#and with her permission to write it for publishing

[kitchen-light]

When I first asked my grandma if I could write and publish about her, she gave me an instruction that has stuck with me over the years and I try to always keep it in mind when I write about family. She said, roughly translated from Korean: “you can write what you want, but let us live a little more beautifully the second time.” I took this as permission with a condition that I would fictionalize where necessary, to protect them and myself. The women I write about are both us and not us. Maintaining that fictionalized barrier is important to me.

Jihyun Yun, from “you can write what you want, but let us live a little more beautifully the second time": Jihyun Yun in conversation with Nicole Lachat, published Prairie Schooner, March 9, 2023

[cyanide-siren]

pfft, we're not a couple

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: You, Dean and Sam attend a Supernatural convention by Becky's invitation and see people dressed up as characters from your life. One couple, approaching you, is dressed up as you and Dean. Of course, you're just friends - right?

☆☆

"What the hell's this place?" you mumbled, looking around the people dressed to look like demons, vampires, werewolves and other monsters. But along with supernatural creatures, some of them were dressed in the same kind of clothes like you and the Winchesters did.

It was a convention for Chuck's books. The books about your life hunting demons. This can't be fucking real.

"Sooo, do you like it?" Becky asked, appearing next to you out of nowhere. God, how much did that girl piss you off with that wide lipstick smile of hers and pitched voice.

"Yeah, i absolutely fucking love it," you replied sarcastically, voice threatening and angry which Becky took a notice of and turned from excited to awkward. You didn't even care to look at her way.

Chuck walked towards the four of you, taking cautious and nervous steps. He had wanted to keep this a secret from you but of course Becky had texted the Winchesters from Chuck's phone.

"Listen, guys –" Chuck started but couldn't get very far with his words.

"No, you listen to us, you piece of shit," Dean growled, towering over Chuck right in front of him. "It's bad enough to write books about our lives without permission, but holding some kind of event to dozens of people about it? That's even worse."

"I-i didn't mean this to happen, but..." Chuck stuttered, afraid of getting a fist on his face if he said one more wrong word.

"Save it, Chuck," Sam spat and rolled his eyes.

Chuck was going to say something more in his defense until a man arrived next to him and started talking about the process of publishing new books to the series and pulling Chuck away from you.

Un-fucking-believable.

Soon, a random man and woman, holding hands, approached the three of you but looking especially between you and Dean. Their eyes widened both in surprise and joy.

"Oh, honey! They decided to cosplay them too!" the woman exclaimed with wide eyes and even wider smile.

"Wow, you look just like them," the man gasped, looking at the two of you from head to toe.

The woman was wearing almost exactly the same outfit as you, which gave you the creeps. She was wearing a wig too with your hair color, pulled up in a ponytail like your hair.

"Can we take a picture together, please?" the woman asked, already pulling her camera from her purse. All you wanted to do was to yank her fake ponytail and slam her on the wall, but you didn't want to cause a scene.

"You know, Dean and Y/N is one of my favorite fictional couples," the woman eagerly told you. "They are so meant to be."

Your eyes grew wider and cheeks turned slightly pink, panic rising inside your chest.

"Oh, no no, we're not, i mean, they're not," you stuttered, not getting the words properly out of your mouth.

"Yeah, they're just friends," Dean finished your sentence, eyes as wide as yours.

"Are you kidding me?" the man exclaimed. "The chemistry, both romantic and sexual, between them is insane! There's thousands of fanfictions of them too written online."

"Fanfictions?" Dean repeated, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, it's like, one of the most popular pairings in the fandom!" the woman said. She quickly looked around her to see if anyone was listening to your conversation and then turned her voice a little lower, "I'm writing a fic series about them together too currently, i've been working on it for months."

"Uh-huh," you mumbled, not knowing what the hell to say to that. Not knowing what the fuck those words even meant.

"Do you want to hear what it's about? I can send you a link," she suggested, looking excited for sharing her passion with someone else. "I'll be posting the next chapter tomorrow and..."

"No thanks," you declined, just looking at her like she had completely lost her mind.

"Anyway, how about the picture?" the man asked and already gave the camera to Sam. "You can take it, right?"

Sam just looked at the camera in his hand with a baffled and confused expression on his face, but as he turned his gaze on you and Dean, an amused smile spread on his face. Both you and Dean looked uncomfortable and horrified about the situation.

The woman pulled you next to her by your elbow and the man pulled Dean to the picture as well, putting an arm around his shoulder. You and Dean exchanged glances with each other, wondering if you should punch both of them with a fist on their faces or just give in and get it over with.

This better not be posted anywhere on the internet.

The expressions on both you and Dean's face were almost identical: a mix of confused, dumbfounded, terrified and slightly embarrassed. Sam only smirked, finding you and Dean's sudden awkwardness around each other amusing.

"Smile," Sam smirked as he was getting the four of you to fit the camera's screen. The two strangers pushed you and Dean harder against each other's shoulder.

No, you would definitely not be smiling, unlike these two weirdos.

When the picture had been taken, Sam gave the camera back to the couple who were more than happy how good the picture had turned out to be.

"Thank you so much! Have a good day!" the woman said and pulled you into a tight hug. You hadn't expected a damn hug so you just stood there, being suffocated.

"I think i'll go get a drink," you decided once the couple was gone, wanting to step away from Dean for a second. You also were in need of something strong to get through with whatever the hell was going on here. Just barely 10 minutes in and you were already losing your mind.

Dean was left alone with Sam, both of them looking after you for a moment. Dean turned to look at Sam who was holding his laugh.

"We don't look like a couple," Dean scoffed, but when Sam was silent, Dean's face fell and he looked a little more serious. "Wait, do we?"

"Yes, Dean, you do look like a couple," Sam said. "Been waiting for you to realize it yourself."

"That's stupid, we just flirt occasionally but it doesn't mean anything," Dean said and rolled his eyes, trying to brush it off. "We're just friends."

"Mhm, whatever you say," Sam muttered, letting himself smile when his brother didn't see.

Just a few metres away from Dean and Sam, one guy with yellow contact lenses in his eyes approached a fake Dean, saying with a grin, "What's with the face? Did i kill your mommy?"

Dean gritted his teeth, knowing he'd break that man's nose and crack his teeth if he had said that to Dean's face. To the actual Dean.

"Yep, definitely need a drink," Dean muttered, growing even angrier than he already was after entering into this building.

After Dean had swallowed almost a full glass of whiskey down his throat, he saw a man, assumingly dressed as Dean as well, talking with you in the distance. You laughed at something he said to you, hiding your smile behind your hand. Your pretty smile that made Dean's chest and stomach feel funny whenever Dean saw your smile or heard you laugh.

What was so funny? Seeing another man make you laugh twisted something in Dean's chest.

"Dean, just tell her already," Sam said behind him, noticing Dean's tight grip on the glass, knuckles turning white.

"Tell her what?"

"That you like her," Sam specified.

"She's a friend, that's it," Dean insisted, tired of stating the obvious to his brother.

"Yeah? Well, i suppose it's fine then that she's probably going home tonight with a different man when this is over," Sam said.

Dean went into a slight panic after hearing those words.

"Home? What? With who?" Dean asked, looking back at you talking with the stranger. "What, that guy?"

"See, you like her."

"Well, she can do as she pleases," Dean said, shrugging his shoulders like he didn't care.

"When are you going to stop being so damn stubborn?" Sam asked, growing annoyed of his brother not admitting to his feelings. Sam wanted Dean to be happy, to let someone love him, but Dean's constant resistance was making him lose his mind.

"I'm not stubborn."

"Mhm."

Dean noticed another man trying to flirt with you. At least that was what it looked like. You didn't look exactly convinced or impressed by the fake Dean's words, whatever he was saying to you, but it didn't mean that Dean wouldn't get a sting in his heart for having to look at that.

"That's not her type, she's not going anywhere with him," Dean said.

