#and it was a total spur of the moment thing where he was like ' you know what? why don't we get married ? ' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeyinde · 9 months

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lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met.

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really.

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with.

Stupid.

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine.

Because maybe you are, too.

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent.

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him.

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you.

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him.

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married.

And where does that leave you?

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber.

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both.

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar.

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet.

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight.

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush.

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways.

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape.

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore.

Moving on. Moving forward.

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent.

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this.

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him.

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness.

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location.

You send him your pin.

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way.

You met Kyle Garrick at university.

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre.

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met.

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap.

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care.

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed.

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth.

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?"

And that was that.

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them.

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him.

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him.

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain.

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart.

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square.

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots.

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring.

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner.

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots.

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes.

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest.

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it."

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you."

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult.

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes."

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid."

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it."

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought.

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot.

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips.

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain.

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks.

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all.

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you.

Except—

It isn’t.

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes.

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know?

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips.

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort?

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him.

He’d know, he said.

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic.

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around.

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement.

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken.

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison.

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat.

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet.

He seems to understand.

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here."

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance.

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him.

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it.

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do.

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe."

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—"

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat.

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame.

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold?

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state.

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish.

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back.

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy).

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making.

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away.

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign.

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now.

Because you do.

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts.

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too.

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin.

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences.

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same.

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam.

And oh.

Oh.

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing.

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it.

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it.

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always.

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him.

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun.

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free.

Confessing goes like this:

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears.

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands.

"...and that's basically it."

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you.

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all.

You want it. Want him.

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam.

But he isn't.

He's here with you. Still. Still.

"I just—," you say, or try to.

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth.

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated.

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation.

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence.

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin.

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain.

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take.

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air.

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you.

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind.

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox.

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke.

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable.

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames.

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown.

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home.

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all.

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it.

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this.

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration.

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two.

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food.

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along.

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling.

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know?

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #cod gaz x reader #cod mw2 fanfic #ehhhhhh #these are my sloppiest tags #i didn't feel like making a gif so i threw this together real quick #will fix in the am #when my eyes aren't on fire

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borzoilover69 · 1 year

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ULTIMATE JAKE: an idea and an execution

iA I Aka the post where borzoi talks to the crowd how awesome Lord Jake English is, the guy that everyones seen around, but have no idea who he is. Pull up a chair, this will get long.

If Ultimate Dirk can be summarised by the mask of tragedy in theatre, LE Jake, AKA Ultimate Jake, could be summarised by the mask of comedy. I’ve barely read HS2, but from what I can see, Dirk wants to make a serious nitty gritty tragedy of serious and epic proportions. But he tries so hard that he ends up making it almost laughable.

Jake wants to make a thighslapper huckshaw comedy where everyones having a grand old time but there is such deep and hollow tragedy hidden within the folds of all those pretty smiles.

If anything they abide a lot by aristotles theory on comedy and tragedy. While tragedy imitates men better than average, comedy parodies those who are worse.

Aristotle stated that those of a more serious type that may have once been inclined to celebrate the actions of great heroes in poetry and prose turn to tragedy, while those who’ve been dishonourable, humbled, turn to comedy. It comes down to duality, tragedy viewing duality as a fatal contradiction forever a fault in things, while comedy views it as natural, but something that everyone must live with the best they can, enjoy. Do you see where I’m going here? Dirk, who praised Aristotle and read the epics turned to tragedy. Jake, dishonourable and hiding from those who he care about, turning to comedy. They line up well with the cognitive psychology of the tragedy and comedy visions, which you should totally look into when you can.

Tragedy is idealistic, stubborn and serious. They long for something higher and greater than common existence. They value heroism, hierarchy, and finality.

Comedy is pragmatic, adaptable, and playful. They consider the self, comfortable in their own skin. They’re anti-heroes, valuing situation-based ethics and reversal.

With that out of the way, lets keep to philosophy like it’s a boat in the atlantic. If Dirks look in life upon going ult is one of pessimistic realism, Jake is an absurdist.

If life is a cruel joke to jake, and it has been, then in his ultimate form hes acknowledged it, and given the cruel void, hes decided to seek out his own meaning. And it just so happens to be his best friend.

Misc details

- Capitalist

- He wears old 3D movie glasses because he’s that idiot.

- He collects a lot of things. He has plenty of things hes shot killed and stuffed in his collection.

You could say he’s rather past oriented, taking care to document it all out of interest and perhaps a subconcious pursuit to figure out the future.

- Very apathetic. He may be charming, but he’s still a jackass. He thinks existence itself is funny, he’s an absurdist; but he’s also a guy who realises he’s been kicked to the curb too many times and started shooting people. - His crew consists of John/June, (in place of rose. They have a lot of movie nights!), Karkat, and one (1) dead dave.

And finally some thoughts about ult Dirkjake: Maybe Dirk wants Jake to just kill him. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and perhaps it’s love for someone who deems himself unworthy, no, incapable of doing so. What better love than to kill someone? To trust and know they will kill you. Feeling safe in the knowledge they’ve known you in every universe and are here to kill you. Not that Jake would let him. I like them.. I think it’s my fave brand of dirkjake besides the original.. they’re dysfunctional, intolerable, and they hate each other, but it’s just interesting. For better or for worse, they’re stuck, and they’re not afraid of the fact they suck. If anything, it’d spur them to be worse.

“Oh yeah. I find the other guy fucking annoying and I’d gladly take a moment to rip his guts out and walk him around a tree until they’re all out and he's calling me every bad name he can think of, but if anyone tries doing this shit with him without my consent, I’m going to be hells of more pissed off.”

Look. It’s funny in the way that realistically, they could probably do a lot of damage to everyone else but due to the fact they know the other guy exists, they’re too busy trying to kick the others ankles out and then beating each other up to become dangerous.

Oh you bet your nanny it’s the gayest most fucked up kismesis known to man. Ultimate Dirk hates LE Jake, because he doesn’t give a damn. Because Jake makes him feel things he denies feeling. And that ridiculously, somewhere in paradox space, Jake went ultimate and decided he was going to man up and pursue Dirk to the ends of the universe. Ultimately: “My soul is bound to you in explicable ways. Our bonds cross the multiverse and wherever you are, somewhere I am by your side. Even in a hundred universes, maybe even a million. I will still find you.”

Perhaps the greatest thing and a closing note is that given they are the ascended versions of themselves, they’re aware of the fact that they’re aware of every time the other guy screwed them over, kicked them in the balls, etc. But they’re also able to see everything else. So what’s with a little hatelove eh?

#homestuck meta #dirkjake #ultimate dirk #ultimate jake #homestuck #ultimate rose: ive seen the light and you two either need to get laid or die #jake english #dirk strider #a lot of philosophy/#borzoi talks #borzoi meta

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secret-sturniolo · 6 months

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SFW Alphabet - Matt Sturniolo

a/n - please remember these are only my opinions! You are allowed to disagree, but be respectful about it!

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

In private, his hands are all over you, giving you hugs, kisses, cuddles, everything. He doesn't like PDA though, so in public the most he would do is hold your hand,

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Hes the kind of guy you would meet through a friend of a friend, and it's kindof a slow-burn friendship where things start slow, but get serious really quickly. He would always be there for you, assuring you that you can come to him about anything, and telling you how much you mean to him.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He loooves being the big spoon and falling asleep with you in his arms.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Matt totally wants to have a family some day, when the time is right. He would try to help out around the house as much as he can, sometimes even doing more work than you.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

He would try his best to end things on civil terms, letting you know that he would still be there for you if you ever needed anything. However, if he was breaking up with you for reasons like being cheated on, he would lose all respect for you and cut you out completely.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Matt would love to get married to the love of his life. For timing, he would kind of feel things out with you. He doesn't want to rush anything, but also wouldn't say no to a spur of the moment engagement if things felt right.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He is the most gentle, empathetic person you have ever met. He seems so in tune with his own, and your emotions, not afraid to have tough conversations about them.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Yes! Hugs from behind are his favorite. When he hugs you, the smell of him, whether it be his cologne or shampoo, makes you feel so calm and content.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

It takes him a little bit, maybe a few weeks or a month, but he wants you to know exactly how much he cares about you so he isn't afraid to say it.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

He's kind of a toss up. Most of the time he is not a jealous person and doesn't mind when you talk to other guys in a friendly way, but say you were somewhere like a party and guys were coming up to you, he would take you away from them, wanting you all to himself.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Matt is suchhhh a good kisser. Sometimes, he will cover your whole face in kisses while you giggle and try to escape his arms. He loves it when you leave small kisses on his jaw or even the tip of his nose.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He adores little children. He loves to make them laugh, or smile and wave at kids in passing. He gives off major "cool dad" vibes.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Some mornings, you both have work to do so you have to get up. Other mornings, you just lay in each other's arms, talking about whatever comes to mind.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Late nights with Matt are the best. There are a variety of activities you guys like to do. Sometimes you will play video games with him, throw a movie on, go for a drive, or get food. Sometimes his brothers are there too, but if there's ever a time you just want to be alone with him, he agrees, no questions asked.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Matt is a pretty open book with most things, encouraging you to be vulnerable with him, too. He feels very comfortable with you, and he trusts that you would keep things between you and him.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

With most people, especially his brothers, he is super short tempered. With you? Everything changes. He honestly enjoys it when you do things to purposely annoy him.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Matt is super attentive, not wanting to forget anything. Things like your birthday, middle name, favorite color, favorite song? He knows them all.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

He would cherish all the small moments shared between him and you, that only the two of you would know about.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He gets protective sometimes in settings like parties or events, but he also knows that you can hold your own most of the time. He's always close by if you need him, though.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He is on his A game 100% of the time! He wants every moment with you to be special.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He knows you don't like it when he bites his nails, and he tries his hardest not to with your help.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He knows he's good looking, but he also doesn't have a big ego about it. He wants to look presentable, but doesn't usually put a lot of work into outfits or hairstyles.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Somewhat? He loves being with you, but also respects that you two are separate people and you need to do things separately sometimes.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

This man lowkey knows how to cook (as long as he has a recipe).

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

We all know how much he hates ketchup. In a person, he doesn't like people who try too hard to be cool or impress him. Ultimately, if he feels like he can't connect with you, he won't want to be around you.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Because he stays up so late, he tends to sleep in until late afternoon. He has a hard time falling asleep if you aren't with him, wrapped in his arms.

