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rosemaidenvixen · 7 months

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Halloween story prompt idea:

Sunshine au, the gang somehow accidentally get stuck at a house party when Jim transforms and they have to find a way to:

1) cover for a "missing" Jim who was definitely wearing a different costume and now no one can find

2) explain a completely random stranger showing up uninvited in an awesome and extremely realistic troll costume

3) get transformed Jim out of there without too many people asking questions

“H– Hi Mom,” Claire managed to squeak out “What are you doing home so early?”

Ophelia raised an eyebrow at her as more women, each holding a baby or toddler, streamed into the living room behind her “Enrique’s daycare group is having their Halloween party here tonight, did I not mention it this morning?”

“No I don’t think you did…”

This was bad, they’d planned on having their group meet up at her house because with how early the sun went down this time of year Jim would be ok transforming here and then going home through the woods.

Of course that plan couldn’t account for a herd of babies and their moms occupying the first floor.

“Well uh…I’ll just go back upstairs,” Claire slowly backed out of the room “Tell everyone to keep the volume down so we don’t wake you,”

“Sure sounds great,” Ophelia was already looking away from her, pulling Enrique into his black cat costume.

As soon as she was out of sight Claire broke into a run, racing up to her room, darting inside and slamming the door behind her “We got a big problem, Enrique’s entire daycare group is here!”

You could have heard a pin drop in the stunned silence that followed those words, the four of them staring back at her with expressions of pure horror.

“Well fuck,” Toby said, breaking the silence.

“Would it kill your parents to tell you their plans ahead of time…” Mary mumbled “Also Toby’s right, we’re screwed,”

Meanwhile Jim had recovered from his shock and shut his jaw with a click “Ok ok ok, no big deal. I’ll climb out on the roof and get to the woods that way,”

Claire felt her teeth digging sharply into her lip “That won’t work. My parents are getting the roof reshingled and have almost all of it stripped off already, so if you go out that way you could slip and wipe out,”

A collective wince rippled through the room.

“Double fuck…”

Abruptly Darci clapped her hands together and got to her feet “Ok, we can do this. You just sneak out real fast and we’ll cover you,”

“We should go now,” Claire added “They’re still getting the babies into their costumes and they’ll be distracted,”

Jim’s expression was still tight and tense but he nodded back at her all the same “Alright, let’s do this,”

Claire cracked open her door and peeked out into the hall. Seeing it was clear she stepped out and waved the others to follow. They crept out into the hall, Claire and Darci in the lead with Mary and Toby trailing behind and Jim tucked in the middle, hood pulled all the way up over his horns.

They made it to the staircase, Claire constantly glancing from side to side and keeping her ears strained for any sudden noises. Waving them ahead, Claire led the group down the stairs, touching down on the main floor without–

Sudden footsteps came from around the corner.

Claire’s heart shot up into her throat “Hide!” she hissed “I’ll cover for you,”

Without wasting a second; Darci, Toby, and Jim hustled through the doorway into the dining room, the door slamming shut behind them just as Claire whirled to face the intruder.

“Oh hello Claire!” Mrs. Knightley beamed at her, a babbling Hailey dressed in a bee costume trailing after her “So nice to see you here!”

Well of course I’m here it’s my house

“Hi Mrs. Knightley, good to see you too,” Claire fixed the smile she used with unfamiliar adults and guidance counselors on her face “Is this Hailey? She’s getting so big!”

Mrs. Knightley beamed “Yes she’s starting preschool this year. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to touch up her make up a bit,”

She stepped around Claire towards the dining room, the same room Jim had gone into–

Quick as a flash Claire and Mary darted in front of her “I don’t think she really needs make up,” Claire had to work hard to make sure her tone was equal parts sincere and convincing and betrayed none of her panic “Her features are so beautiful on their own,”

“Yeah,” Mary piped up “If you want I can give her a baby make up job, it do it for my little cousins all the time–”

“Thank you girls but I’ve worked hard to get the contouring just right and I don’t trust anyone else to do it, now if you’ll excuse me–”

Before they could stop her Mrs. Knightley barged past them and pushed the door open, walking right in on–

“Oh hey, how’s it hanging?” Toby's voice called out.

Hearing a palatable lack of screaming, Claire cautiously peeked past Mrs. Knightley into the dining room. Toby and Darci stood ramrod straight beside the snack laden table, Toby holding a bowl and Darci clutching an apple slice taken from a platter. Each of them sporting wide grins that Claire hoped only looked strained to her.

But where on earth was Jim?

“We were just trying out the snacks,” Darci said, brandishing her apple slice “Gotta make sure they’re good and all,”

Mrs. Knightley’s expression puckered “Please put that down, the snacks are here for the little children,”

“Right right,” Toby set the bowl back down, eyes almost imperceptibly flicking up towards the ceiling.

Stomach churning, Claire lifted her own gaze to the ceiling only to freeze.

Jim was up there, limbs all splayed out clinging to the ceiling like spider man.

Forcing herself to snap out of it, Claire ripped her stare away from the ceiling and back towards Mrs. Knightley.

Ok, so Jim was a wall crawler, that was new, but they could use this. All he had to do to escape was crawl along the ceiling.

And hope to god no one looked up.

“Well it’s good to see you Mrs. Knightley…” Claire jerked her head up at Jim and then at all the others, before inclining her head towards the still open doorway behind her, slowly starting to back away “We’ll just get out of your hair…”

The others picked up on what she was doing and followed her lead, inching their way towards the door with Jim crawling along the ceiling.

Mrs. Knightley waved her off from where she’d sat Hailey down and was getting out a container of foundation “Oh yes good to see you to,”

Claire nodded in reply and kept retreating. Once they made it out of the dining room the backdoor was just six feet and one turn away, all they had to–

“Oh, are you doing makeup in here?”

“Yes yes come on in,”

Claire had to bite back a scream of frustration as a group of moms pushed in from behind her, the room going from wide open to crowded in seconds.

Don’t look up don’t look up whatever you do don’t look–

“Hailey sweetie lean back so I can work under your eyes,”

Claire’s heart stopped as Hailey flopped her head back, getting a full view of the ceiling.

All five of them froze, Hailey’s eyes going wide, a roaring in Claire’s ear as a chubby toddler finger slowly raised to point up at Jim.

“Boogeyman!”

Mrs. Knightley shook her head “Sweetie there’s no such thing as the boogeyman,”

“Boogeyman boogeyman, up up up!”

Mrs. Knightley sighed, more exasperated this time, but she was slowly raising her head towards–

“Hey guys!” Toby’s voice was loud enough to cut through all the chatter in the room, all eyes instantly going to him “Snack spread looks really good, mind if I just snag a few–”

Toby picked up the entire box of cupcakes from the table “So cool if I take this? Awesome, thanks,”

Good news, everyone in the room had forgotten about the ‘boogeyman’. Bad news, all eyes were on Toby and not in a good way.

The sound that came out of Mrs. Knightley could only be described as a screech.

“Oh absolutely not–”

“You kids can each have a cupcake, but not the entire–”

“Young man you put that down right–”

The room devolved into chaos. Women shouting, toddlers wailing, and Toby playing chicken with the cupcake box.

But Claire knew a diversion when she saw one.

Taking advantage of the chaos she all but ran out of the room, opening doors and keeping an eye on the ceiling to make sure Jim was following along on the ceiling. When they finally reached the back door Jim leapt down and they all bolted into the trees.

Only once they were a good distance away did they stop, panting. Going limp as the adrenaline slowly drained away. Looking around Claire saw that there were only three of them. She, Jim, and Darci were here, but Toby and Mary were AWOL.

The rescue mission would have to come later, first she had to get her heart rate back in the normal range.

“So…” Darci said between pants “You can crawl on walls,”

“Yep,” Jim let out a gusty breath “Turns out I can, so that’s a thing, still not doing that again,”

Claire flopped back on the ground with a groan “Agreed,”

She was glad they’d been able to escape, but she already knew her mom was going to give her hell for this later.

Twigs snapped a short ways away and they all froze, but it was only Toby that came through the bushes.

“Oh man, sorry Claire, but I think I might have burned some bridges with your brother’s daycare group,”

Claire waved him off “Don’t worry about it, none of them are going to risk pissing off the councilwoman who controls their budget. Is Mary with you?”

Toby’s face went red “I…uh…might have tossed the box of cupcakes at her, and booked it the other way,”

Darci gave him an even look “You do know that she’ll kill you for that?”

“Better her than the Karen brigade,” Toby started and flashed Claire and apologetic look “Sorry,”

“Hey you’re not wrong,”

More crunching echoed in the dark woods, the four of them turning towards the sound to see Mary stomping through the trees, face bright red and gaze smoldering “You. Guys. Owe. Me. Big.”

Jim raised both hands placatingly “Oh definitely, you guys saved my ass in there. I owe you one for sure,”

Still looking angry, but more placated now Mary plunked down on the ground next to Claire. It was only now that Claire still noticed she was holding the cupcake box.

“Mrs. Knightley might be obnoxious, but we really shouldn’t take all their cupcakes,”

“We’ll give them back, but I nearly got trampled by a horde of babies and their moms over these cupcakes, I earned one,” with that Mary pulled back the top of the box, lifted out a cupcake, and sank her teeth into the orange frosting.

After a few seconds Toby reached in after her and did the same, then Darci.

Oh what the heck.

Claire grabbed a cupcake herself, the four of them sitting on the ground in the dark forest munching on their cupcakes while Jim watched with piqued interest.

“So when you guys are done can I–”

“Don’t worry,” Toby gulped down his mouthful of cake “We’ll save you the paper wrappers,”

Jim grinned “You guys are the best,”

Mary swallowed “And don’t you forget it,”

#tales of arcadia #trollhunters #jim lake jr #claire nuñez #toby domzalski #mary wang #darci scott #sunshine au #halloween prompts #rmvwrites #is there a tag for these five's group dynamic?#if not I'm going to make one #I might be the only one to use it #but they're my favs and I'm tagging them

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findergirls · 7 months

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today on: little xc3 moments i think about way too much

the scene in maktha where the gang is informed about the annihilator and the shit going on at the castle so they decide to take a detour from their route to the city to take it down. and eunie is the most reluctant to agree to this plan because she just had that conversation with mio about her lifespan and doesn’t want her to lose any more time because she finally understands her and her situation better now but she relents upon seeing how determined mio is to take action, despite being entirely aware of how long it could take.

it’s SO good. it’s reminiscent of the scene in fornis where taion and sena try to convince everyone to take the quicker but more dangerous route because they don’t want mio to waste time, putting what they think she needs over what she actually wants. which isn’t necessarily a bad thing as they want to do what they believe would be best for mio. but at the same time eunie/lanz decide on the slower, safer option without a second thought because this is so early in the story and they haven’t fully become friends with the agnus half at this point.

yet later, in maktha, focus is put on eunie’s hesitation Because she’s become friends with mio, realising the full gravity of the situation, and being confided in that mio is actually more afraid than she lets on (and eunie, too, is more than intimate with fear in the face of death). but eunie agrees to go along, anyway, because she understands that it’s what her friend wants, and that matters more than anything else

#it’s just. i love how this isn’t a game where the party goes along with stuff because they’re the party and it’s what they do #they don’t just do stuff because they’re the protagonist’s yes-men #but they all have their own unique takes and feelings on situations like mio’s #and the scenes between them where we watch the group get closer with each other is what makes stuff like chapter 5 hit even harder #the other five party members have all built up their friendships with mio. even lanz. when in most games #characters like them would probably barely exchange a couple words with each other.#and the whole group is so down and devastated during the whole ch5 sequence BECAUSE they care about mio #not because ‘well the jrpg party has to be sad’. no. actual work is put into building up these relationships and dynamics #anyway. tags could be a whole post on their own and i might do that someday. but today is not that day #xenoblade chronicles 3

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hyp3rfixation-h3ll · 8 months

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i love that in lone bot and carb the music playing when bonz-eye explains her situation it goes from minor key signifying how she feels alone and isolated due to not knowing where she belongs , to major key at the end where she is , in a sense , at peace knowing she isn't lonely in her situation-- the other lost bots , and to a larger degree , lady macaron , have shown her that it isn't all about being in a clique full of other people like you. you can be yourself and choose who you want to be and what you want to do even if you're going solo.

and bonz-eye knows that now. even if she's still sad she'll probably never meet other plant bots, or those as down-to-earth as she is , she feels as if she has a goal now . a purpose . the very thing she was looking for in the first place. to be herself & to keep going , not for , but with her new-found friends. the ones who've been there from day 1. the music really ties it together with a neat bow, the last few notes in the major key having a sweet conclusion , reflecting how she's semi at peace with her thoughts and where she is. tl;dr god i love this show

#the captain's rambles #botbots tag 🏪#botbots #transformers botbots #tf botbots #media analysis #bonz eye #lone bot and carb #I LOVE YOU LONE BOT AND CARB WAAAAAAAUGH #i know botbots is never supposed to be that deep but IT IS TO ME #IT IS TO ME ALWAYS ALL THE TIME FOREVER #its such an important episode to the series not just for the dynamics it establishes (and also having an iconic burgerbonz clip)#but because it goes indepth to the existential part of Being a botbot and what a squad might mean #the lost bots up until episode 10 had No grounding as a squad. they werent “official” to the other bots they were just a group of weirdos #which has a whole new level of “holy shit” when you take into account bonz-eye's outburst in rage against the karaoke machine #in their own unique ways all 5 of the lost bots struggled with that existentialism because they ALL felt isolated #it wasnt just bonz-eye it wasn't just burgertron. all five of them felt outcasted . and they all dealt with it uniquely #some in a more destructive manner than others #what does it really *mean* to be a botbot? to be in a squad? to be an inanimate object brought to life by energon? or something more comple #ring-a-ling doesnt have a squad. is she a botbot? or is she something else?#does being a botbot mean you have to be in a squad to have any respect? because obviously bots without squads are either outcasted #or already ARE outcasts of their own volition (desserto ringy etc)#but even those without squads dont respect the lost bots unless theyre super out of the mall culture loop #do you guys get what im saying or am i just spitting nonsense #also apologies for going all plato and socrates there i took a philosophy class once via crashcourse and ive never been the same since

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azumasoroshi · 1 year

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watched the first two episodes of oshi no ko a while back (REALLY FUCKING GOOD, ive been a manga reader for a while but i stopped reading the recent chapters and basically forgot everything except for the major points and god it’s so satisfying to have the adaptation remind me of what i’ve forgotten in the most beautiful way possible)

but this post isnt about onk, it’s about izaya!! izaya orihara!! lets fucking goooooooooo izaya idol au!!!! i cant get this flea out of my BRAIN

i was about to open a new canvas to draw some more shizaya stuff for my animatic that im never gonna finish and i was like huh. maybe i should draw onk fanart. and then i remembered this art of venti genshin impact with ai’s eyes and i remembered thinking man i hope this becomes an artist trend for people to do with their art blorbos! and then i was like OH. guess i could contribute to the trend by drawing izaya with ai’s eyes

and then i started thinking and i was like huh. Ai’s never experienced love from her parents, doesn’t think she knows how to love or how to express it, doesn’t get attached to others easily, is a perpetual liar, became an idol because she hoped she would learn how to love - oh hey doesnt. that. sound like izaya. just a little bit. not exactly, her character goes into more learning how to love/that she can love while izaya’s character is i can love but only impersonally because i’m afraid of getting hurt and his arc would be learning to let his walls down for his own good

