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yeyinde · 1 year

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Hiii I LOVED your fic with soap I’ve read it like 5 times since I found it yesterday, your writing is absolutely STUNNING and the characterization for Soap was spot on. If you have any free time I would love a Ghost fic like Soap’s— domestic, fluff, SMUT, and a little angst. I feel like Ghost would be a tender, giving lover if given the chance to be truly comfortable with someone. Anyway, if not, I just wanted to say your writing is some of the best I’ve ever read and it inspired me to pick up my own pen and start writing again :)

hi! @madiganjay and thank you so much!! 🖤😭 that's so sweet and i'm sooo sorry this took so long! i have no excuses just Ghost + Domestic Fluff had me oscillating between several different ways this could go. to me, the idea of domesticity with Ghost is permanence and presence. something tangible that confirms his existence, that ties him to you.

i tried my best at domestic Ghost, so i don't know if this is quite what you had in mind, but i hope you enjoy it!! this is nearly 8k of Ghost Doing His Best™️

⇾ warnings: gendered reader, female!reader, gendered anatomy; unfettered filth (as per usual); slightly possessive!Ghost, jealous!Ghost; unsafe sex

"Brought curry." It's not much of a greeting—no hello, how are you? How was your day?—just: "didn't have lamb, so I got chicken."

On the television in front of him, a game between Everton and Manchester United plays. Streaks of red and blue dart across the sprawling field of green. Takeout is spread out on your coffee table—curry for him, butter chicken for you; he got you salted Lassi, too. The white drink sits on the table beside the styrofoam containers, dripping condensation down the clear plastic cup. The colours catch in the clear polymer. Neon smears in milky white.

Its—

Salt pools between your teeth; your lips sting. "You—," your voice breaks over the word; a tendril of embarrassment curls inside of your guts, admixing the alcohol you'd just finished drinking with Gaz. You flush, clear your throat. "I wasn't expecting you."

It's a stupid thing to say, in retrospect. You never expect him, and you suppose that's the point. Ghost—Simon Riley—comes and goes like an undomesticated alley cat wandering around until he lets himself inside your flat for however long he plans on staying.

There is no routine in this. No set schedule; nothing was ever painted in concrete, just shades of sporadic abstracts. He comes, he goes. Ephemeral visits only a handful of times a year.

It's the fourth—year, that is.

The weight of it sat in your stomach for weeks. Knots spool together until a clump forms in the pit. Heavy and noxious; it leaked poison into your bloodstream that carried the illness of want in a particularly nasty shade of green.

Four years since Price had dragged you—an office worker on loan from HQ—to a sparse room in a country you'd never been to before, and you set your eyes on the interrogator known, then, only as Ghost.

(Terrorism never sleeps, Price always says.

Whenever he's around, neither do you.)

The walls were painted in rust. The stench of wet pennies and sweat filled the air. None of that mattered, though, when you looked up, and caught liquid sin gazing at you from wide, red-rimmed eyes.

(Maybe, he doesn't sleep, either.)

You fed him information through an earpiece as you scoured and decoded the rudimentary messages in the text the enemy sent to each other, and tried to remain professional when his voice growled his affirmative in shades of smoke and violence in your ear.

Hours later, exhausted and craving something to keep you from wishing the world was constructed by the hand of solipsism, you leaned against the window, desperately trying to pretend you were the same person you were yesterday.

Lidded eyes swept across the vast expanse in front of you—barren lands, badlands: wartorn and deadly, and littered with carrion. You tried to stop your hands from shaking by curling them into fists, but all it did was puncture your palm, and fill your nails with sticky blood.

It didn't work— nothing did.

You sunk your teeth into your knuckles to stop the quiver in your joints.

War is much different in person than it is on a blue screen. Numbers—friends, foes, coordinates, codes—are much easier to stomach when they're all in binary. A marker on your desktop goes down, disappears from the black map in front of you, and you pick up your earpiece, calling it into evac, and click on another to follow, to relay commands in code.

One life is gone, enemy or friend, and you sip your expensive coffee (£5.6 but the logo is cute, and beans are robust) while staring at the pictures dotting the navy blue fabric of the pre-owned cubicle. Docile. Mundane. You glance at the clock, and wait for the hour to pass until you can leave, and spend the rest of the evening watching shows.

You think once, perhaps thrice, about the men in green who will never get the chance to come home again, but it's smothered when your coworker leans over the metal divider, asking if you want anything from Greggs.

A game of chess with real people.

(You slept rather soundly before this. Now, binary numbers make you tremble.)

The worn wood behind you creaks.

Price, you think, forcing a smile that doesn't fit. Neither do the fatigues. The stench of rot in your nose. The gun they shoved into your hands.

"I'd kill for a coffee, sir."

When you turn, you're met with the endless yawning of night condensed in circles framed by pale flaxen. A storm in the middle of a wheat field. Stalks of yellow smatter across midnight blue.

Ghost.

There is a moment of nothing where he simply tips his chin, baleen lines bunching together, and stares at you. It's unnerving. Eerie. He feels entirely out of place in this world, and yet—

You can't imagine him anywhere else.

His stare is heavy. He blinks his eyes shut. You breathe again. They slide open. The air is siphoned from your lungs.

A chasm sits in his gaze. You find the heft isn't entirely unpleasant.

Then, he shifts. Shadows flexing in the limited light. A car driving down the street, headlight burning the tenebrose until it dances, scattering across your room. He moves like liquid in the dark.

"Coffee won't help," is all he says. Impassive. Pragmatic. But his eyes—

Your throat is acrid. Sand gathers in wet clumps against your larynx. You swallow, and taste Yorkshire Gold. Pennies.

"Any suggestions about what might, then?"

It takes him two steps to get to the window to your four. His size is—

Immeasurable.

He's a man, you think, and yet—

It's not so much the sheer bulk of him, the height, but rather the way he carries himself. There is a presence about him that makes him feel bigger, more dangerous. He knows his heft and uses it to his advantage. He takes up space until you feel smothered by his proximity, but—

You don't think anyone else has ever felt more distant.

A moor. Wide, endlessly deep, but uncrossable. Untraversable. Mouldering signs are pitched in the recesses of his eyes when they slide to you, liquid black pooling in the corner, and they all say: stay away.

(Written in red. In blood.)

"A few," he offers. His gaze drifts back to the grime-streaked window. "Nothing legal."

"Oh," you mutter, blinking. You can't tell if it's a joke or not.

"Get some tea. It'll calm your nerves."

"I'm not—," you start but his eyes drop to your hands, clenched by your sides, and shaking. Beads of crimson gather in the cup, pooling in your lifeline. Guilty, then.

He leaves you by the window, and you watch his broad back retreat through the arched doorway. A layer of sand fluttered under his boots. No prints.

(Is he even real? Or did the endless dunes of decay conjure him up in grains of sand, and rot?)

You find the stash of tea (Price muttering something behind you about Gaz drinking all the bloody English Breakfast), and in the loose, dried leaves of brown, black, and fawn, you find yourself thinking of him.

Four years later: he's still on your mind.

"I was out with—"

"Garrick."

"Gaz," you say instinctively. Only Laswell gets away with calling him Kyle. Everything else just sounds wrong. "We went to some club in Essex. I would have come home sooner if I'd known—"

You stop. Teeth sinking into your tongue. Stupid. Stupid. You think of the man in the club with hands that were cold as ice. The irritation you felt toward Gaz when he pulled you away, and shoved you into a taxi. His knuckles knocked on the hood. Don't drive away until you see their door shut, yeah? He slips folded bills into the man's hand through the crack in the window. Message me when you get home.

You sent the text when your key cut through the hole. Home. Thanks.

His reply was instant: worry about you sometimes. Get some sleep.

"Um…thank you for the food. I'm actually starving," you huff, words tumbling out in an effort to stem your accidental faux pas. "We didn't eat before we headed out. I only had a few drinks, but—"

More than a few. Your feet wobble.

"—Thanks." You wince, adding: "again. It's—it's good to see you—"

Stupid. Stupid.

He says nothing, but his stare hasn't wavered since you opened the door. An indecipherable Rorschach. Unknowable. Unreachable.

Four years, and you still have no idea what this is.

Three months in the desert drinking tea with a behemoth who had an absurd sense of humour, and then—

Home. Goodbye. Price waving you off: a two-finger salute diving off his forehead. Ghost stood on the tarmac of some private, military-owned base. A sleek, black Jeep a few paces away to take you wherever you wanted to go.

Home, you supposed. You look around and it feels wrong. Stuck in limbo, purgatory. A strange microcosm where the people are the same—the man in the Jeep has a thick Northern accent; his words are rounded, and robust—but the place is different.

Know anything to calm the nerves now that we're home, sir?

His head tips. A few. None of them are good for you.

The tea was pretty good advice.

He'd said nothing. Nothing, nothing—

The man poked his head out the window. "Coming?"

You offered a shaky smile. See you around, Simon—

You'd slapped your palm against your mouth, eyes darting around the barren void in the middle of needn't know and somewhere in England, and he—

He shuddered. Eyes a polynya. A rumble broke the silence. Low, and—

You turned, hand curling over the handle of the car. You'd gotten it open an inch before his hand slammed on the frame beside the window, the door snapping shut. The force of it rocked the Jeep.

They're riding with me.

And—

Now: he sits in your home with takeout from the Indian place you like, one you mentioned in passing a year ago. The place with the best raita and spicy chicken biryani.

The one with a shell-shocked teenager manning the front with a single cook in the back. The register is barely used. They yell your order through a small window to the kitchen, and the cook brings it out himself when he's finished. It always feels a little bit illegal when he hands you the bag, but you're almost certain this man is secretly a Micheline star chef when he isn't condensing samsara into his tandoori.

Silent, a little tipsy, you toe your shoes off, trying not to make any more of a fool of yourself tonight. You stumble a little, head thick with those stupid sex on the beaches Gaz bought for you, and slowly make your way to the couch.

He hasn't looked away. Not once.

It's stifling. His presence nearly smothers you.

It usually isn't this— strange.

The handful of times he'd come around, it was always the same routine, the same dance. He'd be there, bathed in black and searching the alcoves of your flat, and then—on you. Your back against the wall, the hello snuffed out by the bulk of his body pressing into yours, his hands on your thighs, fingers tugging at the hem of your clothing. You'd tumble somewhere: the wall or the floor or the couch more often than not.

(It took him a year to fuck you on your bed.)

The next morning, he'd be gone. Rising before the sun—if he even slept at all—and off somewhere until late at night. He'd stay a few nights, but those were rare. Usually, it was once.

One night of brutal fucking where he had on you nearly every surface in your flat, taking, and taking until the sky broke crimson, and your eyes misted over from fatigue. He'd drop you in your bed, and when you woke up, sore and dazed and aching all over—

The bed is cold. Empty.

His presence is erased. The only thing that confirms it wasn't a dream is the burn between your legs, the quiver in your knees, and the bruises along your hips and thighs in the perfect impression of his large hands.

I wasn't expecting you, you'd once said.

His eyes are glued to you. Liquid midnight framed in white. Want me to leave, pet?

They dance with humour, hidden in the shadows of his intense stare, when you trip over yourself in your haste to say no. No, no, please—stay.

Sometimes, you like to pretend those obsidian edges softened a little at the ache in your voice. The palpable urgency bleeds through. That they regard you with a touch more warmth than before.

"Alright," he says, and nothing more. Alright.

It's enough. More than enough, really. It's a miracle a man like Simon would even offer that much considering his life, and who he is. It's more than you'd ever ask for.

And yet—

(In the darkness of your room, you crumble.)

—you want more.

More. More—

The butter chicken is warm, and slightly cooled. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. How long had he waited for you? Why did he wait for you?

You bite the soft, buttered naan to keep yourself from asking those silly questions.

This whole thing—if it even is a thing—is purely physical. Release. Something to stem the surreal feeling of being back on land where guns aren't being aimed at your head, and artillery fire doesn't clog the atmosphere. The stench of death is replaced by the cold, wet streets of London. The screams of the dying are just honking cars from impatient drivers; the chatter of civilians.

It's something to quench the inescapable sense of ennui when you leave the building after playing with the lives of the men on the field, and hear mothers chatting in the train about the mundanity of life.

Anything to calm the nerves. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And yet: he's sitting on your couch with his mask rolled up to his nose, eating chicken curry while passively watching football on your small television. Your hands brush when you both reach for more naan or roti. Gaze meeting over the Biryani.

It's different. New. This hasn't ever happened before in the four years since the conception of whatever this is. It's—

Jarring. Bewildering.

You expect, at some point, for him to stand up, and leave. That intimacy of eating dinner together while he murmurs low about what certain calls, or plays mean to you will break something inside of him, and scare him away. It's soft. Domestic.

Ghost is untouchable. Unseen.

But your eyes find the orange sauce smeared on the corner of his mouth. The ashen stubble on his chin, and jaw. The flash of teeth when he brings the dripping piece of curry to his mouth. His jaw working as he chews. The swallow. A flash of red when he tries, and fails, to catch every bit of curry from his lips.

It's bliss, you find. These small moments when he feels so distinctly human clot in your chest, and you worry that one day the mass will grow to be so big, you will crumble under the weight of it all.

(Maybe, it's the sex on the beach, the too-sweet rumchata, but the thought makes your stomach burn with anticipation. You want this man to ruin you with the mundane.)

"Finished your dinner?" He asks, eyes sliding to you.

The meagre food sits like a lump of coal. Your appetite dissolves as your slurried mind struggles to both remain as composed as possible so as not to spook him, and keep all the ugly things you want to say behind the seal of your lips.

It should just be sex. Fucking. No strings attached. Nothing—

You wonder if it's your life, drenched in a proxy of ordinary, that lures him in. You're not a civilian, but compared to him, you're only a short step above. Is it just—happenstance? Does he come to you because there are no other options for a man who died years ago?

Are you—

Convenient.

Something to pass the time. Something that makes him feel human again.

An evanescent dalliance within the boundaries of having no past, and no future. He isn't jeopardising himself by sneaking into your flat at night to satiate the hunger inside; the need to feel something other than the weight of a gun in his hands, and smell the blood, the smoke, the napalm in the air.

You work in the same circle.

He, when he's allowed to exist, on the field; and you, sitting behind a computer screen while you oversee the deaths of others in a sequence of numbers.

Your hands are too delicate to carry the weight of a gun, to aim and pull the trigger, but he can still feel the same sin when your fingers touch his flesh.

Not drenched in blood, but stained.

You're not innocent; he isn't sullying a civilian with his rough hands that reek of gunpowder.

You exist in that murky limbo he can fall in. Safety lingers in the cartilage of your joints; familiar, and attainable: you know the rules and what he does. You will never look him in the eye and ask why.

But—you're still dangerous. Covetous.

More, you think. You want more.

"I—," you taste malt on your tongue. You didn't drink any, but the taste reminds you of—

Hands on your waist. Warm breath in your ear. Come home with me.

Gaz, suddenly there, eyes blazing. Step off, mate.

Everton scores: blurs of blue dart across the green, but none of it sticks in the gummy lining of your head. It feels like you're somewhere else. Your body is sitting on the couch; you feel the soft, worn cushion below. The food is heavy on your belly. Eyes grainy from the alcohol you'd drank.

But you're not here.

You're adrift in grey matter. Head tilted toward the pink, undulating dome above. Afloat in stagnant molasses.

"I kissed someone tonight," you murmur. On the screen, a man throws his hands up, words at the bottom blur together.

The couch creaks when he moves. You can feel his stare on your temple, on you, but you don't meet it. Coward.

The geyser in the brackish pond rumbles. It tastes of sabotage.