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #angst #fluff #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets imagine #imagine #fanfic #nick sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo x reader

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scarletttries · 9 months

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Woo Jin NSFW Alphabet (Bloodhounds)

Pairing: Hong Woo-Jin (Bloodhounds) x Reader

Rating: Fluffy Smut

Word Count: 3.2k

Author's Note: As promised here is the NSFW Woo Jin Alphabet. I love these boys so much I might have to do some fluff alphabets for them too, and I think I'm going to do some Peacemaker and Stranger Things fluff alphabets too so watch out for those! I'm on holiday at the moment and am finding alphabets much easier to write than full fics so please feel free to request a fluff or NSFW alphabet with any character you might enjoy! :)

A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

A man who knows how to be charming, even when he's just rambling like an idiot, Woo Jin's aftercare involves a lot of talking. Be prepared for him to recap his top moments, ask your opinion on every little thing he did, making sure he knows exactly what to keep and what to change up next time to keep becoming better and better for you. He gets clingy too, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you flush against him, spooning you as he chirps excitedly in your ear about how amazing you were and how much he loves that he gets to do this with you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Woo Jin's body is a testament to the efforts he's put into it day in and day out, but he still feels surprisingly insecure for a man in such good shape, like no matter how strong he is, he'll always be surrounded by people that are stronger. Thankfully the first time he takes off shirt in front of you, maybe he's invited you to a boxing match for the first time, and you jaw drops, eyes racking over his chiseled chest and abs, he suddenly feels so much better (you can guarantee he won the fight that day.) From then on he'll find any excuse to take his shirt off in front of you, spurred on by the wanting way you lick your lips, knowing you'll be curled up against him in no time.

Speaking of your lips, Woo Jin can't imagine a pair could ever be more perfect. He was a goner the first time he saw you smile, and when you laughed at something he said? Heart eyes for days! The sound of you giggling at his jokes is his favourite in the world and every time you smile at him he feels ten foot tall. The first time he worked up the nerve to finally kiss you, he almost couldn't believe how warm and soft your mouth felt against his, an inviting feeling he now can't go a day without. And when you map a constellation of kisses across his chest, sinking to your knees to put your lips to work, well let's just say that boy has never been happier in his life.

C= Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Woo Jin isn't exactly shy once you're at the stage of sleeping together, and he absolutely loves feeling like he's marking you as his by cuming inside or on you. When you first start sleeping together, he's worried about finishing inside you, instead letting himself spill over your chest or stomach, quickly offering to help you clean up as an excuse to get to feel your skin even more. But when you first ask him to cum in inside you, the feeling of being buried inside you as you both cum together, well that might just be his favourite, feeling totally connected to you and as close to you as he possibly can. Sometimes he'll aim to get straight into a second round so he doesn't have to choose between being inside you or all over you.

D = Dirty Secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Woo Jin's got a big mouth that's always running, and a big appetite, and all that leads to him having an oral fixation when it comes to you. He could happily make out with you for hours, feeling positively obsessed with having your lips on his, constantly interrupting your day to steal a kiss if he thinks it's been too long. In bed he'll constantly give you hickies across your chest where only you can see, or if the pleasures too much he'll just barely sink his teeth into your shoulder, his mouth needing to feel you at all times. If you return the favour, biting and sucking on his neck when he's inside you, prepare to hear the most strangled moan of your name as he desperately fights back his immediate climax. He'll be praised you every second as well, telling you how perfect you feel, even when his mouth is full and you can barely understand a word.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Woo Jin has a little more experience than Gun Woo, occasionally meeting women in bars and bringing them home for the night when he was younger. You'd be his first real relationship though, the first person he's wanted to sleep with again and again, and to keep impressing. He'll know enough from his previous encounters to make your first time together very special, but from then on his focus is learning everything about what you like, figuring out exactly how to make you cry out his name as loudly as possible.

F = Favourite Position (this goes without saying)

Honestly, it is probably just his head between your legs, watching your whole body shake as he makes you cum on his tongue for the second time today. But he also loves being behind you, wrapping his arms around you so you are pressed to his chest so he can keep cover your lips, neck, shoulders with his kiss while he fucks into you. He loves the strength he feels from being able to move your body around in bed, his muscles coming in very handy when he wants to pin you down and keep you exactly where he wants you, to make sure you feel absolutely everything.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Woo Jin barely has a serious bone in his body, his happy grin on his face in every moment you two spend together. He would throw out the most ridiculous compliments and praises when you're in bed together, the whole interaction so fun and lighthearted even though it clearly also means so so much to him. He'll be giggly and euphoric afterwards too, practically play wrestling in bed with you just to keep having a reason to feel you beneath him.

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they?)

Woo Jin cares a lot about style and fashion, taking a lot of care in the way he looks and always keeping everything tidy for you.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Woo Jin might not show intimacy in the serious way others would, but it doesn't take long for you to realise his lighthearted jokes and the way he messes around when he's getting undressed with you is his way of his being vulnerable and connecting with you on the level he feels most intimate at. He might try and be more romantic and serious if you wanted, but it's hard not to feel special when he gives you that goofy grin he doesn't get to wear very often and saves for his perfect moments with you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He's an excitable kind of guy, so Woo Jin's no stranger to his own company, entertaining whatever thoughts he can conjure - from the day you met, I can guarantee you that every image will be of you, he's just that obsessed. He'll definitely fantasize about you whenever you have to spend any length of time apart, getting easily riled up when he starts thinking about how much he misses your lips all over him.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

If you're into it, Woo Jin can enjoy getting a little rough and possessive in bed - he loves being able to pin your hands above your head as he bucks his hips against yours, asking you to tell you him that you're his over and over again. Boys definitely got a praise kink too, every time you tell how good he's making you feel he'll make it his personal mission to somehow make you feel even better. And oh my god if you called him 'Sir' in bed, that bit of marine pride would drive him absolutely insane.

Finally, if you agreed with it, I think Woo Jin would love to wake you up by going down on you, wanting you to wake up in the best possible mood, and feeding into his love of feeling like you and your body are all his.

L = Location (favourite places to do it)

Despite his attitude I think Woo Jin would mostly play it safe and have the most fun just sharing nights together in either of your apartments, where he can really take his time and feel safe to explore everything with you. The exception to that is when you come see him at Boxing matches, or even just training at the gym, he'll always want to show off for you, and gets all excited seeing you cheer him on, supporting him and thinking he can do anything - when he wins, he'll definitely sneak you into the locker room for a private moment so he can show you just how much he appreciates your cheerleading.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Honestly it would be a shorter list to write what you do that doesn't get Woo Jin going! As above, any time he sees you cheering him on or supporting him it definitely turns him on, your support making him feel so good and loved. The same goes for when he's able to make you laugh with his silly comments and jokes, it just makes him feel like you really get him and that he can be himself with you, every opportunity to be open and intimate with you one that he wants to really make the most of. It comes from a place of feeling a bit insecure in himself, like he's been a runner up his whole life and finally here comes you, making him feel like a winner and the luckiest guy in the world every single day.

N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

We've established Woo Jin can get a little insecure and jealous, so he wouldn't want to do anything that would feel like sharing you with someone else, wanting you to belong solely to each other. Other than that the only thing that could really turn him off is if he thought you weren't really feeling it, your comfort and pleasure the sexiest thing in the world to him.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) - oral fixation, tries to talk, vibrations work

This man lives to give. He needs something to occupy his mouth at all times, and there's nothing he loves more than putting his tongue to work between your legs, feeling you tremble at his touch, hearing you moan out his name and tell him he's the best at this. He's constantly telling you how good you look during sex, and that doesn't stop when he's going down on you, the vibrations from his non-stop monologue of flirting teasing every nerve in your body. You'll see flashes of that cheeky smile as you tell him you're ready for him to fuck you, but he just shakes his head and tells you he's not done yet.

He'll be eternally grateful when you return the favour too, the moment your tongue meets his tip maybe the only time in his life when his mind is blank and he finally stops talking - only for a moment before the praises spill out again amongst pants of your name, and confessions of just how much he loves you and how lucky he is to have you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) - face/rough/energetic

Woo Jin is an athletic and agile man, and that would carry through to the bedroom. He's so excitable that it's like a whirlwind as he rips off clothes and covers every inch of your body in his kisses, pace frantic and rough when he's finally inside you. Sometimes he'll slow it down though, when you roll on top of him first thing in the morning or he comes home from a particularly long day, drained and looking for the comfort of you slowly riding him as he spends the whole night chasing your lips with his, arms wrapped around you so you never get too far away.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) -

Woo Jin is so obsessed with you that sometimes he just needs a quickie; he knows you only have ten minutes before you need to be out the door to meet your friends, but he's been craving you all day and he feels like if he doesn't get to feel and taste you for another five hours it might just kill him! He's strong enough to press you up against the nearest wall, wrapping your legs around his shoulders so he can taste you before he brings you to his waist and pounds into you mercilessly, making sure you're both satisfied but you still get to leave on time - even if your legs feel more like jelly than you would like.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Despite having lived an incredibly dangerous life (with some very close calls) Woo Jin has learned nothing - he will take any risk and experiment in any way you suggested if you asked him with a smile. He wouldn't necessarily be the one to suggest something new, but he'd definitely take the risk of being together in public somewhere if he felt like he really needed you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Woo Jin trains to bounce back quickly in the ring, between rounds of boxing, so he's always ready for a round two pretty quickly, never wanting the moment between you two to end.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He wouldn't own any toys himself, but if he ever found out you had a vibrator he would beg you to let him use it on you, absolutely mesmerized by your reactions to its touch. He would definitely want to introduce it to your sleepy morning sex, just to help you wake up in the happiest way.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

It takes one look at Woo Jin's devilish smile to know this man would be the worst (and best) tease. He'd love touching you oh so gently and watching you react, joking about how badly you need him when he's barely even done anything. Lives for making you beg for him to actually fuck you, teasingly saying he thinks you're not ready and need him to make you cum again on his fingers. When he's feeling particularly mischievous he loves being able to pin your hands and straddle your hips, taking his sweet time sliding into you and watching you squirm, unable to move your hips to hurry him along.

When the tables are turned however, he is an absolute baby. He gets so pathetic when you make him wait, if you hover him with your entrance just out of reach, chuckling at his attempts to lift his hips to feel you. Very quickly starts pleading and begging for you to touch him, telling you how bad he needs you because only you can make him feel this good.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Woo Jin has a big mouth, that never stops running - his moans are loud from the minute you shift onto his lap until his final thrust, interspersed with the a long stream of the sweetest words you could ever want to here, praising everything about your body, your personality, your soul and the way you look and sound and feel around his dick. Even afterwards the compliments don't stop coming until he's fallen asleep for the night.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for this character) - constantly has you on a facetime call when he's out living his life, even if it's all day - > phone sex.