SO for izaya idol au, izaya would become an idol because he wants to experience love, or something along the lines of “there’s no greater demonstration of parasocial love and foolish decision making than in the idol industry! ahaha~” and probably “idols are perfect liars and i need to put myself into their shoes so i can become an even better liar and close myself off to any possibility of falling in love that could ever exist”

there’s a lot of reasons he might want to become an idol, really. there’s so much corruption and behind-the-scenes dealing and lies and facades and shit in the entertainment industry that i think izaya would eat for breakfast. he would LOVE witnessing that shit and making his own shady deals and stuff and occasionally ruining lives and watching people rise and fall down the rankings and tear each other down. plus the people who are in it for passion rather than money are fascinating as well. psychology student’s dream really- i mean what this is definitely about izaya and not me projecting

plus he definitely has the looks for it (narita would hard agree given how many times he’s indirectly called izaya attractive through other characters. we love a canonically hot king)

now i need to make everything shizaya because i’m not okay but i have no idea who shizuo would be lmao

like you could make him some up and coming manager (no age difference stuff here sorry lmao) or a fellow idol (doubtful. shizuo can act cute but i dont think he could dance) or an actor like akane/kana or a streamer??? like memcho (my favorite character)

a mangaka/screenplay writer/writer in general could also work but i feel like you’d have less reason to interact with idols that way

idk how japanese idol groups work for men in particular or if there’s even like a market for that :sob: id have to look into that if i actually started making stuff for this au

alternatively izaya crossdresses as a female idol and somehow no one realizes. except for shizuo. that would be hilarious actually. he refuses to do swimsuit modeling or other provocative stuff and his fans are like “oh?? the brazen kanra-chan is unexpectedly shy?? how cute” and he plays into it but inwardly he’s like. god i know exactly how im gonna go out with a bang when i retire. and shizuo watches him playing at being shy on tv knowing that that motherfucker is planning to strip on his last days as an idol

anyway this is just me spitballing ideas but ill definitely write at least a concept/intro fanfic of this at some point so stay tuned lmAo im just about to run out of writing juices on ABAON so i gotta transfer my energy somewhere else and where better than the idol!izaya au

#shizaya #idolzaya #ill be using that tag for whatever idol au stuff i come up with #i drafted this like. five days after the onk anime came out #this has been drafted for way longer than i wanted it to be #this was also sorta inspired by the idol!kim dokja au fic that’s really popular #i think the male idol industry is way stronger in korea than japan thiugh #that said i dont interact with idols at all personally lmAOO so i have no idea #i will do research later i promise #and read more of more more jump!’s stories for inspiration PFF #i wonder if izaya’s group should be a bunch of drrr girls or like. mostly irrelevant side characters #or if he should just go solo which again. i need to research how hard that would be #i feel like he might want to blend in a bit inside a group #would be fun to observe the jealousy and drama and group dynamics up close too #because if they get jealous of HIM at any point he might just laugh until he dies #i have more ideas but i should save those for the fanfic….#anyway #izaya orihara #shizuo heiwajima #durarara #im excited for this one bro oshi no ko is one of my favorite series ever #but like. not for the romance just because i really like learning about the entertainment industry LMAOO #i dont ship aqua with anyone tbh #can he just be besties with everyone pls #i loved his and kana’s relationship in the beginning where they’re like two good actors in a room full of mids #that was a fun dynamic but it just went downhill for me personally #oh well i can talk about this in my author’s notes pff

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just-your-average-tangerine · 10 months

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I think the hardest part of being trans is the uncertainty.

Like, there's a new band I kind of like. They've only released a few songs, but I like those songs, and I like the bands style, so I followed them on Instagram to keep up with them. Neither member of the band is openly queer but many of their (young) fans talk about how their dynamic and their music fits with a popular gay ship. The band has really leaned into it and made content to appeal to that, so I feel confident in assuming they're decently gay friendly, at least. But said popular ship is from Harry Potter, so I don't feel at all confident that they're trans friendly. They haven't said or done anything specifically transphobic, but they haven't specifically said anything in support of trans people either. So it creates that uncertainty. Am I safe in this fan space? Am I wanted? Will I be accepted?

Even in queer spaces, it's the same story. I've been in queer spaces that claimed to be trans friendly. They have name tags and pronoun stickers and pins available to everyone, a trans flag on the wall. But most of the staff won't try to use the correct pronouns. And trans men aren't welcome in the queer men's group they run. And when they invite a group to do free haircuts, they won't cut trans men's hair because they "don't do women's haircuts."

It's like, I can go to pride with a trans flag and five different he/him buttons pinned to my chest, and I'll still get misgendered to my face.

Every time you want to be a part of something, you have to ask yourself

-do they accept trans people

-if so, is that acceptance limited and conditional

-do they accept trans people as a part of the group or do they allow trans people to be there but not a part of it, is it a "you can tag along but you're not one of us" situation. A "trans people can join but gay trans men are not "real" gay men and trans lesbians are not "real" lesbians" situation.

Every fucking thing is uncertain.

The tweet has long been deleted, but years ago, Laura Jane Grace tweeted something to the effect of 'do you think I don't know that everyone I admire would hate me'. And that it. That's the shape of it. You just have to live with the idea that there's a good chance anyone you look up to, would hate you.

And that eats at you.

It really does.

#transgender #trans #transphobia #transandrophobia #transmisogny #enbyphobia #queer #and sometimes even other trans people arent safe #op

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sprout-fics · 9 months

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do you think there is tension between the pack and her after her heat stops? I can only imagine she's extremely flustered

Oh Absolutely-

Poly TF141 x Omega! Reader Headcanons

(Poly TF14 x F! Omega Reader)

(Part Five: Interest)

Tags: Omegaverse, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Hidden designations, Alpha! John Price, Alpha! Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Beta! Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, Omega! John 'Soap' MacTavish, Omega F! Reader, Group dynamics, Poly TF141, Omega discrimination, Slow burn

Masterlist

You wake on the final day of your heat alone

You fell asleep on Gaz's chest, panting into his neck with fever, and it was only once he scruffed you, kneaded your gland with his thumb and whispered husky little affirmations in your ear that you finally calmed

It doesn't take you long to figure out that you're finally (mostly) back to normal. You're no longer feverish, your head feels clear, and though your body is exhausted, your joints no longer hurt, your head doesn't throb

By some mercy, you aren't devastatingly horny anymore either

Your bed is littered with clothes that aren't yours, and you can tell by the scent alone who they belong to. Your body remembers the press of Ghost and Price inside you, hovering over you in the desert heat as they tried to calm the horrific sickness inside you, flush your system free of toxins

You've never held it against them. They saved your life, even if it was through means out of your control. Yet now your legs clench at the memory, the distant wish that somehow they might do it again.

It's awkward as hell, and by the next day when you're back to duties you do your best to avoid all of them, head ducked and skittering out of sight in a mixture of shame and bashfulness at the desire carving it's way inside you

It's wrong. Their your commanding officers. Your superiors. What they did was simply a favor, making sure you weren't horrifically sick and or dying. Nothing more than that

When Soap calls for you in the mess hall, when Gaz tries to sidle up to you at the firing range, when Ghost postures behind you after drills to ward off other alphas, when Price pulls you aside- you find ways to slink out of sight, face too warm and eyes turned down

You know they notice, you know they're confused, maybe even hurt, but you try to tell yourself it's for the best. You just need to tough it out for a few more weeks before you're back on suppressants again

You can't avoid them forever though, and eventually you're summoned on another mission with them

Price catches you by the arm before you load up, eyes you and forces you to meet his gaze before inquiring softly about you, and you tremble under his scrutiny, insist "I'm fine, captain."

You can see in the tight draw of his lips he doesn't believe you, and you can't blame him. Yet he releases you, strides past you onto the plane

You're in Al-Mazrah, hunting down an ex-pat who defected to AQ, one who holds valuable intel that you can't allow to fall into the wrong hands

It's a simple mission. Capture, do not kill. A hunting expedition

One that turns wrong too quickly

You're clearing a building when you see a shadow out of the corner of your eye. It moves too fast to trace, and before you can aim at it a arm wraps around your chest, a hand moving to your face too late to silence your scream

Your attacker hisses in a language you don't understand, but between the words you can make out a single one that is all too familiar

"Omega."

You freeze, feel dread wash icy through your veins before thrashing violently, trying to reach for the blade tucked in your tac vest

You don't get the chance, because the rush of your heart beat is deafened by a feral, roaring growl that echoes deep in the chest of a familiar form

Ghost.

The alpha rips the man from you, all but throws him against a wall so hard you hear something crack- unsure if it's bone or plaster

You tremble where you stand, shaken, forcing yourself to reach for your blade, when a hand settles gently on yours

"Stay."

The word is growled in a low, gruff order, one that reeks of alpha authority, and you look up to see Price's teeth bared in a sneer, watching as the alpha before he towers over the crumpled form of your attacker

Something inside you withers away gently, and in your shaken state you press into Price's side instinctively, watching your other alpha raise his weapon and fire once into the man's skull

Price's arm wraps around you reflexively, tucking you further into his side protectively

It shouldn't shake you, this. You've had far worse encounters than this one, but the echo of the man's voice in your ears, purring a low, threatening growl resounds endlessly in your thoughts. "Omega."

He was going to hurt you

He never got the chance

Ghost strides over to you, long steps quickly closing the distance, and in any other context you'd retreat from him, his towering posture indicative of a threat

Now, however, you lean up into his hands as they cup the sides of your face, turn it back and forth to look for wounds. One finger grazes across your scent gland with intoxicating, familiar smell, and your knees wobble

"Solid?" Price asks you, and you force yourself to nod in reassurance

"S-solid." You answer despite the waver of your voice, and though both of them nod, they seem reluctant to release their hold on you

There's a distant part of your brain that slinks velvety across your thoughts, and you're unable for a moment to ignore the overwhelming instinct of warmth, safety, protection, shelter, Alpha-

"Easy, omega." Price soothes, and it snaps you back to yourself, realizing your want has somehow bled into your scent. You look to the captain, aghast, but there's only a fond amusement there that makes your heart flutter deep beneath your stomach

The rest of the mission goes smoothly, and you notice Price and Ghost sticking closer to you than usual. It's only once you get back to base, wash their scents from you that you realize

You're already theirs

#poly 141 x reader #modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #omegaverse tf 141 #omegaverse cod #omegaverse dynamics #omegaverse #drabbles #headcanons

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dirtyvulture · 9 months

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Aftermath

Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Sergeant!Reader

18+ only read at your own risk

Summary: Natasha comes to apologize after she unknowingly hurt your feelings.

AN: Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

Wrote something short(ish), inspired by several anons as a sequel to this ask.

“You want to come over to my place later?” Natasha whispers in your ear.

“No, not really.” You lean over the railing of the balcony, watching as your recruits tackle the muddy obstacle course in groups of five. “Fitz, Hunter, don’t leave your teammate behind like that!” you shout, noticing two bigger male recruits trying to continue on while their smaller female teammate struggles to scale the rock wall on her own.

“Yes, Sergeant!” they yell back, meekly turning around and offering their hands to the female.

“Why not?” Natasha sounds shocked you would refuse an offer to be in bed with her. But you still haven’t forgotten her comments at the dinner party.

“I have to catch up on some stuff,” you lie.

Natasha frowns, but she doesn’t push the issue.

***********************************************************************

You’re eating a limp sandwich from the chow hall with some of your colleagues, completely tuned out of the conversation. Natasha walks by with her own tray, tempted to sit next to you, but remembering how distanced you felt from her.

You notice her, but make no acknowledgement of her.

“Maximoff told me he wants to apply to be a sergeant,” Sam Wilson sitting next to you says. “He was asking what you studied to pass your test.”

“Well, if someone like me can pass, then he shouldn’t have to study at all,” you respond, just loud enough for Natasha to hear.

Her face turns as red as her hair and she hurriedly turns and walks away.

***********************************************************************

You walk out of your bathroom with just a towel wrapped around your waist, water still dripping down your chest and back from your wet hair. You startle when you see Natasha sitting on your bed, completely forgetting that she had access to your room.

“Hi,” she says in a small voice.

“Why are you here?” you dismiss, walking past her to your closet.

“You’re mad at me,” she says.

“I’m not…mad…” you respond not very convincingly. You grab a clean shirt, turning back to face Natasha and notice that her eyes are trailing down your torso, over the muscles of your chest and stomach where your dog tags hang, and the V-line of your hips that narrow past the towel. “Um, Sergeant?” you ask.

“I’m not your sergeant right now,” Natasha says, and this is the first time you’ve heard her say that. She gets up and steps towards you, gently taking the shirt out of your hands. You stare at her, a little confused. Your relationship with her was complicated to say the least. There were no official boundaries or titles, yet you knew this woman was the only one you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. But the nature of your job, especially with the power dynamic, made it almost impossible for you two to make any sort of public announcement.

“I just want to be your Nat right now.”

“My Nat?” you repeat, as if you didn’t hear her correctly. She nods, undoing the towel from your waist and letting it fall to the floor. You feel yourself harden under her gaze alone, a little embarrassed how quickly she turns you on. She takes your hand and leads you to your bed, lying down and guiding you on top of her. “Are you sure you don’t want to–” you start, but Natasha quiets you with a kiss, unbuttoning her jeans and kicking them off.

“I want you right here,” she says, brushing her hands down your sides before grabbing the hem of her shirt and removing it.

“I lied. I was a little mad at you,” you confess in a jumble as Natasha holds onto your hips and pulls you down so your cock rubs against her stomach.

“You had every right to be.”

You look down and see your pre-cum shining along her abs, your cock throbbing harder at the idea of slipping inside of her and pumping her full of your cum.

“Can I…” you start to pant, your fantasies getting the best of you.

“Of course.”

For once, Natasha is not particularly dominant with you, lying back and letting you do what you want. Your hands circle her smaller waist, pinning her down to the bed as you line up your cock with her dripping center and slowly push in, moaning at the warmth that surrounds you.

“F-Fuck, Sergeant,” you say, and Natasha corrects you with a click of her tongue. “I…I mean, Nat. You feel so fucking good.”

Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as they pump forward and backward, filling Natasha to the hilt and pulling out until you can see your tip gleaming with your combined fluids.

“Keep going, Y/N. Just like that,” Natasha guides, pushing her head back into the pillows as you thrust into her. She holds onto your biceps, tracing the line of a scar on your left one from a knife fight back on one of your first assignments.

You grunt as you start to pick up the pace, slamming into harder and her body shakes as your thighs meet hers. It’s almost like sliding through wet silk; there’s no resistance and only a delicious warmth that makes your head spin.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Natasha moans and you feel her walls tighten around your cock, causing you to increase your strength to fill her deeply.

“Do you want me to pull out?” you gasp, slowing just enough to wait for an answer.

“Cum inside of me,” she says, locking her ankles around your lower back so you couldn’t pull out even if you wanted to.

You thrust in one final time, feeling yourself lose control and pumping your cum into her hard and fast. You feel light-headed as you lay down softly on her, putting your head on her chest and letting her stroke your hair until you fall asleep.

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AN: Safe to say they’re made up? 🤔

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff imagine #sergeant beef au #natasha romanoff x reader

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peachesofteal · 10 months

Note

Oh sweet, sweet Peach 🥺 I just blew through your Dead Disco writing in a matter of hours and holy fucking shit I think it might seriously be one of my favorite fic series I’ve ever read in my entire fucking life. I am completely, utterly, irredeemably in love with the way you’ve captured their dynamic—I just want to snuggle up in their little world and never leave. I adore the way you’ve written about Darling’s insecurities in such a realistic way because I know if I were in her situation I’d struggle with the same issues. And the way Simon steps up as a dom to take care of his loves both in and out of the bedroom… cue open weeping. He’s perfect. Johhny’s perfect. Darling’s perfect. So perfect I can hardly stand it. And your writing overall is so beautiful; you should be beyond proud of what you’ve created ❤️

One thing I’d love to see if you’re still writing for this series is for Simon and Johnny to figure out what is going on at work that is stressing Darling out so much (maybe a coworker or superior harassing her and threatening her job if she doesn’t give in) and they just ‘casually’ stop by to bring her lunch and catch the coworker in the act and go all overprotective 🤤 God I love me some overprotective Ghost and Johnny!

Anyways, thank you for sharing your creations! You seriously should be so proud ❤️ much much love!

Hi! Thank you so much, this was so incredibly sweet of you. I've loved living in their little world so for you to say you could curl up inside of it too makes me so incredibly happy. I love them so much, sharing them with others who also loves them just turns me into a pile of sap.

Additionally, I was so happy to write this little snippet that takes place after "On a Slow Night", so thank you for the inspiration. I got to dive into Darling's life a little bit and it was so fun.

Ghost x Soap x female reader Takes place after On a Slow Night This is CANON (weird I have to say this now but I dig it) for Dead Disco. Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. No smut but this fic contains mature themes. Protective Simon and Johnny. Possessive Simon and Johnny. Darling doing darling things. Anxiety. Eating and food related issues.

It was well past five in the evening.

It was well past five in the evening, and you were still at work, eyes straining across two monitors, comparing lists and numbers across two screens, estimates and bids and evaluations all jumbled together.