"I probably would have gone home with them, too, if it wasn't for Gaz."

The roar of the television is the only sound you hear, but it feels distant. Warbled. There is a pounding in your head that starts at the base of your skull. The beat almost sounds like a warning.

Your hands tighten around the wet plastic cup of the cool salted Lassi. The crinkle it makes drowns out the noise of the cushion shifting under his weight.

"I guess it's a good thing I came home when I did—"

"Yeah, it is."

You can't place his tone. Arctic ice. Polar. A Chinook, perhaps. It bites into you, churning the chicken and alcohol in your stomach.

At least, in the end there would be no questions. No late nights gazing up at the ceiling, or leaning over the sink, peering at yourself in the mirror to make sense of why he picked you. It would just be—

An empty bed. Dinner for one. A single toothbrush in the holder.

(I bought you a toothbrush. You can leave it in the—

No need. I got my own.)

You huff. "Says you—"

"I'd have ripped him limb from limb for touchin' you."

His eyes are darker than you'd ever seen them. Black holes. Pooled ink.

For all your aplomb, your demure under the ire in those alcoves. The ones that leak—impossible—the same covetous spool in your chest.

"Simon—"

"Where'd he touch you?"

It's a command.

He reaches out; his palm is blistering when it rests on your bare thigh.

"Here?"

"Why—?" You shiver. "Why would you tear him—"

Sometimes, you forget how massive he is, but he seems quite eager to remind you when his hand falls on the cushion behind your head, closing that meagre distance between the two of you with his body. He's a shadow looming over you. A gaping chasm that yawns before you. Dangerous and dark. The warning signs are written in blood.

Stay away, they say, but he pushes himself closer to you.

"I don't share."

"What—what is there to share?"

His eyes flutter. Hard, unyielding obsidian. In the gaps, sit a near cosmic distance. An unreachable planet on the fringes of the solar system.

Ashen brows draw together. A cornered animal will lash out, and—

"Thought it was obvious."

You swallow and taste the sea. "It isn't."

An impasse, then, when he freezes. When his hand burrowing between your thighs halts on your flesh. An uncrossable no man's land. A valley where those who venture seldom return.

The chossy below your feet wobbles.

He says nothing. You don't expect him to, but you can't say it hurts any less.

You knew what you were getting into. What this was.

Still:

"Maybe we should stop this."

"That what you want?"

"It's pretty obvious it isn't, and that's the problem. I'm not going to ask for more than you'll give, but—;" a deep breath, a shudder. His thumb brushes your skin, a soft roll of his rough finger, and your heart thrums. Sings. The catch in your voice is thick, palpable. "How can you expect me not to want more?"

"What do you want? Want me to show my face? That it?" His hand raises to the edge of the mask, and something sours inside of you. "If you want to see so—"

Your hand on his wrist stops him from tugging it down. "I don't." Firm, decisive. "I don't want that, Simon. I just want you. And if—;" your eyes flicker to the containers, the half-eaten food on the coffee table. A dinner usually for one. "If you keep doing this—dinner, and—and—"

"I thought you liked butter chicken."

Your chest expands with your exasperated huff. Humour, at a time like this. And yet— "I do. I just meant—"

"I know, pet. I know."

"If you keep this up, I'll want more." You turn to him, hand dropping from his wrist. "I'm greedy. How can I not be when you tell me stupid jokes and bring me curry?"

"I knew you'd like them."

"Simon—"

Avoidance, then.

His hand inches down, sliding up your thigh. The loose shorts you'd worn fall to the side, and he slips through until his fingers meet the gusset of your panties.

"You're wet," he husks, leaning down. His forehead pressed to your temple. He smells of turmeric and ash. "That all for me, pet?"

Your thighs spread, giving him more room. His fingers brush along the seam of your clothed cunt. Your chin dips. Charcoal. Midnight black. His lashes are long. The missing coal around his eyes makes them look darker.

"Always."

His knuckle presses against your clit, chest brushing over your shoulder. "Better be."

Lashes flutter when you mewl, arching your back to get more of his touch. Needy, eager. You gasp when his finger crooks inside of your panties, bare skin on your cunt. You’re feverish; burning up from his touch alone. An ache knots in your belly; a spooling coil winding when his knuckle grazes your flesh. His breath is heavy in your ear.

"C'mon," he murmurs, the tip of his finger drags down the length of your slit. "Haven't had this pussy in months, pet. Need to feel you."

His words made something inside of you snap.

It's frantic: desperation claws at your chest carrying the urge to sink your teeth in his skin until it punctures with your mark, one that brands his body. The thought alone makes your belly quiver. An ache. A need. An itch. He's there, always: his hands are firm on your waist when you slide into his lap, hips pressing against your core as your fingers tug the buttons of his trousers off.

Your thighs burn from the stretch of his bulk. The sheer absurdity of how massive he is, and how comparatively small you feel with your knees split apart, is never more apparent than now, when you're barely able to touch the cushion below.

"Need you," you pant against the skin above the mask. Stubble crests over his cheek, and chaps your lips. "Need you so bad, Simon—"

"Fuck, pet," he breathes, ragged and harsh. His hands are brands on your flesh, pulling you closer, and closer, and yet—at the same time—keeping you at bay. "Would you have been this desperate for him?"

No. Not at all. You haven't been driven to the brink for a man since Simon. No one has ever burrowed deep under your skin until you were itching at the dermis so hard, it broke. It ripped. And the bloodied tatters that remained still weren't enough to quench the burn.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

His snarl is muffled behind the mask, but you feel the bite of it when his hands clench around your hips, jerking you forward until your cunt is nestled on his hard bulge.

"Gonna fuck you, now."

The words are ground down to the marrow; stripped and pulverised into dust when they slip through. Broken bones, fragmented ash—he blows the smoke of them into your face until you're reeling from the way they shred your throat and lungs when you breathe them in.

There is no finesse in the way you tug your panties off, letting them dangle around your ankle. Or the way he shoves his boxers down enough to free his cock.

It's quick. Dirty.

Simon has been rough in the past—often leaving you feeling like the victor of a well-fought war—but that always came after what felt like hours of foreplay. His face buried in your cunt. His fingers slowly stretching you for his cock.

This—

This feels desperate. It feels unhinged and raw. All his meticulous self-control catches fire in front of you until your skin blisters with the heat of it.

His fingers slip under the mask for a moment, and when he carefully pulls them free, they're covered in spittle.

No lube, no prep—

His thick fingers are on your cunt, slick and wet from his saliva, and they sink inside of you. One right to the last knuckle. Another joins. The stretch makes your toes curl. Makes you drop your head to his shoulder as he works in the third. The lewd sounds of your pussy being hurriedly fucked open by his fingers, palm digging into your clit, makes you burn.

It's not enough, but you look down and feel desire bloom at the sight of him—his cock is leaking prespend all over your mound, jerking against your belly with each quick thrust of his fingers within you. He pulls his hand away, and smears the wetness across his cock before gripping the base.

Your eyes are fixed on the pearlescent beads on the fat head, gathering in a thick, milky pool before rolling down the side. It gathers at the clinch of hi thumb and forefinger. Your mouth waters at the sight.

"Lemme suck your cock after," you slur; it comes out as barely more than a whimper. "Need to taste you—"

His cock jerks in his hold, spitting more prespend down the length of him.

"Fuckin' hell, pretty thing," he rasps, dragging your hips closer until your cunt is pressed taut against him. The drag of his flared head between your folds makes you keen low in your throat. "You won't even get a chance, pet. If you think I'm pulling out of this tight pussy at all tonight, you're wrong."

It's not a warning, but it's all he gives before his hand grips himself tight, the other clasped around your waist. His urgency bleeds through when his hips lift off the bed.

It's always an arduous undertaking whenever he sits you in his lap, and slowly feeds the entirety of his thick cock into your quivering body. Sometimes, nearly driven delirious from the intense pleasure-pain that pools in your core, you whisper into his ear that he's going to ruin you, break you down the centre.

You'll snap me in half, you whimper.

His response is to force more of himself into your body until you gag on the words in your throat, choke on your spit.

"I want to," he hisses; water doused on flaming coal. The grit of his voice is saturated in sin, and the sound makes your eyes roll. "Wanna break you open until nothin' fits inside this pretty cunt but me."

"You'd ruin me for everyone else, Simon? That's not fair—"

Your words make him groan, make him grasp your hips, fingers digging into the swell of your ass. He pulls you down onto him until he's swallowed whole. The air is punched from your lungs. You feel the throb of him in your esophagus. Broken, then, by this man. This untouchable, unattainable being.

"Fuck—," little hiccups spill from your throat. Your head is a slurry of want want want want and too much too full too big. You can't take him. You needed more foreplay. To be stretched around three fingers until you could fit him soundly.

This—

This feels a little bit like a punishment.

"Fuckin' hell," he rasps into your neck. "Wouldn't know what to do with this little cunt if he had it."

"And you do?"

His answer is to plant his feet on the ground and drive the length of him into you. A battering ram to your core. There is a white-hot pleasure burning through your core. It leaks into your marrow until you're heavy with the weight of it.

He helps you along. Hands gripped tight to your hips, he lifts you up off of his cock, and lowers you down with a fervour that leaves you quaking.

It's not so much as riding him, but being battered by a hurricane. All you can do is cling to him—arms wrapped tight around his neck, thighs shaking as you struggle to keep up with his brutal pace. Your forehead falls, rests against his shoulder, and you moan brokenly into the seam between your bodies.

It feels a little bit like possession. The flavour of a claim, ownership lingers in the air; it's heavy on your tongue, in your chest. But he's not the type of man to do that, is he? Distance. Separation.

Something like that is far too intimate for a man who shouldn't exist.

Even so—

Each blunt grind of his cock inside of you has milky pleasure blooming inside of you. His hard grip is tight enough to bruise, and when he digs his fingers into your flesh, you wonder if it's intentional. If he wants you stained and broken by the time he's finished.

No condom, either. It's rare that you go without one, despite being on birth control. He'd only ever lost it enough to forgo the contraceptive when he was injured, when his hand would press to his side each time he moved. The mask covered it up, but you saw the red in his eyes when he shifted.

You took advantage of his weakened state—lemme take care of you, Simon—and finally (finally) got a taste of his cock. His hips rutted into your mouth, and the noises that spilled out of him were obscene. You swallowed every drop while he heaved on the couch, forearm thrown across his forehead, eyes wide and red and looking at you in a way that made your toes curl. It was—

Magma. Melted rock. Soft, molten, and—

He passed out after. You cleaned up while he slept. It was the first time you'd ever seen him slumber, but despite the itch to look, to see, you kept your distance. A throw was tossed on him gently, a bottle of water left on the coffee table. You grabbed a book from the shelf, curled up on the chaise near the window, and watched the lour gloom of London under a deluge.

(London, you find, is always prettier when it storms.)

He woke up hours later to the smell of lamb soup.

His voice was a husk: a charred log. He pulled you down on the couch with him, back pressed to his front, and he'd taken you then. His arm draped over your collarbones, forearm tucked under your chin; his other hand gripped your thigh, keeping you open for him as he rutted inside of you. Delirious, perhaps, from the pain. From the uncomfortable, dangerous, vulnerability he showed you. It didn't feel distant when he pulled you into him, eyes murky bogs in the middle of a barren forest. It felt—

Stripped. Raw and naked and somehow virginal despite the heavy pants of pleasure in your ear, muffled by the mask that had not moved at all since his head dropped on the armrest behind, and he woke up to a porcelain bowl of cawl on the table.

The bare grind of his cock inside of you should negate the purity in the act but somehow, somehow, it feels more innocent than anything else you'd experienced before.

He came inside of you, a wrecked groan reverberating in your ear as he squeezed you tight to his body, and made you take every drop.

No words were exchanged. You ate cawl on the couch and tried to pretend you didn't see the hungry look in his eyes when you caught his gaze on the pearlescent smear staining your thighs.

(Each time after that, he wore a condom.)

Until now.

You can feel him pulsing in your throat. It feels more intimate—hurried and rushed as it: your thighs spread over his, his cock buried deep inside you, chest pressed against yours. There is nowhere for you to turn, to hide, except to burrow your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the ozone scent of him. Gunpowder. Pyrolysis. Sulphur. Smoke. It sits heavy in your lungs.

"F—fuck, Simon," you mewl, fingers clawing at the fabric of his sweater. You need something to hold on to, to keep you grounded amid the battering of his hips.

"Yeah, pet," he breathes, his hands gripping you tighter as he ruts into you. His cock grinds against something inside of you that has you seeing white. "You like that don't you? Like my cock inside of you. You're desperate for it, aren't you?"

There is no room for words in your esophagus when you can feel the blunt press of his head bludgeoning into your sternum. All you can do is work yourself against the brutal onslaught of him driving his hips, his cock, into you from below. There is no stability for you to find purchase, and give back just as much as you take, but Simon doesn't seem to want that. Not right now.

He fucks into you, barely able to pull the full length of him out of your drenched pussy, and seems find pleasure in grinding against your core in deep, short strokes that leave you chasing Ursa Major in the Magellanic cloud that spools in your head.

Each thrust leaves you trembling, legs quaking as he knocks against a place inside that makes your back arch; making liquid euphoria brim in your veins.

Fucking Simon with an abundance of prep rides that perfect equilibrium of pleasure and pain. This—

This feels like it might wreck you. Your cunt is stretched wide around the base of him, pulled taut as he digs his heels into your worn, stained carpet and drives himself into you like he's trying to split you in half, and take refuge in your womb.

The sounds that spill out, filling the room, make you feel like you're floating. From the seal of your sopping pussy and the lewd squelch of him sliding against your walls; the deep, ruined moans that drip from your mouth; the deep, hoarse groans he makes that has your belly quivering—it has your fingers digging into his shoulders, clenched around tense muscles.

"Fuckin' hell—," his head tips back when your knee slips, bringing your pelvis closer to his groin. "This cunt was made for me, wasn't it? All mine—"

Stubble grazes your nose when you press your lips to the silver of skin exposed on his jugular. Teeth catch on the coarse hair, skin drawn between them. Capillaries burst under your tongue, flooding his flesh a bright red, then a deep purple. The perfect impression of your teeth—

"Fuck—!" He snarls, hands pulling you closer to him as he jerks within you.

Simon knocks the thoughts from your head when he spears his cock inside of you. It's rough, raw. The pain that blooms in your core when he chevies into the seal of your womb as you see a supernova behind your eyelids. The explosion of energy. Each synapse inside of your head buzzes with the force of it.

"C'mon, pretty thing," he husks; the roar of the ocean upwelling on the land. You taste salt on your tongue when you pant, moaning his name into his sweat-slicked neck. He tastes of iodine. "I want you to cum on my cock, pet. I need to feel your cunt squeeze me tight—"

It pulls on the thread keeping the deluge from spilling over. The seams split; the levee cracks. It wells inside of your core, each plunge pushing you further and further to the edge of that roaring precipice. Standing on the ledge of a cliff, eyes pointed down at the black water that slams against the granite, frothing and angry. It sprays mist from the vitriolic sea. Arsenic white. It crests over you. His grunt in your ear. His hands tighten until you feel bruises bloom under the tips of his fingers. The chossy cracks. The rocks tumble. Your feet slip—

It's familiar, this. Everything about him makes you feel like you're falling, and this—this—is no different. A leap. A drop. Your feet hit the water first.

It happens all at once; crashing over you like a rogue wave. Swallowed whole. Sucked under.

Knees scrape the murky sediment below. You babble in his neck about how good his cock feels inside of you; hiccuping stupidly at the absurd stretch of him, how big he is, and—shyly, tentatively—how much you missed this, missing feeling him inside of you, tasting him on your tongue.