"And you know what her type is?" Sam asked. He highly doubted that you talked about your taste in men with Dean. Or that he'd be willing to listen to your dating life.

"Well, i know it's not that guy," Dean insisted.

You were pretty, anyone with eyes could see that. You were funny too, your sense of humor matching Dean's perfectly. You were sweet and caring. Damn it, Dean could spend hours on explaining all the good things about you that made people like you.

Who wouldn't be attracted to you?

You were just a friend. His best friend. He wasn't supposed to fall in love with his best friend. That was forbidden, right? Don't fall in love with your best friend. So, of course he hadn't done that.

But every time you smiled at him, laughed at one of his jokes, he felt his heart skip a beat and butterflies swarm in his stomach.

Was that love? No. You were a friend, that's all.

☆☆

You were pinned against the wooden floor, the ghost a small child holding a large kitchen knife against your forehead, ready to peel half of your scalp off. How was this kid so strong? It was like trying to push a grown man away from you with no result.

Then, the child burst into flames and ash until was completely gone. Those sons of bitches really managed to burn the bones?

Dean rushed to you, grabbing your hand to pull you up. Even he had been pinned against the floor by another child, not able to fight back either.

"Are you okay?" he asked in panic, breathing heavily. He cupped your face with his warm hands to examine your face closer, looking at the wound on your forehead, which was only a small scratch and didn't bleed more than couple of drops. A simple band-aid would be enough.

"I'm fine," you assured him and had a teasing smile on your face. "But it's kind of cute you're worried about me."

Dean just rolled his eyes and wasn't in the mood of joking around, the tone of his voice complete opposite from yours. "Of course i'm worried about you, i always am."

You swallowed, becoming more serious too and were suddenly much more aware of the small gap between the two of you. You were afraid that he was actually going to kiss you, but you were interrupted by Sam running into the room, out of breath.

"Oh, thank god, you're okay, I –" Sam sighed, relieved, but then noticed how close you and Dean were standing. Dean quickly let go of you and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, we're just fine," Dean responded. "Let's go."

But before Dean would manage to walk out of the room, Sam quickly stepped outside and closed the door, trapping you and Dean inside alone.

"Sam? Open the door," Dean commanded, not able to get the door open as Sam was blocking it.

"Not until you talk things through between each other," Sam shouted through the door, loud enough for you to hear him too.

"Talk what through?" Dean asked, annoyed at his brother.

"You know what," Sam said, frustrated of you and Dean being both so stubborn.

Now that there was nobody else around you, the atmosphere was more awkward than it normally was and both of you waited that the other would break the silence.

"So, that was fun i guess," you said after trying to think what to say what felt like forever, but couldn't come up with anything useful.

"Yeah, super," Dean mumbled, looking down at his hands.

Truthfully, you did like Dean, more than just as a friend, but you had crossed out the option of having a romantic relationship with him a long time ago, knowing that he didn't do long-term relationships and you didn't do short flings. Especially with your best friend. What if you told him about your feelings and he didn't feel the same? You'd make things between the two of you way too awkward.

"So... i saw you chatting with some guy earlier," Dean said.

"Yeah? What about it?" you asked, furrowing your brows.

"Just, i don't know, looked like you had a good time," Dean stated, looking around the room to avoid eye contact with you. Immediately after he had said those words outloud, he regretted bringing it up.

"Well, i guess he was kind of funny," you said and shrugged, narrowing your eyes and then examining his behavior. You started slowly walking towards him, a smile on your lips. "Wait, does it bother you that another man made me laugh, hm?"

"No," Dean scoffed.

"Dean?" you said, stretching his name longer and raising your eyebrows. "Sounds a little like you might be jealous."

"I'm not jealous," Dean denied, finally looking into your eyes. You were suddenly incredibly close to him, just a small gap between the two of you. Dean swallowed, his heart beating faster as your gaze pierced all the way through his soul. God, you had pretty eyes. "I'm not."

"Mhm," you hummed, not convinced at all. "So, you're fine if i go talk to him instead of you?" You put your hands on his shoulders, gently grabbing the collar of his shirt and twiddling it in your hands. "You can be honest. You wouldn't mind, hm?"

"Of course i'd mind, Y/N," he answered, voice louder than you expected, making you flinch a little. However, it didn't take you more than a few seconds for you to start to giggle.

"Someone's jealooous," you teased, Dean's face not amused at all. "Just admit it that you want me aaaall to yourself."

"And what if i do, hm?" Dean asked. "Want you all to myself."

Now it was your turn to fall quiet for a second, smile fading from your face.

Right then, Dean grabbed your face and pulled you closer, pressing your lips against his. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it wasn't just a gentle peck. It was hard, needy and like he was afraid you'd float away from him. When he looked into your eyes, noses almost touching each other, he read the expression on your face, shocked and taken aback, like you hadn't liked the kiss. That he had finally fucked up everything between the two of you.

Dean was just about to step back when you put your hand on the back of his head, slamming your lips against his again and taking him into a proper kiss. Dean almost instantly rested his hands on your hips, pulling your body against him. When you opened your mouth slightly, he had the chance to push his tongue inside your mouth.

Your body was going crazy, butterflies swarming inside your stomach, chest feeling warm and heartbeat rising faster. His touch was everything you had missed and needed. Having him touch you and hold you was like puzzle pieces fitting together that had been missing their other half for their entire life.

At some point you had to pull away to catch your breath and locked eyes with each other.

"Is it too much asked for if i'd be the only guy to be able to do that to you?" Dean murmured.

"You want to do that again, hm?" you asked, biting your lip to hide your smile.

"Hell yeah i do," Dean chuckled and was already about to pull you into another kiss, when, Sam dared to open the door slightly to peek inside.

"Chuck is on his way over here," Sam informed. "Might want to continue that elsewhere so he doesn't add that to his next book."

You immediately let go of Dean and started walking towards the door.

"Absolutely nothing happened here," you stated, but Dean grabbed your waist and pulled you against him before you managed to step out of the room, back on his chest.

"Yeah? Well something might happen in the motel later, hm?" Dean murmured into your ear, quiet enough that Sam wouldn't hear you.

But he did, in fact, hear Dean's words.

"And i will book a different room for myself," Sam said, shaking his head but also happy that he you had finally admitted your feelings with Dean.

☆☆

[memecucker]

so apparently Gwen Stacy was really popular in Mexico and when she died in the comics the Mexican publisher got permission from Marvel to ignore her death and write new original stories featuring Gwen

can you tell that Gwen was really popular

[jadegrey711]

So, I have just binged School Spirits and thank goodness for the fact that season 2 is here when I started!! Needless to say I am in love with Wally Clark, and I hope to write more of him in the future. I am also rusty at writing. This is my version of Wally talking you through it and a bit of overstimulation kink. You have been warned.

*NOT MY GIF*

If you like my stories you can check out my sideblog @jadegreywriting​ to see all of them and my masterlist without filtering through my main blog.

I own all rights to this story and do not give permission for my stories to be published, translated or reposted anywhere else. The only places I have published my stories is here on Tumblr and on my AO3 account (LadyAuthor711) 

This story is for 18+ ONLY. It contains sexual themes that are not suited for younger audiences so if you’re under 18 my blog and this story is not for you. Please make sure to read at your own discretion and remember that you are solely responsible for your content intake. 

Wally Clark, Our golden boy. Was the sweetest dead person you had ever met; you loved the way he reached for you. The way he'd grab the back hoops of your jeans and bringing your body to his chest. The way he would place a kiss on the top of your head, and resting his chin there sometimes, while he inhaled your scent. He was the definition of a golden retriever boy but God damn did he have a dirty mouth, and he loved to use it.

"You're so beautiful you know that?" He smiled, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip, those deep brown eyes shining back at you.

You let out a gasp, as you felt Wally push slowly into you again and as he did, he slid that thick thumb of his past your lips and onto your tongue.