A mess. You were staring at a mess, a mess that you hadn't even begun to unravel, a mess that you had to fix before even thinking about going home for the night, the realization of that fact settling like a stone in the pit of your stomach. It unsettles you, sending unease surging through your veins, making your skin crawl with anxiety.

This was your dream job. So why didn't it feel like a dream?

You knew that answer, of course. It was because your new boss, the promote-from-within, the monster that walked these halls, despised you. She regarded you the same way she regarded a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her way too expensive heels, with disdain.

Johnny had tried, bless him, to encourage you to go over her head, to say something to her boss, even though you explained you couldn't.

"I'm just an assistant curator. I can't go over her head, her boss barely even knows my name yet." He had argued, tried to push, until Simon stomped his fight out.

"She can't violate the chain of command. You know that."

Besides, you weren't a snitch. You weren't going to behind her back, or above her head, just for her to retaliate against you later. Which she certainly would. You weren't willing to risk it. You were due to be promoted, and had been waiting. For over two years.

Your phone buzzes against the desk, the group chat lighting up your screen. It's the guys, with the usual questions; where are you, when will you be home, what do you want for dinner. It makes your heart ache, a little bit, makes your head spin, thinking about them at home without you, waiting. Standing by. Just as you do for them, all the time. You begin to type out a half hazard text, trying to explain how you're going to be late, again, when a shrill voice grates against your ears.

"Knock knock." She's standing prim and proper right in the doorway of your office, bony fingers folded around a stack of papers. Oh my fucking god, no way. "These need to be scanned and compiled along with your acquisition list from today." The pressure in your skull skyrockets and you fight the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose.

"Kelly, I've really got a lot on my plate. Is there a way I can-"

"Are you refusing?" Orange red lipsticked coated lips flex into a feline smile. A sinister smile. A smart one. Fuck.

"N-no. No, I wouldn't."

"Great. tonight then." She drops them in front of you with a thud, eyeing your taupe wool sweater with disgust.

"Okay, tonight." You slump forward in defeat. You wanted to go home. You wanted to curl up on the couch between the guys, and let run you a bath or give you a back rub. All of that... sounded a lot better than all of this.

I'm going to be really late now. You shoot off the text before putting your phone facedown and cradling your head in your hands.

How late? Johnny asks immediately and you grimace.

Have you eaten? Did you finish your lunch? You try not to wince at the direct line of questioning from Simon, who undoubtedly already knows his answer, based on how you were feeling this morning when they tried to feed you breakfast, and how busy you've been at work.

Don't know. Yes. Half of it. You fire back, ignoring the burn of the guilt from the lie, and then put it in your drawer. Less distractions means you'll get home sooner if you can focus and just get it done.

You don't mean to fall asleep at your desk. It's just, the heat kicks on, and the room warms to a very nice temperature, and your eyelids feel so heavy that you suddenly find yourself excusing it a little if you lay your head down for a minute.

It's a mistake. It's the worst mistake, and you know it, you feel the weight of your mistake sharply when there's a crone like voice shrieking near your ear and you're jerking up in a fright, eyes wide in panic.

"-eeping? While you're getting paid? When you're supposed to be working?" She's standing inside your office now, a foot from your desk, face twisted into a macabre mask of indignation.

"I'm sorry." You croak. "Didn't mean to." You palm finds your face and you rub, trying to get with it, and quickly, before she loses her mind. Your head is spinning, dizzy and clouded, and you curse yourself for not actually eating at least half your lunch like you said you did.

"And you think you'll be a curator next year? With this kind of lazy behavior." She scoffs, nose wrinkled, and shame licks against the skin of your jaw while you grind your teeth.

"Kelly, I'm sorry. I'm exhausted and-"

"I don't want to hear your stupid excuses. I should fire you, right now. Sleeping! On the-"

"What the fuck is going on here?" Everything inside you grinds to a halt at the sound of the deep, gritted Manchester accent. Oh, fuck.

Simon's standing just inside the office, Johnny next to him, holding a bag. It's got a Tupperware in it, you can see from here, still fogged up by the warm contents inside. They've brought you dinner. Your heart melts at the sight, and then swiftly hardens and drops like a stone when you realize 1. They're not allowed to be in here after hours and 2. Simon just cussed at your boss. When you don't say anything, still sitting there slack jawed, Johnny prompts you.

"Darling? Is everything alright?" You try to put a thought together, to answer, but Kelly beats you to it, turning on a dime, taking a few steps to where they lurk just inside your office.

"Who are you? You can't be in here after hours." She hisses, and while Johnny sneers at her before looking back to you, Simon's fist visibly clenches.

"Security let us in."

"They don't have the authority to do that, you can't be-" You stand, but the floor somewhat shifts beneath your feet, walls tilting, and your fingers grip the desk. It's enough for Johnny to disregard anything she's saying, pushing past where she stands with her hands on her hips to stand at your side, a steady hand on your elbow.

"Alright love?" The blue eyes search yours and you manage a nod.

"Jus' tired. A bit hungry." He looks back to Simon, who's watching you carefully, before he turns his irritated gaze back to Kelly.

"Did I hear you threatening to fire her?" His voice is cold. It's seeking, lethal, something sharp and refined that you've never heard. Johnny keeps his hand on you, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin.

"She was asleep."

"Because ya've overworked her, you daft cunt." Johnny snaps, and her eyes widen in shock.

"How dare you! Who do you think you are?" She caws and Simon takes yet another step, this time close enough that she jerks backwards.

"She works outside her contracted hours all the time, and she doesn't complain. At your request." Simon cocks his head. "Sounds like a labor law violation, if ya ask me."

"Aye, it does." Johnny cheerfully agrees, warm palm sliding up and down your spine. Kelly looks between the three of you, something uncertain tugging at the corners of her eyes, before she's shaking her head in protest.

"She volunteers, she-"

"She's ours." Simon snarls it, and Kelly blanches. "And we're not going to allow whatever mistreatment is going on here to continue." Something warm simmers in your stomach, even though your mortified. Ours. She's ours. The words make boulder sized butterflies thrash in your stomach. You're probably going to need to find a new job, but this is kind of worth it. Kelly is sputtering at Simon, who's now standing with his arms crossed, glowering at her from the behind the mask, looking properly terrifying, while Johnny continues to rub your back, warm palm soothing you into a big yawn, one you fail to stifle. One they both see. He dismisses her, with one more promise of a phone call to the labor advisory, or worse, the board of directors. That threat alone is enough to shut her up, scaring her into pressing her back against the wall meekly, while Simon gives Johnny a subtle nod.

"We're leaving." Johnny declares, and Simon nods. He crosses the room to pull your bag from the back of your chair, while Johnny slides your laptop into it's sleeve and grabs your coffee cup. "C'mon darling, let's go home." He coaxes, and you let them lead you from the office, Johnny with a firm hand at your waist, Simon leading the way.

You don't look back at where Kelly stands in the hallway, gobsmacked and speechless.

#peaches writes #dead disco #soap x ghost x reader #ghost x soap x reader #john soap mctavish x you #simon riley #simon ghost riley #peaches asks #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley x reader #johnny mactavish x you

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nanawritesit · 7 months

Text

SM Entertainment Girl Group Idol AU (fem!reader insert)

feel free to use this for shifting or as a fanfiction backstory! (just tag me if it’s the second one hehe)

disclaimer: the extra info sections aren’t all original ideas, many were found on pinterest/tiktok :) images aren’t mine either

tw: none that i’m aware of

Group Profile:

Group Name: Etoile (meaning star/ point of a star in French)

Members: 5 (5 points on a star)

Fandom: Starlight

Concept: Ethereal, Cosmic, Elegant

Debut Year: 2017 (between Red Velvet and Aespa)

Debut Song: “Constellations”

Debut Album Title: “5 Makes 1”

B-Sides: “Aries,” “Nebula,” “Orbit,” “Stardust,” and “Pisces”

Fandom/ Lightstick Color: Indigo and White (stars in the night sky)

Group Chant: All: “Twinkle twinkle!” Nabi: “Hi Starlight! It’s…” All: “Etoile!”

Members Profile:

Y/N: Oldest, Center/ Face of the Group, Main Vocalist, Speaks Korean, English, and Chinese

Cho Nabi: Leader, Lead Vocalist, Korean, Speaks Korean, English, Chinese, and Japanese

Marie Tang: Main Dancer, Chinese-American, Speaks Korean, English, and Chinese

Han Iseul: Visual, Lead Dancer, Korean, Speaks Korean

Ikeda Kaori: Maknae, Main Rapper, Japanese, Speaks Korean and Japanese

Extra Info about the Group:

Pre-debut, Etoile released a cover of Girls Generation’s “Genie,” and it blew up so fast that fans couldn’t wait for them to debut

Etoile is known as “the bridge between third and fourth generation” in the kpop community

The members are also known as “the princesses of SM”

Etoile does a lot of variety shows because everyone loves the members’ funny personalities and playful group dynamic

Etoile was featured in a popular kdrama as themselves, though they only had a few lines in a couple episodes, it became a fan favorite and made the ratings sky-rocket

Etoile’s second comeback, “Andromeda,” is said to have one of the most difficult girl group choreographies in kpop. It was also the song that got them their first win

When Etoile got their first win with “Andromeda,” all of the girls were crying hysterically, including Nabi who was supposed to give the speech. She ended up handing the mic to Y/N, who had just been smiling happily the whole time. Y/N pulled Nabi into her arms as she gave the speech, and then the other three girls assembled a group hug around them. It became such a tender moment for Starlights that everyone watching started crying too

Etoile did a collaboration music video with Sailor Moon where all the members got to dress up as the sailor guardians. Y/N was Sailor Moon, Nabi was Sailor Mars, Marie was Sailor Mercury, Iseul was Sailor Venus, and Kaori was Sailor Jupiter

Etoile has their own plushie characters that are put on headbands and other merchandise for Starlight, similar to BT21 and Skzoo. Y/N’s is a white swan, Nabi’s is a blue butterfly, Marie’s is a black cat, Iseul’s is a pink puppy, and Kaori’s is a yellow duck

Etoile did a collab with “rom&nd,” a korean makeup brand, where each member got to create their own shade of lipstick. The five shades the members created sold out in just three minutes.

Etoile performed a cover of EXO’s “Growl” during one of their concerts in male school uniforms, and Starlights were so impressed by how cool and masculine they were

Being sandwiched between the two girl groups, Red Velvet and Aespa are like the older and younger sisters of Etoile (respectively.) The Red Velvet members are always checking in on them and giving them advice, and Etoile does the same thing for Aespa.

Starlight is famous for being one of the most loyal and devoted fandoms. They buy the girls billboards and food trucks for their birthdays, protect them from antis, and offer so much love and support.

The members have their own youtube channel called “Etoile Clubhouse” that they have permission to use freely. They post lots of different content, including challenges, games, song/dance covers, mukbangs, get ready with me/us videos, and q&a’s

Extra Info about Y/N:

Y/N is known as the loving mother of the group, while Nabi is more like a strict dad

Kaori was still in high school when she debuted, and Y/N took care of her like a mother would her daughter. She would wash and iron her uniform, prepare her breakfast and lunch, and help her with her homework every night. Kaori’s mother was so thankful, as she couldn’t do all this for her daughter herself, still living in Japan

While all the girls are close, Nabi and Y/N are best friends, they even have friendship bracelets

While Iseul is the visual because she fits the KBS the best, Y/N is the center/FOTG because her visuals match the group concept the best. She’s known for her “white swan” visuals: ethereal, graceful, and elegant.

Y/N and Iseul were also chosen as members of GOT the Beat

Y/N was the first member to have a solo debut in 2021. Her debut song was fittingly titled “White Swan.” Nabi helped her compose the songs, Marie helped her with the choreography, and Kaori had a rap feature on one of the tracks. Y/N performed it at the MAMA awards, and everyone was singing/dancing along to it so hard they almost forgot about the actual awards show!

Y/N is an ambassador for Dior and Chanel. Many brands were offering her deals after Etoile became popular due to her unique visuals, so she got to choose the ones she liked best

Y/N is known as the “OST Queen” of the group, she has sang many drama OSTs

Y/N’s best friends at the company include Yeri (Red Velvet,) Taeyong (NCT/SuperM,) Karina (Aespa,) and Ten (NCT/SuperM/WayV)

Y/N has had cameos in many different artists’ music videos, including Stray Kids, Enhypen, and NCT Dream

SHINee’s Key dubbed Y/N “SM’s secret weapon”

Y/N was part of a one-time collaboration unit with Dreamcatcher’s Dami, Weki Meki’s Doyeon, IZ*ONE’s Yena, and fromis_9’s Chaeyoung. They released a single called “Wild Mind,” and it was so popular that fans were advocating to start a new group with just these idols!

Y/N once dyed her hair indigo to match the fandom color, and fans started to dye their hair the same color to match her. The shade became known as “Y/N hair” on social media

Y/N and Marie were mentors on a Chinese idol training show, all the girls loved them because they were super helpful without being too tough. It also gained Etoile a lot of Chinese fans

Y/N has very impressive high notes, Starlights have made several youtube compilations with titles like “Y/N obliterating the sound barrier with her high notes for 5 minutes”

Y/N’s nickname from Starlight is “Angel Voice” due to her clear, bright voice

Y/N sang a cover of Taylor Swift’s “Anti-Hero” on Etoile Clubhouse, and Starlights tagged Taylor in it so much that she was shown the video in an interview. Taylor responded: “I’ve watched this video so many times! Her voice is so pretty. I met her once in Korea too, she’s so genuine and sweet! I’d love to collab with her, or Etoile as a whole. They seem so fun.”

Y/N was getting a lot of lip-synching rumors, until one day a staff member shared a video of her practicing before a concert with her mic on. It revealed her raw vocal talent and debunked all the rumors.

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theflashesoflove · 9 months

Text

obstacle II

Larissa Weems x f!reader (nsfw) – series

part I :: part II :: part lll :: ao3

a/n: thank you to everyone who showed me some love for the first chapter!! i am very very smitten (and quite nervous). let's see how all of this goes from larissa's point of view. there are some inconsistencies with canon events (not to mention that larissa is alive, which she very much is in canon as well, we all know that)

warnings/tags: unhealthy online relationship, dom!larissa x sub!reader dynamics, sexting, implied masturbation, angst, insecurity, guilt – you get the vibes

chapter word count: 3.7k

Part II: she puts the weights in my heart

It was a blissful evening, but Larissa’s inner state was nowhere near bliss. Nevermore was finally back on track after the horrible Hyde situation, yet Larissa lagged behind in adjusting to the new reality. It wouldn’t be this hard if she didn’t spend two weeks in hospital after being poisoned by Laurel Gates – she never went on vacation, she never took additional days off, and being away from her principal duties certainly slowed her down. Especially when she absolutely hated being patronised by doctors and nurses who didn’t want to discharge her from hospital no matter how many times she snarled and threw tantrums about how extremely important it was for her to get back to work. Even after finally nagging her way out earlier than a proper healing process required, Larissa still couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place. It felt as though all of her efforts had reset to zero and she had to start everything all over again – negotiate with the new Mayor, establish a reverent relationship with the normie population and mitigate the consequences of Hyde attack among students. Her mind was still weak after she was nearly lying on her deathbed, her heart was still heavy knowing what her students had been through. The only thing that stayed the same even after the incident was her relationship with you, and she would hate to admit that it only added to her problems. She was constantly followed by guilt, all-consuming and unmerciful.

Larissa didn’t like to feel like a bad person. Life had taught her that if she wanted to achieve something, being her charming and ambitious self wasn’t enough – she had to be clever and sly, sometimes even manipulative and ruthless. She had good intentions, but the only language the world around her could understand was a language of fierceness. Larissa could always come up with an excuse for her problematic actions when it came to protecting the school, but she could never come up with an excuse for being dishonest towards you.

Some of the students gathered in the yard after the classes were over, sitting in small groups and enjoying one of the last warm days of September. Larissa wished to return to her school days and be as carefree as they were in that moment, laughing and gossiping and perhaps worrying about their first love. A small smile crawled on her face as she looked out of the window – students seemed to adjust after what had happened more successfully than their Principal did, but this fact made Larissa hopeful that she would catch on soon. One detail, however, was still out of place. A tormenting reminder of Hyde attack, the destroyed tower that was off limits for students and hurt the Principal’s eyes like a grain of sand. Perhaps the upcoming renovation could finally calm her heart. She stepped away from the window to return to her chair and looked at the clock – her last meeting of the day was supposed to start five minutes ago. As soon as she decided to check if there were any new messages from you and reached out for her phone, she heard a confident knock on her door. Larissa moved her chair closer to the table and opened her laptop while inviting whoever was waiting for her response with a light “Come in!”. Deep down Larissa was glad that the architect got there a little late, she really needed those extra five minutes of solitude to catch a breath after a rather tense meeting with the new Mayor.