It punches a snarl from his throat; ripped and raw on the barbed wire lining his jugular. It drips blood when he bites into it, fingers cutting into your skin to stem the ache in his voice from leaking out.

(Things are only real when whispered out loud.)

He pulses inside of you, head tilts back as he groans with his release.

These soft moments nearly ruin you: when his hands clench around your waist, paroxysms of pleasure hard enough to bruise; his chest expanding with his deep breaths, brushing yours with each inhale; the heat spuming inside of you. The noises he makes. The way his brow pinches together when he cums.

Your eyes fall on the column of his neck, tracing a bead of sweat slipping down from the humid mask, over the bluish mark you left on his skin, to where it pools in the indent of his collarbone. His throat bobs. You watch it all.

He's never more real than in these moments, you find.

You think of object permanence, and sink your teeth into the raw ring around his neck.

Simon shudders under you. "Fuckin' hell, pet—;" is a gravel-rucked rasp from his chest. He swallows again. "You tryin' to go for the jugular next?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. His arms tighten around you, locking you to his chest. You throb around the softening length of him, pulsing like a heartbeat. Brassbound bliss is thick around your neck; heavy iron pulling you down.

The cosmos spits you out, and gravity drags you home until you're centred; surrounded by the scent of sweat, sex, and the cloying tang of Simon—warm milk, wet nickles, and clove. Your nose brushes the hem of his mask, and you catch the frenetic headiness of Ghost. Warzone. Gunpowder. Ichor. Your tongue flicks out, catches the sulphur on his skin.

You feel his feet shift, his thigh flex.

Hold on tight, pet. It's the only warning you get before his hands curl under your knees, locking you to his chest, and he stands.

The power in his muscles is dizzying, intoxicating. He hefts you into his arms with an ease that makes your head swim. All the liquid inside shifts as he moves. A vertiginous wave washes over you.

You feel so small in his arms. So fragile, breakable. He holds you tight to his chest, hands ironclad on your thighs, and huffs when you giggle in his ear about how strong he is. How big and tough, and powerful Ghost is.

"Ghost ain't the one still buried deep inside of you, pet." He mutters into your temple, words slurred, hushed. They're almost drowned out by the cheers spilling from the speakers, and you wonder if he even meant for you to hear them.

You duck your head, nuzzling your nose into his throat. "M'tired. Take me to bed, Simon."

"Gladly."

It's a short walk from your living room to your bedroom, and he knocks the door open with the flat of his foot. He takes a moment before stepping through the threshold, eyes darting around your bedroom briefly. Hyper-vigilant. Always. This never changes even if he's in your flat or walking into the communal kitchen a whole sea away.

It takes him two steps to reach your bed. He doesn't bother with the lights.

He lays you on the cold bed, hovering over you with eyes like Orion. You think you find Betelgeuse in the far reaches of those unfathomable depths.

"You're pretty," you slur, stupidly, dizzily. You're not drunk—not really —but you're intoxicated by this, by him. His scent in your nose, his taste on your tongue, his weight pushing you down into the soft sheets—his cock inside of you still, twitching when you speak. It makes you giggle—robust and bubbly—and babble about the stars in his eyes, and heaven in his touch. "Your eyes are so—"

He huffs, those pretty eyes rolling at you. "Haven't even seen me without the mask, pet—"

"Don't care."

"No? What if I was ugly?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Scarred up?"

You shrug.

Another huff, deeper this time. His head drops, forehead pressing against your temple. You can feel the vibration through your bones when he rests his chest on yours, and murmurs your name low. Ashes and embers. Smoke is thick in your nose.

"You're clingy when you're drunk."

"Says the one who hasn't let go of me since I sat on your cock—"

His hips grind against yours, and the cheeky tone dies off in a whimper.

"That's what I thought."

"No fair," you pant, arching your back under him. Your legs tighten around his waist. "You can't just abuse me with your dick to shut me up. You know it's my weakness."

"If it works…"

"You're a terrible man."

"Never said I wasn't, and anyone who says otherwise is lying."

Your hands slide up his shoulders, and you feel something sour twist inside of you when he tenses as you glide over his bare skin. Your nails graze his scalp, fingers threading through his moussed locks. He shudders at your touch.

"Guess I'm a liar, then," you fit your cheek against his, murmuring in his ear. Quiet, low. The ghost of a whisper.

His voice is tight when he speaks. Airy, light. It's as soft as you'd ever heard him. "Guess so, pet."

His arms tighten around you, holding you just a little bit closer. It's almost cruel how he holds you close to his chest like this. Like you're something to be protected, to be shielded.

(Humans are greedy things by nature.

How can he expect you not to want when he gives you moments like these to cling to?)

He doesn't stay long. Two nights watching football on your couch, drinking tea, and feigning obliviousness to the crack in the foundation that lingers between you. The intimacy is startlingly easy to fall into; he sleeps (really sleeps; his eyes closed, soft snores spilling out from behind the mask), relaxes around you in a way that makes you distinctly aware, now, of how tense he was before.

(And yet—he still came.)

There is no confession to be had over cawl or the roast dinner you make before he leaves, leftovers tucked inside his backpack when he isn't looking, left there for whatever endeavour he was going on next. You can't imagine they have many homemade meals.

You don't even really know what he wants from this, what he expects, except that it's happening. He's here, and that—

That's enough.

You're greedy, always will be, but there's a dissonance inside of your chest, balmed by the tinge of green in those obsidian depths when you spoke of going home with another man. The acrid taste of his ire feels more poignant than any words could offer.

A man of action.

(And action comes often in his life.)

He calls you—for the first time in four years, somewhere overseas—and the sound of his voice in your ear has you grinning stupidly in the solitude of your bedroom.

"Did I wake you?"

"Wasn't sleeping."

It's quiet. Through the static, you can almost make out the chitter of insects native to whichever place they called him to. You think about filling in the gap, but there is a breath. A shift. Then: "me, too. Wondered what you were up to."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Pet—"

"Thinking of you."

Silence again. His breath is white noise on the line. "I'll be—;" he pauses, inhaling once more: "—back soon. No promises."

"No, never," you smile. "Bring me a souvenir."

"All I have are heads, pet."

"How romantic."

"Never been much of one."

"I guess I could redecorate. Macabre-chic. "

He huffs. You wonder if it's a chuckle. "Would start to smell, wouldn't it?"

"Not much worse than you after a mission, surely."

"You—"

"Kinda miss it, though."

He says nothing. You catch the grainy inhale. The forceful exhale.

"Not much to miss."

"There's lots."

"There ain't."

"If you say so. Still do, though." You let it sit for a moment; a tender glimmer of raw vulnerability—the flavour he runs from. It brims. Your mother taught you that it was best to let things simmer. "It's been raining like crazy in London. Kinda reminds me of Wales."

"What do you call a sheep tied to a fence in Wales?"

"Do I want to know?"

"A leisure centre."

You nip your chuckle at the root, feigning exasperation instead. "You can do better than that."

"What do you call a soldier that survived mustard gas and pepper spray?"

"What?"

"A seasoned veteran."

Your huff trails off into silence. It's palpable, thick, but it isn't uncomfortable. It reminds you of the softness of night when you're supposed to be quiet. When you tiptoe around with a gingerness to avoid a raucous. Anything over a certain decibel is off-limits. It's not a rule. It isn't written down. But you follow it, anyway.

In that gloam when the sun sets over the horizon, and night settles like a blanket, you whisper:

Make sure those heads come home safe.

The sheets rustle. Something in the distance shatters.

He sucks in a breath. "I should go, pet."

It's as much of a promise as he'll ever make.

In the sticky gossamer of sleep, you feel something brush over your temple. A soft smear of warmth; transient and fleeting. The fluttering wings of a magpie.

It leaves before you can sink into its weight.

When you wake the next morning, the room smells of rust and gunpowder.

(No heads, but you find a whittled sheep on the pillow beside you.)

You open the cupboard above the vanity, reach for your toothbrush, and—

Oh.

A slow, soft smile crests over your lips, cheeks flushing under the jaundiced light.

Inside the solitary holder, another brush has taken residence beside yours. You stare at the two brushes in the rusting cup, heart thudding in your chest.

#simon riley x you #simon riley fanfic #simon riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #this is about as domestic as i can make ghost #simon riley cod #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty

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blingblong55 · 3 months

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Cupid's Chokehold-Keegan P. Russ

Based on a request: Inspired by this tiktok: https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSNvqQeak/ Can I request Rockstar!Keegan x Reader, please? Reader has been a fan of Keegan for many years, and for the first time, she managed to see him irl at a concert. When both eyes connected, ⚡️ ZING ⚡️ tension became to form. P/s: fluff/smut/smuttiest is up to you ☺️. Thank you!

---- F!Reader, 18+, smut, rockstar!keegan, rockband au, oral!sex, some fluff, P-in-V, unprotected!sex, mentions of drug use, consent checks, fingering ----

A/N: Okay but the song/title is fits with this so perfectly!

11:30 at night, the small venue doors open and you walk in. Your friends are excited just like you. Skulls, the rock band you've been obsessed with started their small tour in your city and there you were, front-row tickets, cherry red lipstick and that tight little dress. And there he is, Keegan Russ, the lead singer, waiting for the lights to dim and for him and his band to light the stage with their presence.

The guitar begins, drums next and with each drum hit, the lights flash. The fans go wild just like you as the lead singer, Keegan comes on stage and begins to sing. He begins to approach the edge of the stage and caresses a woman's face as he sings, he begins to near her lips with his own and before they kiss he pulls away with a smirk and a laugh. The other men in the bad chuckle, they also make women and men think they are to be kissed only to pull away at the last second. His pale blue eyes catch yours, and your heart races, he smirks and winks.

Midway through the concert, Keegan pulls a cigarette and lights it up, inhaling its smoke into his lungs, he looks at the women in the crowd. Which one will be his midnight meal? You knew he always had at least three women per show and then, there he stood, women screaming his name and he hopped off the stage, kissing women on the lips like it was normal, until he walked past you and stopped. Why was his heart racing? He had seen beautiful women, yes but you, oh you were carved by gods and kissed by angels. What is this good feeling in his chest? It can't be the drugs he took before the show, can't it? "What's your name, doll?" His American accent is present. You ushered your name to him and he smirked just a little, from his hand, he placed his cigarette to your lips. "Keep it warm for me, yeah?" He hurries back up to the stage and continues his show.

Last song and he leans over, points to you and gets a security guard to hurry you backstage. "Go, go!" your friends smile, their eyes on the drummer.

And now, here you are, in his dressing room, clothes scattered on the floor, sex toys and a package of condoms on the sofa. His cologne fills the room and so does the odor of cigarettes. "I see you did keep it warm," he takes the cigarette and places it back on his lips. "Tell me, doll, what are your deepest fantasies?" his arm is placed around your shoulder as he walks you to the tour bus. Every dirty secret whispered to him and the more you said, the more he wanted to just bend you over the sofa, rip those panties of yours and eat you out. As he closed the door to the tour bus, he looked at you. "You're okay with this? With me making every inch of yours mine?" "I am." "Better be, because I can't pretend I don't want you anymore," his warm and soft lips meet yours. His tongue pushed past yours, gaining dominance in a matter of seconds.

He backs you up to the bed and begins to kiss your neck and jaw, leaving trails of his lips on you. Your hands take off his clothes as he rips off yours. "You don't need this right?" a cocky grin on him as he tears the last piece of clothing off you. You heard stories of how he would fuck women before you and now, you have that privilege. His hand finds your waist and then slowly grabs and slaps your ass before he pushes you to the bed. "Be as loud as you can, okay doll?" Your warm tits bouncing as you eagerly nod. He chuckles, "Good girl." Those warm hands on his find your slick cunt. "Already wet for me? oh, doll, tsk tsk, guess I have no other option but to fuck that eagerness out of you, huh?" his lips twitch at the small smile he gives you.

Keegan kisses you from your forehead and to your inner thighs. He grips, slaps and nibbles on the softness of your skin. Before you can even predict it, he looks at you and begins to slowly trail the precious folds of your cunt. You let out a moan and he chuckles, "What, can't take a little kiss now?" His tongue licking and slowly trailing down to your eager little hole. "C'mon baby, lick 'em," his fingers on your mouth, getting them nice and soaked so he can finger you properly. Once they were, his fingers teased your entrance.

Good girls get stuffed and prepared before He treated them with his cock, isn't that right?

Slowly, as Keegan sucks and licks your precious clit and his fingers fuck themselves in you, you feel your climax get near. He can sense it and oh does this make him eager to hear yourself let loose. Why be a shy girl when you can be his loud little pet? "That's right, doll, come for me, do it." His words are persuasive and hot. His breath playing with your already sensitive cunt and all you can do is arch your back. His big hand holds your hips down, "No no, be a good girl and stay still for me," his voice hoarse. Those enchanting eyes never leave your face as he watches you go crazy with every passing second that he is down on you. What man would ever pass the opportunity to see a goddess like this? Your nipples are hard, mouth open as moans and soft whimpers leave and those eyes, oh those half-lidded eyes rolling back.

Is this what it is? He eats pussy good and that's why all women drop for him? If it is, you have been let in into the secret. When your orgasm crashes with his mouth, you hear him lick and devour your pretty cunt. He moans and drowns in your delicious juices. Pre-cum leaks from his swollen tip and that's when he finds himself humping the bed in which you lie. "Fuck, I can't do this anymore," he grabs your legs and drags you to the edge. "I need to fuck you, okay? I'll be rough, you hear me?" His fat and heavy cock slaps against your cunt and he teases your entrance with his tip. "Are you okay with this?" He looks directly into your eyes and you nod. "Very," is all you can respond and then, he slowly slips himself inside of you.

A whiny groan leaves his lips and slowly, to help you get used to his size, thrusts into you. A soft gasp escaped your lips, his size too much to bear at the moment but it feels just too good. His hand on your waist, the other cupping your face. Your cheek flushed. "Such a beauty, doll," and just in cue, he begins to kiss you. Perhaps it was the weed in the room, maybe it was that he already had you drunk on sex but it was a connection, the same one from before. It was different, not only did he feel it but you did too. Hooked on romance, the drugged poets say.

As he thrusts into you, he finds himself worshipping your body. The curves of your soft tits, the way your tummy feels when he lets his hands wander and how you feel clenched around his fat cock. Your moans and his mixing create a perfect tune. That's when the idea struck. He grabs his phone and looks at you, "I'll keep fucking you, you just moan, doll," he nods and presses record. His thrusts harder by the second, only letting you grip onto him as he fingers your clit. Your moans are louder yet still so angelic. "Keegan," you repeat multiple times. What a perfect song you'll be.

"Fuck, fuck," his eyes shut and his moans grow louder. His cum and your juices meet. His seed filling you up, hands roaming your body as he kisses you, to soothe the exhaustion. "It's okay, you did great, doll," he whispers and pulls out. Keegan begins to caress you, calming your shaky legs and excited body. A bottle of water meets your lips as he begins to care for you.

It wasn't three women he'd have as a midnight meal, it's you he rather want in his bed now. With your moans and his ever-beating lover's heart, that is what he needs. You, the muse to his sex, love and any other songs. Those painted cherry lips of yours, what a heaven on Earth have you given him.

Five months into you and it's him who is more than drunk. Now, as he celebrates yet another concert, the last song he finishes with is his ultimate favourite. Cupid's Chokehold, dedicated to his doll. The girl who owns the once playboy.

Take a look at my girlfriend

She's the only one I got

Not much of a girlfriend

I never seem to get a lot

And now, each time he finishes that song, he winks at you. You who so proudly watches him from the side of the stage smile and then he takes your hand and walks to the tour bus with you.