He hummed low in his throat. "You like that don't you baby?"

You nodded eagerly, sucking on his thumb. He smiled at you, "That's my girl. Now come on you can come on my cock another time, can't you?" he punctuated his question with another slow thrust, watching your face twist in sweet agony as he stretched you out.

"Wally-" You moaned out.

"Come on baby, give me another one. I love watching you gush underneath me." He said against your neck, peppering your neck with small kisses, before trailing his tongue down your neck to the dip of your collarbone. "I love when my baby gets all whiny when she's overstimulated."

"I can't Wally." You whined, reaching up to his thick dark hair, trying to pull him away from you, to stop his sweet torture.

He chuckled, grabbing your hands and pulling them above your head. "You say that every time baby, and every time I end up getting another two more out of you." He smiled kissing underneath your jaw, his thrusts becoming quicker.

"Wally." You gasped.

"Mmm, say my name honey. I love it when you moaned out my name like a prayer. I just can't get enough of you and this pretty little pussy." He gasped, his thrusts coming quicker, harder. He placed both of your wrists in one of his hands, and palmed your breast.

You watched mesmerized as his golden chain bounced against his sweaty chest as he fucked you.

"Come on baby, cum for me. I'll take such good care of you, you know I will." He breathed into your shoulder, his free hand snaking in between your bodies to rub at your clit.

"Wally!" you screamed, trying to move away from him but you were trapped under him, at the mercy of his pleasure.

"Going to take such good care of you honey. Gonna keep you forever. I wanna feel you crumble under my cock every day, if I can manage it. I want you like no man has ever wanted someone before." He growled against your skin. "Cum for me honey." he said as he rubbed her clit harder, the extra stimulation was too much and you felt yourself falling over the edge, feeling helpless as you fell into the honey trap of Wally Clark's arms.

Wally let go of your wrists as he came with you, your fingernails digging into his back, as you both rode your climax. "That's my girl." He smiled sweetly, his body pressed onto yours his heat almost unbearable, as both of you tried to catch your breath as you came down from your high.

Once his breathing even out, Wally lifted his head from the crook of your neck and had a big dopey smile on his face. "I think you can take one more."

[karalianne]

I did not create this summary but I have permission to share it.

Act I, the background:

The video opens with a timeline of Nano's history, Kilby glazing herself, and bragging about participation numbers.

When Kilby joined the board, she "figured we must be getting five- and six-figure support from big publishers" and "big authors." But, SURPRISE! "Nanowrimo never had that level of backing."

Shows some charts (screenshots, below). Note that the charts show that right around half (give or take, depending on the year) of Nano's funding came from charitable contributions.

Immediately after showing these charts, she says the organization was "primarily funded by sponsorships and merchandies, and not by charitable contributions." This is a great sign for what's to come. *As of 2020, Nano was "six-figure[s]" in debt. Her time on the board was focused on fundraising.

Act II, the scandal:

Kilby claims that the grooming of children ONLY happened off-site, NEVER on nano itself.

Kilby claims that the board publicly shared the findings of its investigation into CF after 10 days. It is implied this was done back in MAY.

Kilby admits nobody had any relevant training or certification for dealing with children.

Kilby claims nobody at NaNo knew who CF/Mod X really was (blatant lie) because they just didn't keep those records, which prevented them from being able to work with child protection organizations.

Kilby claims she was tapped for the ED position because she "understood youth-facing organizations" and "had experience with the required state-mandated training." No evidence of this understanding or experience is supplied.

More self-glazing

"Our top priority is, and was, child safety." lol

Kilby claims they implemented staff background checks "immediately" (later in the video, she'll claim that some unspecified number of people had been "vetted" and were working with the org again).

Further claims that they "developed an advice content [sic]" aimed at teaching minors how to be safe online. ….where? who knows?

Claims they started verifying educators on YWP.

Act III, the community:

Forums: Inconsistent moderations, outdated TOS. Saw problematic, unaddressable behavior. Couldn't maintain the integrity of the space.

One of the problems was that they had "encouraged" "volunteers" to set up "unofficial" Discords and facebook groups with the Nano name. "Nobody under nanowrimo's authority was moderating those groups." Using resources to deal with issues from these "unaffiliated" groups.

"The number of people who view themselves as experts by virtue of how long they've been doing Nanowrimo… numbered in the tens of thousands." [The salt really starts here]

Act IV, the fallout:

ED job was "bigger than rebuilding after an educational crisis" [because you're so good at that, clearly]

When Kilby took over, there were more than a dozen existing labor violations.

Participation had been declining since before 2020, fell off a cliff.

Sponsor money in March 2023: $310k. Sponsor money in March 2024: $125k

2023's funding shortfall was equal to 20% of their total annual budget

"We were operating outside of our mission." Claims they became an "advocacy group that actively lobbied for authors." No further specifics of how, for who, or to whom are provided.

We COULD recover from this, except for not having money.

Act V: Conclusion (why is there still 10 minutes left in the video??)

Nano is shutting down.

Website will stay up "as long as possible, but we cannot guarantee a specific end date" [because I don't know what the host's non-payment policies are or when the check will bounce]

We were going to merge with another writing org, but they noped out when they saw our debt.

"Other potential supporters" were scared off by mean, dastardly 'ol REDDIT

"Many people who withheld their support, or supported us anonymously, told us that the tone of the community was a big issue."

The press was mean to us and inaccurate about our position on AI. (what press? Youtubers??)

Kilby claims they TURNED DOWN "a number of" AI sponsors because it "went against our mission."

"The real alternative to the organization closing, and I can't say this enough, would have been for us to been funded [sic] by the community." No kidding?

"Community funding shouldn't have been a problem."

The collapse of Nano was because of things that happened before I got here (financial mismanagement), but it absolutely wasn't because of AI or a scandal. Don't put it in the newspaper that it was because of AI or a scandal. Those were just a coincidence.

Thank you to everyone I fired, drove away, etc. etc.

[ijustwannabecool]

Two Seats Apart

Harry Styles x Reader

Summary... You’ve never spoken. Not once. But for eight months, he’s sat two seats away on the 8:42 train, and somehow—he feels familiar. Then one day, he leaves behind his journal. And in it? You. Now, everything is about to change.

Trigger Warnings: None—just soft, warm feelings and lots of eye contact

A/N: For anyone who’s ever fallen in love with the possibility of a stranger. I hope you guys enjoy this ordinary!Harry fic. Let me know what you guys think. If you like it please comment and leave me feedback. As always, requests are open :) Have a beautiful day today.

If you like this fic please reblog, leave a comment, and leave a like.

Happy reading.

————

You don’t know his name. You’ve never heard his voice. But you know the shape of him in your periphery better than most things. The curve of his shoulder in a wool coat. The way his fingers hover just above the page before he writes, like he’s asking permission from the paper first.

You know he likes chamomile tea. That he reads fiction—literary, sometimes thrillers—and switches to poetry on Fridays. You once caught the title of a collection, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared: The Sun and Her Flowers. It surprised you.

So did the small flower doodles that lined the edge of one page you accidentally glimpsed when he turned it too far.

For eight months now, he’s been two seats apart on the 8:42 train into the city. Not beside you. Never that bold. But not across the aisle either. Close enough to hear the soft scratch of his pen. Far enough to remain a mystery.

You’ve never spoken. But in a strange, quiet way… he feels familiar.

There are days when your eyes meet by accident in the window’s reflection. Days when he offers his seat to someone else—always with a soft smile, a quiet nod, never words. Days when you wonder if he notices you too.

And days when you know for certain that he does. Like today.

——

You started taking the 8:42 because it was the only time your nerves settled.

After the move. After the breakup. After the kind of year that left you cracked in quiet places.

The earlier train was too hectic. The later one too full of people who’d already had too much coffee and not enough patience. But the 8:42? It felt still. A breath between worlds.