To catch a breath, that was immediately stolen away from her when you walked in.

At first, Larissa thought she was hallucinating. Her mind was undoubtedly playing games with her, she just had to blink the mirage away. But you were still there even after the woman closed and opened her eyes a few times, and your lovely voice was like a slap on her face – it’s real, it’s real, you are real and you are here.

“Terribly sorry I’m late. I had to stop for petrol,” you murmured, closing the door behind you.

Larissa couldn’t move. You never told her that you were an architect, you never told her what your new project was about, you never told her that you knew anything about reconstruction. You just entered her office like a deadly storm, and Larissa had to act professional somehow. It felt as though she was doused with ice cold water, as though she was blinded and deafened, as though she fell down in her sleep and woke up in cold sweat. She couldn’t feel her own breathing, she wasn’t aware of her surroundings anymore. However what felt like an eternity of catatonia lasted only for a split second, and Larissa’s stupor was followed by a sheer panic. You swiftly approached her desk and extended your hand, introducing yourself, and suddenly Larissa was very aware of it all – of how rapidly her heart was beating, of how hot her cheeks grew, of how painfully her stomach flipped when she saw your oblivious smile and felt the softness of your hand as she met it with her own, moving on autopilot. All the formal interactions she practised every day became entirely foreign concepts to her, and she kept rudely staring at you, at a loss for words.

The circle of lies and secrets she had created backfired on her with its full force, leaving her trapped with you in the same room. When you entered Larissa’s office, she already knew what your name was. When you shook her hand, she already knew what that hand did just a couple of nights before, teasing your body on camera for her. When you spoke, she already knew how that voice sounded when you were on edge. She already knew your every curve, your dirty fantasies and what you were capable of for her – no, for Lydia. Every little detail of you was shared with non-existent Lydia, but it was Larissa who always was on the receiving end. Larissa knew, Larissa knew everything, she wasn’t supposed to be the one who knew it, but she couldn’t run away from it.

You pursed your lips and shyly touched the backrest of a chair that stood in front of Larissa’s desk, and it alerted the woman that she still didn’t invite you to sit down. “Ah, yes, yes, please, take a seat. I am sorry, it’s been a rough day,” she uttered, looking around her desk in search of something to hold on to. She found a pen and clutched it in her hand as she listened to the rustle of you pulling out the chair and sitting across from her.

“It’s alright, I won’t keep you long. For the first meeting at least,” you gave her a small smile, and Larissa’s whole being buzzed from anxiety, her nerves completely destroying her professional composure. “Our manager has already drawn up a contract, I just need you to read through it, check if everything’s right, and sign it. In two copies,” you reached in your bag and pulled out a thin folder with documents, “one stays with you, one stays with me.” You handed Larissa the papers and she immediately busied herself reading through them to avoid making eye contact with you.

Words seemed to melt together, and Larissa couldn’t focus on the content of the contract for the life of her. She knew that you were patiently watching her, presumably seeing her struggle to read a few pages. Her mind drifted away once again, agitated that at any moment you could recognise in her someone who sent you dirty messages and kept you in the dark about her real personality. Larissa scanned through the contract, not paying attention to the formalities, because her brain was occupied with calming her heart down. You couldn’t possibly know that Larissa was Lydia, or the other way around, you couldn’t possibly recognise her, because she never sent you pictures of her face. The only bits she’d shared were her legs and her- her hands… Could you recognise her hands? Her manicure? Larissa’s mind raced as she hesitated for a second before taking a look at you to see you scrolling through your phone. She carefully dropped the pen and brought her hands on her lap to shift her nail colour to something, anything else. A second later she grabbed the pen again and saw that her nails got a different shape and were painted silver. It wasn’t a bad choice, Larissa thought, but it was a very unusual one. And you wouldn’t even notice the insignificant change, would you? She felt ridiculous for caring about such a small detail, but it calmed her nerves a tiniest bit nonetheless.

Larissa looked through the contract again, and she was glad that she found it in her to do so, because she noticed a mistake, “It doesn’t say anything about the installation of a new heating system,” she noted, looking up at you.

You put your phone away and frowned, “Did you mention it while talking to our manager?”

“I… I suppose I forgot. Can we add it to the list though? The tower was the only part of Nevermore that never got decent heating, and we always had to cancel lessons in the observatory during cold seasons.” Larissa internally winced at how unusually weak her voice sounded.

“Of course. I will notify our manager and bring you a new contract. It’s a good thing you noticed, usually clients don’t pay much attention,” you said lightly.

“I hope it won’t be a bother, it’s easy to forget things while looking after hundreds of teenagers at once,” Larissa handed you the papers back.

“No, no, it’s alright. I must admit, I never realised that being a principal might be this stressful. Not saying that it’s easy, but… just never really thought about it.” You gave Larissa an awkward smile. It was precious to her. “I was planning on seeing the tower and taking a few pictures. And maybe there will be something else you remember about?”

“Oh, right, right. I’ll lead the way.” Larissa stood up, nervously smoothing the fabric of her skirt.

The meeting proceeded in the school yard, Larissa watched as you carefully observed the tower ruins and took pictures from every possible angle. Ironically, Larissa was glad that she finally wasn’t the centre of your attention.

“The top part is completely destroyed,” you mumbled to yourself softly, craning your neck to look up at the damage that was done to the part of the building, “I cannot even imagine what could have caused it, especially in a school. It couldn’t have been students, could it?” You turned to look at Larissa who stood at a discreet distance.

“Well, I suppose it could. But it wasn’t their fault. It’s… hard to explain.” Larissa was surprised to see that you probably didn’t know what exactly was happening at Nevermore just a few months ago. After a small pause, she asked, “Is it necessary to completely take down what’s left?”

“If you’d prefer to leave the remaining parts, I can work around it. We’ll just have to reconstruct the top…” you were focused on the ruins and Larissa couldn’t help but think how enticing you looked while doing your job. Now that the two of you were outside it was much easier to breathe, and Larissa could freely admire your form – not that she didn’t have enough opportunities to admire it before. Oh, and the way your beauty was even more outstanding in real life. You were dressed for work, and for Larissa, a woman who deeply valued her appearance in the office, it was the most delightful, the most attractive sight to see. Your little smiles were much brighter in person, your hair looked soft and your shape was unsurprisingly smaller compared to Larissa’s. It made her want to cover you with her body and hide you in her arms. Tearing away from inappropriate thoughts, she internally cursed herself and tried to pay attention to your words. “It seems like a pretty solid construction, It could have stood for centuries,” you mused, touching one of the old mossy bricks. “But we’ll find the materials to blend in beautifully,” stepping away from the tower wall, you approached Larissa. “I’ll have the first renders ready for our next meeting and we can discuss anything you would like to add or get rid of.”

“Very well,” Larissa breathed out, not expecting you to come this close to her. In fact, she was only being dramatic – you maintained a professional distance. “I… I look forward to it,” she forced a smile that barely touched her lips.

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

Once you left, Larissa felt anxious all over again. She realised it was only a matter of time before you wrote to Lydia, and how could she continue all of this, knowing full well that she would have to see you every week and work with you on the renovation? How could she pretend to be just a mere stranger, a put-together principal and continue to secretly order you around, to send you filthy messages and not feel like shit about it? Guilt gnawed at her, it made her nervously pace her office, completely unable to finish her work for the day. Perhaps her lies had to come to a halt, and that meeting just marked the beginning of the end.

Larissa never thought that the first conversation she’d shared with you would lead her into this kind of relationship. She never tried shopping for antiques online, she didn't even bother to properly fill out her profile information on the reselling site – she just wanted a peculiar-looking record player, but you forgot to take the advertisement down after selling it. It was a pity, she really liked that old little thing, but in the end she was blessed – or rather cursed – with something much more interesting. Next thing Larissa knew, both of you engaged in discussing music and, gradually, you started sharing some innocent facts about your life. Larissa thought it was fun – she hadn't had a conversation about something not related to her job in ages. Then, you started texting her more frequently and Larissa couldn’t help but tease you for it. You seemed to like her teasing tone and started playing along. It made her more confident and bolder with her words – she would never admit it, but sometimes she blushed at her own messages; it wasn’t because she was shy, it was because of the image in her head, the fantasy of having you just the way Larissa wanted. What was worse, she smiled like she was young and carefree again whenever she got your response. With you she felt more at ease exploring this passionate and provoking side of her, feeling a tad smug when you reacted to her ambiguous messages in the most adorable way. It aroused a thrill within her, a deep interest and longing for more.

However she was awfully scared of bringing this into real life, knowing that she had accidentally set the bar too high, and that you would surely be disappointed to learn that behind those messages was a woman who was overconsumed with her work and actually quite dull as a person – that was what Larissa thought of herself. After a week of your rapidly developing relationship, you texted her, i just realised i never got your name! – and Larissa didn’t know why she lied. It was a good idea at the time, she assumed that sooner or later you would become bored even of this bolder version of her, and giving you her actual name wouldn’t change anything. To her surprise and secret delight, it wasn’t the case. You accepted everything she offered you and didn’t ask uncomfortable questions. Just once, though, you suggested meeting somewhere for dinner, and Larissa politely refused, saying that she wouldn’t have the time for it in the foreseeable future. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but Larissa knew that if she wasn’t such a coward, she would have found all the time in the world to see you.

Being in love was unhealthy for Larissa. It was painful and distracting from her work. It made her dizzy and nauseous, certain that the object of her infatuation would never reciprocate her feelings. It happened once, twice, it happened enough times to make her hopeless and stern – her heart couldn’t take it anymore. Deep down she always craved intimacy and touch, but even occasional one-night stands made her stumble and sense an unpleasant cramp in her stomach once they were over. Lydia was a clever barrier that, Larissa hoped, would catch her when she would fall again. She wasn’t getting too close, she didn’t allow herself to get attached, because Larissa’s heart was shielded by a mysterious and more confident image of a different woman. She was foolish thinking that this could ever work.

The messages you sent her had become a part of Larissa’s daily routine, and initially innocent and friendly conversations inevitably escalated into sexting. On some days, both of you exchanged only text messages, but more often you sent her nudes which made Larissa immensely aroused. Sometimes she would sit in her office, curtains drawn and door locked, basking in the warmth of the fireplace, drinking wine and waiting for you to finish recording your video. She’d watch you shaking and squirming and accidentally moaning Lydia’s name instead of the mistress title. It didn’t happen often, but when it did… Oh, how she wished to be Lydia. To be the woman you were so close to, whom you trusted with everything, whom you cared for. How she wished that she could give you what your kind soul deserved – honesty. A minor lie about her name evolved into an entire net of secrets. Larissa embellished her image, drifting away from reality. She gave all the credit to Lydia, who was fun and enticing, who deserved to be loved and wasn’t afraid of her fantasies – in Larissa's head Lydia was everything that she wasn’t. In Larissa's head her real self was the one who was only rejected and forgotten, whose beauty wilted years ago and whose charm was only suitable for overpowering her business associates. She didn’t even give herself a chance to be proven otherwise.

The darkness finally settled around Nevermore, cold air whistling through the windows all over the dim empty halls of the school. Students were back to their dorms and Larissa observed the empty yard, tense and restless. She tried to breathe deeply – it didn’t help. Just as she’d expected, you sent her a picture a couple of hours after the meeting. You were laying on your side in pretty light pink lingerie, inviting and painfully lovely, what can i do for you tonight, mistress?

Normally, Larissa would open the messenger and tell you all the things she wanted to do with you. She would order you to be a good girl for her and send her a video of you touching yourself – making it all nice and pretty, exposing your flushed skin and releasing heavenly sounds. She would bring herself to the edge, groaning under her breath and revelling in the power she had over you. Then, she would praise you and tease you further, just to bring you the lightest mood for the night. Maybe she would even send you a picture in return, but it was a rare occasion, when Larissa was too tipsy to overthink it. This time she couldn’t do anything. She didn’t open the messenger – she looked through the notification from her lock screen – she didn’t tell you how much she wanted to see you pleasuring yourself for her. She chose to ignore you. And it made her feel absolutely horrible for the rest of the night. There were dozens of unanswered emails on her work laptop, and after it became unbearable to be alone with her feelings, she busied herself with answering them in a rather harsh tone, venting her spleen at whoever needed something from her. Her head ached. Her heart squeezed inside her chest. She was angry at herself, fearful and bursting with guilt from knowing that her little game had to come to an end and there was no place for Lydia anymore. From knowing that it was going to hurt you.

A few hours later she received a new message from you, are you still at work?

She could sense your worried tone through her screen. It wasn’t usual for Larissa to leave your messages unanswered until morning. Only once, when she was in hospital, was it taking her too long to reply. She was physically unable to respond to your messages, though she explained it to you in advance, saying that she got terribly ill, but her recovery went smoothly. It left no room for unneeded concern on your part, you just hoped that Lydia would be fine.

This time, however, there was no adequate explanation. Larissa still didn’t answer. She tried to go to sleep at her usual time but ended up staring in the darkness, guilty, awfully guilty. If her exhaustion hadn’t finally forced her to fall asleep, she would have seen your message in the dead of night, lydia, is everything alright? – you couldn’t sleep again, but this time Larissa was the one to blame.

She saw your message in the morning but didn’t reply. Her heart was heavy the whole day, and she drowned out the pain with more work; insufferable meetings, Wednesday’s outbursts and ignorant parents. Larissa would never say that she hated her job no matter how difficult it was – she didn’t tire easily, but her soul was worn out. That was why she never let herself be swallowed by feelings that were even remotely close to those of romantic love and affection before. That was why making an exception for you was a terrible mistake. She received a few more messages from you during the day and hid her phone in the desk drawer to avoid seeing them. Larissa had always known that sooner or later Lydia would have to part ways with you – she couldn’t keep you in the dark forever. It was a necessary sacrifice for her own peace of mind, and the two of you got business to do, after all.

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

💌: @scream-queenlover @kimiinou @gwendolinechristieiscute @weemssapphic @imprincipalweemspet @gwenslucifer @im-a-carnivorous-plant @evanivox @ctrlamira

(tell me if you want to be added to the taglist <3)

#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems #principal larissa weems #gwendoline christie

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davosmymaster · 2 years

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Triggers

A/N - This should also be warning: this fic is purely self-indulgent. I’ve written some of my own personal experiences in it as both a plus-size person and what people call “a late bloomer”. I try to give as little (and general) physical descriptions as I can for the reader, so you can read it however you like and this is not specifically a plus size!reader or anything. I think many people will identify with the reader in this, but if you think it can bother you please do not read. There are no talks of body image or eating (as you can check in the warnings). I had to give names to some original characters, though, because I don’t personally like the (yourfriend’sname) thingy.

Basically, I just had this idea and had to write it. Here it is. Hope you enjoy. (If you see a typo or something doesn’t make sense, remember English is not my first language no you didn’t)

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, oral sex, p in v, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, safewords (mentioned), dom/sub dynamics (kind of), spit kink, cunnilingus, light bdsm (i think), hurt/comfort, bullying (mentioned), fighting with friends.

PAIRINGS - Jake Lockley x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 6.4k

SUMMARY - At the wedding of one of your high school best friends, you're asked about your singleness. You snap back, revealing some painful truths. Six months later, Jake Lockley disagrees with every word you said, and makes a personal commitment to let you know how wrong you are, every day, for as long as he breathes.

TRIGGERS

One of your friends is getting married.

You're happy for them, really, you are. They are a lovely couple. She's very much in love with him, and it's obvious by the way that he's looking at her when he says "I do" that he loves her just as much. They've been dating for five years now, and engaged for two of them.

So why do you feel that constant ache in your chest?

Your invitation said to bring a plus one, but you don't have a partner and all your closest friends, both men and women, were already invited to the wedding. They have all brought a companion, either their significant other —most of them— or someone they are already dating but not quite. You can't help but frown at that last group, you are not sure you could cope with the instability of not knowing if you can make plans for the future with the person you love in case they decide to leave you tomorrow. No strings attached because, hey, you two were nothing.