A/N: Hope ya liked it and I know this is long overdue, so sorry for the delay :)

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sysmedsaresexist · 1 year

Text

I've heard one of my posts is causing waves

Here's some more things that are normal in DID/OSDD systems, and some weird myths, in no particular order

- Not realizing you're a system until later is normal (average age of system discovery is 18-21)

- It's rare for children to display distinct alters (not impossible, just a rare occurrence in a rare disorder (based on numbers, it's considered rare, yes), alters tend to form in mid-teens)

- Feeling as though you "created" an alter is normal (related to unconscious feelings of control over an uncontrollable situation, and/or tricking yourself into an explanation, also, if you have a need to be filled, the brain WILL provide)

- "mixed origin systems" are totally normal for DID/OSDD. I have a couple alters that could be considered "endogenic", but I'm really just... DID, with normal alters forming in normal ways

- Alters forming at any age/time is normal (you can form a brand new alter at fifty, after having undergone complete fusion, once the ability is there, it's always possible to split)

- Alters don't always appear immediately after a traumatic event (alters can take YEARS to come to front after forming, making it impossible to tie them to specific events unless THEY'RE aware of the connection)

- Alters can form from stress, not just trauma (and the brain is notoriously good at hiding how stressed you are from yourself)

- Comfort splits ARE normal in DID/OSDD

- The amnesia criteria in DID doesn't mean you need to experience amnesia day-to-day, you still have DID if you can't remember childhood events but have good communication now

- The dysfunction criteria is redundant and circular, where the symptoms themselves fulfill the criteria, and as per the DSM, doesn't imply any inherent need for treatment or distress-- so being happy, loving your system, feeling like your system helps you more than it hinders you, all normal (and good!) but still DID/OSDD

- OSDD 1a does not involve alters as they're known, but states or modes that influence you, and amnesia occurs during these periods of influence; OSDD 1b involves "emotional amnesia" only (which is just a stupid, fancy word for dissociation (an emotional disconnect from a memory) that doesn't actually exist in the medical world)

- You can have as many EPs and ANPs as you'd like. The majority of systems with OSDD feel as though the one ANP theory doesn't fit them, and there have recently been updates to theories to acknowledge this

- Integration is the lowering of dissociative barriers to allow for better communication between system members, and is absolutely necessary for functional multiplicity (fusion is the joining of two or more alters). These definitions come from the ISSTD, and it IS recognized by the ISSTD that integration and functional multiplicity are viable and attainable treatment goals. Keep this in mind when conversations about these topics come up-- if you can communicate clearly with alters, you're already well integrated. It's not scary, it's not bad, and no one can or will make you fuse.

- CPTSD, the basis of dissociative disorders and DID, presents very differently from PTSD -- mostly presenting as a negative view of the self and vigilance rather than the flashbacks and nightmares you'd see in PTSD (it's quite similar to BPD, but the view of the self is negative rather than unstable). If you resonate with some aspects of BPD and have a system, and you don't experience the "typical" presentation of PTSD, that's normal. That's CPTSD (complex PTSD, not chronic PTSD), maybe read up on it.

- You don't need to know your trauma to acknowledge that you have DID/OSDD, and no one should be pushing that you search for trauma. Who cares, move at your own pace, maybe you'll never figure it out, and that's perfectly fine. People who push others about their trauma will face my wrath.

- Trauma isn't an action, but a REACTION to an event. What traumatizes one person, may not have any effect on another person, and vice versa. This isn't about what might have happened to you, but how you felt about it. There is no Trauma Olympics, and people who play that way are ridiculous. Trauma reactions are personal and unique, and come from anything-- bullying, isolation and loneliness, abuse. And yes, other disorders can make you more susceptible to trauma reactions. Having autism or ADHD or BPD, EDs, psychosis, schizophrenia-- all of these create more opportunities for trauma reactions, and make someone more susceptible. That doesn't mean you're not trauma based. It doesn't mean those things caused your system. It means those things made it harder for you to navigate life and left you more susceptible to trauma. That's it.

- MADD is typically trauma based

There's so, so many more. Other DID/OSDD systems, feel free to add on, endogenic systems, ask if something is normal.

#syscourse #actuallyplural #actuallymultiple #actuallytraumagenic #actuallyosdd #actuallydid #osdd #did #endogenic #totally normal things

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irishmammonagenda · 1 month

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Hi girl!!!

I have this idea running around in my head for so long. Can you write the demon bros with little sister reader (around the teenage year)? Hear me out. She's the 8th of the family which means she's the youngest. The brothers must be overprotective of her and they would love her so much. Lucifer would have a soft spot for her. She and Mammon would be partners in crime. Then Satan will help her with her study and Asmo will love to help her do her hair. That's it 😁

Btw I love your writing...

hihi! yeah ofc i can! <3

as per usual I had no idea where this was going🧍‍♂️

but this was super fun to write as well

grma for the ask! <3

[Amazing Title]-Obey Me Brothers + Little Sister! Reader

Summary: The brothers except MC's their wee sister ig, chaos ensues. Word Count: 3.8k+ Warnings: Mentions of Death, Female Reader (she/her pronouns used) MC changes her hair length and colour when she feels like it, also she has a crush on some rando idek,

dividers by @cafekitsune

Lucifer was sick to his stomach. Long broken wings attempted to flap, ivory feathers turning black. Wounds open and bleeding. Shooting through stormy skies like a dying star.

His eyes burnt, the speed of his fall making it almost impossible to take in a breath. His lungs burnt. His heart hurt. He hadn´t understood death until Cain took the Rock to Abel, until Father took the scepter to Lilith.

Was he going to die?

He was falling.

As he tore through the sky at a damned pace, he caught a glimpse of warm bronze skin, unusually cold, stained with blood as red as the long crimson hair of his sister.

Despite the pain, despite the strain in his broken, burnt wings, he used the last of his willpower, the last of his strength, to get to the young girl.

He wrapped his hands around her, pulling her close to his chest, attempting to shield her from the fall.

"Luci?-" Lilith chokes out weakly, skin greying, holding onto her brother like a lifeline, one that was getting further away, as her grip slowly loosened. "Luci...I-im scared..."

"D-...don't be..." Lucifer manages to choke out. He could see some sembelance of land now. Some sembelance of an end to the torture of just....falling. "I'll protect you, L-Lilith."

He held on tight to her as he braced for impact, not registering that his little sister had died in his arms, that six wings became two.

He lost conciousness for a moment, hardly lucid, coming to moments later. The ringing in his ears didn't stop.

He coughed up dirt. Dust cleared to reveal two demons, as he looked around he saw crimson everywhere. Filthy fuil dearg coated the crater he'd created. Lucifer scrambled up, staring at the mangled form of what used to be his sister. Not noticing a pair of his wings at his feet. They didn't matter.

He screamed. Gently cradling the corpse, looking up at the Demon Prince with eyes filled with firey fearg, "Save her! Bring her back! Help her..!" He shouts, anger fading to desperation.

The prince regards him with a sort of impassivity, after backs and forths and emotions unravelling, the Demons agree to revive his precious sister as a human, provided Lucifer swears his loyalty, makes a vow with a heavy heart.

"I Lucifer Morningstar....swear absolute loyalty to Lord Diavolo, Prince of Hell."

"Very good."

With a snap of the Demon Butler's finger, his sister disappeared, a screech erupted, but it wasn't from Lucifer. Turning behind him, the disgraced angel saw one of the wings he had barely registered splitting from him---too focused on the pain of losing his sister than the pain of losing his wings,-- the now black mass of feathers morphed and grew like bubbling tar, emitting screeches.

The creature that formed of it, pale of skin, blond of hair, its face contorted in a pain Lucifer felt was a part of him. The demon races, screeching with a fury unbridled. Destruction followed it.

The Demon Prince and Butler watch on with intrigue whilst Lucifer tries to keep from breaking down a second time. The sound of whistling through the air alerts him of his other brothers falling. He looks up, hoping to see where they landed.

Somewhere amongst the vast Devildom. He had to find them. He couldn't handle another death, another loss. Despite his disgrace, his deportation from the only home he'd ever known, he prays to Father one last time, that his brothers were alive.

"There's no need. I will attend to the fallen angels now." The butler says serenely, both him and the Demon Prince disappearing within a moment's notice. Although the latter was more hesitant.

The creature of his wing is still screeching, like a coyote on the prowl, but inherently more sinister. It bites and screams, eyes filled with a murderous rage, one it directs towards Lucifer, as it comes charging at him like a bull of the plaza de toros.

Lucifer takes a step back, His foot hitting something soft and quishy. He pauses, the thing cries. The wails of a newborn cutting through the thick air like a knife, the creature of his wing stops screeching, tilting its head and staring down at the ground.

Lucifer gently picks you up. Cradling you in his arms. He looks to both you and the Creature of Wrath, both so inherently different, both his.

He looks into your eyes for a moment, such a tiny demon, more suited to be an angel, so unlike the pure cantankerousness of the older of the two creatures of his wings.

Lucifer, in the throws of his grief, made two vows that day, the first an oath of absolute loyalty to the Demon Prince, the second, a móid to always protect you.

You tapped your pen against the desk, biting the inside of your cheek as you stared down at your textbook. Shoulder length black hair tied in a low ponytail so it wasn't pouring over your face as you worked. You sighed in defeat, set your pen down and looked up at your two older brothers who were sitting opposite you, and planning out what looks to be another failed prank.

Satan and Belphie had their heads together, murmuring rather animatedly amongst eachother. You snorted, leaning over the table, your sudden movement catches their attention as you stare up at them, your head tilted.

"What about a whoopie cushion?" You ask softly, Belphie makes a face.

"We are not using...human...pranks, we're demons." He snorts, "We have more class than that."

You pout, Satan pinches him from under the table. His green eyes looking dotingly at you, like he would a cat. Coincidentally, he pats your head, ruffling your hair. "I think a simple human world prank could be entertaining to try." He says, giving Belphie a look, the Seventh Born raises his hands lazily in defeat, before leisurely sliding over the table to sit beside you, you quickly flipped to a blank page in your notebook, lest your older brother see the doodles you'd absentmindedly scribbled of you and your crush, a demon from your Devildom History Class.

Satan writes 'Whoopie Cushion' in cursive on their blueprint plans, tongue sticking out ever so slightly, before going back to his own homework. Belphie leans his head on your shoulder, dozing off.

"How did Fear Gorta come to fruition as an entity in the Human Realm?" You read off of your paper, Satan looks up from his essay for seductive speechcraft--a class which you were too young to take--he blinks for a moment, before setting his fountain pen down, and taking up the seat on the other side of you.

Belphie looks over at you tiredly, stretching his arms.

"Need any help?"

They glare at each other playfully, you nod.

Satan takes the textbook from you for a moment, reading the question aloud again.

"Fear Gorta are said to rise from Féar Gortach....sometimes they're just people who died of starvation near Sídhe hills." Satan begins to explain, watching as you nod along.

"They were said to go around with a bowl for begging or almsgiving...travelling, knocking on doors, asking for food." Belphie interjects lazily, head still on your shoulder. "They could hardly keep the bowl from dropping, because they were so weak."

You nod, writing it down, you'd always had trouble simplifying long texts down to their key parts, something Lucifer had assured you would come with time. It was a good thing you had your brothers. They were always willing to help you with homework.

"But what about that has to do with the Fear Gorta coming to fruition in the Human Realm?" You ask, feeling a little dumb.

Satan clears his throat, "Well, some Devildom and Human Scholara believe that the Fear Gorta is what brought the Famine to Ireland. Supposedly, just before the Great Famine, he emerged after a battle of the Fae near Cnoc Meadha."

You scribble that down, your tongue sticking out slightly, an idiosyncrasy developed from your older brother.

Belphie hums, eyes closed, and breathing so even you thought he was asleep. "Mhm, but others believe he's a personification of An Gorta Mór, or the Great Famine himself. That the people of Ireland made him up during the 1840s as a way of coping with and explaining the potato blight."

Upon seeing your confused face, Satan chuckles, "Essentially, the Fear Gorta is an example of how Human suffering can cause mythological beings to be thought up, and how with enough Human Manifestation, they can truly become something that exists."

As if to emphasize, Satan takes a random pen and a scrap piece of paper, drawing little doodles with the summarising he and Belphie had just did.

"Thanks Satan! Thanks Belphie!" You grin, taking the scrap piece of paper, using it to help you jot down the rest of your notes, finally understanding, you begin to answer the question, making a mental note to not let Mammon see the drawings that Satan drew, ever.

It takes a total of ten minutes of pens scratching against paper, Belphie's soft snores, and the dull drill of your own thoughts before you set your pen down, and look up grinning at Satan.

"So...about the prank you're planning..."

The next morning, all decked out in your RAD uniform, you sit on a poof and stare at your reflection in the luxurious vanity. You had decided on long hair, a dark pink so deep it was almost red. That was one of the búntáistí of having the Avatars of Lust and Wrath as brothers, you knew all the best spells for hair, and boy did you exploit that fact.

Short hair? No problem. Long hair? Alright then. Curly? Straight? Wavy? Ask and you shall receive.

Not to mention, Asmo would style your hair, no matter the length, shade or texture, and he would always make it look gorgeous Which was exactly what he was doing now, a gentle comb being ran down your hair, before your brother begins to braid strands in an intercate half-up, half-down pattern.

It's always relaxing when your 5th oldest brother does your hair, always conscious of not hurting you, you let your mind wander.

And wander your mind does, twisting and turning while travelling through the crevices of your brain, eventually coming to a stop at its destination, which just so happened to be the demon in your Devildom History class. They made you feel giddy, with their shoulder length, layered turquoise hair and purposely messy black eye shadow in place of the usual clean cut liquid eyeliner.

"Something on your mind, hon?" Asmo asks concerned as he puts a soft, black bow in your hair, you had been unfocused for a while now.

"Its nothing!" You say a little too defensively, your older brother gives you a knowing look, perfectly threaded eyebrows raising ever so slightly before he gasps and grins excitedly, holding back a squeal.

"Oh!~ And just who is this nothing, honey?~" He asks, you cover your face in your hands and groan, mortification dripping over you as Asmo finishes up on your hair.

Once your hair is done, you rush out, so as not to give the Avatar of annoying you lust any more ammo to tease you with.

Unluckily for you, Asmo was very environmentally friendly, and could make his own ammo.

Your mortification however, is not as short-lived as you'd hoped it would be.

Upon entering the dining room, you make a beeline for Mammon, your partner in crime, and sit beside your 2nd oldest brother, who laughs at you.

"Ye look like yer goin' to a Feis!" He laughs, slapping his knees ad doubled over, you pout and Lucifer, who sat directly diagonal to Mammon at the head of the table slapped him up the back of the head, leaving the avatar of greed choking and spluttering on his own spit.

"S-sorry MC..." He says in between coughs, "Ya look lovely..." He gives you an awkward side hug before resuming his activity of choking to death. You turn to the rest of your brothers as they trickle in, Levi was having an anime marathon, and for the sake of the Devildom seas, and the House of Lamentation not flooding for the nth time, he was allowed to stay in his room, provided he ate something of nutritional value, which meant that some time in the next few hours Lucifer would come into the 3rd born's room with a bowl of freshly cut fruit and force the otaku to eat it.

He was such a mother hen.

Speaking of Lucifer....

"MC," Lucifer drawls, catching your attention. "I received your bi-weekly report last night, you did well in all subjects, though I've noticed your History scores have gone down..." Your eldest brother sets his fork down fully and leans in a little closer to you, only a little bit of concern and a whole lot of care in his eyes, no judgement whatsoever. "Are you not understanding the course material? Would you like me to help you with your work? Or we could get you a tutor."

