needs to.

You’re scared.

“I’m not scared!” The moons. The stars. As long as she can see them she’ll know, and she’ll be just fine. She pulls off her scarf to fold it into a pillow. “I’m not scared,” she says again. She doesn’t have to be scared to not want to sleep, does she?

She doesn’t want to lie down, either, she realizes, staring at her folded scarf. She hauls herself to her feet. She could go—where? She doesn’t know the roads well enough to travel even back to Balmora in the dark. She won’t go back into the city, where she can’t see the light from the sky. Not going anywhere, then. Doesn’t mean there’s nothing to do. She turns to him.

He’s still on the ground, hands on his knees, back straight. Looking back at her. He’s always easier to make out in the dark, bright, but—just for a moment there, she thinks he’s almost solid.

Haldryn draws her dagger, then the other, nodding once as starlight glints off the summoned blades. “Practice with me.”

He doesn’t move. The shadows that shouldn’t be on his face settle on his golden forehead. She has the brief, irrational conviction that they’re going to blink. The moons, she reminds herself. The stars. You need to sleep, he says. You don’t have to be afraid. I can keep watch. Cliff racers will be asleep now, too.

Her mouth feels dry. Gold and gold and gold. Immobile, the eyes hollowed out. But he doesn’t look like that. His face is the same it’s always been.

 “I’m not scared,” she insists, “of them.”

[fvckyouimaprophet]

cherry lips and black curls

summary: James tries on overalls for the first time and loves them. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to have a boyfriend who’s always there to tell her how hot she looks.

length: 1,666

tags: Transfem James (she/her), Transmasc Regulus (they/them), Gender Euphoria, Dirty Talk

a/n: For @420maraudersfest. These are the overalls James has on. This is my first attempt at Jegulus. ✌️

Read on Archive of Our Own.

James grins and turns, staring at herself in the full-length mirror in the corner of her bedroom. Lily had promised overalls would suit her, but she’d been so resistant, worried that they’d make her shapeless or fit her awkwardly. She’d waited until she found a pair she loved before trying them on. Now, as she looks at herself, she can’t quite understand her hesitation. Pastel flowers dot the burgundy fabric, and when she bends over, she watches the way it highlights her curves.

“You look hot.” Regulus sprawls out on the bed, joint dangling from between their fingers. The summer air is thick, and their hair sticks to their forehead. Their eyes trail down James’s body, and they wet their lips. “Your ass looks great in this.”

“I know, right!” The words come out louder than intended, and she groans as her cheeks heat up. “Too eager?”

“Nah, it’s cute when you get like this.” They smile up at James and blow her a kiss. “Come here.”

“Alright.” She takes one final glance in the mirror and turns, sticking her hands in her pockets and striking a pose. A smudge makes her right hip look blurry. “I really should clean this.”

Regulus rolls over on their back, and their head dangles over the edge of the bed, staring at James upside-down. They lift the joint to their lips and breathe in. For a moment, James stares at them affectionately, watching as smoke curls around their mouth, and then she walks over and perches herself on the bed beside them. Regulus makes no move to sit up.

“I’ve been loving how much you’ve been feeling yourself lately,” Regulus says, running their fingers absentmindedly up James’s arm.

“Well, when you have a boyfriend who can’t go three minutes without complimenting you…”

“Oh, did you want me to stop? ‘Cause I can.” 

“No.” James plops down and dangles off the bed beside Regulus. From this angle, the room looks different, bigger. She hums and presses a kiss to Regulus’s jaw. “Can I have some of that?” she asks, nodding toward the joint. 

“Sure thing.” Regulus brings it to James’s lips, and James breathes in and closes her eyes. They hold it steady between hits for James until she waves her hand to gesture that she’s done with it.

“Are you still meeting up with Barty soon?” Despite her best efforts to contain herself, James scrunches her nose.

“I saw that.” Regulus rolls to their side and scoots up the bed so that they are no longer hanging off. They hold the joint between their index and middle finger, and with their thumb, they pick at the chipped black nail polish on their other hand. “You can think what you want of him, but you know our rule—you don’t shit-talk my friends, and I won’t shit-talk yours.”

“To be fair, my best friend’s your brother.”

“Exactly. Makes it even harder to be nice.” Although Regulus tries their best to sound like they’re teasing, there’s a slight, defensive edge to their voice.

“Fine.” James sighs and sits up. “I guess your rule’s fair.” She doesn’t entirely think so, but she understands the supposed logic behind it.

“And yes, I’m still seeing Barty.” Regulus follows suit and grunts as they prop themself up and turn their body to face James. If James’s gut tells her anything, it’s that Barty isn’t good news—impulsive and reckless, with few lines he’s not willing to cross. It’s admirable how loyal Regulus is, but coupled with their stubbornness, there’s little she can do. She chews the inside of her cheek and finds herself lost in thought when Regulus interrupts.

“I got the strap we were eyeing.”

They’ve always had an uncanny ability to catch her off-guard by talking about things like this when she least expects it. She’s not naive. She knows that’s the thrill of it for them—watching her eyes go wide as she squirms. Now is no different. James’s pulse quickens, and any concerns about Barty slip from her mind. “Which one?” she asks.

“The thick one.” With a small smile, Regulus drops their hand to James’s thigh and traces up along the inside. “You know what that means?” They keep their voice low, just quiet enough to make James have to lean toward them to make out the words.

The world around the two of them falls away, and James’s mouth goes dry. It’s impossible to concentrate on anything other than the heat and weight of Regulus’s hand through the cotton of her overalls. She imagines their hand inching higher until— 

The room closes in around them. Her chest feels tight, and she swallows hard. Just as she lifts her hips, Regulus removes their hand. James groans, and Regulus’s eyes darken. They straddle her, their legs warm and soft around hers, and splay a hand on her chest. James hardly has time to adjust to the new position before they push her backward, and she falls to the bed with a slight oof. 

“What does it mean?” she breathes. They both know that she knows, but she wants to hear Regulus say it. Her voice trembles, and she sucks in a breath.

“After I get home, I’m going to fuck you until your ass is sore and you can’t stand straight.” A smug edge slips into their voice, and they lift the joint to their lips. “We have to break it in, after all.” The tip burns orange. “I can’t wait to see you take it. To watch as I sink into you. To see your face when you’re stretched, full.” A cloud of smoke hovers between them for a moment in the stagnant, bedroom air, and a bead of sweat drips down the back of James’s neck. Regulus reaches down to James’s hair and wraps a curl around their finger.

A bit of ash breaks off and falls to James’s new clothes. Under other circumstances, she might care more, but now, it hardly feels important. She shifts, and her hand moves to Regulus’s side, pulling them down on top of her, careful to give them a warning tug first to let them set the joint down on the ashtray on the nightstand. Regulus lands face-first on her chest—something James suspects isn’t entirely accidental.

“Wait, are those naked women on your overalls?” Their voice is muffled by the fabric.