But you're no one to judge, not like you're doing it either way. And even if you did, they'd probably laugh it off because you've never dated anyone, and it'd be just a further embarrassment for your persona.

In the end, you're the only one who's actually single at the celebration. You had hoped the groom brought some single friends of his. Not like you wanted to flirt with them, it was more a matter of not feeling like a weirdo; but the closest to being single you can find there is a man in his late twenties who's already filling up divorce papers, according to your friends. And that fact only makes you feel worse about yourself. He didn't come alone either, after all.

There's one friend of yours, her name is Ava. She broke up with her boyfriend of four years like two months ago; so you sort of expected her to be in your very same situation. It wasn't a clean breakup. But she also came with someone and your eyebrows shoot up to the sky when you see her new girlfriend.

"Who is that?" you ask another of your high school friends.

"I think her name is Lottie," Olivia replies. "They're not official yet, though. But they've been seeing each other and she looks quite happy."

You hum in response, wondering how on Earth people move on so quickly; especially after a four-year hiatus from the dating world.

"I'm going to the bathroom," she announces, gently stroking her fiancé's arm before leaving the table. Her high heels dig circles on the green grass as she walks. The sun is unusually bright for a spring day in Surrey, and you hope your foundation doesn't melt before the pictures are taken. "Wanna come?" she asks.

You nod and follow her inside.

The first thing she does once she gets in is checking no one's inside. You had already thought that maybe she wanted to talk somewhere private. After all, you've known her for many years now and she's one of your best friends. You lock the door.

"I just think it's impressive how quickly she moved on, to be honest," you say, because you can sense that's exactly what she intended to talk about. "Of course, I'm happy for her-"

"What else did you expect her to do? Cry for two months?" she chuckles, although her tone is not necessarily friendly. She checks her makeup in the mirror and reapplies some of it. Yours is intact, and thank lord it is because you didn't even bring a lipstick. "You know, people don't usually waste time."

You look at yourself in the mirror, wondering for a second if you heard correctly.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

She sighs audibly and puts her lipstick in her purse. Now she takes some compact powder and gently presses it into her skin. You might ask for it later. Not if the conversation goes in the direction you think it's going.

"I'm just saying that, well- it's time to start your dating life, don't you think?" she says. "I mean, I don't want to be rude, and we've talked about this before. But we're not teenagers anymore, and you've never had half the experiences most of us had in our teenage years."

Her words throw you off balance. She's maybe partially right, and she's touching on a subject that you're too sensitive about. She did say she didn't want to be rude, though. And she's been your friend for a while now, so you don't want to get upset right away.

"I've had no luck," you say, leaning back on the sink and crossing your arms, not without making sure it is dry first.

"See, that's where you're wrong," she says, pointing at you with an accusatory finger. "You're waiting for your knight in shining armour, just waiting. You don't flirt with guys, don't go to pubs-"

"I do go to pubs, sometimes."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Once in a blue moon," she says, and you shrug your shoulders. It's not like you're the kind of person to go to pubs every weekend, but you wouldn't say you go 'once in a blue moon', you just have other hobbies than spending every single Saturday and Sunday of your life being hangover, but you do like partying. Plus, it's not like the guys who go there are waiting to put a ring on your finger. "What I'm saying is- you can't expect Mr Right to just appear out of nowhere, and obviously you can't have extremely high standards-"

"So I should settle with the first person that comes my way. Is that what you're saying?"

She chuckles under her breath, obviously annoyed.

"I'm not saying that, but maybe you should not tell them to fuck off when said guy tries to hang out with you."

You know exactly what she's talking about, and your blood boils. Not long ago she gave your number to one of her fiancè's friends. So it did take you by surprise when this man you didn't know sent you a text. He was nice at the beginning, which was the first two days that he texted you non-stop. He got upset for late-replying even when you told him you were busy, working, which was not a lie. Then he texted you at midnight, asking if you wanted to attend some party, and when you refused because of how late it was, he said.

"What are you? Cinderella? You have to be home at twelve?"

He obviously just wanted you for one thing. There's no decent man who asks for a first date at midnight, and even if you wanted to keep it casual, you wouldn't have accepted just because of the way he spoke to you.

"Did you even listen when I told you what he did?" you ask her.

"Yes, and I don't see why you didn't go, honestly," she answers. "You could have had a good time, danced a bit and talked to him. Get to know each other."

"At midnight, half-drunk."

"Yes," she almost shouts. "He could've had different intentions, but you'll never know- No, let me talk," she says, once you try to interrupt. So you reluctantly let her speak. "You can't reject everyone from the start, because no one is up to your standards, and then cry because you've never had a relationship before. Even in high school we were all flirting with guys while you stayed in the corner. Don't you think it's time to grow up?"

By the time she's done, your jaw is hanging from your face. Half of you expected something along the lines of what she just said, but you didn't think Olivia could be that cruel; especially when she knows how much it hurts you to talk about this.

"Are you done?"

"I guess," she responds, putting away all her makeup.

You bite your lower lip first, trying to regain your breath as you find yourself suddenly running out of air.

"You've never thought for a single second that all the people you guys flirted with in high school, were the same people who bullied me?"

She snorts, annoyed, and whispers. "Oh, you're gonna start with that."

"Yes, I am, actually," you respond. Your teeth are so clenched that your jaw is starting to hurt. "Because while you were out there succeeding with your love life, having any guy you wanted, Ava's first boyfriend was rating me minus five in the rank of the prettiest girls at school.

"I was always the fat friend, or the flat one. Sometimes both. Guys, even now, only get my number to ask me for your number. And in the rare occasions when guys don't completely ignore my presence while talking to you, or Ava, or any of the rest, I find out that they were only hitting on me because they thought I was the best they could hope for. And I used to fall for that, but not anymore. I've never been called pretty, or any other nice words. No one has ever bought me a shot. So stop, stop talking as if finding a semi-decent human being is just so fucking easy."

Olivia just holds your gaze, but you can tell she doesn't believe one word of what you're saying.

"That's your problem," she says. "You always victimize yourself, so much. And that's just bullshit. Worst of all is you believe you're doing the right thing. I really do feel for you."

That's enough to plant a seed of doubt in your mind. But that happens later, once you're alone in your flat, back in London. At that exact moment, you don't think of anything as you just stand there, tears pricking in your eyes as she takes her purse, unlocks the door and leaves you there, completely alone.

Luckily —or not— it's not the first time you've had this conversation with one of your friends, so you already know she's the one who's wrong. And there's nothing you need to change about yourself or the way you act. And thank God you don't, because barely two weeks later, you meet Jake Lockley for the first time. And it doesn’t take you long to meet his alters, either, and fall for every single one of them, the same way they do for you.

Needless to say, you don't talk to your friend anymore. Not at the wedding, and certainly not after.

Six months later

You're bent over the kitchen table. Air has been knocked out of your lungs with the impact, and you're unable to regain it back as an open palm between your shoulder blades keeps you firmly pressed against the wooden board. You gasp like a fish out of water, and thank whatever gods out there that the man above you seems not to be too concerned about how ridiculous you look in that position.

As a rule of thumb, your boyfriend Jake hates quickies. If someone were to ask him on the street what bothers him the most in this world, you're ninety-nine per cent sure he would respond 'quickies', with the most straight face anyone has ever seen on this earth. Not the London traffic, not even how hard it is to find a parking spot for his thirty feet long limousine in the city. No, what bothers him most is not having enough time to fuck you; and the worst of all is that he doesn't mince words. If someone asked him, that's his honest answer.

That's one of the things that you both fear the most and find the most admirable about Jake Lockley. He has no shame, not one single drop of it in his whole body. He does not care a single fuck what anyone has to say about him. And you'd be lying if you said you didn't envy him for that.

"Uhm..." he lets out a low groan from the depths of his chest.

His other hand, the one that is not holding you in place, travels down your right leg. The pads of his fingers brush your skin gently, an almost ghostly touch as he makes his way back from the back of your knee, up to your thigh until he reaches the tender skin of your glute. All the muscles of your body tighten as you wait for a spank that never comes. Instead, Jake chuckles behind you. He relieves the pressure on your back as he uses both his hands to lift your dress, the fabric now all rolled up around your hips.

"Oh, look at you," you hear him say.

Not a single second later you feel the denim of his jeans over your cotton panties, his erection impossibly hard behind it, and you can't help but bite your lip and moan as he grinds himself against you. The pleasure blooming down there forces you to press your hips against him too, and you soon find yourself on your tiptoes.

"Jake..." you groan. "We don't have much time, hun."

He lets out an annoyed grunt.

"Joder... (Fuck...)" he mumbles in Spanish. "I hate quickies."

"It's the third time you say that today."

He really does hate them. He doesn't see the point of fucking if by the time he's done you're not absolutely destroyed under him. He's that type of man; all or nothing is his motto. He doesn't know how to keep it easy. He likes the sight of round fat tears clinging to your wet lashes, even the salty flavour of them on his tongue when he kisses you. He loves to edge you, overstimulate you to the point of exhaustion and rage, until all you can see is red and he has to make you cum before you gather any strength and use it to kick him in the balls for not letting you cum sooner.

Sometimes it's the opposite, he works your body up, plays it like an instrument that he's proficient in, dragging so many orgasms out of you that you have to beg him to stop.

And then he laughs.

But he cannot do all of that now. In fact, sex wasn't even in the cards for today, having in mind that you had stayed the night before in his flat and you were still sore from that session. The trails of yellow and purple hickeys on your inner thighs are the only proof of his merciless, sinful actions.

All of that was true until he saw you all dressed up, ready to leave the flat to attend a theatre play that starts in forty-five minutes. At first, it had been even fun to watch how Jake's jaw dropped to the floor, how he kept looking and looming over you time and time again, his eyes slipping up and down your figure, taking in the black dress you were wearing. He had the look of a hungry hawk when he approached you, and you immediately knew what was about to happen.

The left side of your brain told you not to let him, that you'd be late for the play. But then he leant in to kiss you, mouth open and his heavy tongue against your own, and there was no amount of willpower that could have prevented the scene that was about to unfold.

Behind you, Jake kneels on the floor. He catches the hem of your panties between his teeth as he goes down. You only know it because you can feel his ragged, hot breath against your skin as he bites the fabric. Once it passes your hips, he lets them fall to the ground. Then he bites your cheek.

It doesn't hurt, but a little cry comes out of your throat nonetheless, and without even taking a glimpse of his face you can tell that he's amused; the biggest wicked grin on his face. People hardly ever see Jake smiling, but that's only because none of them have seen him during sex.

"Jake," your angry tone does not go unnoticed, and you're now supporting your weight on your elbows. "We paid a lot for those tickets, I refuse to be late."

He groans.

"Isn't there another show later?" he asks, but that doesn't stop him from massaging your glutes, his thumbs on both sides of your groin as he pulls the skin of your inner thighs aside to have a better look at your glistening folds. "...for god's sake."

You don't know if that last sentence is directed at you, or not.

Before you can ask he's licking your entrance, giving enthusiastic laps at your folds as he buries his face in your most intimate parts. His actions leave you breathless, fists tightly closed over the table as you hide your face between them, nails digging into the tender flesh of your palms. Your forehead rests against the wooden board, and you feel how you start to break a sweat. Desire and wet heat start to pool at your lower abdomen.

"I asked you a question," he says then, finally giving you a second to rest. But he's not a patient man, nor does he enjoy being interrupted while he's having a meal, so he continues licking long stripes along your inner thighs, delineating the yellow and purple bruises —the hickeys— he marked you with yesterday night. You know he's extremely proud of his work of art, because he stops and kisses every single one of them.

"No," you lie, because you know that he will have you there all night if you let him, if you give up on his desire of turning this quickie into something more. Although it doesn't look much like a quickie, to be honest. "There's no other showing, so please, Jake. Just fuck me."

"Shut up," he says, his heavy palm smacking your thigh and you can't help but jump. "You have such a big mouth. I'm trying to get you ready, you ungrateful brat."

And that's exactly what he does. He separates your lips with his thumbs and sticks his tongue in. You moan, louder this time, feeling the soft edges of his tongue inside of you, and you don't even try to contain any other sound that comes out of your mouth. His tongue gets in every few seconds, licking and lubricating everything in its path. Then licking long stripes, his tongue flat against your clit and rapidly moving to your entrance. Every part of you is now trembling, the shiver that takes hold of your body following his actions is violent, leaving you gasping for air as if you were dying.

If you needed any preparation —which, with all honesty, you probably did— that is not the case anymore. A mix of his saliva and your own juices is pouring down your thighs, so if you're not ready now, you doubt you will ever be.

"That's my girl," he says, his accent half-hidden half there. He checks his work with the pad of his fingers, barely touching you but enough to make you whine, desperately asking for something to fill you up because you're just so empty. And you need him to soothe that feeling. "Look at you, all nice and ready for my cock."

Despite that, he licks you one last time.

"Fuck-" you cry out loud at the contact. Annoyance is building up in your chest despite his praise. "I swear if I miss one single scene for your horniness-"

He spanks you then, at last. It's no surprise that he does. After all, it took him long enough with how mouthy you're being with him, but it still catches you off guard. His heavy hand hits your ass without a single warning, and you scream at the contact. This time it does hurt, but it soon fades into pleasure all over your body like a sweet aftertaste to a bitter treat.

Jake finally takes action. His hands curl around both your wrists and he spreads your arms on the table, so you have no support anymore. Next, he presses the back of your neck against the board, and it turns you on so much, being squeezed below him with such force, that you are gasping again, silently pleading for his cock.

"I should've shoved myself in that pretty throat of yours," he said. "Maybe then you'd be fucking quiet, for once."

And you say nothing back, because you know he's perfectly capable of keeping his word: cum in your throat, then leaving the rest of you untouched as a punishment. And you don't think you'd be able to handle that, go through almost three hours without any kind of relief until you get home.

"Nothing to say now, uh?"

With otherworldly swiftness, he sheds his jeans. You hear the loud click, the indistinct sound his belt makes when he unbuckles it and gets rid of it. Then the sound of the zipper, loud and clear: it's a warning. And now you know that he's holding it, heavy inside his fist while he strokes himself; precum coating the tip. When you try to look back to have a look, the hand that is still holding your neck tightens on your pressure points and you feel like a deer with its neck between the lion's teeth. All you can focus on is your own wetness. Your hips go backwards in search of friction.

"So fucking needy," he hisses. "Don't worry princesa. I'm going to give you exactly what you need."

You feel his hand on the back of your knee, but this time he grabs it and scoops you up on the table. With the new position, you're wide open under him. So much so that a blush settles over your cheeks as you feel the cool air on your wet flesh.

Still, you're not given much time to think.

He hits your clit with his cock, twice; before entering you with a deep thrust until he bottoms out. His hips are pressed against your butt. Your fingers close around the edge of the table, holding on for dear life. Your nails dig on the wood until you feel splinters falling off.

He groans.

"So tight. Always so fucking tight."

While you try to adjust to the burning, pleasing sensation that has your brain melting; Jake's fingers find the zip of your dress. He unzips it, slowly, revealing the naked skin of your back and no bra in sight. The hand on your nape travels down your back, caressing all skin he can reach, until he touches the skin over your ribs, making you shiver, just to shove his hand under you and catch one of your nipples. He pinches it, hard, until you finally scream. Half pleasure, half pain.

"Such a beautiful sound," he says. "Let's hear it again, shall we?"

He rolls his hips back, mercilessly thrusting into you with such force that the table moves an inch forward. He keeps your leg on the table, your knee flexed over it. His hand falls on your ass for the second time, a bright red handprint now adorning it. He grabs your flesh, massaging it so he can have a better look at where you two are joined. That’s what it takes him to gasp.

"Joder.”

"Jake..." you moan.

It's like he lost his mind. He starts with a rapid pace, relentless, not even giving you time to build it up as you go. He's holding your hips and not even minding that the screws of the table are doing the weirdest of sounds. He must not even care if he breaks it. He bottoms out with each thrust, every freaking time.

You've always known that he becomes feral when you moan his name, but it's not like you do it on purpose. You just love the sound of it leaving your mouth, his warmth against you, his perfectly sculpted body, his chest against your back as he leans in to whisper something in your ear.

"Tell me how it feels."

Your eyes are squeezed shut, trying to take him as best you can. He slows down, not much, but enough to at least let you breathe, even though he is now squeezed against you. His teeth nibble on your earlobe.