Asmo leans in to your conversation, eye glittering mischievously, he had taken a little longer to come down to breakfast than he usually did. You were sure he eliminated all of the options and knew exactly what demon you were crushing on.

"Now now Luci!~" He interjects, earning a soft glare from Lucifer, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, MC's just a little bit....distracted..." He puts his hands on your shoulders.

Lucifer's eyes widen ever so slightly, Belphie and Satan exchange knowing glances, Beel blinks slowly, were you having trouble focusing in class?

Mammon discreetly opens his DDD under the table, if you were having trouble focusing, he knew a few guys who sold some pretty good remedies for that.

You groan, quickly scarfing down the rest of your breakfast before grabbing Mammon and running out the door, your older brother yelling in confusion.

6 other brothers watch you leave, before turning to Asmo.

Belphie is the first to speak, "Alright, who is it?"

"Who's what?" Beel tilts his head, Belphie turns to him with a smile.

"MC has a crush on someone in her History class."

"Oh, okay." Beel turns to Asmo, "Who is it?"

You and Mammon arrive at RAD unusually early, on account of you essentially fleeing the breakfast table like an escaped convict and dragging your brother with you.

Mammon wasn't annoyed at all, despite his outward act, in actuality, he was delighted. You had picked him to drag out of a chair and run with you?! That meant he must be your favourite big brother! His chest puffs out with pride as you both chatter whilst he walks you to your form class. What type of favourite big brother would he be if he let his little sister walk down the scary hallways of school alone?!

"And then Satan said-" You stop uncerimonously when you catch sight of who's at the other end of the corridor, a blush coating your cheeks, barely noticeable on your skin, hardly even there, but Mammon still picked up on it.

"Hey, twerp, what's up wi' ye?" He asks, examining the hallway, taking notice of the only other demon there.

With a baggy dark denim jacket adorned in pins pulled over their RAD uniform, headphones snapped over their ears, messy turquoise hair cascading down their tanned face. The demon is young--Mammon notices--they look around the same age as you, maybe slightly older.

As they get closer and spot MC, they grin, silver braces shining in the light of the RAD hallway. "Hiya MC! You´re in early!" The demon calls out to you, Mammon notes how you swallow thickly before waving shyly at the demon in question as they approach the pair of you.

The demon goes to rub their eyes, but upon remembering the messy yet purposeful placement of black eyeshadow acting as eyeliner, they stop and pout for just a moment before looking at MC and grinning, eyes as grey as stone flickering to Mammon for just a moment, the demon looks to you and raises one of their thick, dark eyebrows.

"This one of your brothers, MC?" They ask, gaze flickering between you and your brother like a faulty lightbulb.

"O-oh uh...yes! Mammon this is C-Caelus....Caelus this is Mammon..." You introduce them.

"Oh, please, call me Cael, everyone does!" They smile politely at Mammon reaching out to shake his hand, Mammon, bites the inside of his cheek to stop his jaw from dropping. You had a....crush on Cael didn't you?"

"Oh aye." Is all he can manage to say.

Cael nods, before turning completely to face you, they eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly, "So, how come you're in early today?..Nice hair by the way!" They run a hand through their dark turquoise hair, messing it up with their long fingers.

"Oh uh thanks Cael!" You bite your lip, trying to figure out what to say next. "I was thinking of getting in early and studying for the test next week...." You lie, though it did sound like a good idea. No way were you explaining the fiasco that was Breakfast.

Mammon watches like a crow, stopping himself from cooing. You were so adorable! His favourite little dickhead's first crush! They grow up so fast!

He cringes internally, thinking, 'What the actual fuck, I sound like Asmo.'

After another moment, he interupts your conversation to tell you that he needs to go, you nod and say goodbye, before continuing to talk to Cael and trying to keep your blushing under control.

Mammon tredges to the courtyard before whistling.

"Hiya Éan!" He coos to the crow that lands perched on his shoulders, the bird looks unamusedly at him, its been a year and the avian was still judging him for the name choice! "Oh stop yer yappin'...." At the unimpressed look Éan gives him, his eyelid twitches. "Well, I know yer gurnin' internally...don't think I'm dim."

Éan caws.

"Look, I need ye ta do somethin' for me, so I do." Mammon groans at the crows shaking of its head. "I'm not askin' ye to assassinate anyone! I just need ye to keep an eye on this one wee demon in m'sister's class..."

Éan blinks, before leaning in closer to Mammon, he pets its head, it leans into the touch.

"Right so listen up, their name's Caelus...but people call 'em Cael...I need ye to keep an eye on them and give me a report back in a day or so, we clear?"

Éan lets out a quiet caw.

"Great!"

After a long day of RAD, you waled into the attic, where Satan and Belphie were unboxing whoopie cushions. Or rather Satan was unboxing whoopie cushions and Belphie was watching him lazily.

"Hi MC." Belphie smiles at you before gesturing to sit beside him, so you do.

"I thought you said my human world pranks were stupid." You look at Belphie.

"I've decided that since I'm such a good role model, I'll give it a go."

You deadpan, about to say something before a bellowing laugh erupts from Satan.

"You? A good role model?" The 4th born wipes a tear from his eye. "What's next? Lucifer breaking up with Lord Diavolo?"

"I don't think they're dating Satie…" You butt in.

Belphie smirks, "Then why are they so gay?"

"He is the Avatar of Pride, I guess." You shrug.

And with that, Satan picks up the whoopie cushion and the three of you begin your descent down the staircase to Lucifer's office. With you making small talk to distract them from Asmo's words in the morning.

You reach Lucifer's office, but now you need to draw him out. Satan walks in.

"Hello Lucifer."

"Your prank's not going to work." Lucifer puts his pen down.

Satan puts a hand over his heart in mock offence. "No, I saw a cat on the streets walking home and I want to adopt it." He says, not even lying.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't need one."

Satan feels wrath bubble up inside him, before he makes a risky move, knowing he needs Lucifer out of his office so you can place the whoopie cushion. "Well if I don't need a cat then you don't need your paperwork!"

He reaches forward and grabs the official documents on Lucifer's desk then bolts.

Lucifer jolts up out of his seat and races after him, out of the office.

That's your cue, quick as a thief on the hunt, you run into your eldest brother's office, and place the whoopie cushion down on his seat, you did it!

"Are you having fun, MC?" Lucifer asks, you jump. Turning around you see a slightly disheveled Lucifer staring at you, eyebrow raised and holding slightly crinkled papers. You back away.

"I wasn't doing anything!" You lie obviously.

"Hmm. Sure….now as for your punishment….I've already strung Satan up in the enterance hall, and I'm certain Belphie has gone somewhere to sleep, when he wakes up he will be appropriately disciplined of course…." He moves closer to you. "Now as for you….." Lucifer clicks his fingers and a desk and chair appear, the waves of magic pushing you into it.

You're going to sit there until I've finished my work. No DDD."

You groan, but don't complain, if it was anyone else out of your brothers, Lucifer would have strung them up like he did with Satan.

An hour goes by, though it seems like several to you, as you're bored out of your mind. Lucifer sets his pen down and stares at you.

"Now, tell me about this Caelus."

You stiffen, knowing better than to lie to your eldest, and strictest brother. "They uh-they're a demon in my class…"

Lucifer raises an eyebrow, prompting you to continue, "And what's this I'm hearing about you having a crush on them?"

"Asmo!" You gurn, covering your face in your hands.

"Asmo and Mammon, actually." Lucifer's lips twitch upwards. "Do you have anything to day for yourself?"

"I won't do drugs."

"MC."

"Okay fine! They're a good demon, I promise! I don't even know if I wanna ask them out yet!"

Lucifer's eyes soften, seeing you now, sitting at a desk, complaining about love…he can't help but be reminded of a different person in a different realm long ago, long passed.

"I trust you, but be careful, okay?"

You nod, something churns in Lucifer's stomach as he looks at you, gracefully moving over to you, and pulling you into a soft hug, arms wrapping around you protectively, as if shielding you from the elements.

"And if ever, you need any help whatsoever, come to me? You understand?"

You nod.

"Say it."

"I understand Luci."

Lucifer smiles, ruffling your hair. "I will always protect you MC."

AND WE'RE DONE!!! this was honetly fun to write, i had no idea where i was going with this and i'm sorry if it doesn't make any sense 🧍‍♂️

fuil (pronounced 'full') means blood, móid (maw-d-ge) means vow or promise, 'to make a vow' would translate to 'móid a thabhairt' (maw-d-ge ah how-ert-ch)

éan (pronounced 'ane') means bird. idk i thought it was funny

#obey me imagines #obey me shall we date #obey me x reader #obey me headcanons #omswd #obey me mc #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me satan #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me fluff #obey me platonic #obey me lilith #obey me brothers

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inkblot-inc · 4 months

Text

A Trip Around The Sun

Summary: From the RCD Universe; It's been a year since you and Wanda made things official, so who doesn't love a little anniversary somethin' somethin'?

Pairing: Jeweler!Wanda Maximoff x Metalworker!Reader

Warning(s): There's smut in this one so just to be sure: This is 18+ ONLY so MINORS DNI. Fingering (w receiving), oral sex (w recieving). The sex aside, this one's pretty sappy overall. I don't even think there's that much language in this one, bud.

Note(s): What better way to break in 2024 than with a little sweetness between two of my favorites? Granted this would have gone up yesterday had my power not gone out after coming home from my vacation, but ah well, we're here now. I hope y'all enjoy this one :3

Word Count: well into 2.7k baybee

*squints* I give NO ONE permission to repost or translate my work. Make your own shit!

Tonight was you and Wanda's one year anniversary and you wanted to leave with enough time to get home before Wanda and get changed for the plans you arranged tonight.

Wanda had been texting you as much as she could throughout the day in addition to packing your favorite for lunch. The texts had started out innocent and then got progressively heavier with innuendos later in the day. Needless to say, you were all but ready to finally see your girl.

You just finished cleaning up your station for the evening, making sure everything was powered off and in its proper place for when you come in the day after tomorrow. Before you walked out of the shop, you stopped in Logan's office as per usual. You walked in to see him going through papers. Inventory reports from what you were able to catch.

Logan looks up from his work, "Leaving early?"

You can't help the smile that blooms on your face as you answer. "Yeah, it's mine and Wanda's anniversary tonight. Wanted to take her out for the night, I even got reservations for seven."

Logan simply nods along with your explanation. "Where are you takin' her?"

There's a bit of hesitance in your voice as your eyes focus more on the older man's desk. "Carnivora Snow. She's never been, I don't think, But I think it'd be nice."

Logan doesn't respond for a good minute, before you wind up looking back at him. Logan sets down his paperwork. "Well, say hi for me, bub. And have a good night." His voice is just a little bit less gruff than usual.

Your smile is smaller but doesn't lose its warmth. "That's the plan."

After you leave Logan's office and close the door behind you, he just sits there for a second to have a moment to himself.

------

It's 4:45 PM when you get home, and the first thing you do is go to shower and change clothes. You change into a black form-fitting suit; nothing egregious, but definitely formal enough to fit the occasion. You leave the top two buttons of your gray button-down shirt undone and wear a few silver rings to accessorize. You take your time to get the look just right since you're the first one home from work.

It's 5:30PM when Wanda gets in from work, your interaction is brief seeing as you both wanted to make it to your reservations on time. You mainly stuck to quick banter about your work days as you both finished getting ready to leave.

Wanda comes out of her personal room wearing a merlot red off-shoulder gown, with a silver piece of jewelry that mimics a tied neck for the dress. You realize that it disappears under said dress as well. Before your curiosity distracts you, you realize that it's 6:20PM and that you'll make your reservation with just enough time. After a brief deliberation, you opt to drive to the restaurant in Wanda's car rather than in your truck.

------

Carnivora Snow is a Restaurant in New York that is well on its way to getting a Michelin star. With its reservation list almost always filled, you had to pull a few strings you hadn't used in a while to get seating for the two of you tonight, but it was more than worth it.

Both of you were having a wonderful time so far, with Wanda ordering Honey Garlic Salmon while you had the Chicken Kyiv this time around.

It was clear you both were enjoying yourselves, not just in terms of company, but food as well. Particularly when she noticed how quickly you were polishing your plate. "That good, huh?"

You swallowed the bite of food in your mouth before answering her, "I swear they snuck crack in this Chicken, Wands. The mashed potatoes are really good too,"

She smiled at your sheepish reply, "Do you mind if I try some?" You shook your head as you pushed your plate in Wanda's direction.

After cutting a piece of her own and trying it, she hummed in approval as her eyes lit up. "That's delicious,"

"Right? It's gotta be crack." Wanda laughed at the fake suspicion in your voice. Her food was quite good as well, but she made a note to herself to order this the next time she came here as she cut herself another piece. Wanda continued to laugh freely as you idly chatted over dinner and exchanged bites of the other's entrees.

You both split the cost when the check came, but you got up to go the restroom while you were waiting. You passed the Teppanyaki-style section of the restaurant on your way back, seeing two chefs in the front preparing food in front of other guests before you caught sight of another female chef in the back.

You met eyes with said chef before her eyes widened slightly. You see her talk to one of the other cooks before going through a side door to meeting you out on the floor.

The woman moved the blonde whisps peeking through her hat, surprise still settling into her features. "You're really here. Part of me thought you wouldn't show..."

You raised a brow with a teasing smile, "I contacted you, 'Lena"

She nods, more to herself than anything. "I know, it's just...been a minute you know?"

You completely understood, it's been a busy few months because of the holiday season after all. "Logan says hey, by the way."

Yelena's answering smile is more sincere, "Well 'hey' to the old man. Anyways, how have you been? You said you were bringing your lady friend here with you."

You grinned at the mere mention of Wanda. "I did I did, she's still at our table. I'll introduce you before we leave."

After a second, your bright smile turns into a somber one. "How is she?"

Yelena's smile also dims, "Busy. Quiet.... She usually throws herself into her work this time of year. There's all the events coming after the holidays for her to plan and plan."

You nod as you try not to think too hard on what you heard. It was around this time that year too... "Well, I'll see you in a minute, we'll be at the front to finish paying" You squeeze Yelena's shoulder with your hand before you turn to walk back to your table.

Yelena simply watches your back before going back to let her workers know she'd be gone for another ten minutes.

---

Wanda is gathering her bag when you come back, "Are we all set to go?"

She stands up to meet you with the check in her hand. "Yes we are. Was there a line at the bathroom?"

You take Wanda's hand in yours as you both walk to the front of the restaurant "it was a bit of a line, yeah. but there's someone I want you to meet before we go."

By the time the both of you get to the register, Yelena is there waiting for you. You gesture towards the blonde, "'Lena, this is my girlfriend, Wanda Maximoff. Wanda, this is my childhood friend, Yelena Belova. She also happens to own this establishment."

Yelena offers her hand to Wanda, who gladly takes it. "It's a pleasure to meet Y/n's instantly better half. They are very lucky to have you," she turns to you, "You are very lucky to have her,"

You roll your eyes at Yelena's teasing smirk as Wanda chuckles at her remark. "I don't need you to tell me that, I am highly aware."

Wanda rubs your arm in a overly soothing gesture, "We're both lucky, darling."

You lightly groan in fake irritation, "I regret this already." Both of them continue to joke at your expense, and you can't help but be relieved that they seemed to get along rather quickly.

After they exchanged phone numbers, you said your goodbyes actually getting a rare hug out of Yelena along with a promise to meet up again soon.

When You and Wanda left the restaurant, you give Wanda your suit jacket to avoid the brisk night air.