Even though it's inevitable that sometimes you have to spend a little bit of time apart, Woo Jin views missing you as completely unacceptable. So whenever he has to be away from you, he'll start a video call with you and just talk to you all day while he's out living his life, like a little one person vlog. He just wants you to see everything about his day and know exactly what you're up to, even if the call has to last all day. Any time he's in his little apartment alone and you can't come over he'll get you on his phone, propping you up so he can see everything you're doing and vice versa.

It wouldn't take too many weeks of this constant company before one night he starts pleading about how much he wishes you were sleeping over, and you can see him subconsciously palming himself through his pyjamas. So you'd slip your camisole off your shoulders and ask him exactly what he'd be doing if he was with you right now, his eyes bulging wide at the realisation that this is actually happening. Now if you're apart he can't sleep without touching himself over the phone to you and telling you all the ways he wants to make you feel good when he sees you tomorrow.

X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

Woo Jin's pretty tall and muscular, so every part of him would probably be a bit bigger than average ;)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Woo Jin's craving for you is relentless, most of his waking moments filled with thoughts of your beauty and kindness, and often that translates into wanting to please you and feel you. If you ever made the slightest suggestion that you were in the mood, he'd be immediately ready to go, but sometimes all he wants to do is cuddle up with you, resting his head on your lap while you play with his hair, or having you lie against his chest while his fingertips lightly trace shapes on your arm - it's all wonderful quality time for him.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

It tends to be the two ends of the spectrum for Woo Jin - half the time he'll be immediately unconscious, the other half he'll be so excited about having a great time with you that he'll be buzzing with energy, playfully rolling around with you in bed and smiling ear to ear as he pours out every thought he's ever had and tries to learn absolutely everything about you.

#writing #fanfiction #one shot #requests #bloodhounds x reader #bloodhounds kdrama #bloodhounds netflix #bloodhounds imagines #bloodhounds #woo jin x reader #woojin x reader #hong woo jin #hong woojin #hong woo jin x reader #woo jin imagines #woo jin headcanons

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evieelyzabethh · 10 months

Note

Hi me again! 👋🏻

I was wondering if you had time maybe to write a small fic (or one shot whatever you’re comfortable with) where the reader is Buffy’s cousin ( also library assistant or whatever you would like ) and the reader and Giles are in a secret relationship ( maybe smut?? ) and they’re navigating that and Buffy finds out and it’s this whole thing. If you’re busy I totally understand or if you just don’t want to, again it’s okay. I really do enjoy your work 🥰.

Not Unavailable, More Unimpressed

pairing(s): Giles x Summers!Reader

summary: what started out as a short term fling has gotten increasingly complicated when the reciprocity and sincerity of feelings is called into questions. pt.1 of ???

warnings: smut, fem!reader, drinking, hand job, a bit of breast worship, clothed grinding, riding, slight choking, age gap (Giles is in his mid to late 40's, reader is in her late 20s/ early 30s), reader has nipple piercings bc I said so and I think they are hot

an: This fic will contain smut so be warned. You are responsible for your own media consumption, read at your own risk.

The man at the bar was a mystery to you. He didn't quite fit into the bar atmosphere. He wasn't one of the barely legals or illegals who snuck in eager to drink, he wasn't one of the old guys who came to hit on the bottle girls, he didn't smell like a smoker or shoot whiskey like a drinker. He was also British, something that left an odd taste in your mouth.

You couldn't call yourself a regular here, more often than not you found yourself at the Bronze, purely per Buffy's request, which had okay enough booze and slightly better music. Here, some place clearly meant for an older crowd called Jack's, is where the older man sat. Alone, he sat at the far corner, sometimes looking longingly at the stage like he was a performer. He didn't look like a performer though.

He was older than you. He was greyed out and looked like he came from when TVs were still in sepia tones. He looked like Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird, like he was always a moment away from scolding someone. It didn't help that he always looked tired, like a lot of his age came from stress. If that was the case, it still didn't make sense as to why he chose a bar to be his spot to wind down.

It was loud. Not in the way that the Bronze was, a type of loud filled with life. A loud spurred by rowdy souls, people who couldn't let loose at home, so they came to one of the only shitty bars in the small town to drink a shitty beer and watch their favorite sports team lose. Not to mention the countless barely legals who got into fights with the bartenders after they failed to get their underage friends a drink. Jack's wasn't a place to have fun, it was the place to avoid doing something reckless during your midlife crisis. You were only there because of convenience, and after being there for a half hour were already beginning to get a migraine.

Job hunting was rough. When you moved to Sunnydale on behalf of your aunt, she offered to let you stay under her roof, but being a grown woman who got up to grown woman shenanigans, it would be more than distasteful to do it in Joyce's home. You were lucky enough that the housing market was great in the area, with all the supernatural happenings so one chose to move to Sunnydale, but that still didn't mean that a decent looking apartment wouldn't cost you a nice sum of money every month.

I could just work here, was your first thought. You were once a young college student also desperate for money, you had bartended, you could always go back if you lacked self-respect. You had a degree dammit, sure you didn't have a doctorate, but you shouldn't need one to get a nice quiet desk job. Neither option was all that fulfilling, but something told you that bartending in a town when demons just roamed the streets didn't seem like a great idea.

The mystery man looked like he had a nice job. Maybe a nice car. Possibly a nice house. He looked financially stable, and fuck was that hot. What did he do? What was there to do in Sunnydale? You could ask.

You looked at his hands to see if there was a ring or any indication that there was someone waiting for him wherever he came from. Maybe a picture of a kid, maybe a photo of a significant other. Nothing. Nothing.

You slinked over to the seat beside him, not meaning to make your presence immediately known yet he still looked up as he felt the heat of someone else beside him. His glasses perched low on his nose and his grey hair tussled. His eyes were green. He was pretty.

"Hello?" He looked at you confused. He took a moment to drink you in. Younger, gorgeous, clearly bold.

"Hello."

"Are you waiting for someone?" You shook your head.

"No. Are you?" and he'd be lying if he said he was.

☽✯☾

"You know, I don't do this often." He said between the rare breaths that were allowed in between suffocating kisses. Whatever he took up in his free time must've involved a great workout regimen. His hand sat comfortably at your neck, and you basked in the warmth that it provided in his cold apartment. His other held your cheek, his thumb mindless rubbing against it in a way that was hypnotizing. It almost had a numbing affect, your skin not being able to get past the feeling making your brain pause as he kissed your lips.

He tasted like fine wine. He smelled like old books. You half expected him to quote a classic at you, you didn't know him well enough to gauge if he was the type. His tongue contradicted his previous statement. These weren't the kisses of a man out of practice, that or he did it so much in his youth it was impossible to forget. Something like riding a bike.

"For a man who doesn't do this often, you're mighty good at it." He smirked; you could feel it against your lips. You wished you could see it, but he had the lights in his bedroom turned low and you weren't sure you wanted to open your eyes in the fear that you were dreaming. It was warm, he was so warm. So warm it was noticeable when his lips left yours and moved to your neck, hovering under your ears. His breath fanning against your neck was enough to send shivers down your spine.

"You haven't even seen how good I am, darling." The pet name alone made you weak in the knees, but you would be damned if you swooned at someone called you darling. Granted, you couldn't help how your mouth went dry or how your pussy clenched at nothing, but he didn't need to know that. He was going to find out, but he can find out later when your lust ridden brain stopped listening to reason and pride.

"Show me, then."

He dipped his head to kiss you, grabbing a fistful of your hair to tip your head back and you let him, grabbing on to his broad shoulders to stabilize yourself. You were pressed between the wall and him, pressing him even closer as you fisted his shirt to pull him closer, but he was hesitant to oblige. He was teasing, you could tell by the way he smiled into your kisses, pulling away like he needed air while you chased after his lips.

"You having issues breathing, old man?" The hand at your neck squeezed, not enough to choke you but enough to make your head even dizzier. His other hand travelled to any piece of skin he could get his hands on. Feather light, his fingers ran across your arms, then your collarbones, before knocking the straps of your dress off your shoulder. His kisses moved slow, his tongue damn near like languid waves that you were somehow managing to drown in.

Still, you chased after him, and still, he ran. His lips ran to the corner of your mouth, to the skin of your neck his hand didn't engulf, to where your strap lay useless. His kisses scorched your otherwise cold skin, his mouth sucking hickeys and then immediately soothing them.

He was so soft. Soft in how his hands found the back of your dress, soft in how his eyes looked into yours, asking permission without even saying a word, soft like the way the fabric slipped of your body and onto the floor. Soft like the bed he laid you on. Even soft in the way he continued to tease you, his knee meeting the crotch of your panties and him meticulously unsnapping your bra as if you couldn't tell he knew how to do it.

He then paused for a minute, finally coming across something he hadn't experienced before. His fingers took the ball of cool metal between his fingers, and you moaned at how it pulled ever so slightly at your nipple.

"What are these?" You chuckled.

"I got 'em pierced ages ago. Drunk night out with a few friends my senior year." He continued to play with the metal ball, well aware of how you keened and ground yourself into his knee.

"So, I can play with them." Fuck. It was how he said it. Like a nerd you might've messed around with in school because he was a good tutor but also because he had that nerdy charm to him. Like playing with your body was a game of Operations he had been so eager to play and was determined to get good at. It was easy to imagine Giles like that, fogged up glasses, eyes concentrated and focused on figuring out what buttons to press to get a prize. There was the curiosity in his lust-blown eyes, and in your lust addled brain you were fine with being his toy.

"Please do." He didn't need to be told twice. Avid learner he was, he went in, his large hands easily covering your breasts. His fingers pulled at the bars, drawing whimpers out of you the more he prodded. It wasn't too rough, Giles was too soft to ever be truly rough, but the feeling of his gaze, your clothed pussy rubbing against his soft slacks, and his large hands over your chest was getting a bit much. And he hadn't even put his mouth on you yet.

It didn't take long for him to realize the feeling of your pierced tits in his mouth was one of the best things he's felt, and it felt even better for you. A wet patch had long since been growing and he certainly felt it too, it egged him on. He wasn't even in you, he hadn't even tasted you, and you were almost there. You were so close.

You grabbed at anything you could, his shirt, his sheets, his hands that held yours as you rocked yourself onto his knee until you saw stars. Then he grabbed your face and swallowed your moans as he kissed and kissed you until you came down. A moment of clarity hit you, and you pulled on his shirt. "Off." you told him simply, and he obliged. You smashed your lips into his, peeling off button after button until the shirt was thrown to the side and his undershirt beneath was discarded with even less care.

"Issues with patience, darling?" You shook your head.

"Not fair I'm practically naked and you were fully clothed." His retort was cut off by your lips as you sat up to meet him, his hands absent-mindedly finding your breasts and yours finding his belt and making quick work of it before he even realized what was happening. You kissed him through it, anyway, still chasing after him as he pulled away to curse at the feeling of your hand around his dick.