The job you commuted to—children’s publishing—was both a dream and a challenge. Quiet offices, messy manuscripts, and your favorite part: stories that reminded you to believe in magic again.

And somewhere between chapter submissions and deadline emails… you noticed him.

——

The rain had been half-hearted all morning. The kind that misted instead of poured. Still, it clung to your hair and coat as you stepped onto the platform, coffee in one hand, umbrella folded under your arm.

You saw him immediately.

He was already on the train, leaned against the window with his eyes closed, earphones in. The collar of his coat was turned up, curls damp against his forehead. His lips moved ever so slightly, like he was mouthing lyrics. Or words he hadn’t yet written.

You took your seat. Your usual one. Three rows down, two seats across.

And the routine began. Train lurches. Announcements drone. The rhythm of the tracks settles in.

You steal a glance. Just one. Maybe two.

He’s awake now, journal open on his lap. His pen glides across the page like it knows where it’s going. Like it’s been here before.

You wish you had that certainty.

Your stop nears faster than usual. Time, for all its consistency, seems to bend when he's around.

You stand, tucking your book into your tote, adjusting your coat. The train begins to slow, that familiar squeak of brakes signaling the end of another almost-meeting.

You glance toward him one last time before the doors hiss open.

He’s looking out the window.

He never looks at you.

——

It’s not until the train is pulling away behind you that you realize it.

He left something behind.

You see it through the glass—his journal, still nestled into the space between the seat and the window. Half-covered, half-forgotten. Your heart does something funny, like it’s tripping over itself.

You could leave it. You should. But curiosity wraps around your ankles like a tide.

You step back into the station. You wait until the next round of boarding is done. And then you slip back onto the train, now mostly empty, and walk quietly to where he always sits.

The journal is still there. Still open. Still warm from where he’d been.

You pause.

Then you slide it toward you.

The page is filled with handwriting—messy but beautiful, slanted slightly right, like it’s always leaning forward. There’s a sketch of something in the margin. A coffee cup. A scarf. Your scarf.

Your breath catches.

You read the words slowly, carefully, like they might disappear if you blink too fast.

She always chooses the same seat. Three rows down. Across from me. The green scarf. The way she hums sometimes, too softly for anyone but me to notice. The way she looks up when the train crosses the bridge, like the river might finally answer her questions. I want to say hello. But I don’t want to ruin the silence. The silence where she exists most beautifully.

You stare.

This can’t be about you. It couldn’t.

And yet…

Tucked into the spine, almost hidden, is a smaller piece of paper. A note, folded twice. You unfold it with shaking fingers.

If you’re reading this, then I forgot my journal. And that probably means this was meant to happen. I’ve been writing about you for months. I thought I’d keep it all to myself. But now… maybe tomorrow, I’ll say hello. – H.

Your hand clamps over your mouth. Your heart? A mess of thunder and flutter. Your brain? Useless. Spinning.

You fold the note and place it carefully back between the pages. You press the journal to your chest, unsure whether to scream or cry or laugh.

You know one thing, though—one absolutely certain thing:

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

——

He doesn’t mean to leave it.

The journal. The damn journal.

He realizes it too late—two stops too far, heart plummeting somewhere around the back of his throat. He’s halfway to the café, rain curling at the collar of his coat, when he freezes mid-step.

“Shit.”

People move around him, umbrellas clashing, shoes scuffing against wet pavement. But his world is suddenly still. Loud with panic.

He left it on the seat.

His mind replays it on loop. The way he’d tucked it under his arm, distracted by the last line he’d written. The way his fingers lingered too long on the note he tore from the back. The way he looked—really looked—at you for the first time that morning. Not through the glass. Not sideways.

You were laughing at something on your phone. Hair falling forward, scarf bunched under your chin, lips pressed together like you were trying not to smile too much.

He wonders if you were laughing at something someone sent you. He hopes, stupidly, that it wasn’t a boyfriend. (He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He’s lying.)

The thought that you might find the journal makes him nauseous. And exhilarated.

Because he wrote about you.

God, he wrote about you.

And now you know.

——

The journal is still in your bag.

You haven’t opened it again. Haven’t dared to read more than that note. Haven’t let your mind spiral into the million different ways this could go wrong—or right.

You don’t know what to expect when you board the train the next morning. If he’ll be there. If he’ll look at you. If he’ll speak.

But when the 8:42 rolls in, and you step into your usual carriage, there he is.

Two seats away.

Except this time, he’s not writing.

He’s watching you.

The look in his eyes is gentle. Hesitant. A question wrapped in hope.

You meet his gaze.

And for the first time, you smile.

You slide into your seat, fingers curled around the edge of the tote where his journal sits. He looks down, then back up, lips parting as if to say something—but he doesn’t.

The silence stretches. Not awkward. Not empty.

Just full.

At the next stop, a folded piece of paper lands in your lap.

You glance up. He’s facing forward, pretending he didn’t just pass you a note like a boy in a school hallway.

You unfold it slowly.

I know this is insane. I didn’t mean to leave it behind. But then again… maybe I did. Maybe I just didn’t want to hold it all alone anymore. You don’t have to say anything. Just… if you don’t want me to write again, don’t reply. But if you do... if you’re even a little curious—leave a note on the seat tomorrow morning. I’ll wait for it. I’ll wait for you. – H.

You read it twice. Then again. Then tuck it gently into your pocket.

And you don’t hesitate.

——

That night, you stay up later than usual. The lamp on your bedside table glows soft and golden, and the words come quicker than you expected.

You don’t try to sound clever. Or poetic. Or perfect.

You just… write.

I don’t know why I noticed you first. Maybe it was the way you always offer your seat. Or how you tap your fingers to some rhythm I’ll never hear. I don’t know what this is. But I think I’d like to find out. I’ll leave this here. Same time. Same seat. – Y/N

——

The next morning, he boards the train earlier than usual.

Heart racing. Hands in his pockets. Hope coiled like a spring inside his chest.

And there it is.

A folded note. Sitting exactly where you promised.

He exhales.

Something loosens in his chest.

He reads your words three times before daring to smile.

You replied.

You replied.

He spends the entire ride writing back.

——

That week becomes a blur of letters.

Tiny pieces of folded paper, slipped under armrests. Descriptions of favorite songs, dreams too big to say out loud, little anecdotes that feel like secrets.

He tells you about his love for rainy mornings and black-and-white films.

You tell him how you once cried in public because a stranger sang your favorite song and it felt like magic.

He says he used to play music, but doesn’t anymore.

You ask why. He doesn’t answer—yet.

The words pile up. So do the feelings.

You start dressing with him in mind. He begins saving you a seat—closer now. One row apart.

And still, not a single word is spoken aloud.

Until Friday.

The train is late. People are restless. You’re standing by the door, heart thudding.

Then you feel it—his presence. His warmth behind you.

You turn.

He’s holding a note, but not offering it.

Instead, his voice breaks the quiet.

“Hi.”

You blink. He smiles. Soft, crooked, unsure.

“I figured it was time,” he says, voice low. “To actually say it.”

Your breath catches. “Hi,” you say back.

And for the first time, it’s not paper holding your words.

——

You’ve spent weeks reading his thoughts like stolen poetry. Now you’re sitting beside him for the first time, and you can’t think of a single thing to say.

He’s real. He’s right here. And he smells like cedarwood and morning rain.

Your knees are almost touching. His hand rests on the journal in his lap, thumb tracing over the edge of the leather cover. Yours are clutched tightly around a paper cup of tea you barely remember buying. Everything is too loud inside your head and too quiet between you.

“So,” he says, a little nervous, “we’re talking now.”

You smile. “We are.”

He chuckles softly. “Not as romantic as ink and paper, is it?”

“No,” you admit. “But it’s nice. Different nice.”

The pause that follows is soft. Not awkward. Just full. Familiar.

You glance at him. “Harry,” you say gently, tasting the name for the first time in your mouth. “That is your name, right? H?”