Wanda gratefully puts it on as you both make your way to her car. "Yelena seems really nice, honey. She reminds me of one of my work colleagues."

You open the car door for her before getting in yourself. "Yeah? She can be a bit much, but we're locked in like this," You crossed your fingers with one hand. "We met in middle school, so she's basically family anyway,"

"I bet the both of you were trouble together,"

"Eh, you'd win that bet," You chuckle to yourself as Wanda takes your free hand in her lap on the ride back home while you told recalled some of the things you got into (and sometimes paid for) with your oldest childhood friend.

------

About halfway home, the energy in the car was different. As the troublemaker stories petered out, the more the both of you were focused on each other. The moment the two of you got back home from Carnivora Snow, the atmosphere was charged with intention.

The two of you were almost glued together as you made your way to the master bedroom. Wanda only separated from you long enough to go around the opposite side of the bed to undress, albeit slowly. You're admittedly less graceful while undressing in comparison to Wanda's slow striptease. Your impatience brought you around to Wanda's side of the bed just as she took off her shoes. You grasped at Wanda's borrowed jacket to feel more of her skin, and you watched it flush as your lips went from her face to her neck. The silky cloth could hardly compare.

"You look so beautiful tonight, doll," Your hands rest on Wanda's hips as her own reach up to unzip the back of her dress, and your eyes stay on hers in the full-length mirror across from the two of you as your lips stay level with her shoulder. "Y'know, I couldn't keep my eyes off of you at dinner..."

Wanda's smirk held nothing but mischief as she turned to look at you briefly, "Is that right?"

Wanda got the zipper about halfway done before you took it upon yourself to pull it the rest of the way down, the material going slack on her body. "Mhm, but now I don't have to even try to keep my hands off of you."

Your eyes enjoyed everything about the view; Along with more exposed goosebumps, the body jewelry Wanda wore for tonight was fully visible, the fine silver innocently clasped around her neck draped over her chest and caressed just under her breasts. With Wanda's stiff peaks coming through the thin tassels, the piece flattered her figure more than you thought anything could.

You let the fabric pool on the floor and ran your hands under the jewels to knead Wanda's breasts. A sigh left Wanda's mouth as she leaned back onto your front. You took the opportunity to pinch her nipple, making her moan from the sudden sensation.

Wanda takes her other hand to turn your face to look at her. "I need more, detka."

You tweak Wanda's nipple harder, making her cry out before running your free hand down from her hip to her navel before going under Wanda's lacey underwear.

You lift your head to meet Wanda's ear, "Just relax for me, I'll make you feel good baby. Promise."

Your index and middle fingers gathered some of Wanda's slick before they made contact with her clit and started to massage the bundle of nerves. Wanda's moans began to mix with each other as she squirmed under your hold, her eyes fluttering shut.

You pressed lightly on Wanda's clit making her gasp and open her eyes again. "Ah ah, I want you to watch me, doll."

Wanda's eyes gazed at the two of you in the mirror as your fingers went further until they sunk into her fully, curling inside.

You pumped your fingers in and out of Wanda's wetness at a steady pace, making her arch into your hand in search of more friction. "Harder, please! I've been waiting for this all night,"

You can't help but oblige as you push your fingers to go deeper, even adding a third finger to stretch Wanda out more. "Yeah? this is what you wanted, baby?"

"Yes yes yes! Just like that! God, you feel so good," Wanda's voice borders on breathless as she becomes like putty in your hands, her eyes half-lidded as she keeps her eyes on the two of you.

You pull Wanda to sit down with you on the end of the bed on your lap, as you continue to fuck her with your fingers, your thumb rubbing her clit to bring her closer to her high. Wanda cries out as you start moving your fingers at a feverish pace while continuing to knead her breast with your other hand.

You put your lips to her ear again, "Are you gonna cum for me, doll?" Wanda nods her head rapidly before you pull your fingers out of her making her groan at the lost feeling.

You lift your hand covered with Wanda's slick for her to see, "Look at the mess you were making all over my hand, Wandy." She watches you as you bring the soaked digits to your mouth to suck them clean.

Before Wanda can completely lose her high though, you move her to lay down on the bed fully while you settle below her on your stomach. You snag a pillow to place under her waist for comfort. Wanda's legs settle on your shoulders as your mouth becomes level with her pussy. While your arms hook around Wanda's thighs, you keep a thumb pressed to her clit while you eat her out. It doesn't take her long to get right back to where she ached to be.

"I'm cumming, baby, I'm cumming!" Your other hand holds her entrance open as your tongue chases her release with her. Wanda's hips spasm in your hold as you continue to help her through her orgasm.

You lift your head to look up at Wanda, hair long since falling out of the updo she carefully placed it in, the auburn tresses spread out on the sheets around her. You carefully move out from underneath Wanda to join her at the top of the bed.

Both of you finally took the time to catch your breath again, tremors continued to pulse through her still.

after laying down for a while, you untangled yourself from Wanda before sitting up. "I'm gonna get the shower going so the water can heat up, Alright?"

Wanda nodded with a lazy smile as you pressed a kiss to her forehead before getting out of the bed. She lightly grabbed your wrist, "I'm going to need you to carry to the bathroom though."

---

With the two of you showered and dressed for bed, your hand rested on Wanda's thigh as Wanda pulled up I Love Lucy on the TV. With Wanda's head on your chest, her hand toying with the hem of your wife beater. It was a peaceful, lulling atmosphere as the two of you enjoyed your shared space.

"Y/n, sweetie," Wanda's eyes stay on the show, and you can hear Wanda swallow before she speaks up. "I wanted to ask if you'll come to Fashion Week with me."

You move your head to look at Wanda properly. New York Fashion Week was in a little over a week from now, and you were prepared to stay home again. Wanda puts very little of her private life in the public eye, preferring to keep the two separate. With how naturally nosy people are, it makes sense to want that boundary.

A small smile forming on your face as you rubbed one of her shoulders to soothe the nerves you could already feel cropping up. "You really want me to go?"

"Mhm, I want you there with me. I barely got through our phone calls without caving and having you come down last year. It scares me a little that I've gotten so attached to you in what feels like so little time. I just-... I feel better with you beside me."

You leaned down to gently press your lips to Wanda's. "I'll gladly go with you then, Wanda." Your lips caressed each other again before you separated with both of your heads still resting on each other.

A smile grew on Wanda's face to match your own. "Happy anniversary, Y/n."

Happy anniversary, Wanda."

#marvel #marvel one shots #rough cut diamonds #a trip around the sun #jeweler!wanda #skitch #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff #metalworker!reader #jeweler!wanda maximoff x metalworker!reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x yn #rcd.oneshots #jc inkworks #ink.wanda #ib-jc.

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 29 days

Note

AITA for deleting my classmate's online output in retaliation for previous grievances, & WIBTA if I kept this up?

📚🧪🗑️

(↑ so I know Tumblr didn't toss it into the void)

Take your time reading this before the poll. Trust me, everything matters.

I (16NB) am a student that migrated from the regular 10th grade sections into the top section of my school's STEM program via passing the admission test. I'm part of the very few that made it from the regular sections into such a prestigious senior high strand (which had only 3 sections and ±30 students per section), and the rest of my classmates and batchmates come from specialized programs that they were in since 7th grade. Naturally, they don't know me, and wouldn't think much of me due to my previously "mediocre" background. But really, I was only able to join the STEM strand this year because of financial difficulties during the lockdowns, so my parents could only afford to put me through the regular sections from grades 8 to 10.

Amongst my specialized program classmates was this girl, who I will call V for anonymity. V (16F) struck me as aloof and reserved at first. Our class seating arrangement dictated that I sit near the window farthest from the door, and V near the room exit, so we were 3 columns and one aisle apart, and had no one-on-one interactions so far due to this.

The entire school year in my school is split into two semesters, two quarters each semester, so four quarters. In Q1, I tried signing up for the strand-exclusive club that was practically a boost for report card grades, the STEM club, and we used printed forms. I filled in my form, and V collected the forms from everyone who signed up to give to the STEM club leader. We waited a week for confirmation of our acceptance (which was our forms being given back with a red stamp and the leader's signature) and everyone except me got them back. I asked V if she received my form. "No, you didn't give me any," she had said. I was denied another form by the leader, who accused me of lying about me having already given the form.

I didn't ask for a rivalry, but I had no choice but to be wary.

In Q2, our Earth Science professor gave us a lab activity and grouped us by random. I ended up in a group with V in it. I actively participated in the activity by helping prepare the materials and answering the guide questions on the activity sheet given by our professor, but I was stumped when it came to a question that required some research. Our professor allowed us to assign someone by group to take the activity sheet home and submit a picture instead when we ran out of time, so I went to my group's chat and asked them to wait for me as I finished the answer for that particular question. It took me an hour or so before I finally got the answer. I gave the answer to my groupmates, but V said that they had already turned it in, confirmed by my other groupmates. I asked them "Why did you hurry the submission? We had plenty of time left to refine and finalize the answers." They didn't reply, and they didn't answer me when I brought it up the next day in person. I went to my professor and explained the situation, even providing screenshots of my group messages as proof, but he didn't believe me. However, he did let me write down my answer to the question I was doing research for.

By then, I suspected V had convinced them to submit the activity sheet without me, and going back to Q1, also got rid of my membership form when she had the opportunity. I think she also might have lied to the professor that I wasn't even participating in the lab activity, and damn if he was gullible enough to fall for it.

Come Q3, this current quarter. Our professor in Literature gave us homework to be submitted in Google Drive. I did mine, converted it into the required file format, and had uploaded it to the Drive folder when I came across V's output. I figured it was time she got what was coming when she ruined my reputation to the teaching staff, so I deleted it. I secured my own folder so nobody but I can edit/delete it, just in case. The next day after that, V had nothing for submission and let's just say took some hits when the professor scolded her, and I have plans to get rid of more of her future outputs since we're relying on online tools for turning in homework.

On one hand, I feel a bit bad for doing that, and in addition I'm also scared I may be caught/traced. But on the other, I felt that it was only fair that she experienced even a fraction of humiliation that I faced during Q1 and Q2.

I dunno, Tumblr, AITA for that, and WIBTA for continuing with my plans?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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skystarsmutexchange · 3 months

Text

Yes, We're Doing It Again!

It's time for another round of steamy stories, art, and podfic celebrating the passion between our beloved Seeker and Shuttle. This year, we're switching things up by using a Discord server for the exchange. When assignments are given out, participants will also receive an invitation to join the server.

This year's schedule:

Sign-ups: February 3-10 (close at 11:59 PM PST)

Assignments go out: February 12

Check-Ins: This year we will be checking in with each participant individually to make sure assignments are on track.

First Check-In: March 1st. At this point, participants are expected to have chosen their prompt(s) and have a plan for how they're going to fill them. This could mean a sketch, an outline for a story, or (if you're a pantser) a general sense of where your piece is going. If you're a podficcer, you need to have chosen the story you plan to record.

Second Check-In: March 15. At this point, assignments are expected to be well underway (30% to 60% finished). This will be the final drop-out deadline, and assignments that have not yet been started will be reassigned to a pinch-hitter. We're being strict about this, because we want everyone to receive a gift.

Gift completion deadline: March 31. We will touch base with you once more to confirm that your assignment is complete and ready to be posted. The moderators can give feedback on request, but our primary focus is ensuring that each submission meets the prompt requirements and is fully finished.

Posting: April 8-12. You can post SFW promos of art to Tumblr, and according to Tumblr’s guidelines you can post NSFW text, so fic should be fine. You can post your completed art on Twitter without having to censor it, and you can post uncensored fic and art on AO3. The AO3 collection is HERE. It will open for posting when gifts are due. If you tag the Tumblr/Twitter account, we’ll reblog/retweet your posted gift.

All gifts MUST be posted by April 12.

Rules for sign-up/prompts:

All participants must be over 18. Yes, mods will check your social media and make sure.

Fill out the questionnaire below. We’ll need your Discord handle so we can contact you with details of your assignment and invite you to join the server.

Please provide a minimum of 3 prompts, but preferably more. Be specific about what you want and don't be afraid to provide detailed prompts. The more information you provide with your prompts, the easier it will be for your gifter to fill them!

Rules for filling prompts:

Gifts can be art, fic, or podfic! Art must be lined and colored; fic must be at least 1000 words. Podfic must be of a fic that is at least 1000 words, and recorded clearly.

You MUST fill at least one prompt, but you CAN fill multiple prompts for your giftee if you wish!

Be kind! We’re all here for horny reasons, but sometimes folks aren’t into the same stuff. Remember Kinktomato: Your Kink Is Not My Kink (And That’s Okay). The assignments are made randomly, but the mods will look them over to make sure no one is writing a kink they aren't comfortable with as per their entry survey. If you really don’t want to write any of your giftee’s prompts/kinks, please contact us immediately, and we’ll see if we can swap your assignment.

Be considerate! Please include tags and/or content warnings for common triggers (eg dubcon, gore, etc).

Be responsible! By signing up for this event, you are making a commitment to fulfill at least one of your recipient's requests by the due date. We understand that life can be unpredictable, but it is your duty to inform us promptly if you believe you may not be able to complete your assignment. We reserve the right to ban individuals from future exchanges if it appears they are not making a sincere attempt to finish their assignment on time.

Fill out the form below if you’re interested, and feel free to DM us if you have any questions! The exchange mods can be contacted through their Tumblr or Twitter accounts, or through the accounts specifically for the exchange. We look forward to hearing from you!

Your Friendly Moderators:

Dark Star of Chaos (they/them):

darkstarofchaos on discord

@darkstarofchaos on tumblr

@DarkStarArt1 on twitter

Grayseeker (she/they):

grayseeker on discord

@grayseeker on tumblr

@grayseekerfic on twitter

Official Exchange Accounts:

on tumblr

on twitter

AO3 collection link

Happy smutting! Please reblog to spread the news! :3 SIGN-UP FORM HERE

#skystar #valveplug #skystarsmutexchange

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it-happened-one-fic · 4 months

Text

Rivals - Jamil

Author Notes: This fic was almost wholly inspired by how annoyed I got with Jamil while doing those fights in the Ignihyde chapter where you don't get to select your cards and just have to deal with what the game hands you. He was awful in those. I've always sort of liked the idea of Jamil and the prefect snipping back and forth at one another, so this was sort of fun to write. As per usual, reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-neutral reader/ fluff/ flirtation (kinda?? I guess???)/ Reader and Jamil bicker/ Spoilers for Scarabia and Pomefiore chapters

Word count: 1807 words

You didn’t know exactly how you’d reached this point, but you were here now, and you certainly weren’t backing down.

The problem at hand was quite simple really, and it even had a name you could put to it.

Jamil. Jamil was the problem. Because at some point, the two of you had become rivals.

Looking back, you were fairly certain it stemmed from the entire Scarabia incident during winter break. It was strange how you’d been able to forgive the other overblot victims for their crimes with only a few biting comments. But something about what Jamil had done had rubbed you the wrong way.

Oh, it was true; you completely understood his thinking and longing for recognition. And you even felt he deserved to be recognized for his many talents.

But the fact that he, not anyone else, had been the one to drag you into that whole debacle was what really upset you.

With all of the other overblots, it had been Crowley, your friends, or even your own feelings that had caused you to become embroiled in another dorm's drama.

But the situation with Scarabia, had been different. Jamil was the one who’d brought you to Scarabia and he was the reason you’d ended up involved.

Locked up, being worked to the bone, and eventually escaping before returning with help in the form of the Octatrio. It wasn’t an experience you would forget.

You had, to a degree, forgiven Jamil since it was true that he was dealing with years of stress and buried feelings. But you would always wonder what on earth had caused him to decide to hold you hostage when you wouldn’t have discovered his little plot if he hadn’t dragged you into the situation.