“Yeah, they’re kind of hidden unless you’re looking closely.” She laughs as Regulus props themself up and stares again at the design. Her body still hums under theirs, craving more, but Regulus has always been easily distracted.

“This may be your gayest outfit yet.”

“You know what would be even gayer?” James asks.

“Hmm?”

“If you fucked me now.” There’s a certain pleasure in being able to surprise Regulus and watch a flush enter their cheeks. It’s so rare she can pull it off. “We can see how many times you can make me come.”

Regulus groans. “I would love to, but I have to leave in—” They check their watch and curse under their breath, “—five minutes.”

“Coward.” James props herself up on her elbows and presses a kiss to Regulus’s lips. It’s the sort of moment she could sink into—the quiet of their room punctured only by the sound of Regulus breathing in sharply through their nose, their lips soft against hers, the smell of their cologne and sweat and the lingering smoke blending together until James floats in a haze. She reaches a hand up. Regulus’s boxy button-up is already undone down to the middle of their chest, but James fiddles with the remaining buttons until they pop open too and leave their chest on full display. James runs her tongue along Regulus’s lower lip and licks into their mouth, marveling at the way Regulus melts into her touch.

Slowly, she places a hand on their stomach, fingers spread wide, and runs it up, over the twin scars on their chest, tracing their collar bone. Even with her eyes focused on Regulus’s face, she’s memorized their body and knows it by feel alone. Her finger finds the freckle at the base of their neck, and Regulus moans into her mouth, nothing but hot breath and rumbling vibrations.

And then they pull away, their lips swollen and shiny with her lip gloss. “I can’t. Barty and Evan are going through a rough patch, and if I’m running late because I got caught up with you, I’ll feel like a dick.” James deflates like a punctured balloon. She’d never been good at keeping a poker face anyway.

“They’re always going through a rough patch.” The words come out angry and bitter, a jab she immediately regrets when she sees Regulus’s face. The electricity in the air fizzles out until it feels stale, and Regulus’s eyes harden into something unreadable.

“I’ll be back later,” they say, standing and reaching for the buttons of their shirt.

“Regulus…” James stands and grips their hand as her stomach plummets. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

Regulus stops and stares into her eyes, unblinking, until James is certain she will melt into the floor. And then they nod. “I’ll be back later.” Although their posture stays stiff, something in their face softens. Regulus has always been exceptional at holding onto anger, but something tells her that this time will be different. 

Her heart pounds against her chest, and she wrings her hands as she watches as Regulus smoothes out their hair and walks over to the shoe rack to grab their black, combat boots. “Tell Barty that I hope he and Evan will be alright.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.” Their chuckle punctures the tension in the room, and James’s shoulders drop. “You should finish the joint while I’m gone.”

It’s not a half-bad idea. “Thanks.”

“And James?” They cross the room once more. “I love you.” When they smile, James returns it, closes her eyes, and leans their foreheads together.

“Love you too.”

[your-highnessmarvel]

cotton candy | s.riley

CHAPTER SEVEN

Pairing: Simon Riley aka Ghost x Original female character

Warnings: Nothing here, except language and ghost being a bitch and OC being a slut for him lmao. 

Chapter Summary: As Laura prepares for the mission that will put her a step towards home, she makes a dazzling realization. She might actually see Ghost’s face. 

A/N: Wow, this took forever. I am so sorry?????

Masterlist

Taglist: Open

Will be posting on AO3. IF ONLY I CAN FIGURE OUT HOW IT WORKS LMAO.

Chapter seven

He was blonde. I couldn’t get that out of my head, the way his sandy locks had turned a darker shade of honey under the water’s jet. His light eyelashes and his slightly darker brows. The blue of his eyes, the shade of a calm ocean tide. 

It was like staring in the mirror and not recognizing myself. Simon - that was his name - who could tear someone to pieces and take what he wanted from others and drain the blood from someone’s face with a simple look, was blonde. 

It was the one and only thing rattling the inside of my skull for the last two days. Not the fact that his fingers were skilled or one had been wedged between my thighs or that his mouth was soft and plump. Not that his body was perpetually on fire or that his teeth had left little half moons on the flesh of my shoulder. Or that he tasted like ash and something sweet. 

He was fucking blonde. 

I don’t know, honestly, what I had expected from Ghost - well, Simon. Maybe thick dark locks and black eyebrows to match with that awfully blank stare of his. Maybe even a light shade of chocolate brown. 

But not blonde.

It softened him, even if I knew what he was capable of. How strong he was. How fast, cunning, tactical he could be. The fact that his hair was just short strands, curling around his ears, and blonde! 

And not sunny, beach blonde. Not pastel yellow or close to white. He had a special kind of shade, somewhere between hot sand and honey coiling around my finger. 

I had only seen his hair for a very split second, distracted by the masterpiece of his body, but it had just stuck with me.

After Simon - oh, God his name was so sweet - and I’s encounter in the bathroom showers, I could barely bring myself to look at him. 

Yes, he’d culled the most luscious, lascivious sensations out of my skin, deep from within me, like a tide to the moon. But cumming for him, at his command, from his ministrations on my body, had felt like I was a marble dropped into water.

It was a failure to myself. 

Even if it had felt so good, so right, even if I’d initially ran and refused and been turned to putty in his hands. Even if he’d understood me so easily, so pathetically, and yet so perfectly - it was utter failure.

I needed to win. And I would.

Soap was walking me through the plans of this operation. The one they called Starlight. 

He’d been silent with me at training these past two days. Not silent silent, Soap wasn’t capable of being mute, but he was less chatty, less friendly. He kept a safe distance from me, as if I was riddled with the black plague and this was 1388. 

“Management isn’t roped in on this,” he said, going through his notes. We were sitting in the RV, night creeping and whispering around us with crickets and a far away, numb noise of a drone. “So don’t trust anyone. Keep your eyes behind your head.”

I snorted. 

“So to speak, pumpkin,” Soap muttered, head in his hands. I reached over and touched his elbow, summoning his gaze back to me.

His skin was soft, chiseled with hair, and he looked up between his fingers at me. 

“You doing okay?” I asked. 

I wasn’t blind. I’d seen the blue smudged under Soap’s eyes, the fatigue dragging Alejandro’s face downward, and even Gaz and Laswell were dragging their feet. This operation, this mission to catch an elusive criminal, was taking a toll on the team.

Soap’s mouth curved into a shy smile. “Yeah,” he said, yawning, poorly hiding it behind his hands. 

“Maybe we should sleep?” I suggested. 

For a moment, Soap just stared. We’d been at these plans for the better part of the night. No one had bothered showing back up after supper - some sort of ladies night happening at the bar that Gaz and Alejandro were really into. So Soap had thought it would be best to walk me through the plans, get me used to what I was supposed to do. 

But Soap was getting sleepy and grumpy, and the more questions I asked, the easier it was to get him angry. 

I moved my hand away, but he caught it, lightning quick. Slamming his hands onto my fingers and holding onto it. 