"Tell me," he encourages you. His fingers brush both your arms lovingly. "Be a good fucking girl and talk to me."

Another thrust.

"J-Jake..." you breathe out. Another. "Good. Baby, it feels so fucking good."

"Tell me how much you love my cock"

You notice that he's trying to guide the conversation, tell you exactly what he wants to hear because you're too cockdumb for dirty talk.

"I love your cock so much," you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. "So much... so much..."

He stops thrusting for a second but doesn't pull out. Quite the opposite, he is as deep in you as it is humanly possible. He chuckles under his breath, leaves a kiss on your spine and you feel him smile against your flesh.

"My princess cannot even talk, uh?" he says. "Don't worry baby, I got you."

He takes a handful of your hair in his fist. He pulls your head back, the action earning a loud cry that is soon muffled by a kiss. His other hand rests on your collarbone, making its way up until the pads of his fingers rest over your pulse points. You know he can feel your quick heartbeat under his fingertips.

His mouth leaves yours, and you're instantly complaining with a whine. Even if he's just one inch away from your lips.

"Open," he whispers, still holding your neck. You obey, parting your lips, and Jake spits in your mouth. The pleasure makes you clench around him. "Swallow," you follow his orders, and he squeezes your neck so he can feel the muscles moving under his touch. "That's my good girl."

There's a stupid grin on your face when he says it, warmth in your chest when he pecks your lips as a reward. It's almost impossible to believe how your body can have physical reactions to his words, even without one touch of his. It's ridiculous how much you love to please him. That's usually how the sex with Jake works: he gives you orders, you obey, he calls you his good girl.

You love it.

He pulls your head back into the table, returning to the same pace he started with. His cock fills you up to the brim, as if you were the finest glass of wine. You're not even sure you have enough air in your lungs. But you're not scared by that, Jake is so aware of every single sound and movement you make, that if he thinks you need a break, he will give it to you, exactly as he just did a second ago.

Then, through the maddening cloud of pleasure that has settled in your brain, you hear it. You hear it coming from him.

"You're so pretty," he says. You instantly feel the lump in your throat. "You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

It's not the first time he says it, of course not. He even said it the first time you met him, even if you didn't believe him at the time. The thing is he has said it before, so you don't understand how you simply shut down like a toy that has run out of batteries, how your body goes limp.

You don't want to ruin the moment, even if it feels like you're going through an emotional storm all of a sudden. All the memories fill your mind like an avalanche, including every single word at that wedding not long ago.

That's how you decide that maybe, if you close your eyes, you'll be able to retain the tears long enough for them to fade. So you do, while Jake keeps thrusting into your senseless body. His hand on your hair weakens, but he doesn't seem to notice, and you thank that the position doesn't allow much eye contact.

But then he says it again.

"So pretty right now," he says. "Dios (God)," he growls. "I can't believe I got you."

The lump in your throat doesn't let you breathe, and that's when you burst into tears. You cry, because you never once thought in your life that you’d have someone like him in your life, let alone telling you how pretty you are. You sob and feel so immature right then and there, like a child crying for the silliest reason you could think of. In a desperate attempt at concealing your view from him, you bring one of your hands, the one that is closest, to your face, while the other falls by the edge of the table.

Jake stops immediately.

"Baby?" he asks, his voice low and full of concern. "Baby, baby, hey..." his hand barely touches your shoulder, trying to get your attention, but all he feels is the trembling of your body as you cry. He pulls out slowly. "Did I hurt you? Shit, did I hurt you?" his voice turns angry, angry at himself, but he keeps the composure for you. "You should've said the safeword, baby. Please, you have to tell me..."

By the tone of his voice, the way it breaks on the last word, you know he's barely hanging out of a thread. He caresses the skin of your shoulders. One of his hands tries to uncover your face as you sob. You struggle against him, but he's stronger and once your hand is out of your face, he holds it down, his fingers intertwining with yours.

"Babe..." he whispers. "Tell me where it hurts. If it's that bad we can go to the hospital, you don't have to be embarrassed..." he says. "I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've noticed," then you hear him whisper to himself. "Soy un maldito imbécil. (I'm a fucking asshole.)"

He leans to kiss your shoulder, then he rests his forehead against your warm skin.

"It's not that," you respond. Your voice is barely a whisper. Tears are still pricking your eyes, some of them still falling down your face. "I'm not hurt."

That catches his attention. Jake brushes the baby hairs out of your face and now you can see him. Tears are about to spill from his eyes, but he doesn't let them. He's frowning, confused, and his calloused hand rests on your hair.

"You are not?"

"I'm sorry I scared you."

"Oh, nena, (Oh, baby girl)" he says, and leans again to kiss your temple. "Don't say that, don't apologize. Just tell me what's wrong."

Despite all his attentions and not wanting to keep him worried about you, you hesitate as you look into his deep brown orbs. It's not that you don't want to explain it to him, but you don't know where to start. Where does one start to explain something that has always been present in your life? It's as if someone asked you how you learned to breathe. Well, it was just there.

Jake patiently waits, until your eyes focus on him and he knows you're not thinking about the matter any longer. The more you think about it, the way you've been treated, all the situations and how worthless they made you feel; the more your eyes fill with unspilled tears.

"Stay here, okay?"

You didn't notice he was caressing your back until his touch vanished. Once he's gone, your mind starts to race, to call you names and think way too much about how annoyed Jake must feel for your sudden outburst of emotions. You bring your hands to your face, suddenly overwhelmed by the mess you've made.

You stand on the floor, and it's not until then that you feel the pain in your hips, exactly where they hit the table with each of Jake's thrusts. The soreness is so familiar that you can already see the bruises that will mark your skin tomorrow.

"I'm such a fucking idiot," you press your palms against your face, angry that you couldn't just keep yourself quiet.

Jake comes back from the bathroom with a wet cloth and he doesn't say a word before kneeling right in front of you. You spread your legs to give him access, wondering what you did to deserve such a kind man.

He cleans you up. The cloth is drenched in warm water. He cleans you thoroughly, with a care and gentleness you rarely see in his actions. You hold the skirt of your dress up to let him work, and he looks up at you just once, his eyes as big as a puppy's, just before he leans down and kisses one of the hickeys on your thighs. Once he's done, he takes your panties and pulls them up your legs, as if he had never touched you.

"Thank you," you whisper once he's standing back on his feet.

Jake shakes his head and brings you closer. He hugs you, your chin resting on his collarbone as he pulls your hair over your shoulder so he can zip the dress up.

"All ready," he says, still holding you. His hand rests on the back of your head. "Come on."

He takes you to the couch, where he sits first just to drag your body over his lap. Once you're sat, he surrounds your back with his arm as you hug him. Your forehead resting against his. Jake closes his eyes and breathes in your essence.

At first, you don't know where to start, and the first few sentences don't feel quite right either. However, he doesn't flinch, so you keep going and all of sudden you can't stop. You start with the wedding, telling him about your group of friends even though he has already met some of them. You explain the whole situation as you look for a reaction on his face. Annoyance, probably, because you didn't let him finish for something that happened right before you met him; or disappointment; because he expected something much more serious than something along the lines of 'I was never told what you just said to me'.

Then you explain the situations you saw yourself in. You tell him about the pain and the hurt hoping he understands, about the disrespect too. You tell him about all the times you were straight-up ignored, about the guys that only approached you to keep you busy while their friends flirted with your friend and they wouldn't even talk to you. You talk about being called a prude, people insulting your appearance and your hobbies, calling you weird. You tell him about that constant feeling you had, not feeling enough or loveable, just a laughing stock for both strangers and every single one of your friends. Maybe the very last option on someone's table, in the best of cases.

That's when he shakes his head.

"Half the time I feel so lucky to have you," you say, tears still staining your face. "That I wonder if you're real. When you kiss me, I remember how I used to think I'd never be able to show my love to anyone."

"Oh, nena," he whispers. You can see the pained expression on his face. "I'm so sorry all of that happened to you." you can see the struggle in his eyes. He's looking for the right words to comfort you. He’s never been good with words. "But I'm here now. And I assure you, I'm gonna give you all you deserve, and all the experiences you never had. All of them are wrong, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. It's their fucking problem if they cannot see that."

He holds you close, speaks over your hair.

"You're wrong, you're not unloveable. And you will never be alone again," he says. "I'm gonna tell you how pretty you are until the day I kick the bucket, I swear to God."

"Jake," you pull away slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. "Don't say that."

"But I mean it," he insists. Then, he squints. "I'd like to see any of those fuckers that mistreated you and..."

"Oh, stop," you chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah, I stop, but you tell me if by any chance we run into any of them..."

"So you can choke them to death? Yeah, maybe I will," you respond, and his shoulders relax, glad about your answer. "Not sure if I should be concerned about how serious you are right now."

Jake chuckles, and you end up laughing too. His eyes sparkle when he looks at you, and he keeps stroking your hair and tucking it behind your ear.

"Te quiero, preciosa (I love you, gorgeous)," he says. And even though your Spanish is very limited, you understand those words, because he has said them plenty of times before. "Come here."

Gently taking your chin, he guides you to his mouth. He pecks your lips at first, right before his other hand falls on the back of your head and pushes you against him. His lips part, his tongue gently licks your own. He makes you moan. His forehead rests against your collarbone when he's done. He breathes in through the nose, as if he could swallow you whole just by inhaling you.

"So... are you not angry at me?" you ask.

"Why would I be?"

"Because I ruined our moment."

"No, you didn't," he says. He kisses your shoulder. "We needed to talk about this, we already did. We fuck all the time, we can finish that up later," he said. "My moments with you are always special, whether we are just talking, not doing anything at all, or fucking like rabbits."

You chuckle again.

"My God Jake, your mouth."

"What about it?" he laughs.

You shake your head and hide your face on his neck. A blush has settled on your features and you're not ready for Jake to tease you about it.

"I love you too, by the way," you tell him. "I love you so much."

He lets out a content sigh, his body sinking into the couch as he lets his head fall on the backrest.

"My pretty girl," his fingers are doing circles on your back. His scent is intoxicating. Your eyelids are starting to drop. "You're safe here. No one can hurt you now."

His own eyes fall shut as he starts drifting off too.

Tags: @later-gators12 @bensolosbluesaber @winter-captain-01 @dark-haired-and-mentally-ill @mirrorballgarden @zem0laufeys0n @murdickdocked @loki-hargreeves

Want to be tagged?

#jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x fem!reader #jake lockley smut #jake lockley #jake lockley x y/n #jake lockley x you #moon knight x reader #oscar isaac x reader #moon knight #steven grant #marc spector #steven grant x you #steven grant x fem!reader #marc spector x you #marc spector x reader

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thefanficmonster · 2 months

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hiii can i rq a dylan stevens x soft! fem reader??? like he’s with steve, sam and colby and his gf wanted to tag along but she gets scared super easily

Hi dear! Thank you so much for this request! I have such a soft spot (and crush) for Steve and Dylan and I was so upset to see no fanfics for them. So I decided to take things into my own hands 😂 Hope you enjoy the fic, darling 💌

Not for the faint of heart

Pairing: Dylan Stevens x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Paranormal Investigations, Swearing

Genre: FLUFF, Comfort, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: see request above

Shaky hands cling onto the sleeve of Dylan's hoodie as the group makes their way through the halls of the abandoned and supposedly haunted hospital. The vibe has been eerie the whole night with bangs, cracks and even footsteps echoing off the walls all too frequently for your comfort.

You're not the biggest fan of the paranormal but, on the other hand, you are the biggest fan of your boyfriend who's made one of your biggest fears his job. Therefore, you've been finding yourself in these creepy places all too often as of recent. It doesn't help that Steve, who's decidedly become an older brother to you since you and Dylan started dating, loves messing with you and scaring you.

Tonight is no different.

A tickle to your side causes you to squeal and jump, seeking comfort by nuzzling further into Dylan's side. Looking over your shoulder, you're both relieved and annoyed to see a grinning Steve.

"You jerk!" You lightly smack his shoulder, making him and the guys laugh, "You almost gave a heart attack!"

An arm wraps around your shoulders, halting your rather ineffective offense attempt. "Alright, alright that's enough, you two. Well, mostly you." Dylan gives Steve an annoyed scolding look, "Quit messing with my girlfriend."

Raising his hands in surrender, Steve lightheartedly apologizes but you meet his words with the most distrustful, narrow-eyed glare which, again, elicits a laugh from him.

Dylan can't help but smile widely at the ridiculous scene in front of him. He remembers how nervous you were to meet his best friend, a thousand thoughts and insecurities running through your head, causing you massive anxiety. All such uncertainties were snuffed out the second you actually met Steve. You had only seen pictures of him up until that point and in each he looked so gloomy and serious. Very no-nonsense, very unlike Dylan or yourself. That's where your hesitation had sprouted from.

The second he'd climbed out of his car, a wide smile contradicted the image of him you had conjured in your head. Him and Dylan were the goofiest duo you'd ever seen and you were so easily sucked into their dynamic that now you've become a trio. Though not so much when it comes to the ghost hunting stuff.

The two sometimes manage to convince you to tag along but most of their attempts are ineffective. This time was the case of the former. Though, to be frank, Sam and Colby played a huge role in getting you to agree.

The five of you have now sat down in what the tour guide had informed you was a sort of makeshift ritual room. Not much gave away that fact if one could casually ignore the huge burn mark in the middle of the floor.

You, however, can't.

"It's said that you can still feel heat emanating from that spot right there." Sam explains to the camera, turning it to film the dark stain in question. "We'll have to check on our own though."

The first to step up to the occasion is Colby, crouching down next to the mark, being extra cautious not to step on it. "Sam, doesn't this remind you of something." He asks, looking up at his best friend whose face contorts from confusion into utter horror within a second.

"Oh my God, you're right! The Sallie house!" The blonde exclaims, his jaw hitting the floor, "Not again, dude!"

The name takes a moment to register in your brain but when you connect it to its respective Sam and Colby video - yes, the only reason you agreed to coming is because you're a huge fan - you too go wide-eyed.

"You wanna sit down in the middle of it again?" Dylan's question only worsens your terror. The fact that Sam doesn't say 'no' right away isn't helping either.

"Don't give him ideas!" You whisper-yell at your boyfriend who just sheepishly smiles at you.

"Don't worry, Y/N, I'm not doing that shit again. Well, unless money is involved, that is." He adds the last part as a joke but that still doesn't stop Steve and Dylan from reaching for their wallets. You quickly smack their hands, their laughter provoking your own.

"Yo! Come check this out! It's fucking crazy!" Colby's voice interrupts, causing you all to look over to him hovering his hand over the blackened concrete, "It feels like holding your hand up to an oven door."

Your friends, unlike you, show no sign of hesitation as they approach Colby, each sticking their hand out in search of proof that they're not being messed with. Seeing their faces morph into a look of absolute disbelief and astonishment, you realize that your fear isn't stronger than your need to confirm it for yourself.

Your friends have stepped a few feet away from the spot by now, allowing you to crouch down and see for yourself. And see, you do.

You snatch your hand back as soon as you'd extended it, quickly getting up to your feet. Your face mimics the other four reactions this bizarre phenomenon provoked from the other people in the room.

Suddenly, a gust of warm air tickling the back of your neck reminds you that you are indeed quite terrified. For just a second though, since you're quick to remind yourself of Steve's antics. You turn around to reprimand him for messing with you again just to realize him, along with Dylan, are a good ten feet away from you, helping Sam and Colby unpack their equipment.

Your rationality goes back to fear in an instant. Your blood runs cold and your eyes fill with tears. The only words that escape your lips are choked yet still somehow high-pitched, "Oh my God!"

Four heads snap in your direction. They drop what they're doing, seeing your distressed state. Dylan jogs over to you, his hands resting on your arms, "What's wrong? What happened?"

Instinctively, you reach up to the back of your neck, touching the goosebumps that have formed on your skin, "It felt like someone was breathing down my neck." You explain, moving your hair out of the way to show your boyfriend, "I-I thought it was Steve..."

"Hey!" The accused argues, now having approached you as well, eyes flooded with worry. "I swear it wasn't me."

You quickly shake your head, "I know! I'm fucking shaking." You mutter, biting your lip as you try controlling your racing heartbeat.

"Did you scratch yourself?" Colby asks, shining the camera light on your skin to make sure he's seeing correctly.