It made very little sense for such an otherwise intelligent young man to make such an obvious mistake. It was almost like he’d simply wanted you to be there for some unknown reason.

And now you’d reached this odd relationship with Jamil, filled with snide remarks and the determination to one-up each other.

If you had to put a name on your dynamic with Scarabia’s vice-housewarden, then ‘frenemies’ would be the closest thing to accuracy that you could think of. Because you didn’t hate Jamil, but you certainly did bicker with him enough for the two of you to easily be categorized as foes.

And it went both ways. You weren’t the only one who held irritation towards the other one.

Jamil hadn’t backed down in the slightest when it came to your interactions. And at this point, the relationship had swelled out of control.

And it had all started so simply too. Shortly after winter break had ended, you’d been paired to work with Jamil in a magical application test that involved defense and attack from the pair opposite you. Namely, Ruggie and Azul.

You didn’t think you’d ever forget the smug look Jamil had cast your way, “Don’t worry. Everything will go smoothly.”

Smoothly, the assuredly attractive fool had said. Perhaps it would have gone smoothly if he and Grim had both listened a bit more to your suggestions.

A tiny part of you regretted that you’d snapped at him as you shoved your soaked hair out of your face. It wasn’t truly his fault.

Grim had been underfoot when he’d panicked and had definitely worsened the situation, causing Jamil to stumble over the yowling feline and pitched directly over into you.

You’d both landed hard on the ground, turned muddy by Azul’s torrent of water magic, and you’d looked at the young man sprawled across your lap with a huff of not entirely fair venom, “Smoothly, huh?”

Those words had been like a nail in the coffin that had been the potentially budding friendship between you and Jamil. Since then, all of your interactions had been almost exclusively filled with biting comments and impressive levels of snarkiness.

It was true that it wasn’t an entirely irrevocable situation. After all, Jamil had protected you during Vil’s overblot, and you’d saved him from bugs countless times now without ever having made a single comment on his fear.

But it was also true that there was little to no love lost between you and the Scarabia vice-housewarden.

Which was why you were surprised when it had been Jamil who had darted so quickly with such a panicked expression across the potionology classroom solely to put up a barrier between you and a potion that had gone explosively wrong in your pot.

You’d been tugged impossibly close to the young man as he made some form of magical shield that blocked both the explosion and the gooey liquid that steamed on its surface before sliding down into a gruesome pile on the floor.

As always, Crewel reacted in record time as he caused the offensive mass to simply disappear before whirling on your fellow potion-maker, demanding to know what had happened since it apparently had to be something to do with the flow of his magic.

You stepped backwards, exhaling a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding before looking up at the young man who was watching your classmate get chewed out by your shared teacher, “Thank you.”

Your voice came out surprisingly quiet and was met with a half shrug and a noncommittal, “Don’t mention it.” The young man glanced over, giving your person a quick scan that you’d seen him give Kalim numerous times when he was checking for injuries.

“Viper,” Crewel’s voice was sharp as ever and had both your and Jamil’s attention snapping over to him.

The teacher sighed, brushing his two-toned hair back as he eyed the young man next to you, “Good work. If you hadn’t reacted quite so quickly, I fear Y/n may have suffered great injury.”

Jamil inclined his head, having stiffened slightly as soon as the classroom’s attention had fallen on him.

“If you would, walk them to the infirmary, they will still need a check-up simply for safety reasons. Inhaling the fumes could cause them to pass out so…”

There was no need for Crewel to finish since Jamil was already nodding, efficient as ever as he grabbed your hand and agreed to do as requested, “Of course.”

A single glance was thrown your way before he pulled you along after him, out the door and down the hall, with him leading the way.

His grip was tight, you noticed, as you let him tug you along in silence as what had just occurred slowly settled in your mind. Perhaps Ace was right and you were danger-prone…. But then you really felt like the exploding potion would count more as bad luck. It wasn’t like you’d cause it after all.

“If you start to feel dizzy, let me know,” Jamil’s words snapped you out of our silent reverie, causing you to look towards him with slight surprise.

His words made sense, but…. Well, Jamil was seldom quite so gentle. Especially not with you.

“I… Yeah,” You faltered slightly, not sure of what to say to him. To be honest, you wanted to thank him again, but you also didn’t want to start parroting the exact same words.

Past that, your mind was a garbled mess of slowly fading shock and confusion as to Jamil’s actions.

It wasn’t really that odd that Jamil had stepped in to protect you. It wasn’t like he was so horrible or that the relationship between you two had become so vitriolic that he would wish you harm. It was odd that he’d looked so desperate when he’d run across the room, though.

And you wouldn’t have even known that was the case if his cauldron hadn’t been right in your line of sight when the explosion had happened.

You felt yourself get pulled to a stop and glanced over to see the young man in question looking at you worriedly, “Y/n… Are you alright?”

You blinked, startled, before you realized that being zoned out right after having a potion whose fumes might cause you to pass out explode right in front of you probably was concerning.

“Oh, yeah… I guess I’m still just a little shocked from the potion’s explosion,” You frowned as you thought back to the potionology classroom once more, “Do you reckon my partner’s okay? Professor Crewel didn’t send him to get checked up….”

Jamil snorted at your soft words, giving your arm a tiny tug as he started leading you towards the infirmary once more, “I wouldn’t worry about him. You should worry more about yourself.”

He glanced back at you, a glint in his grey eyes, “You are the one who nearly got hurt after all, not them.”

It was a step back into his usual commentary. Snarking at you about your innate ability to get yourself into risky situations. After all was deemed well, he’d probably be scolding you just like he had right after Vil’s overblot.

He let out a sigh as you looked at where his hand was still gripping yours, pondering why he was still holding your hand since you were obviously perfectly capable of walking and still lucid.

“We’re here,” He gestured to the door that was coming up on your left side, a smooth smirk working its way onto his face. “Try not to get into any more trouble in there, hm?”

And there was the smug tone you knew. The one that reared its head only when you were around, and he wasn’t putting on his old act of subservience. Two things that coincided to an almost suspicious degree.

“Sure.” You chirped out your reply before holding up your hand that he still held clasped in his hand, “But why are you still holding my hand?”

His eyes widened at the sight of your hand in his, and you grinned in triumph. You’d been right. He’d totally forgotten he’d been holding your hand.

He dropped your hand like it was on fire before realizing how incriminating that was and leaning forward, “Can't have you getting me in trouble for not taking proper care of the patient.”

His words only made you grin more because while they would be a fine comeback from most people; they were sloppy coming from him. Which meant one glorious truth. He was flustered.

So you did what you did best and fired back, leaning closer to him so that you were a mere hair’s breadth away, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Crewel you took wonderful care of me, Jamil.”

He made a face at you before stepping away, “Just take better care of yourself. I might not be there next time.”

He turned on his heel, walking away and leaving you standing there frowning to yourself thoughtfully. Because it was odd to have your rival be quite so concerned for your well-being.

Wasn’t it?

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teddypickerry · 1 year

Note

Hey please can I request a Nikki Sixx x reader! Just a bit of jealous! Nikki, something along the lines of that there either at a music awards or some red carpet and the boys are off performing, and whilst waiting with the other s/os reader gets hit on by someone, and she plays into it, until the boys return and all hell breaks loose because no one flirts with Nikkis girl

𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐊𝐈’𝐒 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋!

pairings! 2000s nikki x younger gf

warnings! age gap couple (not specified age), i think that’s it

word count! 900

a/n! hi mfs. alive & thriving w another nikki fic. i didn’t specify his exact age or the readers. but it is hot 2000s nikki bc he is my bf (real). so. DEAL WITH ITTTT.

AS IF BEING IN A RELATIONSHIP with a rockstar wasn't enough pressure from the public eye and his many (envious) female fans, music awards were pure stress. although your boyfriend, nikki, grew out of his phase of attending every spectacular event, you were still in attendance of a few of them. while nikki loved showing you off and having you there for support, you didn't quite enjoy it as much as you wished. although the thought of fangirling over your favorite musicians sufficed — you also had to deal with the overwhelming flood of hate directed at your relationship on social media the next morning.

it was always the same headlines. "nikki's downgraded to another twenty-year old" "y/n is hardly enough for a rockstar" "he's probably off cheating on her as per usual" or "i prefer nikki and his ex" it's just pure judgment of a relationship they haven't even witnessed. they don't see the love you share or how well the man treats you.

but the headlines truly didn't matter as much as supporting your boyfriend and his career, his passion. so, you found yourself sat at the rock 'n' roll hall of fame inductory evening. although mötley had yet to be awarded for their one of a kindness in the rock industry, they were still being honored tonight in the form of performing. which excited all four of them because whether or not they liked it, they would be performing infront of the most iconic and talented musicians. mick couldn't stop talking about jeff beck on the car ride over. he didn't want to fuck up in the god's presence.

but so far he'd done excellently during the beginning and chorus of 'kickstart my heart' which was a song having the crowd losing their shit. and quite honestly, so were you. you hadn't seen nikki perform too many times due to busy schedules and god was it hot. but as the hit came to the end, you noticed a man inching closer to you in his chair. he was only a few down from you but since the band was up on stage, they left you, their empty chairs, and tommy's girlfriend. you shot her an odd look as she glanced in the man's direction, shrugging it off. you decided to do the same until he filled your boyfriend's position beside you. which only made you ultimately uncomfortable.

"what's a beautiful girl like you doing here alone tonight? looking for eligible bachelors?" the man whispered towards you ear while the crowd roared in cheers for the notorious rock band. you simply rubbed your lips together without turning in his direction. your eyes locked on your boyfriend exiting the stage and heading backstage. "eligible bachelors?" you scoffed, simply annoyed with the toying of flirtation.

"yeah, some rich rocker... but you seem like a self-made typa woman," he quipped as his eyes travelled your tight fitting dress. your eyes finally caught a glimpse of him — recognizing him as some drummer in a rock band not so popular. but you knew him from your brother's crippling obsession with underground bands. "what does that even mean?"

"you've got a mouth on you..." he smirked while running a hand through his short dark hair as if he was all that. which only got on your nerves even more as you messed with your up-do, watching them announce commercial break upon the stage. but this guy wasn't letting go. "so are you an artist, producer, manager, a plus one, perhaps?"

"plus one." you responded with a glare as the man attempted to scoot closer to you. your thighs brushed for a moment before you shoved over to the next chair — visibly uncomfortable. "will you leave her alone?" tommy's girlfriend asked as she viewed the situation. the man furrowed his eyebrows before shooting a charming smile. "just making conversation."

you crossed your arms defensively as tommy's girlfriend shot you a sympathetic look. "so who're you with then, doll?" the drummer asked daringly. which only made you hold back an eye roll. "just saw him onstage."

"one of the old guys, cmon." he rolled his eyes as if it were nonsense. even though he couldn't be much younger than nikki himself. it was when nikki's death glare caught his attention that his eyes slightly widened. "old guys? will you get the fuck out of my chair before i deck you in the fucking face." sixx warned as the man stood up quickly and made his way towards the aisle and as far from the group as possible. slash laughed from the row behind. "jesus christ," you mumbled as nikki took a seat beside you. you scooted into him, back into your old seat. the rest of the band followed behind him and questioned the man practically drooling over you.

nikki wrapped an arm around you as you placed a kiss to his cheek. "thanks for saving me, rockstar." you whispered which made him smile slightly before going back to his 'hardcore rockstar' look. "yeah well, no one messes with nikki's girl."

"dumbass," tommy mumbled beside the in love nikki. all while the bassist was planning the ways he was going to fuck up the guy hitting on you after the show.

#teddypickerry #nikki sixx x reader #nikki sixx #need more nikki sixx fics #mötley crue fic #tommy lee x reader #mick mars #vince neil #nikki sixx x fem reader #nikki sixx oneshot #nikki sixx blurb #older nikki sixx x reader

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redleavesinthewind · 4 months

Text

elliot's 2023 fic wrap up

2022 version

alright friends it is once again time for me to review the (many) fics i read in the previous year and try to write a more or less concise rec list of my absolute faves (i wish i didn't have to chose but heh i'm not gonna subject anyone to 332 fics in 1 post - also wait only 332 fics? that's like. over 100 less than last year, what the fuck. anyway)

okay now first the part that interests no one but me (yes you may skip this) and that's the numbers part! i'm not making a whole elaborate spreadsheet to then not throw around cool numbers. anyway.

i've read around 4,932k words in 332 fics across 18 fandoms. that is much less than last year, and yeah, i've been generally less productive in 2023 but we don't have to talk about it. at least i have more variety of fandoms this time (let's ignore that it's only 2 more and also that from fandom 13 on there's only 1 fic per fandom)

i started out the year strong with 847k words across 72 fic in february (followed by 753k across 42 fics in january, and 621k words across 63 fics in march). it goes downhill for the rest of the year. eh it wasn't my year so what! 2024 is gonna be more filled with fic reading again!!!

my top 3 fandoms are so entirely unsurprising to me i am almost disappointed in myself. when did i become so predictable. top fandom is young royals with 166 fics! congratulations young royals, you are a very persistent hyperfixation, you didn't peter out after 2 months like i expected. Spot number 2 is taken by avatar the last airbender with 41 fics! giant leap there, but it's also funny because i fell into an atla rabbit hole late 2023 (as i do every few years) and it still got up to 41 fics despite uni not allowing me to read last semester (uni is evil). Same as last year, spn takes third place with 38 fics. speaking of persistent hyperfixations.......... *big sigh*

and that is it the boring part is over let's go to the fun section LET'S REC SOME FIIIIIICCCCSSSSSSS (under the cut)

JANUARY

bet you you'll ... (noraverse) (series) by @gh0sthugs | young royals, wilmon | teen&up | 52k words

a kid fic!! and such a sweet one too! i'm kinda weak for kid fics ngl, and nora is so sweet and wonderful, and the relationship that slowly forms between wille and simon is beautiful and comfortable. this whole series is just such a good time

spreadsheet notes: ah to fall in love with the dilf next door who also happens to be the ex crown prince of the country

A Royal Intervention by AnxiousAnaconda | young royals, wilmon | teen&up | 18k words

erik is being such a dumbass in this one. like, he means well, but he's kinda messing up and pissing people off (understandably). it's nice to get a view on erik that's not portraying him as this perfect guy though, and the fic is actually so much fun to read. and hey, the prime minister of luxembourg gets mentioned, which i was kinda waiting for in yr fic ngl

spreadsheet notes: big sigh... erik you fucking idiot. stop listening to august. also shoutout to xavier bettel apparently (edit: this aged poorly, fuck xavier bettel)

and each slow dusk by @if-fortunate | young royals, wilmon | mature | 49k words

okay. ooookay how do i even begin with this one. ohhh boy. okay. so. world war three. wille gets stuck in bjärstad with simon, many many things happen, it's about finding hope in a horrible situation and trying to live life despite everything falling apart around you. it's incredibly well written and something about it just has me in awe

spreadsheet notes: i don't know what it says about me that this is without a shadow of a doubt the best fic i have ever read in my life

Put Me Back Together and Take My Heart by @notalotgoingonatthisinstant | young royals, wilmon | mature | 50k words

i once again don't know what to say, this one is sooo good. simon is suffering and both wille and i hate it, but... but wille is there for him and ugh, they just... they just can't be apart. a story of reconciliation and healing from both physical and invisible wounds, and of making the right decisions for yourself

spreadsheet notes: ugh. UGH. my guys. MY GUYS. yeah let's go blackmail the queen

Department Six by @thisdiscontentedwinter | teen wolf | gen | 4k words

a fun short one about stiles and danny working for the fbi and being delightfully weird and mysterious

spreadsheet notes: HILARIOUS i'm in love with outsider pov always

FEBRUARY

There Are No Wolves in California by @thisdiscontentedwinter | teen wolf, sterek | gen | 5k words

you know, sometimes you see a fic you know is going to hurt you, and you've never clicked on anything faster. this is definitely one of those fics

spreadsheet notes: let's be wolves today yeah well derek what if i just break down and cry instead

you got my body, i got your body by @prince-simon | young royals, wilmon | explicit | 9k words

this one's technically part of a bigger series (which, definitely read that one too), but i'm highlighting this one cause... damn... this made me feel things... like, gender things... which is really weird cause wille's gender in this is very much different from mine BUT STILL

spreadsheet notes: how almost 9k of pwp gave me so many gender feelings i will never understand

Changing Channels: Queer Premiere by @emeraldcas, @fellshish | spn, deancas | gen | 27k words

this might actually be one of the funniest fics i've ever read. dean and cas are so stupid (affectionately) and all the crossovers are delightful (bonus that i knew all the other shows). everyone go read this it's gonna be the best time

spreadsheet notes: mel and fells have genuinely outdone themselves this is the most hilarious shit i've ever read

Catalyst by @stretchoutfics | young royals | teen&up | 3k words

a backstory for boris! this fic is within a series of other side character ficlets, but this one has a soft spot in my heart

spreadsheet notes: AAAAHHHH HE KNEW ABOUT THE RECKLESS DRIVING BUT DIDN'T BRING IT UP but also... him being a gay man trying to help the queer crown prince navigate his sexuality that's kinda nice actually, like boris understands at least a bit

The most beautiful boy by lovelysarcastic | young royals, wilmon | teen&up | 88k words

there's something incredibly grounding about this fic. the way it develops, the way wille rationalises his thought processes, the way the relationship between wille and simon develops... this fic just kinda sucked me in and spit me out again feeling... content and calm and... it's just... this fic is so beautiful

spreadsheet notes: dude i love this so much??? they're both so stupid??? i love them???