“Laura, I - I wanna ask you somethin’?” It came out as a question, but my head cocked with curiosity. His fingers were burning, wrapped tightly around mine, sitting numbly on the table. He bit the inside of his cheek. “What did Ghost do to you?”

I tried jerking my hand away, but Soap held on, bruising grip, forcing my entire arm to lay flat on the wood of the table. Although Soap let off some other kind of vibe, the goofy kid with a lopsided smile and an easy laugh, he was smart. He was the smartest person I’d ever met - and never let anything slip past him. 

Frowning, my breath almost knocked out of me, I said, “nothing.” As if I meant it. As if Ghost hadn’t actually done something to me.

My entire body lit up, flames licking up my sides, burning up to my cheeks, and Soap must have noticed because he grimaced and shook his head. 

“You won’t even look at him,” he continued. “Should... should I be concerned?”

“No.”

“Then why are you pulling your arm away?”

I fidgeted in my seat. “Soap, it’s no big deal.”

He laughed. The asshole actually laughed. “Then tell me.”

“No!”

“Are you a little prudish?”

I reached over with my other hand, my clumsy hand, and slapped him. And just at that moment, the door to the RV swung open, but I didn’t hear it, and continued slapping Soap clumsily on the side of the head. He laughed, barely evading my blows, holding me by my other hand. 

“You’re such a dick!” I exclaimed, grabbing onto that mohawk of his and trying to slam his head onto the table. 

I should’ve known I was not going to be satisfied with what came next.

I was yanked from the table, my hand snatched from Soap’s, and a pair of arms wrapped under my breasts, hoisting me up. I screeched, trying to kick Soap, but my assailant - and I had a good idea who it was - just pulled me right across the table, throwing Soap’s notes to the ground. 

I landed awkwardly onto the ground, butt first, heels scrambling on the carpeted floor of this fucking RV. I held onto Ghost’s forearms, nails digging into the fabric of his black hoodie. He hauled me up and onto my feet. 

I tried slapping Ghost, aiming my open palms over my head and at his masked face, but he just grunted and grabbed both wrists and trapped them between my chest and his. 

“Why are you assaulting my Sergeant?” he asked, his voice low, grunted through clenched teeth. 

Soap chuckled. 

“He called me... he called me prudish,” I spat back, trying to pull my wrists free but Ghost took a step towards me and I took one back. The edge of the counter came brushing against the base of my spine. Nice. Trapped again. 

Ghost was so immense in the tiny space of the RV, taking up most of my vision with the width of his shoulders and chest. 

I tried not to look into his eyes, into those baby blues, but he was just standing there. Looking.

So I did. I dragged my gaze up until he was piercing holes inside my face. 

“Well, you are,” he said, and I saw a glint in his eyes, as if this was amusing. I pulled but he held on. 

“No.”

“Prove it.” I turned, facing Soap, who’d just said that without humour, without a hint of a smile on his face.

I felt Ghost let out a chuckle against me. “She’d never,” he said. 

I opened my mouth to speak but Ghost’s hand shot out, grabbing my jaw painfully, holding my mouth open like a fish. I saw his eyes dart to my mouth, to my tongue. Then he dragged his gaze back to mine. “Whatever you’re about to say, save it.” He paused, watching me struggle to close my jaws. “Don’t tempt me,” he said. “Don’t tempt us.”

He let go of me and lazily walked back to the room. I watched, breathless, jaw aching, as his shoulders swayed, his form sauntering away until he closed the door to the room.

I turned, half expecting Soap to be laughing at Ghost’s cruelty. But he was just sat there, watching me with impossibly dark eyes, an impenetrable stare. 

“Soap?” I asked, my voice small. 

I wasn’t liking this. But I wasn’t hating this. My skin crawled with goosebumps as Soap got up, slowly facing me. Something akin to flames, like embers, was brewing low in my belly. 

Shit. 

“Let’s go get some sleep, huh, pumpkin?” He jerked his head towards the room, where Ghost was sleeping, where I was supposed to fall asleep as well. 

Numbly, I followed Soap. He opened the door for me, darkness greeting us both as we slinked in. I heard the rustle of his shirt coming off his chest, the sheets as he climbed into his bed. I listened to the creaks in Ghost’s own bunk, to the breaths of two men obviously not sleeping as I went to the corner and felt around for my pijamas. 

I listened to the dark, to Soap’s quiet but rapid breaths, to Ghost’s sheets hissing as he moved. 

I quickly changed, leaving my jeans and shirt on the floor, and quickly climbed into bed. 

I had trouble finding sleep, staring at the dark, pretending not to imagine what Soap would feel like. What Ghost would say if I touched him or Soap or both.

And something rang deep in my head, low in my belly, throbbing between my legs.

Ghost had said don’t tempt us. Us. 

Fuck. 

***

The truth about men was fairly simple. They were immortal beings until faced with the inevitable death of their hearts. They thought themselves painless, fearless until the sting of a blade kissed their flesh. 

Or until some bratty girl with midnight hair became the only girl on base to hold the entirety of their appetite. 

Ghost wasn’t stupid. And he wasn’t blind. He’d seen his own subordinates, trained privates, Navy Goddamned Seals battle hardened and insensitive, fall to their knees at the mention of pussy. And he’d seen them all give eyes to Laura, to the beautiful civilian American girl with black hair and a blacker stare. 

But she was his. And she’d remain his until he decided otherwise. 

“L.T?”

Ghost turned his head, meeting Soap’s gaze. The latter inclined his head. “Are we getting Laura for this?” he asked. 

Ghost shook his head. “All she needs to do is get in there and identify him,” the shadow said. Alejandro shook his head, leaning back on Laswell’s desk. 

They had gathered here again, a little after breakfast and their morning training. Laswell had asked them to prep her and brief her on Starlight. Only Ghost had a real plan. 

“We go in there as civilians,” he continued. 

“We can’t be armed,” Alejandro said. “They’ll check us at the door, perros.” His lip twitched on the last word. 

“We don’t need to go in armed,” Ghost said. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t arm ourselves inside.” 

Laswell prickled up from behind her desk, pushing away dirty, greasy bangs from her eyes. “We can’t let Laura bring in the guns,” she sighed. “They’ll check her too.”

And just the image of some dogs pressing their hands on her made Ghost suck his teeth. 

“We need to pull together a stealth operation,” he said. “We get some of our guys to go in during the day and stash the guns. When the club opens, we find the guns, let Laura identify Alvarez, and then we take him down.”

Soap shook his head. “His guys will have AKs if not automatics,” he offered. “We’ve got no chance if we can only get handheld guns in there, sir.”

“He’s right,” Laswell mumbled. 

“Then we get rifles in there,” Ghost insisted. 

Laswell sighed and slowly nodded. “Alright, Lieutenant, but please, do not add civilians to our casualties.” 

Ghost nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll have a team ready to go in this afternoon. We can have Laura ready for tonight.”

Alejandro pushed himself from the desk. “I’m still not fine with allowing a civilian girl into the crossfire, hermano.”