"No, why?" Your eyes blow wide open at the question but you try your best to keep your composure.

Colby's just about to reply, telling you about the red spot that's appeared on the back of your neck when Dylan catches his eye. With a sharp shake of the head he delivers his message loud and clear. "It's nothing, my bad. I was casting a shadow and it looked like a bruise." He says instead, the sigh he receives in response from you confirming that telling you would've been a bad idea.

You stay wrapped in Dylan's embrace while the guys set up their equipment for a session. One of his hands is rested on your back while the other has cupped the back of your head, keeping you to his chest as he whispers reassurances in your hair, periodically interrupting himself to kiss the top of your head.

"It's ok, babe. Nothing's gonna hurt you. Not on my watch." He says, making you giggle.

"What, you're gonna fistfight a ghost?" You ask, pulling away to be able to look him in the eyes.

His kind, adorable eyes you love so much. Especially the creases that appear at their corners when he smiles the way he is now, looking down at you.

"For you? Anytime. I'm military personnel, after all." He proclaims, resting his forehead against yours.

You can't help the blush that creeps onto your cheeks which threaten to start hurting from how widely you're smiling - a side effect of having the cutest goofball as a boyfriend.

"Dork." You chuckle, shaking your head before connecting your lips in a quick kiss.

The moment doesn't last long, curtesy of none other than...

"Get a room you two!"

...of course it's Steve.

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ofbreathandflame · 11 months

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im sorry im breaking my anti fast for this bc its literally the most idiotic thing i have ever seen.

"some people hate sjm for the racism in her books"

yeah NO SHIT.

that has always been the point.

thats literally the entire point of being anti sjm posts. thats literally all we talk about in the anti tags. but shortsightedness and an unhealthy relationship with these characters has always blinded y'all to that fact.

you see this is why i could not stomach conversations because you guys constantly make a mockery of the problems in sjm's work and only acknowledge the problems for a 'gotcha' moment. EVERY SINGLE TIME we have talked about how the racism in sjm's work affects the writing of her characters you guys have made it into an anti feysand problem, and by doing that you have willingly separated yourself from the problems in the story. the reality is that the racism affects the way these characters are written -- including your favs. do not dare twist the main message of antis to fit some twisted little point you want to make toward specific blogs. i have been on my last account for over two years and EVERY TIME i -- or any anti -- has talked about the way sjm's racism bleeds onto the text we have been undermine, ran off our blogs, sent hate mail. so yeah it pisses me off to no end to be sent the dumbest post in the anti tags to ever exist. yall do not care about her racism, her misogynoir. if you did, you wouldn't be calling people brain dead for daring to dislike your favorite ship for valid reason -- i.e. the racism. we talked about the complexities of how racist the portrayal of the illyrians were -- and we were dismissed as anti feysand and therefore 'braindead.' we talked about the way women of color and the allusions of FGM (female genital mutilation)-- and we were called anti feysands and then dismissed. stay out of the anti tags -- especially if you are the ones perpetuating these dynamics. i was ran off my blog for discussing these issues for two years. y'all sent hate mail, called me tamlin stan -- called others tamlin stans -- for even daring to discuss the racism in sjm works. that's not even touching the nehemia situation, or crescent city. fuck off the tags. you literally have a blog dedicated to this woman and her racist ass characters, you shoot down any criticism of them because of it, and then yall have the nerve to come into the tags for the some hehe hahah tamlin stan bs??? double fuck off. the anti sjm tag has always been a place for that criticism. always.

addition: and these problems are not just valid when discussing characters you don't like. the illyrians are written to brutes, with the bat boys operating as the 'model minority'. the story justifies the lack of infrastructure, and the misogyny (misogynoir depending on how you classify illyrian women), the lack of progress.

'its a culture problem'

'rhysand has tried, but they wont listen'

like do you know how crazy it is to write a group of people as permanently mentally stunted? to classify their women as nameless entities that our main character can shift in and out of to satisfy her supposed 'man of color' sexually? feyre cosplays as a woman of color for SEX, meanwhile in FIVE BOOKS we've met one named illyrian woman and shes described 'interesting,' but not as pretty as opposed to nesta and gwyn, mor, and feyre who are the prettiest people to walk the earth. that don't sound CRAZY to yall??? these people of color are left without leadership, without infrastructure, no access to a golden city, no access to their high lord, are forced to breed out warriors who live and die without ever getting to enjoy the city of velaris, the house of wind for survivors. all of that so that the maincharacters can live out that power fantasy. its racist. thats what it is. please think consider reading comprehension b4 yall make these gotcha posts because it really stinks of weirdness.

the illyrians are treated like rabid animals by their leaders, by everyone and then the responsibility is on them to somehow progress when everyone is unwilling to give them nothing more than scraps. like there's a real life counterpart to this, and yall arguments are very real and very damaging.

they are written by the author to be a permanent second class deserving of their position because they're minds somehow cannot comprehend any 'progression.' all of these characters including rhysand, feyre, mor, az, cassian, tamlin, nesta say racist things toward them because THE NARRATIVE thinks they're justified in saying them. like the moralizing is wild in this case bc all of them are allowed to get away with it. its not just tamlin or nesta, not just the valkyries (which is an ENTIRELY different scenario btw). like the idea that all of the bad can be ascribed to the 'bad' characters and the 'good' characters somehow don't feed into those racist tropes is WILD. rhysand literally told us -- the reader -- the in the war against slaves and their oppressors somehow it was an equal battle. like?????? somehow 'both sides were at fault' ignoring that one side WAS LITERALLY SLAVES. like can u imagine if someone looked at the Haitian revolution and was like....yeah the side of the oppressors was somehow on equal footing when the other side WAS ENSLAVED? how can u acknowledge this author is racist and then pretend that the racism only bleeds over to the characters you *shockingly* don't like?? yes -- there is a problem with feyre wearing illyrian wings BECAUSE SHES THE HIGH LADY. she made herself that title. of course that carries a different weight. the racism is ingrained in the text, not just some little trinket to flash when you want to moralize bullying a small group of people with strawman arguments.

#anti sjm #anon girl im BLEW FOR YOU #like imagine trying to chastise the community that was literally BUILT to critique the problems #and for what????#a gotcha to the tamlin stans that don't even exist???#yall are arguing with air #like i literally just had to delete my blog for this stuff and here yall are #in the tags kekeing like people havent been bullied for it #like yall are the champions for adversity \#when yall are the ones propagating the nonsense to begin #ew ew #bc then its 'how could you not like feysand'#idk BC OF THOSE PROBLEMS #like did you think the author's bias was NOT going to factor into the way the characters are written?#it became 'pro tamlin this' pro nesta that #like the illyrians are r*cist to the T #and that was ignored for the sake of feysand #yall are real irra #but at least i know that yall understand the problems in these stories #yall just dont care #anti feysand #when we talked about the feyre wing situation yall went out of your way to mock it

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sprout-fics · 4 months

Text

Hellebore

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Five of Snowblind

Rating: PG-13 Wordcount: 5.5k Tags: Slow Burn, Found Family, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics, Reunions, Fluff, Slow Build, Team Bonding, Jealous Ghost, Protective Ghost, Soft Ghost, Crushes Warnings: None A/N: (See Ao3 for full author's notes)

It’s a snowy Tuesday night in November when you come back to the team.

Ghost and the others arrive at the group’s usual haunt well before you do, and Price chuffs a little amused sound when he reads your message about being held up because of a baggage issue upon arrival. It’s not a worry. The team is in no rush. It just so happens that Laswell is chasing leads following the team’s most recent deployment, which means the task force has a rare week of tranquility between grueling deployments.

The pub is lively in the way only local places are- filled with familiar faces of neighbors and friends from the next town over. There’s no soldiers here besides themselves, and Ghost prefers it that way. Most of the younger gents from base tend to frequent the rowdier, louder bars- getting into brawls that spill out onto the streets and singing drunkenly along to the radio. The pub owner here refuses to entertain that type of behavior. Fortunately for the team, Price knows the fellow, and as a result the five of you are allowed an almost private sanctuary well away from the riotous demeanor of the younger recruits in their spare time.

It’s the perfect place to welcome you back into the fold.

It’s been three and a half long months.

Three and a half months of deployments, of irregular schedules, of sleeping in mice infested safe houses or camped out on desert bluffs. Evil never sleeps, Ghost had been told once when he was a younger man, and it meant neither did the 141. In the weeks they weren’t on mission, buried deep behind enemy lines or radio dark, the team had been training new troops to assist them on assignment. It had been a long, slow grind, one Ghost was accustomed too. Yet he, like the others, was grateful for a well deserved reprieve- even if it meant tackling the paperwork leftover from their time away from base.

He did notice, however, the silence in between him and the other three men on the team. Ghost often found himself checking his six, feeling the phantom absence of someone who was supposed to be in front of him. At least once a week he would step into a room with the others and pause, feeling the instinctual twinge of something missing- a presence that he’d never realized had ingrained itself into his awareness.

He noticed it in the way Soap seemed to come bother him more often these days, needing a listening ear, someone to impishly pester when Gaz tired of him. Ghost took note of the way Gaz hesitated on a fifth MRE pack when distributing food on mission. He saw it in the way Price turned just as he did, mouth halfway open to speak to someone who wasn’t there before remembering himself.

In the silence, the shadow of you lingered in them all.

Ghost remembered. He remembered from the first second he had last seen you- the way that your eyes had found his from your hospital bed as he’d lingered in the doorway. He remembered from the strangled call of his name he couldn’t answer, and the deafening boom of your voice as your chest emptied itself at Price, screaming for a recognition you would never give yourself. He remembered the uncomfortable squirming sensation in his stomach, like earthworms digging through graveyard dirt as he tried to absolve himself of the regret for letting you go without saying so much as a goodbye.

“There’s our lady of the hour!” Soap crows as you finally step inside from the winter chill, shrugging off a small smattering of flurries from your jacket. Ghost blinks under his mask as he takes you in, noticing instantly the way the coloring of your face has improved since your gaunt appearance trapped in his memory, the way you’ve added a little bit of weight that speaks of a good diet. Your hair is longer than he remembers, but as you turn your eyes to him he feels a recognition simmer to the surface.

It’s still you.

Simon is the last to rise with the others, hovering back as Soap and Gaz quickly embrace you, smothering you with their larger frames. You instantly return the gesture with a pleased laugh, eyes glimmering. Soap makes a point to squeeze you just a little too tight, and Simon feels an inward curl of amusement as you bat at the Scot’s back, wheezing for reprieve.

“You look good, Fix.” Price offers, quieter than the two sergeants, and something shines in your gaze as you turn towards the captain with a murmur of thanks. Simon observes the look in Price’s eyes as the captain smiles down at you. There’s trust there, in the same way he holds for the rest of his team. The ever-present sternness is gentled, somehow, eyes forever focused but gaze warm in a way that speaks of fondness.

Then you turn to Ghost.

“Fix.” He offers, and despite the curtness there’s a relief there that he allows to bleed through into his voice.

“Long time no see, LT.” You tell him, grinning ear to ear, and Ghost feels the remainder of...something tug distantly in his chest, long forgotten but not yet erased.

It’s gone before he can question it as Gaz tugs you over towards the group’s usual table and Price enlists Ghost’s help in ferrying a round of drinks back towards the booth. Soap distributes them easily, knowing each of the team’s preferences by heart. A whiskey neat for Price and Ghost each, a Guinness for him, a rum and coke for Gaz, and something suspiciously colorful and fruity for you. Ghost watches as Soap teases your choice of beverage, going so far as to taste it and make a face that has you shoving playfully at his shoulder.

“They didn’t push you out of the plane then.” Ghost offers when you turn to him expectantly, leg crossed and one arm slung around the corner of the booth comfortably.

Soaps rolls his eyes. “What Ghost means is that he’s happy to see you, hen.” The Scot supplies, and you only grin.

“You’re the one that oversaw my HALO training, Ghost. Pretty sure it was you that pushed me out of an airplane.”

Ghost shrugs. “You survived.”

You laugh, and once more that strange flickering feeling flutters in Ghost’s chest.

He studiously ignores it, instead opting to observe you as you turn to chatter to Price. There’s a weariness to your shoulders that speaks of jet-lag, and your clothes are slightly rumpled from being contained to your duffle for the long flight, but your smile is warm and your eyes are bright as you laugh at something Gaz says.

The conversation goes on, and Soap gets up for several long minutes, only to arrive back with several carefully balanced plates of snacks that are quickly set upon by the table. Ghost refrains, watching instead as you devour the food in front of you, adding something about how the military plane you were on didn’t have first class service.

“Getting spoiled back in the states, eh?” Soap nudges you.

You pause. Something flickers in your gaze. It’s gone before the others can notice, but Ghost pauses, mulling over the flash of whatever it was in his mind’s eye.

He’s seen that look before.

Ghost observes you idly as the rest of the team focuses on you, blinking slowly and letting his thoughts churn like the slow, amber haze of the whiskey in his tumbler. If you notice his unwavering stare you give no indication, and it allows Ghost to dip into the recesses of his mind, consider the woman before him now, trying to find the thread of memory that speaks of the something he saw for briefest of moments when you were confronted with the thought of home.

So, he starts from the beginning.

It had been two months before the Nepal mission, the one with the proximity of your freezing form forming a memory that itches under Ghost’s skin. He’d been surprised at first at Price’s introduction of you to the team, biting down on a comment of why Laswell would send a goddamn rookie out into the field alongside trained killers with years of experience. He’d withheld the comment, focusing instead on Price’s approval and Laswell’s recommendation, both of which lent weight to his respect for someone who he couldn’t help but think looked so young.

It’d been the eyes he noticed first.

Ghost knows the eyes of soldiers who have killed, and knows that something bright dies inside them at the act of taking a life. He’s spent enough years in the military to discern those who kill enemies, and those who kill for sport. Yet your eyes, facing forward, as if gazing expectantly into an unknown future, were somehow neither of those things. It was a strange paradox, one Ghost chalked immediately up to inexperience and naivety. He’d been half right of course, though neither of those things were any fault of your own. As a medic you’d seen less active combat than some of your comrades, but it didn’t extinguish the impressive set of skills that came with your file. A well- trained sniper, skilled in intelligence analysis, used to operating in areas of high conflict under less than ideal conditions. A note from Laswell stated you’d not only helped save the survivors of a suicide attack on Camp Lemonnier, but had been able to parse clues about the specifics of the attack in the process. Young, promising, with a very good career in the CIA ahead of you should you choose to pursue it.

Yet there was something about your eyes Ghost couldn’t shake in the weeks following meeting you. It wasn’t the lingering innocence there that would soon change, nor was it the focus and drive he had witnessed in your stare. Instead, Ghost wondered if, in your expectant and ready stare into the future, if you had ever dared to look behind you.

As if you couldn’t stand the thought of your own shadow.

Ghost couldn’t help but wonder what was hiding there, the things you refused to speak of.

He wondered, distantly, if they somehow mirrored his own.

Ghost had watched you adjust to your new surroundings with determination yet trepidation- straddling an aleatory balance between pure ambition and fatalistic doubt in your own abilities and self worth. Ghost watched you catalog your own mistakes, swallow down the acrid, bitter taste of failure and replace it with a resolve so deep it cracked at the marrow of your bones. You never complained, never tried to avoid the tasks before you, never expressed an inch of doubt in the team- only in yourself.

Ghost fully expected it to break you, the pressure of your own expectations on top of the crushing weight of responsibility that came with your new assignment to the 141. He’d watched you from afar with an admitted amount of disdain for the first few weeks you had settled in, waiting for the breakdown that would have you confess you weren’t cut out for this, that you were leaving. Yet you refused to speak of your doubts for a single moment, as if voicing your own fears was a failure in of itself. Instead you buried it deep inside, allowing the earth underneath your feet to drag you down with the force of gravity, swallowing you whole in hopes the blinding pressure would someday yield not broken bones, but diamond dust.

There was a small amount of sympathy Ghost held for you, reminded in some ways of the once wounded thing he was long ago, after the thing he’d long since tried to forget. Grave dirt filling his mouth and choking his airway, and the thing that had crawled out from hell had been broken just as well. Yet where you held sorrow, grief, for the secrets inside you, Simon held only fury for the things of which he was robbed.

Why you weren’t furious, blazing bright for all to see, remains a mystery in of itself.