"Gods." he muttered, words tumbling out clumsily as you rubbed the tip of his cock. He never had the control to pull away fast enough for an adequate breather, just a second to get a breath out and pray. You were flattered. His hand seemed like it wanted to swat you away, but it didn't have the strength to betray his brain like that. It felt good. Too good. So good he couldn't even think, and Giles never stopping thinking and now he was drawing blanks. He was sure you had mocked him once or twice, which went through one ear and out the other.

He caught himself thrusting into your hand before he caught himself, grabbing your wrist. "Hang on." He choked out, but you didn't listen. Your hand moved up and down his shaft terribly slow, and it was almost worse. Watching you spit on your hand and collect pre-cum from his tip and spread it like some sick simulation of what it would be like to be in you, and yet he couldn't help but watch his hand completely cover yours as you pumped him. Don't cum yet.

"I said hang on." His breath was ragged and his voice was deep. This time he meant it. "There are condoms in the top left drawer. Take one out for me, love." And you did as such. Did it with so much assurance that you slid it on without him even needing to ask you. Slid your panties off and sank down so fast neither one of you was ready.

You both sat there a moment, feeling your nerve endings tingle and burn, like you were both on fire. But you were on fire together. Like you could feel every atom in your body, like it had all been reduced to nothing but water, you were both feeling everything and anything yet absolutely nothing at the same time. So much feeling any nuance got lost in the moment. Just being there, breaths away, with a complete stranger you were sleeping with because he was pretty and looked financially stable.

You kissed him, a real kiss. Spontaneous. One with a feeling neither one of you could decipher and both assumed meant nothing. You rode it out until you had both exhausted each other, you falling on top of him and him catching you.

"Would you like to use my shower before you go? Did you need a ride home?" You cheesed to yourself. And they say chivalry is dead.

"Yeah, that would be nice." You had already rolled out of his bed in search of your dress and waiting for feeling to return to your legs. "I never got your name."

"Giles. Rupert Giles." You giggled as you shook of your dress after picking it up from the floor. Sounds about right.

"And what do you do for a living, Mr. Giles."

"Do these things typically end in interviews?" He made no effort to get out of his bed, he even had the decency to turn away while you get dressed as if he wasn't just balls deep in you.

"No, but I am new to town and would like to not be broke."

"I'm a librarian." Of course, you are. "Have you any interest in literature?" You did. You were a nerd. You had tried convincing yourself you weren't for years, but you majored in philosophy and minored in classic literature; and no one likes philosophy majors.

"I dabble a bit. Got a degree from all the reading I did if that counts." He looked at you like he knew you were trying to make yourself sound cooler. Nerd calls to nerd.

"Well, plenty of places are always hiring. The turnover rate is quite atrocious here." And even new to town, you believed it.

"I just might."

☽✯☾

You did end applying, you even ended up getting the job. Apparently, your little cousin's high school was in desperate need of a library assistant. You also had the pleasure of freezing when you saw Giles again and watching your little cousin greet her favorite teacher.

It was almost worth it for the look on his face, though.

#btvs #btvs imagine #btvs x reader #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy the vampire slayer fanfiction #buffy the vampire slayer imagine #buffy the vampire slayer x reader #rupert giles fanficion #rupert giles smut #rupert giles x reader #giles x reader #giles smut

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year

Text

Man-Sized 4/9 If You Have Ghosts

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

She was just "S" on his phone.

It was a stupid thing to do, but she checked.

He had left his phone casually on the table, and it was such a sign of trust that she was shocked. Not that she could hack into it even if she wanted to – which she did not – but because she could see if someone sent him a text, or called…

At first, she hadn't meant to: what she meant was to dig up a particular photo and show it to him when he came back in from the smoke he was having. An old picture where she was a teen and looked like a little monster with a growth spurt and braces and a Nirvana shirt. But something in her brain told her to send it to his phone with the accompanying words That's a school girl for you and then go check the notification that appeared on the screen.

And she took advantage of that trust in the spur of the moment, like a jealous little idiot.

"What are you doing?"

And another thing that always escaped her was how Simon could be silent if he so wished. A guy of his size should've made more of a ruckus when he came in, but he seemed to defy the laws of physics as he stepped into her living room, quiet as a spectre.

"Um..."

The scene looked exactly as shameful as it was. She stepped back when he went to his phone, picked it up…

"Right… Busted." He was looking at the notification of her text like it was a message from some other girl he didn't want her to know about.

And she was the one who was busted here. The whole situation had left her red as a beet and humiliated to the very core. Everything was going so well, and she had to just shit all over it.

"You have trust issues?"

"I'm sorry. That was totally uncalled for. I…" She spread her hands and sighed. "I have no excuse."

"I asked if you have trust issues." He didn’t look or sound angry. Only methodical.

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"Why were you looking at it?"

Ok, he wasn't about to leave her. Instead, he wanted to talk it out like adults. It made her a little too relaxed.

"To see what kind of lock screen picture you have?"

He stared at her with a look that said You didn't pass this test. But then, a warmth settled in his eyes, the kind of soft glint he had when he was amused with something — amused with her.

"I think I know why."

His patience was soothing. It wouldn't hurt to ask directly instead of tiptoeing around the subject and making a fool of herself.

"Yeah. I would just… very much like to know if you have this kind of thing going on with other people."

"No. Do you?"

"No."

Another small smile. The warmth in his eyes had turned into a solid glow. Perhaps it was a test, after all: Simon didn't casually do anything, least of all leave his phone unattended like this.

"Simon… Why do you want to be with me?"

"'Cause you're a Bond girl."

It made her laugh, but on the inside, she was shedding tears.

"I'm not a Bond girl, Simon. I'm a student with a lot of debt."

"I could help you with that, you know."

She was so taken aback by his suggestion that she couldn't speak for a moment. Simon wasn’t joking: he had tilted his head slightly and waited for her to accept his offer.

They hadn't even had The Talk yet, and he was ready to support her financially. It made her delighted and suspicious; was she stepping into an affectionate relationship or a transactional bond if she accepted? The last time he had offered her money ended in her slapping him.

"You want to be my sugar daddy now?"

"I'm serious. You could focus on your studies."

It appeared they were approaching the centre of his issues as well, and she sighed.

"Does it bother you that I work there?"

He didn't betray any emotion, as was probably to be expected from a man who worked in covert operations.

"Does it bother you that I shoot people?"

She, on the other hand, found herself blinking again from Simon’s flat way of describing the nature of his work. To be honest, she hadn't given it much thought. Deliberately, because she had wanted to enjoy him to the full and see where this one would go. It was no use getting upset about something that possibly wouldn't even be a part of her life.

But here he was again, in her living room, after a good round of morning sex, smelling of tobacco and about to finally take her out. She was missing classes because of him, had even lied to him that she didn't have any today — not knowing whether he could tell she was lying and keeping it to himself so he could take her out.

Her answer proved to be quite simple, even if a bit naive.

"No, if they're the bad guys."

His face lit up with a sly smirk, and his words were smooth, gilded gravel this time.

"They are. I'm practically saving the world."

She rolled her eyes at that. Overconfident, cheeky bastard… She would soon catch actual fucking feelings, catch more than just an infatuation for this man.

"I'm sure the whole world would descend into darkness without you," she said dryly, and he laughed, this time in a perfectly spontaneous way. The tight grip on her heart only tightened more.

"Simon, seriously speaking, does it bother you?"

His face slowly straightened again, but he wouldn't give her an answer. She would never have thought that it actually might upset him — after all, he was the one who had visited such a place. He had come there to see her grind night after night.

"I like dancing. It's a good workout."

"As long as the only thing you work out is that pole." It was uttered slightly under his breath, and she tried her everything to hide a confused little grin.

Was he…

Could it be that Simon "I kill people" Riley was not only jealous but possessive?

Of her?

Wow.

---

He didn't take her to a fancy restaurant but to a museum that had Albrecht Dürer's engravings and woodcut prints on display.

"You really did your homework," she commented on his choice. How the hell did he know that she was interested precisely in this kind of stuff? The rich symbolism of Renaissance humanism and the overly gothic Northern period?

"Again, not rocket science."

He had probably seen that the book he had glanced through wasn't a loan but her own. Noticed the hearty amount of notes she had scribbled on the pages... Of course. Not rocket science, but still pretty impressive, especially when the exhibition was on show only for a month. She was studying this stuff, and she hadn't even noticed.

He asked her to give him a tour and curate the display. She laughed and told him that was not exactly what curators did but proceeded to tell him as much about the works as she could.

"I have a soft spot for this one. She's like an angel fallen from heaven. Brooding, because the stairway to heaven is right there, but she can't ascend."

They had stopped to study the print Melencolia I, and she feared that she was boring Simon to death — along with feeling lame for trying to impress him with knowledge that was yesterday's news. But it turned out he had never even seen the engraving that was in her world, one of the most iconic pieces of art history. He even got curious about the heavy symbolism embedded in the work; he asked about the sleeping dog, the hourglass, and the wings on the melancholy figure.

"That's a woman?"

"Yeah. I mean… That's the usual interpretation."

The fact that he hadn't seen it from the start made her smile. Or perhaps it was the notion that Simon seemed genuinely interested in the display and her knowledge on this type of art.

"They used to think that depression was a pathological condition caused by black bile and blamed it on the planet Saturn.”

The smug look on his face told her that the conversation was about to get interesting.

"What causes being pissed off all the time?"

She would never have guessed that Simon had anger management issues. He was always so cool and controlled.

"Anger is associated with being choleric. Too much heat in the body."

"I'm too hot?"

Way too hot.

"According to the Renaissance people, yeah."

He turned to look at her, and she could feel the tingles in the air between them.

"And which planet is to blame for being too beautiful?"

"That would…. probably be considered a gift from Venus, the Roman goddess of- "

He pulled her into a kiss, and she was soaring to the sun again. How a man surrounded by such heavy darkness, who concealed his face with human bones, could hold an entire sun within him was a mystery, even more compelling than the enigmas of the Renaissance. She imagined the man with all that death draped over him and concluded that Simon was the most enthralling piece of art she had ever seen.

He broke the kiss but didn’t let her go, and she finally felt like he was someone she could trust, a man she could feel safe with. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet, but she was full, perfectly satisfied under the austere lights of the museum, amidst the whispering tourists who had no idea there was blood and sun and love in the middle of the room. His eyes weren't those of a soldier, not even those of a hungry man in a strip club. Simon was something completely different from what she had originally thought.

"Why do you wear that skull?"

His gaze flickered from her eyes to her lips, a tiny betrayal of her having succeeded in surprising him again.

"Because I used to fear it."

That was solid reasoning, in her opinion. She could respect him for it. She liked the symbolism, the poetic, tragic beauty of it. The whole man was alluring… a tall, dark stranger although he was pale and blonde. His darkness was on the inside, but even that was savagely beautiful.