MARCH

All's Fair in Love and Hunting by @badjoices | spn, deancas | mature | 20k words

they're playing gay chicken but also are being incredibly competitive and stupid about it, and i'm just sorry about the shit sam has to witness. so many shenanigans in this fic

spreadsheet notes: they are both so stupid omg

["mi cotufita" started sharing their screen] by @omar-rudeberg | young royals, wilmon | explicit | 60k

so... this is a follow up to one of my favourite fics and it is a delight. very horny but also very sweet? and also for some reason there's porn. fun times! oh, and this fic made me cry. it really has the range

spreadsheet notes: how are they so horny it's so funnyyyyyy, but also if i were wille i could never look linda in the eyes again

A Light To Guide You In The Dark (Warmed By The Fire's Glow) by 80shairmetal | stranger things, harringrove | teen&up | 19k words

this is just... people taking care of each other out of the kindness of their hearts. finding comfort in strangers who become family. growing and helping each other. there's such a beauty to this one

spreadsheet notes: this is just..... comfort

did you see the love in my eyes, oh were you gazing through this disguise? by @tooindecisivetopickaurl | young royals, wilmon | mature | 67k words

fake dating my beloved. they're so in love with each other but they're pretending not to be while pretending... to be? i'm obsessed with them. but they're so respectful with each other and cautious of boundaries and they really are best friends who also happen to be obliviously in love

spreadsheet notes: love a good fake dating au they're so stupid i love them

flash like a setting sun by @playedwright | 911, buddie | explicit | 22k words

because you only realise you're in love with your best friend when you're scared you're losing him. that's the fic. and it's beautiful

spreadsheet notes: oh this is sooooo beautifully written and ugh just <333

Other people's secrets by @sflow-er | young royals, walty & wilmon | mature | 239k words

yooooo hello? so first off this is an outsider pov on wilmon which i am always obsessed with anyways but the focus isn't just on them, this is henry's story. it's a beautiful story about how friendships form and warp and change, how feelings manifest in different ways, how decisions and actions have consequences. it's an incredibly mature take on post-s1, and it's probably my favourite of the year. also ace representation!!!!

spreadsheet notes: ace henry my beloved <33 also love seeing wilmon from an outside perspective! such a good, well thought out fic with lots of healthy comminication <33

APRIL

if i stare too long by @brawlite & @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger | stranger things, harringroveson | explicit | 191k words

i haven't seen st s4 (and probably won't watch it) but that definitely won't stop me from reading harringroveson fic. i mean, who wouldn't look at those three and immediately want to see them together. the way their dynamic is written in this fic is peak, i don't even know what more to say. i also very much trust these authors with billy, and again i wasn't disappointed. there's just something in his head that's intriguing.

spreadsheet notes: this whole fic is such a vibe it makes me feel of hot summer chillin

MAY

Rewrite the Stars (series) by @in-amor-veritas | young royals, wilmon | mature | 137k words

definitely one of the highlights of the year, simon's whole life in new york... those scenes, they just show such a wonderful life simon has built for himself, and his relationship with wille doesn't change it, but he manages to fit in (after, you know, fun rom-com drama shenanigans). also. this is a kid fic. kid fics are my weak spot. rasmus is my new favourite little guy. also shoutout to luis best side character ever

spreadsheet notes: YELLING i love this fic sooo much it is everything

Where The Wind Will Carry Me by @1-life-to-give | young royals, wilmon | teen&up | 49k words

AND THEY WERE ACTORS PLAYING LOVE INTERESTS. do i have to say more? the tension guys the TENSION. also erik's side-plot i'm in love

spreadsheet notes: hopping up and down like a hyperactive chihuahua EN I LOVE THIS

Your love is my turning page (the t4t wilmon as girldads au) (series) by @willesworld | young royals, wilmon | teen&up | 17k words

i know i know another kid fic BUT!!!! t4t wilmon. makes it automatically superior. i'm not even kidding, add trans characters and i will like your fic (that i probably already like a lot) aroun 300000000 times more. but also this series comes for your feelings. it hits

spreadsheet notes: i am weak for t4t wilmon AND them having a biological child there's something so beautiful about it like that could be meeee ; siiimon i need to hug him and i need to hug wille they're gonna get out of this i prommy ; recovery and one step forwards a hundred steps back, but they made it there in the end ; they were so happy :((((

JUNE

A trace of dew by nuncflore | elden ring, this is too complicated | gen | 13k words

very elden ring-esque writing style, wonderful representation of whatever the hell is going on in the lore. hehehehehhe fucked up family ehhehehehe DIVORCE. my friends are so talented :))

spreadsheet notes: CAP I AM EATING YOU

Hanging from the Ceiling by @spicymiilk | spiderverse | teen&up | 6k words

for like. a week after i saw the new spiderverse movie i made miles 42 my entire life. that also meant reading this fic. and damn did this fic hit. i am still thinking about it

spreadsheet notes: i need more miles 42 content he is my favourite guy ever

The Darkest Little Paradise by @yourdemiurge | young royals, wilmon | explicit | 79k words

*holding you at gunpoint* read this fic. read it now, in this moment. you are not gonna regret it. believe me when i say you NEED this fic, you really do. doesn't even matter if you've seen yr or not. you're gonna thank me later

spreadsheet notes: THIS IS INSANE I CAN'T BREATHE MADY WHAT THE FUUUUUCK

JULY

Protected (series) by bastuba | young royals, wilmon | explicit | 69k words

hey do you ever read a fic and you just feel. so incredibly grounded because something about the characters feels grounded? like, they aren't grounded, but they still give off that vibe? idk how to explain this properly but that's this fic. also wille and simon cook together (i haven't read all parts of the series yet btw)

spreadsheet notes: incredibly grounded very mature how is wille like this ; i'd be like wille, always complaining about the heat ; they're soooooo. idiots. getting tattoos for each other ; i too would come out on a podcast about food ; SAFE SEX

AUGUST

The Season of Rebirth by @notalotgoingonatthisinstant | young royals, wilmon | mature | 30k words

part of a series, but i'm picking out this one specifically because it's soooo sweet!!! the title fits the fic so well, like yes it is the season of rebirth, but simon and wille's relationship is also rehashed in a very cool way, this fic is like one giant easter egg, i love it so much!

spreadsheet notes: wille taking the season of rebirth to recreate their early relationship, i am obsessed with him he's such a dumbass romantic

The Upgrade by @groenendaelfic | young royals, wilmon | explicit | 13k words

it's about the moment simon realises who wille is. that's why this fic is here. i mean of course also because it is very good, but mainly because of that moment

spreadsheet notes: the moment simon realised who wille is i am wheezing

Right Where You Left Me by @armandgender | spn, deancas | explicit | 94k words

if you're wondering why this fic is on my 2023 list instead of the 2022 list.... well that's because it took me almost a year to read the last chapter, and in terms of how my spreadsheet works, that makes it a fic i read in 2023. anyway. if you haven't read this fic yet, what are you even still doing here. click on that link right now. you want complex emotional situations? intricacies of ill-advised marriages? you wanna pick through abusive behaviour and encourage infidelity? well you're at the right place! also this has one of my favourite jack characterisations ever. it also made me go on multiple rants

spreadsheet notes: I FINALLY FINISHED IT AAAAHHHH I LOVE THIS FIC THE CABIN THE CATS JACK!!!!!

Alejito y Marimar (series) by th0ughts | red, white, and royal blue | teen&up | 18k words

OBSESSED WITH THIS DYNAMIC YOOOOOO. seriously the friendship between alex and martha is an expansion of the rwrb universe that is much needed, trust me

spreadsheet notes: the friendship i didn't know i needed in my life <333 ; they're just chillin!!!

SEPTEMBER

Change of Address (series) by hearmerory | avatar: the last airbender, zukka | mature | 134k words

okay. oooookay. strap in for this one, it is a lot. emotionally. like yes zuko is autistic, yes yes yeeees, i agree, also azula is treated like an actual person with actual mental issues, she deserves to be treated with care and this author definitely does that! this is the kind of series that makes me want to disappear in it, but it's also the kind of story i need breaks from, because it is so heavy (definitely check the tags for this one). zuko's relationship with sokka is written so thoughtfully and iroh is characterised incredibly and the author even included ursa in a way that didn't undermine everything that happened in the series before she appeared again. i can only recommend this one!

spreadsheet notes (there's lots of parts to the series, so this one is long): hhhh if i were ms jamieson i would have snapped after two days probably ; be nice katara!!!!! he's nervous ; i need to murder ozai ; and i need to murder zhao as well ; iroooohhhhh he should have just. taken the kids with him that first time he noticed something off ; yeah i think there was a reason why iroh never took zuko to the movies ; ozai needs to suffer ; i need to destroy ozai. violently and painfully ; iroh is the best uncle ever, zuko deserves all his kindness ; azula...... you don't have to fight for affection, it's not a competition..... they love you ; iroh should have taken her with him the first time around, she was like. 10, he could have just picked her up or sth ; ..... hakoda you idiot ; IROH BACKSTORY IROH BACKSTORY ; sokka and the plan that changed his life <3333 ; they are so soft with each other ; they all deserve all the therapy and support and yes sokka obviously you have adhd get with the program ; URSA??????? also i am living for sokka and azula's dynamic they are everything ; i don't. i don't understand her. i don't fucking understand her how could she not want her own children. how can she talk about them like that. like she knows them she doesn't know them she LEFT

Every night my teeth are falling out by @sulkybender | avatar: the last airbender, zukka | mature | 9k words

i was in need of some good zuko angst and oooohhh boy was i lucky to find this author. PEAK zuko angst. this fic in particular is very dear to me because it explores how mental illnesses would be handled in a world where there's practically no resources to help. i think we need that more

spreadsheet notes: yes well. how DO you deal with a schizophrenic fire lord in a fantasy world? (you stay with him and support him that is how)

OCTOBER

for years or for hours by @ghostinthelibrarywrites | the witcher, geralt/eskel/jaskier | explicit | 52k words

listennn i love myself some good polyamory fics, and this is the first fic i read for this ship and now i am OBSESSED with them. but this fic in particular.... the concept alone, like. what do you do when you thought the man you love was dead for 800 years, and then when he comes back you have another man you love. the answer is simple. polyamory. the two men you love also love each other. perfect coincidence.

spreadsheet notes: YO the concepts of witchers in modern times alone is sooo cool but adding in everything else? hello yes?

this is a love story by @achillestiel | supernatural, deancas | mature | 3k words

listen, i've never seen fleabag, but that's not the point. this is intriguing and funny, that's the point

spreadsheet notes: fucked up families and you want to fuck the priest hell yeah

The road not taken looks real good now by @stretchoutfics | young royals, wilmon | explicit | 90k words

it's not even the wilmon part i love about this fic (i very much enjoy it of course don't get me wrong) but wille and his kids. like, i don't want to spoil anything but like. wille's interactions with his kids are so important in this fic, and they're written so well. like, emilia is my favourite character in this, i kinda wish there was more with the kids honestly. this fic is definitely a highlight of the year, and to get back to wilmon, i do love how they're portrayed in this fic, how their dynamic plays out, and specifically how certain decisions do not depend on simon

spreadsheet notes: no but. the care put into this story. i can't--

NOVEMBER

Averno (series) by @sulkybender | avatar: the last airbender, zukka | mature | 12k words

a fascinating take on a fire lord zuko that was never part of the gaang

spreadsheet notes: HE JUST DESERVES KINDNESS but also he's a little fucked up WELL NO WONDER GIVE HIM KINDNESS ; i mean.... what makes a monster really ; well then let's get him out of his cell shall we (also hiiiii suki hello <3333)

Half Awake in Our Fake Empire by @hmslusitania | 9-1-1, buddie | teen&up | 34k words

another kid fic!!! but in a different fandom this time!!! seriously, giving buck a child fills so many of my life's needs it's ridiculous

spreadsheet notes: THEY'RE A FAMILY (thank you for giving that man a child)

a soldier (who carries a mighty sword) by @ghostinthelibrarywrites | the witcher, geralt/eskel/jaskier | explicit | 92k words

everything about this fic is wonderful!! the world(kaer morhen!!)building, the developing dynamic between geralt, jask, and eskel, ciri and yenn, the conflict, jask as a teacher!!!! aaahhhhh!

spreadsheet notes: they're my new favourite guyssss this whole fic is so cool, what they've done with kaer morhen <3333

Will We Last the Night by CSHfic & VSfic | avatar: the last airbender, zukka | teen&up | 143k words

this fic asks what if sokka had been stuck with zuko since the end of s1 and delivers a delightful answer. this is the adventures of zuko and sokka (and sometimes iroh) travelling through the earth kingdom. shenanigans ensue

spreadsheet notes: i am obsessed with this i'm just. i know it was only shortly but their life in ba sing se. obsessed

DECEMBER

Grudge Match by @catcas22 | elden ring | gen | 17k words

i'm not entirely sure how to explain this. it sure is an elden ring fic

spreadsheet notes: i don't even know what to say. this is ridiculous and brilliant and stupid and genius all at the same time. hell yeah suburban demigods

Lonely Digging by @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger | stranger things, harringrove | teen&up | 3k words

this is hilarious. go read it to unlock intense life-threatening flirting

spreadsheet notes: best way to flirt billy's doing everything right

***

(quick note: i’ve tried to find everyone’s tumblr handle, but i’m aware that not all the authors have tumblr/have it on their ao3, however if i somehow missed someone, i can go back and rectify that!)

if you’ve made it all the way down here i am giving you a kiss <3

#pigeon coos #fic reading shenanigans #fic rec #ALL THE LOVE TO FIC WRITERS YOU GUYS ARE DOING AMAZING!!!!

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