Tightly coiled, shoulders tense, fists clenched at your sides as you’d raised yourself from the dirt of the sparring ring in the glorious temperance of mid September. Dirt under your fingernails, shoulders shaking, and in your eyes then too there had been grief. Ghost had put you on your back again and again on purpose, he’ll admit that. A test to see if you’d stay down after being tossed there one too many times by him- the man you looked towards in the thick of gunfire, of battle, as if he was somehow your northern star that you could align yourself with when you didn’t trust yourself.

Yet bruised, scuffed, you’d stood again with those same eyes. Looking forward instead of inward, a righteous fury tamed only by the reflexive disbelief in yourself.

He couldn’t stand it.

If you could see, if only you could see the things you were capable of, the things Ghost knew you could accomplish, then the shadow you refused to look at wouldn’t nip at your heels and send you hurtling into catastrophic, paralyzing doubt. Maybe you wouldn’t look to Ghost to find the way forward and instead trust yourself to forge ahead without the guidance of your team- emblazoning a trail ahead for them to follow.

If only you could see yourself in the way Ghost saw you.

Never your failures. Never anything else but you.

Just you.

Ghost had allowed you the victory of winning the match in hopes it would bolster your confidence, chip away at the thing inside you that festered doubt like a macabre bloom rotting inside the hollow of your chest. He’d hoped it would have been enough to allow you to see your worth for what it is.

For a while, it seemed it had. You trusted yourself more often, listened to your own intuition, didn’t hesitate as much in the field. Though you still looked to Ghost, your eyes had shifted from the gaze of someone who looked to the future in anticipation of the worst, and into that of a soldier learning to shape the future to your will. Ghost could see the way the team, who had long since adopted you as one of their own, watched your slow journey with pride, remaining by your side if you were to fall.

Would they, if only you would have allowed yourself to be caught.

Catch you he did, as he’d watched your legs crumple beneath your wounded figure, arms cradling you even as you protested his attention to the injury you’d tried to conceal. Biting down all complaints in your paralytic fear of failure, compressing down until you’d shaken and trembled in his arms- begging him to look away from the thing you saw yourself as.

“I didn’t want you to see.”

Him, who had been able to see you since the very beginning.

By all accounts, that should have been the end of it. Terminated from the task force due to pure negligence- an inoperable failure by the soldier designated as their medic. Price had been ready to do so, as he sat by your bedside in the hospital, eyes heavy as they rested on your comatose form.

“We can’t do this to her, Simon.” He’d murmured to his lieutenant, hovering near the door, arms crossed and observing the ashen pallor of your face with a bitter, sour sort of emotion he couldn’t quite place.

Simon listening silently, eyes focused entirely on you. Your shallow breathing had become ingrained in his memories twice now. The first in Venezuela, when a bullet had pierced you through and Simon himself had handed you to the medics with a small, scant prayer to a God he stopped believing in long ago.

Not this one. Not yet.

You’d fought then, pulled through despite the blood, the gore, the desperate lack of air your injury had rendered you. Constantly fighting despite your doubts, trying to claw your way out of a grave of your own design even as earth tumbled downwards onto your striving form.

“She’s doing it to herself.” Ghost told his friend and captain, and Price had looked at him for the first time, suddenly seeing the thing Ghost had witnessed all this time.

Right he had been, for as he stood outside the hospital room listening to Price’s conversation with you, the blazing fury Simon felt inside himself had spilled from your lips as well.

“I HAVE EVERYTHING TO PROVE!!”

Hiding behind the excuse of trying to appease them because you hated yourself, trying to prove your worth to the team even though you were just trying to find reasons to justify your own existence to your fractured soul.

There had been a moment after Soap and Gaz had arrived back to Price and Ghost, despondent and despairing at your rejection, where Ghost had considered the possibility that this time you would stay down.

Yet, in some ways a miracle, and in some way entirely expected, here you are.

Ghost allows himself to take in all the tiny details as you preoccupy yourself with showing off photos to Gaz on your phone. The sergeant crowds in close, and on your other side Soap cranes his head to see properly, complaining about the lack of attention until you reveal the photos to him as well. You’re smiling in a way Ghost has never seen before, and it makes something inside his stomach flip in that strange, foreign sort of flutter he can’t understand.

“Do you want to see, LT?” You ask, and Ghost blinks, nods mutely as he leans in to look at a landscape picture of autumn colors from Virginia. You look at him expectantly, and it takes effort for Ghost to not blink in surprise at the new, glimmering light in your eyes. Honest, yes, focused, but...happy.

He nods again silently, offering a little hum, and it seems to be enough for you as you lean across the table to show Price as well. The captain says something Ghost doesn’t make out beyond the odd thump of his heartbeat in his ears.

That flutter again. The one that makes his chest go strangely warm and tight.

Maybe he’s finally developing a heart murmur. Wouldn’t surprise him, given his line of work.

Yet the more he dwells on it, the more he realizes this isn’t the first time this sort of reaction has happened. No, as Ghost considers, he can recall a dozen different instances of something vaguely similar- an unnamed sort of self consciousness that began from the moment he met your eyes for the first time.

In training, when you’d looked at him after that first successful HALO-jump, hair wild, eyes wide, chest heaving with exhilaration but pride showing through for the first time he’d ever seen it. You’d looked to him for praise at your perfect performance, and Ghost had scarcely managed a ‘That’ll do’ before turning away from you with his chest clenching oddly.

In the field, propped alongside him flat against a rooftop staring through your rifle scope. Completely still, unmoving, scarcely breathing as you’d watched the target from a distance, not even flinching when Ghost instructed you to drop him. A single shot, and the slow exhale you’d released told multitudes of your own uncertainty at succeeding.

In a dim safehouse, where you’d dressed after your shower but your hair had clung damp to your exposed shoulders- an odd sort of sight that Ghost felt almost voyeuristic in witnessing. Vulnerable as you’d tugged a jacket over your sports bra, not seeming to notice the gaze trained on the sloping panes of your back.

Back at base, with your exhausted form crumpling into your bunk without even bothering to remove your gear. Ghost, who should have ignored you, chose instead to methodically remove your knee braces, your helmet, vest, your boots as you’d slept unaware. He’d meant to chew you out for not checking in your gear before falling asleep, but he never got the chance.

When you’d stood beside him after the sparring match, gazing towards the future as you were informed of your next assignment, Ghost had watched those eyes once more alight with something that pulled dangerously inside him. When he’d landed a hand on your shoulder, had offered a rare instance of praise, the strangeness inside him only grew warmer by the way your expression had changed into that of pride.

In Nepal, in the midnight darkness, when your trembling voice had whispered to him in the dark, only to grow pliant in his arms as his rumbling voice had echoed the truth he’d kept tightly concealed since the moment you first turned your gaze on him.

“I see you. Just you.”

Just you.

Ghost realizes he’s been silent for some time in his musings, which garners him a few sideways glances from the rest of the team. When Soap huffs a laugh and spouts some sort of Scottish gibberish, Ghost levels a look at him and reminds him with a small “English, MacTavish.” Which makes the Scot grumble further until you nudge an arm into his side.

“Tired?” Price murmurs, leaning imperceptibly closer to Ghost to question him in a tone the others can’t hear, and Ghost shrugs noncommittally. He could say yes as a means of covering his vaguely odd behavior, but then he’d hear some sort of remark from Price about sleeping properly- of which he doesn’t need a reminder.

“Blackball.” Gaz states solidly as he stands from the table a minute or so later.

“Pass.” Ghost states blandly, and adjusts in the space Gaz has left, spreading his legs wider so he’s more comfortable. Gaz shoots him an almost pouting look, and Ghost only blinks blankly back at him, to which the sergeant shrugs and looks at you.

“I’m rusty.” You confess sheepishly under his gaze, and before you can say anything else Soap is slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“We’ll teach ya.” The Scot offers, and Ghost can tell from the slight sway in his balance as he rises that the Scot is pleasantly tipsy- surprising, given his tolerance.

The three of you shuffle off towards the back end of the pub, and in your absence Price rises with a small groan from his chair.

“I’ll be heading out then.” He announces, gathering himself before placing a card down on the table. “My treat. Keep an eye on them, won’t you Simon?”

Ghost shoots his captain a withering look.

“No promises.” He tells him after a long pause, but he knows just by looking at Price’s smug expression that the captain knows it’s a lie. His second in command, asshole by design yet unable to not watch the six of his teammates.

“If you say so.” Price calls over his shoulder, and Ghost watches as he shrugs on his coat, the door chiming as he steps into the coming snow.

Ghost huffs, turns his attention towards the back of the pub where the younger trio has wandered off. Gaz, with his seemingly endless charm and amicability, has managed to snag the lone pool table out from under one of the other parties, who instead wander past Ghost towards the bar in search of another round. In their wake, Soap rambles the game’s rules to you, demonstrating his long reach with one of the billiard sticks as you nod studiously. There’s a slight scrunch to your brow that speaks of focus.

Loathe as he is to admit it, it’s...disarmingly charming.

He needs another drink.

Rather than rising for the bar, however, Ghost abandons the table and makes for the toilet. It’s only after he’s washing his hands that he pauses, looks up to the mirror placed on the wall and into his reflection.

He chose a simple balaclava tonight, dark eye paint not entirely smudged away from his time on base earlier. Yet it’s gone enough that he can make out the blonde of his eyelashes, the rims of his eyes that speak of pale skin.

Once there’d been a man there, in the mirror. Not much older than you, he thinks. Proud, arrogant, but dedicated and loyal to his duty.

Innocent, unknowing of the things that were to become of him.

Distantly, Simon wonders if maybe one day you’ll wear a mask too.

and silently, he realizes you already do.

Yet the thing hiding underneath your smile, your laughter, the blazing look in your eyes is not the shell of a broken man who has lost everything but has chosen to soldier on for the sake of doing something worth fighting for. No, the thing beneath your mask strives to claw out from the grave of grief you’ve found yourself in, dirt caught under your fingernails and voice choked of air as you fight to become the person you present yourself as. As someone who is free. Happy.

Like watching hellebore unfurl from the frost of a snowy mountain you can never seem to find the summit of.

and Ghost watches from below as the ascending shadow of you eclipses the rising sun.

When he makes his way back to the main room he finds the pub has begun to empty, the late hour beckoning folks home, and the incoming snowstorm hurrying those left behind. Gaz and Soap seem to pay the worsening weather no mind, if the clack of billiard balls is any indication. They talk in comfortable, slurring words, and Ghost distantly wonders if they’ll be hungover tomorrow. Maybe he should have them oversee the rookie drills. Just to be an ass about it.

Yet Ghost instantly notices you’ve wandered from the pool table back towards the bar, perched on a barstool and chatting to some young fellow beside you as the bartender makes more drinks.

Ghost feels his eyes narrow.

The bloke seems younger than you by a spring and then some, confident in the way of men his age. He seems to be doing most of the talking, and while to an outsider it may seem friendly enough, Ghost notices the way the man’s eyes dip to your lips as you politely smile and sip your drink, listening to him make small talk.

Ghost observes your eyes, the ease of your shoulders. You don’t seem uncomfortable, not with the way you smile back at him as Ghost passes behind you back in the direction of the booth. The fellow you’re talking to briefly glances over his shoulder, and does a double take at the skull mask wearing shadow behind his back before turning his attention back to you. Yet there’s a rigidity to his spine now, the sensation that he’s being watched.

Which, he shouldn’t be really. Ghost isn’t entirely sure himself why he’s observing the scene so closely, and even makes a point to tear his gaze away and pull out his phone for a bit. Yet he can’t stop the odd itchiness under his skin, the same instinct he has on the field. Sidelong glances at the bar reveal your conversation partner leaning in, his voice dipping an octave, how he barks a laugh at something you say.

You don’t seem to notice the gent’s clear interest in you, and that makes Ghost’s awareness itch with an odd sensation he can’t completely place. For his credit, the fellow doesn’t set off actual alarm bells in Ghost’s acutely tuned threat perception. In any other context, Ghost wouldn’t spare him a second glance. Yet now, with the way he tilts his head at you and smiles as you talk, Simon feels an odd discomfort brewing in the center of his stomach, like an inky pool of emotion he shouldn’t allow himself.

He should leave well enough alone.

Instead, he surprises himself by rising from his chair and trying to not stalk over to the bar so much as ease by catching your conversation partner’s eyes and murmuring something about an ID dropped in the bathroom.

The man pales, and Simon isn’t entirely sure if he truly believes the lie, or is simply intimidated by the hulking masked soldier grumbling at him. Either way he excuses himself, and Ghost makes a point to lean down into your ear as you watch him vanish.

“He’s bad news.” Ghost lies through his teeth.

You blink, gaze up at him in surprise with parted lips. “You really think so? He seemed nice.”

Ghost is silent, trying to ignore how that pit in his stomach seems to ease with the man’s absence. You seem to take his silence for an affirmation, nodding to yourself and sighing.

“I guess I should probably clear out before he comes back then.” You remark, finishing the remainder of your drink and catching Soap’s eye to gesture your exit. Soap makes a pout, but gives you a thumbs up.

“I’ll see you back at base, Ghost.” You tell him, easing off your stool and swaying only slightly. “Don’t stay out too late, it’s bad for your health.”

Says the woman that works alongside trained killers. Ghost thinks wryly.

Yet before you can make it five steps, Ghost surprises himself again.

“I’ll drive you back.”

You pause, blink at him, before a smile crawls across your face and you nod eagerly.

“Won’t leave me to the elements?” You ask, and Ghost wonders if you too are thinking of your shivering form caught in his arms in Nepal.

“No.” He responds quietly, sliding Price’s card across the bar to clear the team’s tab before following you out into the snow.

The bloke from before rounds the corner to the toilet just as Ghost hovers on the threshold, waiting for you to shrug on your jacket just outside. Ghost catches a single glimpse of recognition, of realization in the man’s eyes before the door jingles behind the two of you as it closes.

Ghost tries to ignore what this clearly looks like. What it actually is.

Snowflakes chase you into the car as you sidle into the passenger seat, catching on your hair. You shiver a little and tuck your jacket tighter around you.

“You should wear something warmer next time.” He finds himself saying over the start of the engine, and you offer him a bemused look.

“Looking out for me, Ghost?”

More than you know.

Yet Ghost doesn’t offer anything, shrugging noncommittally and turning on the radio to fill the silence. Cheery Christmas music instantly echoes through the tinny speakers and Simon reflexively shuts it off as soon as it starts, before the bitter taste of memory can poison his mouth. He expects you to call him on it, but instead you huff, shake your head.

“It’s not even Thanksgiving back in the states yet.” You complain. “I swear they start earlier every year.”

Simon hums as he turns onto the road. “Holiday plans?” He asks mildly, and notices the way you stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

That grief again.

“Probably some mice infested safehouse in a far corner of the world.” You reply after a beat. “Away in a manger and all that.”

That startles a snort from him. You turn to Ghost at the sound, eyes wide.

“You laughed.” You observe in awe, and Ghost gives you a momentary glance before shaking his head.

“Did not.”

“You did!”

“Had a snowflake in my nose.”

“Under the mask?”

“Mm.”

You huff, slumping in your seat a bit, but when Ghost glances at you out of the corner of his eye, he can see you smiling.

The silence lapses, fortunately, and Ghost is relieved to find you don’t try to fill the void. Instead you watch the snowy road ahead with drooping eyes, head nodding with the weight of a long journey and energetic evening. Eventually, he watches your eyes shutter close, and feels himself relaxing in response.

It would be frustrating, how much you trust him. Trusting him to get you back safe, to fall asleep beside him, believing him when he chases off a man with pure intentions only for the transgression of getting too close. You trust him to watch your six, to keep you alive, to drag you to safety. You trust him enough to push you out of airplanes only so he can catch you.

If it were anyone else, Ghost would be furious at you for being so blindingly accepting of them. Yet Ghost, in his seemingly infinite selfishness, soaks it in like the warmth of a rising sun. Like he himself emerges gingerly from the frost.

The lights of the town go by quietly, and in the lingering sound of festive lullabies Ghost is reminded of things passed- of the deadly cold and the searing heat of flames. He’s reminded of the grief he recognizes in your own eyes, wondering silently how it is you’ve found the strength to accomplish it despite it all and to keep smiling.

Silently, in the frost of his own heart, Simon tucks away a quiet warmth that’s begun to unfurl.

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