Ghost took a step towards him. “You want to catch Alvarez?” he asked. “You want to end this mission, go home, allow Laura back to her normal life?”

The other man took a breath in, calming the fire rising in his temples. “I do, but-”

“Then there’s no but, Vargas.” Ghost stood like a brick wall. “We get Alvarez, we shut down his entire ring, and we get the girl back to America.”

Ale nodded, even though Ghost could tell the man wasn’t happy with the idea, given his pursed lips. “She needs to be protected at all costs,” he said, silently, as if the idea itself was blasphemy. 

Ghost stiffened. “She is.” 

Laswell stood, knuckles on her desk. “Laura is our priority,” she said. “If she’s in any danger, it is your solemn order to protect and get her out alive. If anyone at the white house hears wind that we put an American girl’s head on the platter for Alvarez, they’ll have all our jobs.” 

Ghost bit into his cheek, suppressing the urge to tell everyone that she was his priority. And no one else’s. But by the way Soap, Alejandro, and Gaz all nodded solemnly, they’d made Laura their sole mission too. 

***

“Tonight?” I asked. Something akin to fear thudded, throbbed in my throat. Oh shit, I was going to vomit. 

Soap nodded, stepping into the RV, followed by the whole gang; Alejandro, Ghost, and finally, Gaz. I backed up, allowing them space to file in and take a seat at the table, or like Ghost preferred, standing and blocking the only exit to the RV. 

Soap was the first to talk. “We got guys stashing weapons in there for us.”

I turned to look at him. “As if that’s going to make me feel better.”

“You’ll be on comms with us,” he said soothingly. “All you have to do is well... identify Alvarez and get to the extraction point, where Laswell will be waiting for you. We’ll take care of Alvarez.” 

I was simultaneously feeling relieved that home was mere hours away, a mission’s breadth away, but also frightened to the point my bones became sour under my skin. Fear made everything impossible. 

I had opened the door to them; to these men who’d saved my life and asked one pitiful thing from me. And I had to deliver. I had to. For the sake of them and for the sake of my friends that had died.

I swallowed thickly. “What do I have to do?”

Soap smiled, something close to pride lifting his shoulders. “We’ll have you go in dressed as a civilian,” he said, pushing off the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a club, so wear something... nice.”

I looked down at what I was wearing; jeans and an army green tee. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Soap chuckled, and I watched in utter embarrassment as Alejandro raised his eyebrow with a cheeky grin and Gaz ducked his chin to his chest. Only Ghost had no reaction. 

“What?” I insisted.

Alejandro cleared his throat. “Mami, you look fine,” he said, reassuringly so. “But this club, eh how do I say this politely... it’s for people who want to go home with enjoyment, you see?”

I did see. I also saw Ghost stiffen ever the slightest from the corner of my eye. 

“Oh,” I mumbled. 

“And let’s just say that no one wears jeans,” Ale finished. “Or t-shirts. We’ll get the girls on base to hand you some things, yeah?”

I nodded, peeling away the sweat from my palms onto my jeans nervously. 

Ale and Ghost left to find my nighttime attire while I stayed with Gaz and Soap. They walked me through my engagements; walk in, blend in, get invited to the upper lounge if I could, and by all means, get eyes on Alvarez. 

I nodded, but really, inside me, I was running marathons around my head. I was trying to find any exit, any dark alley or corner to hide in, to pull into myself and disappear. 

Soap handed me a device that fit into the hole of my ear and told me that the entire task force would be able to hear me and I’d be able to talk to them. It gave me a little bit of relief to know they would be a breath away. 

Ale and Ghost came back, shuffling in cooling evening air and a pink plastic bag. Ale handed it to me as if the bag itself contained the most gruesome plague. I took it and walked to the bathroom defeated, spotting a tube of mascara in there. 

When I got a good look at the clothes they brought me, I yelled. 

“Pumpkin?” It was Soap at the door, but I put my back against it. When he pushed, I pushed right back. 

“You’re not seriously asking me to wear this?” I called, holding the garment between my nails. 

Soap chuckled. “How bad is it?” he asked me. And then, a few seconds after, his weight on the door released and I could hear him asking the same question to the others. 

I sighed, pressing the flimsy fabric against my chest, feeling my heart beating through my skin. 

I sighed, stripping out of my clothes and letting them fall to a puddle beside the toilet. Carefully, I undid the jean skirt and slipped into it. As guessed, it covered my ass and an inch lower, but I only had to bend over and the entire world would glimpse my Winnie the Pooh underwear. And the shirt, god the shirt, was only a thin black camisole with so much glitter that the floor was covered by the time I slipped it on. It left a nice slice of skin just over my skirt’s hem.

When I looked back into the bag, I found a pair of black Converse shoes. “What kind of bar is this?” I asked myself, lacing them up. They were a bit small for me, toes cramming into the tip. That would have to do, I guess. I reluctantly applied mascara and smudged a bit of it over my lid as eye shadow.  

But there was no way in hell that I was walking out that door to face four grown military men. Not dressed like this. 

“Soap?” I called through the door. I heard his footsteps come to the door, the weight of his shoulder press on the wood. “I need a sweater.”

No answer. 

“Please, Soap,” I fidgeted. “I can’t step out the way I am. I look like a cheap escort.”

“It’s just us.” But it wasn’t Soap. It was Ghost, and his voice trailed through the flimsy wood of the door until I stepped away from it, let the door slide open a little. Until I could see his eyes peaking above his balaclava. He didn’t take his eyes off mine as he opened the door with one hand and handed me a black hoodie with the other. “Cover yourself up,” he ordered, and slammed the door shut. “The others are waiting outside.”

I ignored the rage climbing up my throat and the embarrassment seeping into my skin as I climbed into the hoodie and zipped it up. It was so big that it skimmed my knees and I zipped it up to my chin. It was warm, as if freshly worn, and the smell that clung to the fabric was absolutely Ghost’s smell.  

It made me almost dizzy, to wear him like this. To slip my bare skin along the same fabric that warmed his. 

I walked out and followed him silently, watching the sway of his shoulders, the shadows dancing on the grey of his hoodie. He stopped before the door, turning to face me, staring me down through the slit in his mask. “You’re scared,” he stated. 

I nodded, trying to hide from his glare, ducking my chin to my chest. His fingers zapped out quickly, pinching my chin between his forefinger and thumb, tracing my eyes back to his. “Yes,” I breathed, a tremble beginning in my fingers and working its way up to my lip.

Ghost stared. Then he sighed. “If something goes wrong,” he said. “Just tell me where you are in there. Describe the walls, the floor, the people there. I’ll find you.”

I wanted to say that I had no doubt he’d find me. Hell, he’d find me in the dark. I had no doubt he could be ripped of all his senses and still manage to put his hands on me. 

“How are you getting in?” I asked, watching as his fingers fell from my chin. 

“I’m going in without the mask.”