He smiles—warm, bashful, with that little dimple like a comma at the end of his grin.

“It is. Harry Styles. And yours is…?”

You tilt your head. “You mean you’ve been writing about me for months and didn’t know my name?”

He bites back a laugh. “I didn’t want to assume. Figured if you ever wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

You offer your hand. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

He takes it. Holds it gently, like it’s fragile or sacred. “Hi, Y/N.”

Your heart does something stupid and syrupy.

“Hi, Harry.”

——

He’s never been more terrified than in the moment your fingers touched his.

Because now it’s real.

This girl—the one he watched from two seats away for almost a year, the one who unknowingly filled his journal and his mornings and his mind—is holding his hand. Saying his name. Smiling like maybe she’s felt it too.

He doesn’t want to scare you. Doesn’t want to rush this. But he also doesn’t want to go back to silence.

So he says the thing he’s been thinking for days now.

“Would it be too forward if I asked to walk you to wherever you're going after this?”

Y/N looks down at their still-joined hands and shrugs, playful. “That depends.”

“On?”

She glances up. “If you’ll keep writing me letters.”

Harry grins. “Even if we talk?”

“Especially if we talk.”

He nods. “Deal.”

——

The rest of the ride feels like a blur. A blur wrapped in slow smiles, shy glances, and questions like tiny paper cranes unfolding between you.

He asks about your favorite breakfast. You tell him about your obsession with bookstore cafés. He lights up when you mention poetry. You light up when he says he used to sing.

He tells you he stopped because life got loud and messy and he didn’t know how to make room for it anymore.

You tell him maybe he didn’t have to make room—maybe the music was always still in him.

He goes quiet then. But not because he’s uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. As if something you said tugged on an invisible thread deep inside him.

When the train slows into the city, neither of you stands right away.

People move around you. Rush. Push. The world spins.

But you two? You sit in the stillness. And you stay there until the carriage empties.

——

You walk together to the end of the platform. He’s close enough that your scarf brushes his wrist, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to take your hand again. You kind of hope he does.

When you reach the stairs, you stop.

“This is me,” you say, nodding toward the east exit.

He points in the opposite direction. “And I’m that way.”

A beat passes. Then another.

You rock gently on your heels. “Well…”

“Wait,” he says, a little breathless. “I—can I see you again?”

Your eyebrows lift, teasing. “We see each other every morning.”

“You know what I mean.”

Your smile softens. “Yeah. I do.”

And then you lean in—just enough to kiss his cheek. It’s featherlight, a brush of a promise.

“I’ll be two seats apart tomorrow,” you whisper. “Unless you want to sit next to me.”

You walk away before he can answer, scarf trailing behind you like punctuation at the end of a beautiful sentence.

And behind you, you know—without looking—that he’s smiling.

Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like the story is just beginning.

——

Epilogue: One Month Later

The train feels different now.

There’s laughter where silence used to be. Shared playlists through split earbuds. Hands brushing, then holding. Notes still passed, still folded, still filled with little thoughts—because some habits are worth keeping.

Y/N reads today’s one while sipping tea:

I used to think my favorite part of the commute was the quiet. But then you looked at me, and now it’s the part where you smile. – H.

She tucks the note into the back of her journal—the one he bought her last week, soft-bound and navy, with her initials stamped in the corner.

And then she looks over at him.

He’s already watching her. Of course he is.

She leans her head on his shoulder.

And this time, there are no seats between them.

The End.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this story. Let me know your feedback.

[whowrotethenote]

ꜰʟᴀꜱʜɪɴɢ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ

Rating: 18+ minors DNI

Summary: Brielle's life was the epitome of rags to riches. She had it all. Fame, fortune, and an older wealthy husband who kissed the ground she walked on. That is until haunting thoughts of her future where he became the only superstar in their marriage, forces her to fall into a downward spiral before her time.

Pairing: Roman Reigns (Joe) x Black Fem OC (Brielle)

Warnings: Age gap // Smut // Angst // Arguing // Addiction & alcohol abuse // Profanity

Word Count: 8.9k (once again, so sorry lol)

Inspo: Flashing Lights by Kanye West

A/N: I actually got the inspiration for this from another piece i’m working on, only it’s not fan fiction. I changed some things around. Same premise: young supermodel married to an older, wealthy and prominent man. If I ever decided to publish the original work, it will most likely be professionally (novel) not on social media. Anyway, this is a test run lol let me know what y’all think. Tell me what you like/don’t like. This is wayyy smuttier than the last jawn lol. Happy reading bitches!

Also, my taglist form is up. I'll add more options of posts to be tagged in as my blog grows.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any media posted. Credit to their respective owners.

I do not consent to any portion of my writing to be reproduced or used in any manner without expressed written permission of myself, with the exception for the use of brief quotations.

This story is completely fictional. With the exception of OCs, I do not own any characters in this story. The pictures posted are for the intention of face claims and imaginative purposes. The ideas, stories, scenarios, and characters you are about to read about are a mixture of my imagination, and inspiration from real life whether it be loosely based on people I know or public figures. By no means should you take anything a character thinks, says, or does, as my way of expressing my own interpersonal beliefs and thoughts. The characters are themselves and I am me. Two completely separate entities. I am not trying to promote any lifestyle, ideas, or agendas throughout the book. I am simply telling a story. If you cannot grasp that concept, do not read any further.

“You want a refill, love?” The young, blonde bartender offered Brielle a weak smile that she returned. 

“Fuck it, why not?” She pushed the now empty martini glass aside watching her work. It wasn’t long ago that Brielle was the hustler on the other side of the bar. Every bartender had a sixth sense. One that told them who needed a drink versus who just wanted one. And Brielle was in desperate need of a drink. 

She turned slightly away from the bar top to scan the sea of people in the upscale ballroom before her, looking for one face in particular. Normally he wouldn’t be hard to spot. He stood six foot three, and was two hundred and sixty-five pounds of pure muscle. Only, the room was full of men with the same build in suits.

She tapped her expensive Russian manicure on the glass surface, squinting. She found him surrounded by a few of his colleagues and his boss, indulging in what looked like deep conversation. She fought the urge to roll her eyes knowing it couldn't have been that deep. Most likely the usual mindless chatter men share. Sports, pussy, wrestling, cars, politics and more pussy.

Brielle couldn't help but to stare. He was Dapper Dan, in an all black Tom Ford suit, hand-picked by Brielle herself. On his left wrist sat a two-toned AP. No diamonds. He had never been the flashy type. He didn't need to be. His aura spoke for itself, always giving away the fact that he was worth a billion before he ever even opened his mouth. Clean cut with a thick dark beard, lined to perfection. His shiny locks pulled back in his signature sleek bun. 

He must've felt her. His eyes locked in on her before she even noticed he was staring back. He flashed that billion dollar smile from across the room and Brielle almost forgot that she wanted to be anywhere else but where she currently stood. 

Just when it looked like he would make his way over, two more of his colleagues joined the group, reeling him back in. Oh, fuck me, she thought.

“Babe, while you're at it, how about a shot of Vodka?" Brielle asked with her head now in her hands.

The bartender chuckled at the only miserable seeming person in the ballroom. "Particular brand?”

"Whatever has the highest percentage.”

It was the week before a paper-view event. Summer-slam? Royal Rumble? Wrestle-mania?—Shit she didn’t know. She couldn’t keep up with that shit anymore than he could keep up with the endless runway shows and fashion weeks all over the world. What she did know? It was all a pain in her ass. The whole ordeal. The weeks leading up, the actual event, and all the fallout from it. Black tie events, interviews about storylines she didn’t have a clue about, terms she barely understood and unfamiliar faces. Worst of all? Her man’s hands were too full to assist in carrying any of her weight. 

He was the one. The whole WWE universe orbited around him and the rest of the Bloodline. That was means for him to be involved in every little aspect of the company. Pulled him every which way, in every direction. The forefront of it all.