They went to the museum cafe after, and she ordered sparkling wine because, in her opinion, high culture demanded sparkles. This whole occasion demanded a toast — but then she noticed that Simon ordered tea. Not a glass of wine, or a beer, not even a coffee, but tea.

She had seen him drink at the club, just one scotch, but still. It wasn't a big deal; they didn’t need to celebrate what finally seemed to be a blooming relationship. But what was a big deal was that Simon seemed to disapprove of her having a glass of bubbly in the middle of the day.

"You drink often?"

"Um... no?”

She was feeling giddy, and not just because of the drink she was having. Simon’s question came out of nowhere, and the restless look on his face told her he was sincere. And then, another question followed.

"Have you done drugs?"

The situation had turned from fun to absurd so quickly that she bit her lip to hold back from smiling like a person who had something to hide. She hadn’t expected a man like Simon to give her a lecture about the dangers of recreational drugs.

"No." Technically, she had tried marijuana a couple of times at a party, but that couldn't be described as doing it.

"Good."

"Have you?"

"Never."

He was pleased enough with her answers, and the conversation seemed to have come to an end. She wanted to ask him more about this strict code he appeared to have, but before she could do it, Simon looked out the window and enlightened her.

"Father drank a lot."

It was a piece of information that equaled him giving her his gun. Giving her ammunition to shoot him with if and when the time would come. It also explained a lot.

"That sounds… awful."

"It was."

Simon had joined the army at a young age, and she had thought it meant he really wanted a career in the military, that there was a calling. But it appeared it might have something to do with wanting to get away from home as soon as possible.

"Is he still…?"

"He's dead."

---

She woke up in the middle of the night with the extremely uncomfortable feeling of not getting enough air.

When she came to, the first thing she felt was a forearm of steel pressed on her throat. In fact, there was a massive weight crushing her all around, but the most harrowing thing was the gaze she was met with, his eyes staring at her in a blank, cold, calculated rage.

"Simon..."

Those eyes were like lead, almost inhuman, and she tried to utter his name while her thorax and throat were being compressed with a gradually increasing weight.

"Simon."

He finally woke up from whatever flashback this was a reaction to and seemed to start breathing again at the exact moment the mist of icy wrath drew back from over his eyes.

"Fuck… " He took his arm from her throat, and she gasped for air and stayed still, fearing that the killer would come back any second.

"Shit. Sorry." Simon's eyes were wide and scanning her wildly, inspecting if he had done permanent damage. He slowly rose off of her and scrambled backward as far as he could go without falling from the bed.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, clearly more than a bit shocked.

It shocked her even more than the actual choking episode — to see Simon so visibly afraid.

"It’s okay," she said, wondering how many times she had told him everything was okay when it wasn’t. "I'm okay."

She rose to sit and reached out to touch him, but he flinched. Seeing a man of his quality recoil from her touch wasn’t just baffling. It was chilling.

"Not… right now," he said as he raised a hand to shield himself from her. The fresh frost in her chest only spread.

"Does this kind of thing happen often?"

What she had meant to ask was whether he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. Although it was pretty clear that he did.

"Don't know. I usually sleep alone."

He swallowed, and she could hear the gulp. Simon was still breathing heavy, and she was rattled too, but the worst thing was yet to come as he got off the bed.

"I'll sleep on the couch," he said without taking even a pillow with him.

"Don't be ridiculous," she grabbed his arm when he was already headed to the door.

"There's nothing ridiculous about this," he said, looking more distraught by the second. And perhaps it had started to dawn on her, too. What if it happened again? What if he used even more power and actually killed her through sleep? If he had really meant to, he could've easily crushed her windpipe just a while ago. Still, seeing him so evidently shaken hurt her even more.

"You can't sleep on the couch every time you come here."

Technically, he could, but she didn't want him to. She tried to find humour in the situation, to crack some kind of a joke, but everything she came up with sounded bad and morbid. Perhaps he needed some space right now. She would just have to deal with it.

"You want to be alone?"

He stared at the floor and gave her a sullen half-shrug. He wouldn't move, and she felt bold enough to view it as a wordless beg for intimacy. She rose from the bed and walked to him, then wrapped her arms around him in an awkward hug when he continued to stand there completely frozen.

The ice melted eventually as he returned the hug. A deep sigh echoed in her bedroom, but her shock had started to shift and turn into something else. Simon wasn't a perfect man anymore, not in a way that made her a helpless woman. He was perfect now with flaws and stretched the space within her heart more and more by revealing he was a human after all.

"What would James Bond do?" She whispered while pressing her cheek against the warm, broad chest that had only now started to represent safety in her world. Even after what had just happened. Something in him finally latched tightly in place, like a puzzle piece that had collided against her the wrong way but now finally found the perfect angle and fit.

He huffed. It was only a little chuckle, but it was a start.

"I bet he wouldn't sleep on the couch," she continued, and he gave her a solid squeeze this time.

"I’m not James Bond," he muttered, and it felt like another magazine to the gun she had lately been provided with.

"That's okay. I don’t even like him."

#ghost x oc #simon riley x oc #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #mw2 fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc #ghost x female oc

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kurus-other-things · 11 months

Text

Places the OM bros would kiss: On the face edition! 😘

Disclaimer: I thought of this while in bed past midnight so forgive the rambling and ooc-ness. Also because usually in the game you're the one with the option to kiss them, this is more like when they're the ones who initiate the kisses first

LUCIFER💙

straight up on the mouth kiss

because of course he's bold enough to do that

feel like he'd be smug about it too

if he's in a mood to tease you he'll go for the edge of your jaw

it's close to your mouth but not quite your neck

and won't go for either until you tell him exactly where you want him!

or a forehead kiss because I feel like it's intimate and mature (at least from someone like him)

MAMMON💛

I feel like a side-of-mouth peck that's a spur of the moment kind of thing

like he totally let the intrusive thoughts win and just did it

but of course he's going to act like he was planning to do it all along

that or he was aiming for your mouth but got nervous and 'missed' instead lol

or maybe a peck on the upper part of the cheek like just below the eye

I feel like it's just a unique part of the face and he thinks that no one will have thought to kiss you there

Your first man has obviously gotta get there first!

LEVI🧡

just straight up direct peck on the cheek

only because I feel like he'd combust or faint if he did anything more lol

he's definitely completely red in the face and ears the entire time too

and it's quick too almost like he didn't do it at all

you’ll have to chase him down if you want more!

give him a break he's not used to doing normie things;;;

SATAN💚

also a forehead kisser because it's the place closest to your mind (also hoping you'll think of him more)

also again because it's an intimate and gentle gesture

I also think a direct peck on the lips

and it'd happen so naturally too like you'd barely even notice

like you pass each other in the hall and he gives you a small peck and then keeps walking

ASMO💗

I feel like he could also be an on the mouth kisser

like he's the master of making out no doubt about it

but I feel like he's one of those one peck on each side of the mouth/cheek types

it's fancy and you get two kisses instead of one!

also a big fan of giving nose kisses because he'd definitely love those cutesy kind of gestures♥♥♥

BEEL💖

this is probably a little cheaty (it's technically not the face) but definitely a top-of-the-head kisser

I just assume he's taller than everyone and anyone soooooo

(not me and my 150cm ass totally projecting the need for top of the head kisses lol)

if not the top of the head then I think he's also a forehead kisser

like if he catches you (or Belphie) napping he'll definitely give just a quick gentle peck on the forehead and move on

also gives pecks on the cheek because it's simple sweet and to the point

BELPHIE💜

FOREHEAD KISSER

because who else would be better at giving a goodnight kiss on the forehead???

if you're lying down facing him he'd scoot up (if he needed to) until his lips were at your forehead and then stay there (because he's probably already asleep)

he's also a big tease like I feel like sometimes he'll hover over your lips on purpose

and like the bratty little shit he is will wait for you to make the move first

#me letting the intrusive thoughts win at 00:27 in the morning #obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me swd #obey me nightbringer #kurusintrusivethoughts

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jacevelaryonswife · 1 year

Text

The sweet taste of depravation

You repaid your husband's previous affection in the best possible way, luckily for him to seem to like it a lot.

∴pairing: Osferth x Fem!reader

∴warnings: male receiving, indecency, no plot just porn. and english is not my first language.

part one | ewanverse masterlist

Getting up slowly, you squeezed him gently into his pants and heard him moan. “Let me return the favor, my love.”

Unlike your husband, you weren't entirely flustered by mentions of debauchery. You had faith, but your religiosity didn’t match Osferth's, which particularly facilitated things in intimacy, as two rigid and fearful people were worse than one. Although you didn't have as much experience as other ladies, you were no fool about the things that could be done by a man and a woman, so imagine your surprise when your kind husband suggested such indecency of tasting your flower? Such pleasure bestowed on you by his mouth in an act so intimate and so good, it made your entire skin burn and yearn for more. The image of him clumsily tasting your nectar still stunned you, leaving you weak at the knees, however, nothing fairer than returning the favor to your sweet, handsome Osferth, just when he was sorely in need of your affection.

He didn't say anything when you massaged him into the thin fabric of the bedding, savoring the sensation with a little regret. Oh, how wrong it felt! But so good!

“My love, you don't have to do this if you don't want to, I’d understand…” he said with puppy dog eyes and red mouth, forming a pout.

Nothing derived from the love between soulmates could ever be wrong, and you convinced yourself of that faster than he did.

“Do you want me to stop, my love?” asked sweetly.

"… Only if you want."

“I don't want to, what about you?”

“No, I don't,” he said, then corrected himself. “I-I don’t want you to stop, my lady.”

Nodding with a smile, you pulled his manhood out and touched it tentatively, wiggling and squeezing as you remembered exchanging experiences with the other ladies — although not nearly the proper way. It was actually fascinating how hard and soft it was, so interesting that if it weren't for the squeaks and sounds of the man below you it would have totally captured your attention.

Your other hand held his jewelry before massaging it, making him almost shiver beneath you, spurred on by the caress of your two hands.

“Where do you like most, my lord?”

“Upstairs,” he replied breathlessly.

You moved your hand up to the bulging, bulbous top part, massaging and moving from top to bottom while working the bottom part with your other hand. Recalling some accounts of how to touch a man, you left a light grip on the top and lowered yourself to his level, placing it in your mouth. Oh, that had him squealing beneath you, clutching the hand you kept wrapped around him and the side of his head for support. For a moment you thought you had hurt him, as your next thoughts were about how you should do it. God, it seemed so difficult to keep your teeth from touching that your delay in getting used to taking it caused a small accumulation of saliva that served to lubricate him when you raised your head and lowered it slowly, sucking your way back.

“Oh my Lor-" he broke off, not wanting to speak such blasphemously.