My eyes rounded, looking up at him, almost reaching for his shoulder before he opened the door and a gust of warm, humid South Asian evening heat patted my skin. And Alejandro came into view, smiling up at me.

I couldn’t concentrate on the comment Soap gave as I shockingly stepped from the RV. Or the reassuring thing Gaz said in my ear. Or the way Ale was guiding me with a soft hand on my middle back. 

All I could think about was that Simon, Ghost, would be in that club maskless. 

[greatnessordeath]

villain deku x !femreader

PART 3 5k words, explicit smut, teasing, swearing, hair pulling, mild non con, gun violence, pet names, oral (fem receiving), mdni 18+ quick mention of my ao3 for more notes. Part 1 and 2 if you're new :)

“Deku?!” you gasp with a terrified, hitched breath. Unwittingly, you lower the gun by an inch. FUCK! But how–

“What a warm welcome,” he purrs and puts the half-eaten apple back down. “Feels a bit like a deja vu, don’t you think?” He wears dark sweatpants and a big comfy-looking, pastel hoodie, showing off his tattooed and scarred arms with slightly pushed up sleeves. It’s the first time you see him not wearing his green suit and you cannot get over how casual he looks.  

He has a bandaid over the small wound on his brow and wears smudged black eyeliner that only adds more abundance to his already gorgeous lashes. Infamous villain or not - he sure is one attractive human.

Pretty privilege or not, what was he doing here? There are millions of emotions inside of you battling against each other, but anger conquers your tongue the fastest. "How dare you show up in my home, Scum?"  

“Oh, you know - I was just at close quarters," he says nonchalantly as if you'd asked how his fucking day was. …As if you wouldn't know in the first place. “I didn’t plan to come in, but then you graciously let the window open for me. How could I let you down, when you obviously want my attention so desperately?” Your jaw drops foaming with rage. REALLY? THE FUCKING WINDOW?! “Are you kidding me? You think you swing by and we pick up where we left off?” You spit out, aversion scrunching your nose.

Deku leans against the counter and folds his arms casually. He's not in the slightest affected by your aggression and has a warm smile playing around his lips. 

"Would that be so bad?” He peeks at you through his lashes and excitement blooms in your stomach.

Your voice cracks when you belch out a slurred “Yes!” too hastily. You stare at him and try to fix the heavy trembling of your hands by grasping the gun even harder.  His smile widens and his brows are raised in mock skepticism. “You sure about that?”, he coos and takes a step towards you. "I remember very vividly how eager you sucked my lips."  “Shut up!" Your voice comes out now hoarse and flat.  "I was just trying to buy myself some time," you press through gritted teeth and keep aiming at his chest.

“Hmmm,” he hums pensively, “I could’ve sworn you were absolutely into it.”

The grin he puts on is outrageous. His emerald irises bore into you, despite your efforts to shield yourself against his acuteness. The feeling of being an open book to him is unbearable. You’re used to his manipulation of luring out information, but it sucks that he always knows which buttons to push. The pressure to not give away more information while talking is enormous. “Just tell me why you’re here, asshole!” “Or what? Are you going to shoot me right here in your kitchen?,” he dares like someone who's used to getting their way. “Don’t challenge me,” you bark, already more on the edge than you’d like to admit. He flings you a grin that is more than a taunt. It's an invitation, a silent beg for violence. He holds your gaze and strides intentionally casually towards you. “But I do.” His pupils grow bigger with every step in your direction and your pointer finger twitches lightly around the trigger. 

The time flow seems to slow down and you're very aware who's coming at you. “Come on. Shoot me, Y/N. Here’s your chance.” You’re freezing as he finally stops with the muzzle of the 45 directly touching his chest. Small beads of sweat form at your forehead and you don’t dare to blink. You’re stoically focused on the rear sight elongating directly at his heart.  You stay like this for several breaths, blood boiling and rushing loudly in your ears, gun raising and dipping softly with his chest. The whole situation is surreal like a dream. Thinking about it, the dream you just had appears more believable than this scenario. The man you chased for months, stands at arms length and dares you to end his life in your kitchen. Oh you want to pull the trigger. Yes, you do. If asked, you could easily assert self defense,  throw in a few tears and no one would ever know. Except you. You’d be the only person in the world to know how Izuku Midoriya was killed. But still, you’re hesitating, because obviously he deserved more suffering for the things he did and it wasn’t on you to enforce punishment. … …

… It was too easy. … After more painful seconds passed, he taunts you in an overly self-reliant manner, "I knew you couldn't do it."

You feel offended once more and knit your brows, "Knock it off! I want answers first! Why didn't the suppressor work?" "Oh Bunny, it's so sweet how you're trying to maintain the façade of an honorable cop,  asking me questions and all…,” he stretches out a hand to gently tuck a lost hair strand behind your ear. You don’t know why, but you’re profoundly convinced that flinching backwards from his touch equals losing. And you won’t lose to Deku.

His fingers provide subdued heat to your cheeks, where he lets them rest on your skin, stroking softly up and down with his thumb. You’re holding your breath while a tight knot forms in your stomach. You want to swat his dirty hands away, but on the other hand, you want to stay steadfast against his manipulation. You draw yourself up and try to ignore the heat creeping up your face.

“Look at you,” he smiles ravenously, suddenly grabbing your neck, “so upright and dutiful, yet still not brave enough to admit that you tasted blood and want more." He pulls you in, hungry eyes already focused on your lips.

“Don’t touch me!” you scream, panic rising in your voice. You struggle against him, push him back with low effort. But your calm bursts into heated resistance as he lays hands on the gun, trying to remove it from you. You push him back with more force. It’s stupid, but you cling to the weapon, as if it was your only advantage. Your limbs knot in a scuffle, the gun whirls around and you accidentally pull the trigger in the heat of passion. Click. No!

…Wait …Your jaw drops and your eyes grow big. You pull the trigger again, intentionally. Click. Click. Click.

Deku soaks in your realization, awaiting your further reaction.  Fuck. I should’ve known. He was way too confident just now. He must’ve emptied the magazine. In a bad habit, you roll your eyes at yourself. ”Oh, I hope you don't mind me removing these," he confirms your assumption with stifled laughter and produces the bullets from his pocket.

There you go, thinking you outsmarted him for once. Fuck.

Your fists clench as tightly as your jaw and you throw the useless weapon away. It slides with a clicking noise on the tiles.

This little shit needs a lesson!

All you want to do is punch him for being a complacent ass. He deserves it. And you do, too. The satisfaction must be beyond happiness, to wipe the stupid grin from his face, smash his stupid doe eyes with your fist, reward his stupid angled cheekbones with some color and shatter all the stupid freckles adorning his skin into tiny pieces.

Actually, you do launch a fist backwards, ready to strike. You don’t care how many overpowered quirks he has to potentially break every bone in your body. Not anymore, you’re about to explode. Hence your fist smashes towards his face with brute force.

“Stop taking me for a fool!,” you scream, voice dripping of ire.