In his world, Brielle always found herself taking a step back. She was used to being center of attention, all eyes on her, and the camera’s object of affection. But this was different. Sports entertainment wasn’t her lane. The cameras and microphones weren’t for her here. Its like someone picked Barbie up and dropped her in an all men’s gym.

"Here you go, love." 

Brielle’s night was starting to go uphill at the sight before her. A colorful martini and a clear shot filled to the brim of the shot glass. God bless the bartender.

“Thank you so much. Do I even wanna know what this is?” She picked up the shot first.

“Probably not,” she shook her head, already onto the next patron flagging her down.

Like it was water, Brielle got it down in one gulp and chased it with the Apple martini. She should’ve asked for a water. The shot ignited her insides like a furnace, waking her up immediately. 

“Oh, come on girl. It can’t be that bad.” Her lips curved widely into a genuine smile at the familiar voice. “What you got going on over here?” Jey held the martini glass up to his nose and jerked his head back with a screwed face. “I can’t get with that vodka, now.”

“Good. It's for the grown ups anyway.” He pulled her slim body into a comforting hug. “Where’s Kecia?” She looked past him for his wife, getting her hopes up that maybe this night wouldn’t be so excruciating if she had a friend. 

“Lil’ man got sick. I’m dolo tonight.” She audibly exhaled and flagged the bartender down.

“Yeah, i’ma need another one of whatever that was.”

He rubbed her bare back that was exposed in the silk Roberto Cavalli gown, in an attempt to alleviate some tension. He’s bore witness already on multiple occasions, of what the night could become after Brielle’s frustrations have been amplified by too many drinks. 

“Where’s that big-headed husband of yours?” He searched.

She waved a hand. “He was somewhere talking to Hunter in a huddle. I think I saw Seth with them. I doubt they’re in the same spot still.”

“Stay put,” he instructed before walking off.

Two shots and two drinks later, Brielle had opened and closed every app downloaded to her phone. She made useless conversation with the young blonde that fed her drinks, getting interrupted every time someone new came up to ask for a drink. It seemed like she was second priority to everyone in her line of sight.

She looked over her slim shoulder to find Joe, with Paul by his side, and to no surprise a camera and microphone in their faces. He stood with his big hands locked in front of him, listening to each of their questions intently.

The ballroom hosting the night was exquisite. The pinnacle of wealth. A three-piece chandelier hung from the center of the high ceiling. Spacious as can be with marble flooring. Cathedral-like interior, giving the room an ancient castle feel. White clothed table tops accompanied by groups of people, babysitting glasses of champagne, caught in conversation. Then there was Brielle. Secluded, getting drunk at the bar.

It’s not that Brielle was ungrateful or necessarily unhappy. What was happiness anyway? In a room full of prominent strangers, drink in hand, she thought about what happiness and living a fulfilling life meant to her before. Before all of this. Not just Joe and his world, but her new one too.

Before the flashing lights and glamour, it seemed so simple. She just wanted to survive. So happiness to her back then would’ve been the equivalent to just living, as opposed to surviving. And however that came, she was ready to snatch it by the balls and never let go. Didn’t matter if it was attached to a wealthy man, the lottery by some miracle, or just straight finesse.

Brielle had came a long way from sleeping on her sister’s couch and surviving off scraps of tips in a sports bar. She was scouted on a late night slinging drinks. An older caucasian man who was just there to watch the NFL game, ended up being one of the head photographers for French Vogue.

One look at her face, with exceptional bone structure, beauty mark planted naturally on her chin, soft doe eyes, and he was mesmerized. Inspired. He almost had to beg her to come to his studio and take a few pictures. It was New York. Any old pervert with a camera could come in a bar and lure a young beautiful woman to his “studio.” And although Brielle, starving for a change of pace in life and obviously struggling, with her long low ponytail loose from the chaotic night; that didn’t mean she had to be desperate or naïve. 

He slid his business card on the bar top. Still hustling and bustling to give the growing crowd their drinks, she didn’t even give it one look. “Just think about it, please!” He shouted with a thick accent over the wave of excitement after the Eagles made a touchdown. “My number is on the card!”

“Yeah, sure!” She shouted back uninterested. Almost a whole half hour after he left, she shook the alcohol-soiled card from off the bar top and when her eyes focused on the French Vogue logo, she nearly choked.

Damn right she called the next morning. Seven a.m. sharp. She had only clocked out three hours before and stole an hour of sleep.

He instructed her to come bare faced, in a white tank top, jeans, and her hair pulled back, just as it was the night before. She didn’t know he really meant just how it was the night before. When she arrived with a tight low ponytail, slicked back to perfection, he pulled it looser and staged a few fly aways.

He ordered her to move exactly how he wanted her.

“Chin up, please.”

“Raise your hand a little.”

“Turn slightly to the right.”

“Look away from the camera.”

She posed and posed, while he snapped away. It took hours. The whole morning had passed. He needed it to be perfectly imperfect. Although skilled in professional photography and supermodels being his area of expertise, Brielle was new territory for him. He had to find a way to sell the young distressed girl from the Harlem bar, with deer-like beauty, to the executives at Vogue.

They were looking for the next big thing. And while their eyes were on the next Bella Hadid or Kendall Jenner, he had something better in mind. Something more refreshing and relatable. When destiny placed him right on a path to spotting Brielle in that bar, he felt his whole life about to change forever. And it did. Right along with hers.

She wore stardom well. Fame fit her like it was custom made. The “It Girl.” Thats what they were calling her. Known for her doe eyes, the beauty mark, and her sharp east coast wit. She rose to the top of the food chain at what seemed like the speed of light. Everything had moved so fast. The flashing lights of cameras blinded her at every corner. A new city, a new country every other week. A complete one-eighty for a girl who prior to signing with her modeling agency, had never been outside of New York. 

She was partying with the A-listers and whoever was above them at the top of the social food chain. Gracing the cover of over three hundred magazines, both national and international. The most desired runway model of her peers. She was being pulled and stretched thin. She was zooming through life in the fast line, picking up nasty habits just to keep up. She was swimming in millions, so stopping or even slowing down wasn't an option.

The general public had their eyes glued to her. She picked up the attention of CEOs, NBA players, actors, and anyone else who mattered. Brielle had always been the kind of girl to live her life on the go. Never limiting herself to one man because she saw herself as too much woman for just one anyhow. She dated and fucked them all. Spent their money well and had them hanging off the edge of their seat for more. None of them stuck. None of them were special or so different from the one before. That was until she crossed paths with WWE Superstar, Roman Reigns, or as she would come to know him as, Joseph Anoa’i.

One erotic night spent with him after an ESPY Awards afterparty, and it couldn’t have been more clear to her that he had to be hers. She’d keep this one for herself. He was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Joe was a go-getter, just like her. They were cut from the same cloth. The breadwinners of their family, paving the way and making it seamless for everyone who came after them. 

When she found herself in Joe’s orbit, that fast life filled with nasty habits, slowed down a bit. Nothing else mattered. It's like they were the only two on planet earth and everything else was just distant noise. 

They married only three months after knowing each other. When you know, you just know. Of course the public had their opinions about how they were just another Hollywood couple that wouldn’t last, but majority of the world adored them. 

The wedding was like a national holiday. Vogue did an entire spread of them and it was flying off the shelves. That cover would be the one to define the entire state of stardom in their generation. It was everywhere. Joe sitting open-shirt, with Brielle and her half a million dollar Givenchy wedding gown, on his lap. Picture perfect.

Fiji was their honeymoon destination. An entire week off the grid. Nothing but love making, skinny dipping in the waterfall caves, and two people who couldn’t seem to get enough of each other, celebrating a whole lifetime they had left to get tangled in each other’s web.