You took it out of your mouth and kept touching him with your hand, spreading moisture over its length just to ask:

“Are you enjoying it, my lord husband?”

“Ye-yes, my love… it’s so good.”

Smiling again, you leaned in to take him passionately, licking and sucking as you played with his warm, valuable stones. Your disinhibition was gradually lost as you pushed him deeper, still calmly but steadily, you sucked him in the bulbous region every now and then, making him moan louder and louder. Your beautiful baby monk, so flushed and adorable beneath you, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead as delicious sounds came out of his rosy lips. Your own intimacy clenched and twisted at the sight of him so desperate, yearning to feel the wet length of him against, to rise and fall over him, to feel the heat burn through your veins a second time in such a short period of time. So inappropriate, so wanton. So good…

“My love, oh f.. I think I will- Oh good Lo-“

You felt a squirt into your mouth with a strange, bitter taste, pulling back to see the white color. His seed. Oh God, your legs tingled and clenched, leaning down to lick as much as you could despite the taste, wiping it off with the back of your hand before stretching out for a lustful, hungry kiss, to be returned breathlessly with big hands. firmly grabbing your waist and pressing you against him. He leaned his forehead against you after the kiss, hugging you and inhaling your scent.

“So… that was really good,” you said.

“Very, my love, I didn't know you had such debauchery in you,” he teased.

“Do you mean to speak of debauchery when you suggested kissing me downstairs, husband? You’re unholy!” You smiled slyly, kissing every inch of his beautiful face.

“Perhaps I should do a purge after this,” he suggested good-naturedly.

“Of course you must.”

ewan’s taglist: @aemonds-fire

#Osferth #osferth x reader #osferth x fem!reader #osferth fics #osferth smut #osferth x you #tlk osferth #baby monk #the last kingdom

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raisinghellonstarbug · 17 days

Text

James Acaster x Reader - a tinsy bit of drabble... (accidentally angsty, oops!!)

Title: Best Person in the World

Basic plot: It's a Friday and it's your usual weekly coffee evening with your best friend James. James has some big news to share with you. You're not sure how to take it...

Tags: James Acaster x reader, fluff, angst, coffee shop, London, winter, heartbreak, unrequited love, but is it really unrequited?, almost lovers, best friends, mention of Ed Gamble

Word count: 2238

Work had been quite stressful, but no more than usual. Quite frankly you were just glad to get yourself out of there so you could head over to your favourite coffee stop on the corner and meet your friend, albeit, stupidly handsome friend James.

You, all rushed off your feet and almost panting from practically sprinting your way from the cold and drizzly rain, step in through the door of the coffee place and find your favourite seat where you knew that James would probably already be there.

He was there in fact and the sight of him alone gave you the butterflies. You just couldn't help feeling starry eyed every time - and incidentally, never about his fame of being on the telly. Just James himself. A friend for 5 years now.

Ed introduced you. It was a spur of the moment. You have been smitten ever since. You didn’t have the guts to tell him.

But there were moments when you wondered. Could he feel the same? It was too hard to confront such a thing.

It didn't occur to you straight away, not when you first met him. But over time, it built up bit by bit. Like laying it out - brick by brick. You were basically in love with him and you didn't know what to do about it.

And he is greeting you as he always does, with a goofy smile and a little cuddle and no matter how many times you have done it, the feeling still makes you swoon. How were you going to get over this? You wondered if it would just be easier rather than having to tell him how you felt.

You were out of your trance when he let go and gestured to you to sit.

"So, Y/n are you having your usual yeah or something else? It's my turn to treat us," he sat down and looked dead at you in the eye, a whimsical eyebrow raising.

But you start to argue, "No wait hang on I'm pretty sure it's mine you definitely paid last week-"

He fobs you off by shaking his head and putting his hand out, "Yeah yeah don't worry about it, honestly it’s no bother. I have something to tell you anyway and it's pretty big so I'm in the mood to treat us..."

You perk up at his words and look at him quizzingly, "What is it James? You ain't going to leave your best mate hanging already are ya?"

He was looking at you now with serious intent and it unnerved you slightly. Suddenly, nerves were climbing up to the surface again. You watched him as he rubbed his hands together.

"Ok, so... this is pretty big right, and I have been trying to figure out the best way to tell you but-"

"Oh for goodness sake James just bloody tell me already!"

As you say this he responds in unison, "I've met someone."

You went totally silent. You were speechless. You wanted the ground to swallow you up. You blinked hard and asked him to repeat those words you wished he hadn't said.

"I've- met someone... as in she's er, well, she's brilliant actually and I think it might be serious," he looked down shyly at his napkin on the table, fiddling with the cutlery.

You decided that all you can do is feign happiness. Be delighted for him. It was all you could do, you couldn't be mad at him for finding someone.

But the words were not coming. You felt like you were going to be sick. Maybe you had to get some air but you couldn't arouse suspicion. James knew you well enough after all.

"Uh-" you tried to say something. Still nothing.

"Y/n? Are you alright? Did I say something bad? I did say it was big..."

You put your arm out, trying not to alarm him and wanting to avoid him getting close to you so that he couldn't hear your heartbeat or your stomach churning. You stood up from your chair and managed to finally stifle up some form of words.

"Sorry, James, I don't know- I think I might be coming down with something? Sudden headache! I think. Might need to go home actually and you might have to tell me all the deets of how you met the lucky lady over the phone later. But yeah, I think I need to leave..."

"Y/n wait are you sure you don't just need to eat or take a break outside for a minute? I was looking forward to seeing you and I don't want you to leave. Maybe I could come back with you to yours instead I-"

Suddenly, without thinking, your voice became sharp and you looked at him sternly, "No! No James, please. Don't take me home, it's fine really. I'll be fine."

And you headed for the door, essentially storming off like a petulant child. You instantly started to regret your attitude at that moment, but it was too late now so you just had to turn away and leave.

Or at least you tried to leave, but it appeared James wasn't having it as you got to the door and he stopped you in your tracks. It would appear that a row was about to form, with anger splashed across your best friend's face. He rarely ever looked at you like this, but it had to happen occasionally. Fighting on the busy streets outside a cafe was not what you had planned for today.

He had grabbed your arm and was frowning, looking at you confused and annoyed.

"What the hell Y/n? Why did you snap at me like that? I was opening up to you about something really important to me and you just try to storm off and feed me bullshit about feeling ill? Tell me what's the problem now. I am not letting you go off and sulk..."

You groaned and looked away from him. Why couldn't you just be a decent friend and be happy for him? Why couldn't you just lie properly instead of wearing your damn feelings on your sleeve?

You crossed your arms and tried to explain it, trying to come up with something plausible.

"Look fine you’re right, that was shitty of me I know. I didn't give you a fair warning. But I guess it just really shocked me, you saying you met someone. Took me off guard I suppose," you still couldn't quite look him in the eye.

"I get that Y/n but you're my best mate. You're supposed to be straight with me. I mean you usually are! But I guess it wasn't fair of me either to spring this on you like that. I finally met someone and I just wanted to share my excitement with my favourite person in the whole wide world..." He started getting a little fidgety, you knowing he wasn't one for expressing admiration or being open about feelings. This was just all around uncomfortable for both of you.

And then you felt really bad. You looked at him with pure remorse and started to apologise while fiddling with your hair, "Shit James I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have reacted this way, period. It was really wrong of me. I am absolutely ready… to hear all and share your happiness with you," your teeth almost gritted with those final words. Some part of you wondered if he could tell that you still weren't being totally genuine.

He squinted his eyes and pointed his finger at you somewhat accusingly, "Hmmmm... there's something off. What are you hiding from me, hmm?"

You looked up at the sky and sighed heavily, praying for a flying saucer to grab you in that moment and take you to a distant land far away from here. But alas, no such luck.

You decided you had to be at least a bit more truthful. How you were going to word it though was tricky.

"OK ok James, you caught me. I guess, perhaps I am a little pissed that you didn't tell me that you were dating someone at least. I mean, how long have you waited to tell me? Why were you keeping it for so long?" You almost felt a bit smug for turning the tables on him. You also felt like such a prick too.

He nodded, accepting your answer and responded accordingly, "Ok yes, that's a fair point. But now you're giving me a chance to explain... I didn't want to tell you until I knew it was a bit more, well... serious. I didn't want to get excited before it was even anything real, you know? Her name is Clara, by the way."

Hmm, Clara. Sounds like someone he would date. Probably long legged, skinny and beautiful too. Your voice in your head sounded so pathetic. You hated feeling jealous. You didn't expect to be so overwhelmed by it.

"Clara, eh? She better be the real deal. She better not break your heart, otherwise I will find her house and kill her. You know that, right?"

James then laughed and his face softened, looking relieved that you weren't fighting anymore.

"James. I'm dead serious here. I will fucking murder her-"

He continued laughing and put his arm around you, dismissing your supposedly empty threat. Both of you started to stroll down the street to wherever it would go.

But you knew that despite appearances, you would do anything for this man - including attacking a woman who might cause him any sort of harm. And you insisted to yourself internally that Clara better step up to the plate. They had to be fucking dynamite; because the man you loved ought to match up as his equal of being the best person alive. Even if you knew that wasn't you.

To think, you were almost going to tell him how you felt that day.

He then looked at you dead in the eye, grabbed your hand and said with such sincerity and with those glittering, beautiful eyes, "Don't think this means that you won't be less important to me, Y/n. I don't want to become one of those people who becomes all consumed by their relationship. Clara will have to understand that I'll still make time for you. Especially when you need it."

You wanted to believe it but you knew that life doesn't work that way so you smiled sadly, almost a tear forming and shook your head, not expecting anything like that.

"No James, don't make promises like that. If Clara is really the right person for you, you prioritise that. You can't be closer to me than your potential future wife, or whatever. She could bear children for you, I can't do that."

You noticed a chord struck in James as you said that and he faltered, gently letting go of your hand. The penny had dropped. You knew your words must have really sunk in. You watched as he turned away from you, despite knowing his reluctance.

But just as quickly he turned back to you and with desperation, "Y/n, really. I don't want to lose you. You still can be just as important-"

You stopped him and put a finger on his lips. You then smiled genuinely at him, fighting every urge to kiss him then, knowing how amazing he was to even be so considerate to your feelings in that moment. You couldn't believe you hadn't started sobbing yet.

"You don't need to say anything James. Please. We are friends. We are nothing more..."

But he frowned at that, looking at you with sadness. And you didn't know why. Perhaps a fleeting moment? A slither of hope that could so easily be taken away? What was he thinking then?

He scratched his head and continued to frown, even though he still kept his eyes on you. In fact, you swore for a second that he looked down at your lips(??), but again must have been going mad. It was a strange day after all.