There’s surprise flickering in his eyes, before he catches your hand with his in mid air. Both of you gasp lightly from the impact. He impedes your strike although you muster all the strength you have. Your biceps tenses visibly. Deku’s not pushing back, but perfectly leveling the amount of strength needed to achieve some kind of standoff.

“Then tell me, what other than a fool would you call someone who’s playing coy all the time?,” he teases effortlessly.

You’re staring into each other's eyes, but all you see is a desperate slightly elevated reflection of yourself. It’s impossible for you to win this physical battle. Bummed out, you shove him away with all your might.

You pant from the little overexerting and look grimly to the intruder. “It may surprise you, but you’re not the center of the universe. You’re just a desperate, petty, narcissistic, little villain who has some serious perception issues.”

Deku promptly reduces the gap between you. “First: You’re irresistible when you’re giving me that haughty look.” he breathes out, warm puffs of air wafting across your face. “And second: I don’t believe you.”

Without hesitation, he leans into your personal space even more, invading all your senses. He smells like rain and fresh apples. 

You don’t want to, but you need to put your hands on his chest, to keep him away. Your palms sense the endearing heat of his body through the soft fabric of the sweater. It contrasts delicately with the firmness of his muscles underneath. Touching him leaves you afraid to further break loose your caged want.

“That’s not my problem,” you refuse, biting your lip inside your mouth so hopefully he won’t notice. Chasing him was hard, but it’d never strike you that turning him down would be an even harder challenge.

“But it will be your problem, because I’m tired of you pretending.”

Sans warning, he grabs your hips and easily lifts you up the counter, pushing your thighs apart as soon as your ass touches the wooden countertop. You yelp in surprise but he immediately wiggles into the tiny open space between your legs. You’re afraid the heat radiating off your core will be giving away your charade.

Your naked legs tense at the fairly intimate position and you’re painfully aware that your oversize shirt is lifting upwards to the point where your underwear is no longer hidden by the hem. Fuck.

His face is so near, you two breathe the same air. You muster the bite mark you left on his lip and shudder when you remember the taste of his tongue. The temperature seems to rise and he has this inescapable pull again. You can’t look away.

He undresses you with his eyes and your resistance crumbles away.

When he puts each hand on a bare thigh, you suck in the air you weren’t aware you had held. The outline of his hands brands itself into your flesh and you want to squeeze your legs together. The shirt and the thin slip are all you wear and they’re doing a fatal job at bestowing yourself some cover. You feel your nipples getting hard and the painful throbbing of your empty walls. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You have to bite down on your tongue to prevent yourself from making a distinct sound, as he starts dragging his hands upwards. Rough palms slide the inner surface of your taut skin and move too damn near your center. Your mind is slow to react, but you’re admitting that it’s not good how his closeness captivates your conscience. He does nothing but stare at you, bathes in your squirming and how your hands unwittingly fist into his sweater. “It’s just you and me, Bunny. No one else will ever know. There’s no need to hold back,” he coos in a bedroom voice and rubs circles an inch away from your slip, thumbs brushing against the fabric occasionally. Goosebumps break loose on your skin and according to the heat in your face, your cheeks are dusted with the deepest scarlet. Shit, you simply can’t suppress your want. It’s there and it’s screaming, even if you hate yourself for it. However, you’re not done yet. Like earlier today, when you were out there on the streets and kissed him back, you will earn yourself some ground. If playing along will help you understand him better - well fuck your boundaries. This is your home, your body and your decision. In the end, it takes two to play. Facing the truth hurts, but you’re soaking wet, whether you like it or not. But what about him? If actually you’re his weak spot, you’re going to use it. You force yourself to relax and smile vaguely. “What?” He asks, taking your bait and meeting your change of mind with interest. “I never thought you were the empathetic type,” you state and ‘accidentally’ bump your knee into his side.  He straightens his back, “What do you think then?” You notice the change in his tone. It’s subtle, but it’s there. “I took you for the type that just takes whatever they want,” you breathe in a low voice, guiding your hands to slowly stroke over his fairly bulky pecs. “... including yourself?” he asks husky, fingers digging deep into the flesh of your thighs, eyes chained to your face. You use your legs to girdle his mid and pull him close with a hitch. He exhales a muffled grunt and his eyes flutter shut in an instant. It costs you everything to keep your composure and not groan in response. A shaky suggestive smile is all you’re capable of.  “So, you’re finally done pushing back, huh?,” he teases and cups your face, eyes blown wide with want.  “Try me,” you breathe, shuddering with anticipation, fingers buried deep in the hoodie. 

Determined, you pull him in for a kiss. You get the momentum on your side when your lips meet and you don’t go easy on him. It’s offending how you instantly melt into him. Apparently it helps to be aesthetically attracted to him.

His lips are sticky with leftover apple juice as you suck on them viciously, hands roaming his upper body without restraint. He kisses you back immediately, his sweet taste surging up more desire. He hums into your mouth, parts his lips willingly and clasps your neck to tilt your head. Your tongues are eager to meet as they slide into each other. Your heart rate gains speed the more you taste of him. 

Am I really doing this?, you think with the last bit of insecurity. The Venom-like creature from your dream flashes in front of your closed eyelids and you flinch automatically. A part of you wants to push him away, but instead you tighten your grip. You will not throw this opportunity out of the window. Deku eliminates every entity related to tentativeness with the curious licks of his tongue against the roof of your mouth, while rocking his hips into you. Pleasure replaces anxiety and you let go of the memory. He feels too good to be real. Sinful, sensual pleasure unravels inside you, mounting higher with every small thrust of his half hard dick. Just as you think that you need him much closer with much less clothes - you sense the warmth of his hand under your shirt. He pulls you near urgently, without breaking the kiss. You whimper against him, when your bodies touch large-scale. There is so much warmth, the endearing relief of his body, his alluring scent and most notably - the outline of his cock against your crotch. He strokes up and down your spine, sending shiver after shiver down your back. You reward him by biting down on his lip. An approving hum blends in with a creak of the counter as you shift your weight. You slide a hand up to his green locks and abruptly yank his head to the side. Deku gasps for air and you aim for the crook of his neck. You bite down and suck the delicate skin purple, causing him to further throw back his head. His nails scratch into your skin and you let your tongue draw smooth circles as if to make amends. A long hum echoes through his throat as you continue to pull his hair and scatter kisses along his neck. You follow the mellow curves of his throat, up to his sharp jawline to eventually lock lips again. The kiss is even hungrier than the first one. Tongues sliding more forcefully, with a want that can’t be satisfied. You could devour him and it still wouldn’t be enough. You can’t let go of his soft locks, arch your back to meet his hips with equivalent eagerness, and shiver any time you suck a hint of green apple from his hot mouth. His hands move under your shirt, intent to map out every inch of your back. He bites you with dedication, nibbles hungrily at your lips, and soon you fall into a rhythm that picks up pace with every sloppy inhale. Eventually, you run out of air and need to pull away to catch your breath. You pant loudly, your chest heaving up and down. You blink still a little unbelieving at your opponent. Deku’s cheeks are tinted in a beautiful cherry red, his mouth is slightly agape and his hooded eyes are shining with lust. All because of you. Your stomach flips as he starts to run both hands up your waist, pushing your shirt up. “Arms up," he demands, voice thick with vigor. You need to swallow, but lift your arms obediently. There’s a hint of anxiety and the reflex to cover yourself, as his hazy eyes change into something more primeval. He throws your shirt on the ground and devours you with greedy eyes. You successfully suppress the upcoming fright and summon the courage to tease him. If he really has it for you, you’re gonna lure out some reaction. When he engages forward, you lean back and start to play with your tits while maintaining eye contact. There’s a brief moment of silent tension, in which you do nothing but stare into each other's eyes, like all the answers you’re looking for are hidden beneath those opaque green orbs. You twist your hardened nipples with your fingers and let a long drawn out “ahhhhh~~” fall from your lips. “Like what you see, Deku?” His expression is all expectant and savoring, but silent.   “You know, I … ahh~~ …think about you.” This wasn’t even a lie, yet it was challenging to speak the truth. “I think about you probably more than is good for me.” “You do?” is all he lowers himself to ask, bottom lip twitching and pose somewhat too frozen. He was hooked. “Yeah, I do.” 