Returning to the states was like entering into another level of life. It seemed her instantaneous marriage to Joe, took her status from superstar to legendary. She was Dior’s new muse and Joe was her older, wealthy, athletic husband. For the first time in all of Brielle’s twenty-five years of living, she was happy.

But that was back then. Three years later the stakes are higher. She’s adapted and now her ideas of what happiness is, have changed. She’d have to go back to the drawing board to figure out exactly what she wanted out of life. There were just a few hurdles and demons she’d have to address before then.

Her alcohol dependence for one. While most supermodels indulged in coke or popping pills, Brielle’s fatal flaw was alcohol. It started off as her just blacking out at parties like everyone else would. Then it escalated. She became the party girl. Always dancing on tables. Skinny dipping in someone’s pool. It was harmless until she started getting into scuffles in nightclubs. TMZ catching her and Joe having a screaming match where she was obviously drunk. Picking fights and starting shit with him at public events, like the one they were at now. 

She clung to drinking because it helped her cope, especially lately, with the fact that the life she was doused in and became accustomed to, wouldn’t always be. It haunted her.

All models have an expiration date. She dreaded the day when it came. It would come like a thief in the night she had heard. One day she’d be trending, booked and shoved on every platform possible. The next day it would all vanish. She’d go from being Joe’s sexy, young, supermodel wife, to just his wife. 

Alcohol was her companion. Alcohol was there on the lonely nights, early mornings, and impossibly long days. Alcohol was there on nights like tonight, when she felt alone in a room full of people. When her mind was overrun by dark thoughts of the unforeseeable future, where her career and everything she worked for would be in limbo. 

Joe just didn’t get it. Women were treated accordingly based on their looks. Men were treated accordingly based on their pockets. He could be retired and worn out and they’d still love him as long as he was paid. This wasn’t her reality. And there bore another disconnect in their marriage.

She loved Joe. There was no denying that. A blind man didn’t need to see it, because just by standing within two feet of them he would be able to feel it. From the night they met, neither could ignore the magnet-like, invisible force, urging them to one another. First night, nothing but heat and passion transpired between them. And it stayed that way every night after, only growing. But sometimes passion painted an ugly picture. People were passionate about addiction. Others passionate about racism. Passion is not synonymous with healthy.

They came colliding into one another from two different worlds, seemingly at the same pace. Young, hungry, and swimming in new money. Only he was oil and she was water. Brielle just always felt like a jaguar in a room full of house cats. Completely out of place. Out of her element. Too much. Their worlds just didn’t mix. Or so she thought…

“Brielle?” A feminine voice questioned not too far from behind her. 

Brielle paused her idle twisting of the wedding ring, weighing her left hand down, to turn to the voice in question.

A yellow-boned, thin woman, as tall as her stared back with an infectious grin. She had thick, wavy curls, cascading down her back. The emerald green silk gown she wore only enhancing her smooth skin. The bitch was bad and still, Brielle couldn’t pinpoint where she knew her from.  Brielle’s eyes somehow landed on the red birthmark that adorned the mystery woman’s right hand and it hit her like a wrecking ball.

“Millie?” Her head dipped. “Oh my god.” The two beauties conjoined in a hug and rocked side to side chuckling in equal disbelief that they had found one another. “What are you doing here?”

“Girl, modeling was a bust. Trying to dip my toes into this sports journalism thing. I’ve just been interviewing some of the guys on the roster before Summerslam next week.”

Millie had been one of the very few models Brielle took a liking to during her early years doing runway. During her first fashion week they were glued to each other’s hip. Exchanging gossip,  sex stories, walking tips and beauty secrets. 

It had been nearly two years since she laid eyes on her. It's like she had vanished from the face of the earth. That happened a lot in the modeling industry. So many pretty faces came and went. It was hard to keep up. She chalked it up to her probably getting sent to rehab for a coke problem or something. Thats usually where the models disappeared to. That or a billionaire from another country scooped them up.

Born to two Cuban immigrants, Millie was just trying to get ahead in the city of dreams, but nothing about her stood out to scouts and labels. She had a killer walk, but runway was all she could pull off. Her face card was exceptional, but it wasn't memorable. And anything other than memorable in the modeling world would get one tossed and forgotten quick.

“Where’s Joe?” Millie’s eyes danced around the room.

Brielle’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of her husband. His name fell so comfortably from the girl’s plump lips, it's like she’s said it a thousand times over.

“Joe?” Usually people who didn’t know him referred to him by his stage name, Roman. Millie had to have been somewhat familiar with him to call him by his name.

“Yeah,” she waved almost with a child-like giddiness once she found him across the way. He put a big hand up and nodded once to acknowledge her. Brielle tried to keep her face neutral, observing the whole exchange.

“Y-you know Joe?”

“Of course I do. He didn’t tell you?” She grinned wide.

Only Brielle’s eyes looked around in wonder. “Tell me what?” She chuckled to ease the underlying tension.

“Joe and I dated. Way, way back in the day.”

“Dated?” Her doe eyes became significantly wider. “Well, when was this?” She probed through a tight, manufactured smile as to not throw Millie off.

“Oh, girl,” the Latin beauty waved a dainty hand chuckling. “That was so long ago. He was still with The Shield, then. Didn’t even have a full beard.” Brielle tried to swallow an insult. It was on the tip of her tongue as she watched Millie eye her husband with nostalgia all in her gaze. No, she wanted her to keep spilling. She knew Joe would downplay it, so this was her best bet at collecting the truth.

“I was so happy for you guys after the proposal.” Millie finally snatched her eyes from Joe to focus on Brielle. “And that cover and spread in Italian Vogue? Fucking iconic…” It was now Brielle’s turn to burn a hole through her husband. She tried her best to not let the thoughts running through her mind, show on her face, but it was all in the vein that made itself visible on her forehead. The constant rubbing of her fingertips. If Millie touched her, she’d probably jump like she had come in contact with a stovetop burner. “It's crazy though,” Millie continued with her head cocked to the side. “Joe never struck me as the marrying type. Don’t get me wrong he’s an absolute sweetheart. I just couldn’t see him sitting in one spot long enough for just one woman to catch his attention. I guess men really do change for who they want to,” Millie finished with a drawn out sigh.

“Yeah. I guess they do, huh…”

“Well, this was a shock.” Millie stretched her arms out and Brielle came in for another hug. Her smile faded once she rested her chin on her shoulder and reemerged after pulling back.

“It was really nice to see you, Mills. Good luck on the whole journalism thing.”

Millie flashed Brielle another bright smile and walked off in a direction she wasn’t paying attention to because she was too busy glaring at Joe still.

There were days when Brielle took into account what the public had said about her marriage. That it was fake. For publicity. Or that it simply wouldn’t last because of how fast the two seemingly fell in love. 

They didn’t waste any time. Fucked on the first night. Vacationed together a week after. He was moving her in just a month later. Before Brielle knew it, he was down on one knee asking her to spend the rest of her life with him. Her infatuation with the kindhearted man who looked like he could kill anyone with his bare hands, drove her decision. She loved the way he took charge of his life and career, and turned the entire business in his family’s favor. How he kicked cancer’s ass. How every room he went in, people couldn’t help but to stop and stare.

It seems they did everything backwards. Got all the big hurdles out the way and worked their way down. Brielle found herself at times dumbfounded at just how little she knew about Joe’s past. Too many times she’s had to sit and listen to someone tell her something about the man she slept next to.

She’s not stupid. Of course there were women before her. I mean look at him. But a model? Models were such superficial creatures. Always caught up in glamour and materialistic matters. Joe was too grounded and down to earth in Brielle’s mind to bat an eye at what the world viewed as a mannequin. She thought she was the exception. Clearly not.

From across the way, Joe caught his wife staring at him again. His mouth curved into a smirk and he winked at her.

“Sexy, two-faced bastard,” she mumbled bringing the glass of vodka to her lips.