He then spoke so quietly, his voice practically whispering, "Yeah... friends. I guess that's better than not having you at all..."

And then you frowned at him, realising that you both were standing so awfully close to each other, his body just millimetres from touching yours. And you could feel that sickness again, but for a different reason. What the fuck did he mean by that?

And you wanted to ask him but instead you're frozen in time, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. You look up at him in a complete standstill, slightly gasping at the feel of his touch and you squeezed your eyes shut.

You then felt his lips touch your forehead and you opened your eyes to see him, his lips parted as he lifted his head back away from you. But soon you found yourself capturing his lips just that once, so gently and fleetingly. A quick peck. You couldn’t resist it.

He was surprised, quite rightly, his eyes darting around you and beginning to realise what had just happened. He pulled back and it honestly felt like a chain yanking at your heart. The waves were sinking you to the bottom.

You wondered if you might have to give up on your friendship with James to save yourself the worst heartache to come.

Note: OKAAYY I'M SORRY I DIDNT KNOW WHAT CAME OVER ME but somehow this became an unrequited drabble??? It was jsug improvised honestly like I just could imagine this happening and now I feel bad because the reader doesn't get a happy ending and I don't normally write angsty stuff like this but yeah here we are though I guess?? Please don't hate me!!

It's just drabble honestly. I think I wrote it OK? Let me know what you guys think! This is also just FYI nothing to do with Stumbled Into Laughter, Stumbled Into You so don't panic about that.

Peace x

P.s And noooo of course not, not me at all posting a fic on a Sunday night at nearly 1am in the morning - pfft, what am I like?

#james acaster #james acaster x reader #unrequited feelings #unrequited love #unrequited requited #heartbreak #lost love #almost lovers #best friends #james acaster fanfic #mention of ed gamble #london #winter

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chezzywezzy · 2 years

Text

Yandere Scream Drabble 2 pt. 2

Word count ; 4.2k

*Edited.

Y/n accepted. Of course she did. She suspected absolutely nothing. Billy placed his hand on the small of her back, and the glass of water was completely abandoned on the kitchen counter. Billy led her down a small hallway that led to a guest bedroom and the bathroom connected to it. Billy ushered her inside, shutting it tightly behind him.

Y/n tilted her head innocently. She plopped onto the bed, kicking her legs care freely. Billy, silent as he collected his thoughts, sat next to her. He sat forward, hands clasped together as his elbows leaned against his knees. His hair fell in front of his face.

The atmosphere shifted into something more serious and Y/n sat forward, placing a hand to rub Billy’s back gently. “What’s going on?”

“I think… I’ve had it,” he spoke carefully. “I’m gonna break up with Sid tonight.”

Y/n gasped, her movements freezing. Billy’s head tilted in her direction, and his brows were furrowed tensely. All Y/n could muster was,” Why?”

Billy shook his head and scoffed. “Why not? She treats me like shit. She actually thinks I’m a serial killer, y’know? Besides, she just ain’t interested in me anymore and it’s fine, ‘cause to be honest, I ain’t interested in her anymore. I don’t really think I ever was.”

“But, Billy, that could be a spur-of-the-moment kinda thing,” Y/n gulped. “Sid feels real bad about it. She likes you. And you two are a total power couple. Before all these murders started happening —“

“I still didn’t fuckin’ like her like I was supposed to. There’s someone else. Always has been.”

Billy sat up abruptly, shifting his body to face Y/n. She seized up, almost sensing what he was implying. She moved to scoot away, but his hand shot out, wrapping around her waist tightly. Y/n glanced at it, a frown tugging at her lips. Billy looked almost offended with how she reacted. However, his eyes narrowed. Seductively so.

“Don’t ya get it, doll? I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since forever. Don’t you feel the same way?”

Y/n was shellshocked from the revelation. Tears threatened to fall because she felt bad for being a catalyst and home wrecker. However, she was so very anxious that she scooted away completely, leaving Billy’s hands cold and longing for her touch. She shook her head, biting her lip.

“I - I’m sorry, Billy. I don’t know where all this is coming from. We’ve always been friends!”

Billy scoffed. He was trying his darnedest not to lose his temper then and there since he knew it all required patience. Once his and Stu’s plan succeeded, she’d have no choice but to accept his feelings. She wouldn’t have anyone else left to cling to except them. Stu told him that Y/n would turn him down, no matter what, but Billy knew that if he didn’t do this, Y/n would feel like she was someone to help him move on from his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. Even if that wasn’t the case.

It’s always been Y/n in his eyes.

“I swear, doll, I came here just to break things off with her. Can’t you just consider it? I mean, we’ve been into you for years. There’s no way you’re that oblivious, right —?”

Y/n stood abruptly. Billy followed suit, reaching to grab her. However, Y/n shook her head. Hair fell in front of her eyes. She grit her teeth, and Billy’s arm fell. A part of his heart ached from the sight. But he expected her to turn him down for the time being. Regardless, though, the hurt in his eyes was true. It stung for her to react so poorly to his confession.

“‘W - we’?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“You said ‘we.’ I - is there something else I’ve been oblivious to —?”

“It was a slip of the tongue —“

“Man, fuck this,” Y/n muttered in irritation. “You could’ve at least done the honorable thing and broken the fuck up with her first, Billy. Now, I just feel like some nasty side chick. Leave me alone.”

“Wait, Y/n —“

She dashed out and slammed the bedroom door behind her, leaving Billy in shock. He didn’t think things would go that poorly. But Y/n wiped away her tears and recomposed herself, dashing down the hall. She was conflicted as to wether she should join the gang because if she didn’t, she’d burst into tears in private, or if she should go elsewhere to burst into tears in private.

She decided on the former. She remembered the whole ‘strength in numbers’ notion, and even if her main concern was petty relationship drama, the Ghostface serial killer was still on the back burner of her mind. She went to the living room, but just as she swerved, she bumped right into someone.

“Woah, woah, woah! Hey there, Y/n. I was startin’ to wonder where you two ran off to.”

It was just Stu. He held up his hands defensively. Y/n exhaled sharply. “…Oh. Hi, Stu.”

“Aw, what's with the sad look?” Stu pouted care-freely. “Come on. Join us on the couch. You won’t wanna miss this. Jamie Lee Curtis’ breasts’ll be on screen soon according to Randy.”

Y/n shook her head and swatted at his chest playfully. Stu wrapped his arm around her waist, tugging her into the room anyways. It was crowded, but there was a very firm emptiness to part of the couch. Tatum was there, arms crossed in vague irritation from how all the guys were going berserk. However as she looked up, joy spread over her features.

“Oh my god! Y/n! Sit next to me!” She made grabby hands and the woman was more than willing to oblige, returning the notion.

She shoved Stu off her, much to his hidden chagrin, and plopped next to her. Y/n immediately squeezed Tatum close affectionately. Nobody else was aware of how deeply Stu burned of jealousy as he squeezed next to Y/n. He was so very tempted to steal her from the hug and brush it off as a joke, but he didn’t.

Instead, he watched in secret fury. He crossed his legs and sat back, eyeing the women. Even when they were done hugging, Tatum still had her arms hooked around Y/n’s neck. Their attention was drawn back to the movie as a scream echoed through the room from one of the ‘resident sluts’ of the film was finished off. The guys oohed and ached in unison, and Stu was so captivated by his jealousy that he wasn’t even paying any mind to it.

And then, he overheard the in. A boy in the back complained,” Aw man, there wasn’t any beer left in the kitchen.”

Stu steeled himself and downed the rest of his beer. His ears peaked when he heard a very pointed,” Hey, can we talk about something in a bit? Something’s going on with Billy.”

“Yeah, of course. What, don’t tell me he’s here —“

“Hey, babe, mind grabbing the guys some more beers from the garage?” Stu boomed, trying to feign as much innocence as possible.

Tatum scoffed and furrowed her brows. “What am I, the beer wench? Go get it yourself, you lazy ass.”

Stu bellowed in laughter, holding his stomach. Y/n smiled politely, and although Tatum was only slightly irritated from being interrupted, she decided to offer herself up to the task. It was fairly suffocating being stuck in the same room with many strange teenage boys.

“Where are they? I can go get them —“

“No, no, no!” Stu instead in mock horror, but only Stu knew that it was genuine. “Tate’s just gonna get some for herself, eh? Pretty please, babe? I’ll make it up to ya later.” He sent a cheeky wink.

Tatum’s eyes softened she shook her head in dismay. “I swear,” she grumbled playfully,” you men can’t do anything for yourselves, can ya?”

“Nope!” Stu gripped at his heart dramatically and fell back on the soft cushions. “Us men can’t do shit, ain’t that right, boys?”

Some of his friends cackled, although their attention was still glued to the various murders appearing on the screen. Tatum rose to her feet, patting Y/n’s head affectionately. She headed into the kitchen, leaving Y/n to the wolves. She wasn’t sure where Sidney was, since the girl had disappeared a while ago. She assumed Billy had swept her away to somewhere more private to go through with the break-up.

It made Y/n’s heart ache at the thought of being a home wrecker. Even if she was no fool and knew how attractive Billy was, out of pure loyalty, she’d never dream of getting with her friend’s ex. If the same thing happened with Tatum and Stu, it would be no different. As much as she cared for both boys and they were very near and dear to her heart, Tate and Sid would always be the priority.

She was shaken out of her thoughts when Stu’s hand clamped around her shoulder and tugged her close. He had a friendly grin. She was used to his overt physical affection and leaned against his chest. Her eyes drifted back to the movie on the screen.

It was odd how easy it was to fall asleep to a slasher film. Her eyelids were almost shut, lulled to sleep by the terror-filled screams of the murderer’s enemies. Stu was a comfy pillow, too. She wasn’t sure how much time passed, but Tatum still hadn’t come back.

Br-br-bring, br-br-bring!

Y/n gasped, shooting up from her position. Stu squeezed her shoulder, not going for the phone at all. Randy, who sat in front of the television on the floor, paused the movie. Everyone groaned, but Y/n was still so foggy-brained to really care either way. She sent her adorable, weary doe eyes toward Stu, and he couldn’t help but grin and blush, much to her unawareness.

Randy picked up the phone. “Quiet!” he ordered. He listened steadily to the call, and everyone was hushed in anticipation. Their minds were racing with theories. Perhaps Stu’s parents were coming home early. Or maybe the very distant neighbors, at eat half a mile away filed a complaint. However, Randy’s eyes widened in shock and horror.

“What is it, Randy-boy?” Stu asked carefully with a quirked brow. “Ya look like someone just died.”

“They found Principal Himbry’s body hanging from the football field!” Randy exclaimed. “He was gutted, skinned, everything!”

“Well, what are we all waiting for? Let’s go see before they pull him down!” one boy shouted eagerly.