You pull him near enough to whisper the next words into his ear. “I can’t get you out of my head and…” you slide a hand past the hem of your slip and stroke the entire length of your velvety and super slick folds. “Hhhng~ … I’m … so wet for you, Midoriya.” He breathes in very heavily. Good. Now further.   “I fantasized about how you would’ve fucked me in the shower.” You pick up a little speed and the lewd sounds of your wet pussy perfectly accentuate your dirty talk. “Ahhh~~” Your voice trembles with want. “I know you could’ve …fucked me so well, Midoriya~~” Your eyes close naturally as you focus on the sensation of your own fingers. “Pushed against the tiles, hot water running down our backs, your breathless panting into my ear... Hhhhhng~~ I’m aching for your—” Suddenly, he grabs your hand, “Stop.” As you rip open your eyes, you find him staring at you with a sour look. You stare back with doe eyes. His grip is near hurting, and you have no choice but to come to a halt, fingers still buried in yourself. “What do you think you’re doing?,” he asks gruffly. Shit, did I take it too far? You’re shivering and avoid his gaze. He drinks in your fragility before an evil smile parts his lips. “You’re taking my fun away.” … In a flash he’s all over you. “Fuuuck!,” you nearly moan as he crushes his lips down on one hard nipple and violently flicks it with his hot tongue. He sucks it, twists and pinches the other with his free hand and hums throaty vibrations into your sensitive skin. He draws circles and fans your arousal to a near painful level. You helplessly drag your nails across his scalp and can’t help but bend your hips in his direction, wordlessly begging for more. You remove your other hand reluctantly from your pussy and guide one of his hands to your mouth. You suck his fingers and hum expectantly. “Pretty thirsty, aren’t you?,” he teases and drags the calloused hand down.  His skin leaves a trace of burning sensation along your throat, the small valley between your tits and further down. It’s embarrassing how you arch into him, eager for touch where you most need it. You easily wiggle out of the slip with his help and tremble with anticipation. The animallike growl leaving his throat, when he finally strokes two fingers through your wet labia, makes your blood boil. “Fuck, Bunny. You’re dripping. God, that’s so hot.” “Hhhhng~~ I–” He finds your clit easily and rubs circles around it. “Fuck, yes,” you moan with hitched breath. “Feels so good~” There was no time for modesty. Your hips press greedily into his fingers and you seriously need to bite back a series of moans threatening to fall off your lips. Your walls are still untouched but in desperate need of friction. Your emptiness is hurting. He continues to work your pussy and brings the other hand up to your chin. He kisses you deep and slow now. Your mind is absolutely blank, except the increasing want of him inside you. As if he can read your mind, he pushes his middle finger into you. You squeeze your eyes shut and groan into his mouth. “Dekuuu~~,” you purr in between kisses and sound way too vulnerable for your liking. But you can’t help it. Whenever you open your eyes, he has this cocky grin plastered across his face, because yes. He knows so damn well. You refrain from sighing, but scrunch your nose. With a hint of cynicism, you adjust your hips for a better angle to meet his finger with gyrating motions. You can’t afford to miss any opportunity for a pleasant stretch, even if it feeds further into his supremacy. He doesn’t miss it and coos, “What’s up, Bunny? You look upset.” How can a man be so observant?! It’s infuriating. He even stops to pump his finger into you and smiles viciously as your hips jump at the loss.  Fine!

You press your lips together and snort. “You know what, yes you’re right. I am upset.” “Sooo? You feel like enlightening me?” He proceeds to circle your clit, calculatingly slowly. The soft stimulation makes you dry-hump. “I’d rather not, but I feel like you won’t give up on this.” He smiles affirmatively. You take a deep breath and blurt out, “I fucking hate you!” You pluck yourself up and reach out to dip your fingers under the hem of his hoodie while rambling on, ”I hate how you’re being so … YOU.” Blood rushes loudly in your head when you feel for the waistband of his sweatpants. Deku tolerates your sudden touch and seems to just wait for your next action. His skin is smooth and hot to the touch. “I hate how you look, how you talk and act, but most of all–” You won’t waste time asking permission and pull his pants down along with his boxers to release his cock. You suck your bottom lip in awe. Of course he has a beautiful dick. Because why would anything about him not be perfect? You’re doomed. Embarrassment urges color in your face as soon as you speak. “...I hate how you make me feel so incredibly needy.” His formidable length bounces free and spills precum to your naked thigh. Your mouth waters at his sight. He’s thick and slightly curved with a reddened glistering tip. Unholy greed infests in your insides and makes you clench around nothing.  With wonder, you notice him growing even bigger under your gaze. A little push under your chin directs your attention back to Dekus face. “Like what you see?,” he mimics your taunt from earlier with a shit eating grin. “You know, I’d give you the world, if you asked for it.” His confession leaves you with a dry mouth and a giddy head. Yet, you try to withstand his gaze and instead use your legs to push him into you, bare parts grinding together. “Ahhhhh!” He sucks the air in, wheezing. You throw your head back as his rock hard cock meets your slick vulva. “Fuck me,” he swears mindlessly, hips jolting into action. “Are you kidding?,” you snap back breathless. “What do you think I intend to—” Your complaint is muffled with another hungry kiss. Deku sucks your bottom lip, biting down with bruising force. You also sense him fumbling at your entrance and clasp your hands around his neck. You’ll need something to hold onto when he— “Fuuuuck~~~” “Oahhhh,” he groans in a low pitch that resonates deep through your bones. His length presses into your heat inch by inch and you’re on the edge of passing out. God, you’re bulging. He’s holding on to you, has his arms both wrapped around you so tightly, your boobs press into him with every rise of your chest. There’s no time to get used to his length, he immediately starts moving and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The unique overload of stimulation shakes your whole body. The rocking of his hips forces you to shut your eyes, before you can swallow the lump in your throat. His thrusts leave you lightheaded, etching a bit deeper into you with each impact. You sense how the lean seams of muscle tense in his neck and whimper tiny yeses into his shoulder as he falls into an ambitious rhythm. You two fit together like puzzle pieces. The blissful friction vibrates through your core, setting your insides on fire. You’re already so far on the edge, the foreplay has already done its part. You drag your nails along the defined muscles of his back and catch him biting his lip to muffle his panting. You chuckle to yourself and can’t hold in a little tease “You’re not holding back, are you?” He stops thrusting, gives you a glare and the retort gets stuck in your throat. 

You yelp in surprise as he suddenly rips your hands away from his neck with the damned black whips. An uneasy shiver runs over your tingling wrists at the familiar touch. With eyes wide open, you can only watch as the whips wiggle around your hands like a constrictor. “Since you’re at the mercy of a lunatic, I think it’d be more advisable to worry about your condition than mine.” His words cause the fine hairs on your arms to stand up. He puts pressure on your sternum, while similarly your hands are pulled up. As a result, you’re forced to lay down on the counter, hands pinned above your head. To your own demise, you cannot say that you don’t like it. You share a brief moment of mutual mystification, but in the end, you shrug it away, “Desperate times, desperate pleasure.” There’s the faintest tuck on the corner of his mouth, but he grabs your legs to rearrange them, too. He puts them up in a ninety degree angle, so the back of your thighs softly rests against his upper body. When he speaks again, his voice is nothing but husky. “You clearly have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” And with a knowing grin, he places a hand on your pubic mound to make sure you stay in place. Your hips gyrate, eager to meet him again. He starts thrusting fast and– “Fuuuck~~~,” you moan, your body instantly beginning to shake from the new angle. The limit of bearable sensation moves continually towards the peak. Your tits bounce and you can’t tell where you end and he begins. The pressure becomes pure pleasure and you’re about to lose your entire mind if he keeps fucking you like this.    “Yeees, yes, yees~~~!” Your breath comes heavy through your mouth and when he reaches around to flick your clit sideways, it happens. You can’t hold back. Very vocal and heavily shaking you cum on the counter. Frantic fingers dig into you, tight whips hold you in place as you arch and tense in a trembling mess. White noise behind closed lids is all you are, tingling sensation spreading all over the faint edges of your body. The warmth of his hands is all that connects you to this world. The sudden stutter of his rhythm paired with a very long drawn out moan tells you he finished, too. For a second, there is no obligatory taunt or mischievous smirk, just mutual panting. Your heartbeat is still loud in your ears, as he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom. With humble delicacy, he throws you onto the mattress and follows suit. Your limbs are weighted down with weariness but as he parts your legs and buries his tongue only a moment later in your wet folds, your muscles twitch uncomfortably. Instinctively, you want to avoid overstimulation, and try to evade by rolling your hips away from him - which doesn’t work. A low chuckle vibrates against your skin and you crack your eyes open, to see a shimmer of green locks caught between your thighs. His expression is crystal clear in contrast to your fogged mind. “I’m not done with you, Bunny,” he says in between slow licks along your vulva.

“Deku, I, … I can’t––” “You will,” he states in a tone that doesn’t allow backtalk.   The high of your orgasm is gone and replaced by unpleasantness. You don’t want to be touched and press your thighs together. “Deku, I’m sensitive,” you whimper and struggle against him. The more you squirm, the more uneasy you become. That’s because his fucking bondage whips hold you in place like a captive. There’s nothing you can do. It dawns on you, that you‘re indeed at the mercy of a lunatic. “Sweety, you didn’t really expect me to be satisfied with one simple fuck, didn’t you?” You gulp audibly. You don’t know, did you? “No way.” His eyes wander down to your shiny pussy right in front of him. “You can’t deny me a juicy sip, that’d be …” he licks all along with a flat tongue and hums happily while doing so, “close to a felony.” The sensation is too much, but you savor the smooth warmth of his tongue. He continues to spoil you by pausing every few words and licking you slowly. “And we really, really don’t like felony in this house, right Y/N? …  People who behave badly deserve punishment…” The faintest hint of a moan leaves your lips as he eats you out in the most gentle way you ever experienced. It already makes an impact and you begin to relax, even hum in unison to the strokes of his tongue. “… Otherwise they won’t learn the lesson… of what it means… to be an integer, valuable, tax-paying member of society.” You pause on this and open your eyes only to realize that you’ve had them closed the entire time. Shit! This must not happen! You urgently need to say something. A caress on your inner thigh draws your attention back to Midoriya, who seems like he just waited for your comeback, too. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think there’s any hope left for you,” you stoically state with the attempt of an unfazed face. His brows knit and the doubting expression is back. “Hard words from someone who just consensually came on my dick.” You roll your eyes without thinking. “Jeez, one consensual orgasm doesn’t make you a better person.” “How many more does it take?” You think for a moment but can’t determine a final answer. “I don’t know, …a couple?" He smiles at you knowingly, before dedicating himself back between your thighs.

tags: @mha-villaindeku <3

[victoriaplaysims]

my predictions for today’s trailer

okay so this season’s road map confirmed we would get one sdx drop, one stuff pack and four kits between january- april. we’ve already gotten the sdx (vitiligo!!!) and the castle and goth kits. that leaves a stuff pack and two kits - here are my predictions, check back later to see if i got any right lol

stuff pack: if ea is announcing a stuff pack my guess is it will be a fashion, walk in closet, stylist, glam room type of pack. think vintage glamour vanity and whatever luxury party stuff tried to do. or maybe a diy/jewelry making stuff with expanded gameplay with crystals/collectibles, maybe sell your own jewelry on plopsy. i would love a new hobby for my sims and paranormal is somehow a stuff pack and has a career and amazing cas and bb, so it’s not off the table they will aim for that again. home chef hustle also came with gameplay - so i’m hoping for this

cas kit: this will be a collab kit which is great news bc all of my favorite kits are collabs (pastel pop, first fits, incheon arrivals etc). there are a lot of jewelry pieces in the promo shots - and wow we really need more/better jewelry and makeup. i would be SO happy if ea and a makeup guru/brand did a collab bc let’s face it, ea themselves can not make good (or even, decent) looking makeup. the mac collab is SO BAD and i can’t believe mac signed off on it. what. are. those. textures. we need better and we need more. i have an approximately six weeks of a 3d design course experience but i can at least make a line that’s not jagged????? and for the love of good lower the opacity and t r y to make it look like it’s actually on the sims’ face and not a smudge on my screen

bb kit: literally no clue. i hope the vanity/walk in closet idea above will be a stuff pack bc i would love a hobby, a new crafting machine - just more gameplay in general lol. i guess it could be watered down to a kit too do idk

let’s see if i got anything right: tbh