Everyone seemed to rally around the idea. Hollers and hoots echoed in the room and people crowded at the front door. Randy was left in awe, reaching out toward them in dismay. He wanted for them to stop and continue watching the movie, and Y/n was just as horrified at how corrupt the student moral was. Stu didn’t seem to care, though, that his entire party was abandoning him.

The door slammed open and cars honked from outside. People were in a rush, driving away recklessly, which left just the three of them in the room. Randy, completely peeved, shrugged.

“Their loss.”

He plopped on the couch again and unpaused the movie. Y/n, on the other hand, was on edge. She nudged herself free of Stu’s affection and sat up straight. Stu also sat up in surprise, but she sent him a strained smile.

“I’m gonna go look for Tate.”

Stu’s mouth twitch and he deadpanned,” She probably got pissed at me and left the party early. You know how she is.”

Y/n shook her head. “No, I don’t think she’d do that. She would’ve at least come back with the beers.”

“Ya sure you don’t wanna take a nap upstairs? You were about to pass out there for a sec, babe.”

“At least wait til the movie’s finished,” Randy piped in in annoyance. “I don’t wanna be left watching it all on my own.”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll be right back once I find Tate.”

Randy clapped his hands together. She jumped in confusion, and the pair watched as Randy paused the movie once again. He jumped in front of the telly, demanding all eyes on him. “You were doing so well, Yn, god dammit! Don’t you know the rules?”

“The rules?” Stu parroted in confusion, furrowing his brows.

“Yes, the rules, dumbass!” Randy motioned erratically as he began explaining,” There are three very important rules in horror movies. The rest of us are completely fucked. But you and Sid? You two are the final girls. At least, you were until you said that.”

“Wh - what are you going off about this time, Randy?” Y/n chirped in confusion, not rising from her seat quite yet.

“Rule number one: no sex allowed.”

“Boo!” Stu chanted lowly, giving the man a thumbs up.

“Yeah, yeah, can it worms for brain. Rule number two: No drinking, doing drugs, or anything bad like that. Again, Y/n you were going to be that virtuous angel who survived ’til the end. And… rule number —“ he held up his fingers. “— three: don't you ever, ever say that you’ll be right back. Because you won’t.”

Y/n gulped, but Stu was giggling like a schoolgirl. She stood abruptly, and deciding to curb her anxiety, she grinned. “Well, I guess I’ll be right back then, huh?”

Randy facepalmed and shook his head. Stu hopped to his feet, aiming to follow. But Y/n shewed him off. She marched through the kitchen. Other than the distant horror movie playing, the house was silent. Too silent for her liking. It was grim. The thought that a murderer could be lurking about was worrisome. But the murderer couldn’t be at two places at once, unless if they showed up to the party late.

She felt cruel when her mind thought back to Billy. But he wasn’t a murderer. An asshole, maybe, but a killer, impossible. Y/n blinked away her thoughts. She went over to the garage door. She opened it up, not paying Stu any mind as he made his way into one of the rooms nearby.

She opened the door. It was pitch black and hardly any of the light bled in. She squinted and felt around for a light switch. She shut the door behind her and felt around the wall further. Some of the moonlight bled into the garage due to the open door. Something was hanging from it, but the shape was too blurry to be certain.

She finally found something. She flicked at it.

A scream tore at her throat and she collapsed to her knees. She clawed at the stone floor as she bore witness to Tatum, body cut in half. Ghostface was here, and they had killed her best friend. The circumstances was obvious. She attempted to climb free from the garage, fighting for her life, and had gotten trapped in the pet door.

Her body was only half-intact. She didn’t understand how the partygoers had fallen blind to the crime scene, blood still dripping from the stomach. Her vision went blurry and her head throbbed. She was so in shock as crawled forward ever so slightly.

Surely, Stu or Randy had heard her. Surely, they had called the police.

Suddenly, the garage door swung open. She gasped in relief, turning away just in time to miss watching Tatum’s body officially fall into two halves and collapse from the pet door. A wet plop echoed in the garage, and it burned into Y/n’s mind.

She was only terrified further when, blocking the pathway to inside the house, was Ghostface himself. His knife glinted in the moonlight and he tilted his head tauntingly. Y/n turned and began crawling away on her behind. But the Ghostface took slow, mocking footsteps, descending the steps and approaching so very slowly.

“Stu! Randy!” She shrieked at the top of her lungs. “Help!”

She hoped that they heard her. She prayed to a god that may or may not have existed. All Y/n knew was that she needed to run, and she needed to run now.

She flopped onto her stomach and attempted to stumble to her feet. However, the moment she was about to rise, the Ghostface suddenly pounced. Another scream escaped her lips as she was tackled to the ground. One arm circled around her neck, breaking the fall for her head, even if her breath was constricted. The body weighed a lot, and Y/n was left breathless and exhausted, barely able to move underneath him.

“Pl - ease!” She squawked, flailing her arms desperately. “Don’t —“

And then, the handle of the knife descended upon the side of her head but one time, knocking her out cold. Ghostface paused for a moment, waiting to feel any movements. And slowly, her breath evened out from her previous panicked pants. Silence fell over the garage.

The killer finally dared to move, sitting up. He straddled the tinier woman and released her neck entirely. Her head thudded gently against the stone and some blood stained her h/c hair from the blows. He removed his weight just enough, dropping his knife to the side.

He flipped her over on her back. He didn’t plan on moving her anytime soon, but at the very least, she’d have an easier time breathing. Or, well, maybe that was just a thing for sleeping babies and drunks. Ghostface didn’t know but wasn’t willing to take any chances.

He tilted his head and raised a leather-gloved hand to her cheek. Almost amused, he tilts her head every which way. He enjoyed the feeling of her skin sinking it at his touch, even if it was blocked by his gloves. Her chubby cheeks were so adorable. Everything about her was. And it truly was a shame that things had to go this way. The man hadn’t expected her to dash off to search for Tatum, let alone find her.

He should’ve cut the power.

A shaky sigh escaped as the murderer removed himself from the girl. It was time for everything to set into motion. He equipped himself with the knife once more, leaving the woman to lay on the cold, hard ground so very near the corpse of her best friend.

And Y/n remained there. And yet, perhaps it was the adrenaline, but her consciousness was quick to return. Perhaps she was lucky that he only hit her once. Y/n was still baffled as to why she was even alive. As her eyes opened, she saw stars. The garage was once again encapsulated by darkness, but as her head tilted, it was a very rude awakening to find Tatum’s dead, halved body not too far away from her.

A scream bubbled in her throat, but she fell silent. Instead, she shakily pushed herself up on her elbows. The murderer was odd. That much was plain. For some reason, he had singled out her. And perhaps, in their murder-freaked mind, it was because she was deemed the final girl. Not Tatum, not Sydney, but her.

The resident school nobody that only existed because of who she was friends with.

She coughed. Her head ached like the dickens. Ghostface hadn’t held back. But he also didn’t try hard enough, because here so was, alive and well. At least, about as well someone who just found her best friend’s body could be. She coughed again, pulling herself to her knees. She crawled toward the garage door, pulling herself up the steps.

Only then did she use the door as a balance to help her to her feet. Her vision had cleared enough, but it was still blurry. When she turned too fast, she couldn’t see a damn thing. She gulped, pulling the garage door open with a squeak.

The rest of the house was deadly silent. She snuck through, tears pricking at her eyes. She looked around the kitchen desperately for a phone, a knife, anything. She pulled open drawer after drawer, but they had seemingly been disappeared. So, she took what she could and snatched up a spatula from the sink.

She gulped. She navigated the hallway slowly. She remembered there being a phone in the living room. Obviously. The movie was still running, but it was quiet. Too quiet. She rounded the corner, expecting to find a body. Anything.

But Randy was nowhere to be seen.

For the first time, she couldn’t help but wonder if the killer had been under her nose the whole time.

She entered the living room quietly. As she went around the couch, she suddenly heard the front door squeak open. She gasped and immediately plopped onto the couch. She worried that it was the killer and that she plopped far too loudly.

And then, she heard the creak of the stairs. She gripped into the cushions, peaking her head over just enough. Her heart stopped when the cloaked killer whipped up the stairs, silent but deadly. The knife glinted in the lamp, and he hadn’t noticed. Y/n let out a sigh of relief.

She wondered what could possibly be upstairs. She let her body fall back down and she tilted her head. She noticed, out of the corner of her eye, the phone. But, what crushed her chances, was that the black cord was cut and it was sitting in the middle of the carpet, completely useless.

Y/n gulped. She had to find Stu. At the bare minimum, his hands were blood-free. She didn’t know who else was around, but she could only hope Stu was alive. She pushed herself off the couch.

Or maybe she could just run.

That seemed a lot safer. Y/n loved her friends, but she wasn’t stupid. She entered into the main hallway. She was about to pull on her shoes, but then she made the mistake of looking upstairs.

A scream escaped as the blade dug into a person. Sydney’s scream broke through, too, and only when the body was flung to the side did Y/n realize. Billy had been stabbed to death, body tossed to the wind without caution. The bedroom door was suddenly slammed shut, and although Ghostface banged on it a few times, he turned.

And noticed Y/n.

She screamed again. She wielded but a plastic spatula, while the killer’s knife was bathing in the blood of her friends. Some of the blood had splattered onto the ghoulish white mask, and it was hard to know what they were thinking.

Y/n threw open the front front door. Ghostface was racing down the steps accidentally slipping halfway. He recovered with ease, though, and the moment the door swung shut, it opened up all the same. Y/n raced down the steps, adorning nothing but her socks. The killer was hot on her tail.

Another shriek for help escaped her. A news van was right there, blood dripping from the door. She made it past the fence, hearing the knife slash angrily at the air. The killer almost seemed out of breath, but Y/n was living off of pure adrenaline.

She went around the van. Just as she slammed open the door, the killer collided with it. Y/n gasped and slammed it shut. The window was down and the killer reached in, grasping the girl by the neck. The knife had seemingly been dropped, and both hands clasped around her neck.

Y/n was left breathless. She reached for the ignition desperately, other hand clawing at the murderer’s neck. Her foot was pushing with whatever strength remained into the pedal. She felt at the key with shaky hands. The Ghostface continued to strangle the dear delights out of her, almost unwillingly so. Her head was completely hanging out of the open window.

She was beginning to lose consciousness.

And then, as her fingers wrapped around the key, she twisted it.

She gasped for breath and screamed at the same time. The murderer’s hold was relinquished in exchange for her head hitting the car door. But, as her body fell into the driver’s seat accelerating far too fast, she realized it was too late. She gripped the steering wheel, trying with all her might to swerve.

She broke through the white picket-fence and headed straight into the wilderness. She was howling at the top of her lungs. She was sure this was her end.

She crashed into a tree and everything went black.

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