The couple rode back to their penthouse in an uncomfortable silence. After any event, the partition  was rolled up so Brielle could bless her man whatever way she saw fit. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. But tonight, she clung to the left door in the back of the black Suburban, eyes never leaving the tinted window, gazing at the bright lights that decorated the city. 

Joe gave a harsh side eye to her. The deliberate space she placed between them by crossing her legs to the door was a dead give away that she was pissed. Physical touch was a shared love language between them. The absence of it could be felt immediately.

He refused to gauge what the issue was in such a confined space. That mistake was made several times before and never ended well. He’d have to wait until they were alone and in the comfort of their own space.

She didn’t realize, but his eyes were on her all night while she threw each glass the bartender fed her back like it was the fountain of youth. When Jey found him they both exchanged looks. It didn’t need to be said. The soft spot Joe’s cousin grew for Brielle, couldn’t overshadow his concern for her obvious drinking problem. He and his brother Jimmy got a front row seat to the downfall of America’s beloved couple. Too many nights having to chase an intoxicated Brielle down, or dragging them apart from verbally destroying each other.

All night, Joe’s anxiety grew like wildfire with every drink and every minute that passed where he couldn’t just leave with her. Now, in the backseat of the truck, he rubbed his forehead already feeling a headache from the argument that hadn’t even happened yet. He wished he could just press a button and fast forward to the part where they fucked and forgot about whatever the problem was.

When they got to their building, she stormed out of the car not bothering to wait for the driver or Joe to open her door like usual. Ignoring the doorman and the lady at the front desk she usually greets, her heels clicked aggressively on the marble floor of the lobby all the way to the elevator. 

Joe stood behind her near the back elevator wall. He bit his bottom lip at the deep line in her back that led to her perky ass. Even with her attitude, he had the urge to rip her clothes off and fuck it right out of her. The elevator dinged when they reached the top floor. She wasted no time breezing fiercely through the foyer area, and collecting the bottom of her gown in her hands to stomp up the wooden floating stairs.

“Brielle, bring your ass back down here.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Brielle had fell in love with the way he could make the world and everyone in it shift without doing too much. Not tonight though. No, tonight the control he had over her pissed her off to no end. She turned around in the middle of the steps, but defiantly didn’t make a move to come down. Instead she stood her ground and crossed her arms like a child about to be grounded.

“Alright. Let’s get this shit over with.” He removed the suit jacket and laid it over the back of the all white loveseat and rested his hands on his hips. “What has pissed Brielle off tonight, huh?”

“Besides the fact that my husband has been passed around?” She shrugged throwing the first punch. “I don’t know.”

He chuckled in disbelief. “You wanna elaborate, sweetheart?”

“You and Millie? Why didn’t I know that you two dated?”

“Dated is a very generous word. More like slept together.”

“Don’t try to downplay it, okay? Doesn’t matter what happened between you two. Why did I have to hear it from her?”

“I don't understand what’s pissed you off? The fact that I’ve fucked with other women before you?”

“I’m not talking about other women.” She slapped the back of her hand to her other palm sharply. “I’m talking about one woman. A woman I considered a friend. A friend I told you about!”

His shoulders shrugged almost high enough to reach his ears. “Why does it matter? You knew her like two years ago—”

“It doesn’t matter if I knew her ten years ago, damn it!” She stormed down the stairs and brushed past him to the kitchen. Unbuttoning his shirt, he shook his head knowing what she went in there for. More alcohol.

Cabinets opened and shut continuously, until he heard her heels making their way back to the living room. She stood across from him vexed.

“I threw it out,” he answered the question she didn’t have to ask. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he was ready for however she would react. 

She scoffed and giggled at once. “Don’t you think my drinking is the last thing you should be worried about right now?”

“What could be more important than you getting healthy?”

She rolled her eyes looking to the ceiling with a forced smile. “I can’t believe this. I sat there all night watching you work the room. By myself! While you work, you expect me to just sit in a corner like a fucking mannequin? Smile and look pretty, right? Don’t say a word, don’t draw too much attention? Well tell me, Joe, what would you have done tonight?” She held a hand up. “Oh wait! Don't let me forget, just when the night couldn’t get any worse, I have to hear the horror story of how my husband and my friend used to fuck!”

“You are so fucking ungrateful,” he shook his head removing his cufflinks. “Unbelievable.”

“Un—” She scoffed. “Ungrateful?” She turned her head as if she didn’t hear him right.

“Thats right,” he nodded with a face void of any expression. “Look around you. Look at where you are.” He spread his toned arms out wide. “In a penthouse overlooking all of Brooklyn. Five  hundred thousand dollar dress on. Closet full of designer that could feed a fucking third-world country. Fucking thousand dollar sculptures from Italy, just for it to sit on a glass table all day.” Brielle flinched at the Versace Rokko Cheetah sculpture flying to the other side of the room and shattering. Just as quick, she straightened up, knowing he wasn’t crazy enough to take his frustrations out on her that way.

“What’s your point, Joe?” 

“My fucking point is, I put you on the highest pedestal possible and I work my ass off every day to make sure you can live like this. And all you seem to be worried about is some bitch I was smashing, back when I used to bring a damn blow up mattress with me to arenas?” He squinted in disbelief. 

“You’re missing my whole point!”

“What point?!”

Back and forth they shouted, but still neither one of them heard the other. It was all pointless. Just a battle of pride and resentment.

“Oh my god,” he threw his hands up. “Oh my god. This is fucking stupid. I can’t believe this, is what you want to fight about.”

Brielle’s chest stung and her eyes followed suit. Her feelings were stupid now. Just a blimp on his star-studded life. There was a point in time, where every little need, every little voice of discomfort, he would fall at his feet to correct for her. 

She turned and rushed up the steps. She was overwhelmed and refused to keep the yelling match up. In their walk-in closet, she let the dress fall and pool around her feet, to change into her mint-colored Juicy Couture sweatsuit. She stuffed an LV duffel with clothes and headed to the bathroom next to sweep everything that was hers off the counter and into the bag.

Unfazed by her theatrics, Joe sat on the couch downstairs, shaking his head at all the ruckus she was making. 

“G’head,” he waved. “Leave. You’ll be back anyway.”

“Fuck you, Joe!”

“Yeah, sure.” He sat back on the cream colored couch, arms outstretched, dress shirt unbuttoned, without a care in the world.

Brielle and him both knew she wasn’t going anywhere. It was the same shit every time. They’d argue and fuss all night, she’d threaten to leave, packing a bag to stay in an expensive hotel, paid for with his black card. He’d show up with an expensive gift. Usually jewelry. Maybe a bag by some designer that hadn’t even hit the shelves yet. A trip to an island she had never been before. Shoes. Those were her favorite. She had a whole collection in the walk-in, courtesy of Joe. Each pair she could pinpoint which argument it was a result of.

After the grand gift, it was make up sex and they’d be in the honeymoon phase for two weeks tops, then the cycle repeats. Joe had grown tired of it. Two years ago it was exciting and far left from the good girls with degrees he was used to.

Brielle was a breath of fresh air until her ways started to suffocate him. She had a personality that was larger than life and an attitude to match. Included in the packaging was a love so fiery and consuming, you forget to breathe. And although he had seen enough, been through enough, and was old enough to know better, he still found himself from time to time gasping for air after forgetting to breathe around her.

She was like a drug. Potent, exhilarating, and unpredictable. He was hooked. And unfortunately for the both of them, he wouldn’t know how to get off her even if he tried.

Bag slung over her shoulder, she made her way back downstairs and all the way to the door.

“Brielle…” The sound of his baritone voice had her frozen in place. He closed his eyes and inhaled deep from his nose. “You walk out that door and you gon’ be sorry.”

“I just need space—”

“Then pick a room. It's real spacious in here.”

Brielle turned and made her pursuit back to the stairs. He wasn’t going to let her leave tonight. She didn’t just want space, she wanted the one thing she depended on when it felt like the walls of her life were closing in on her. And he was actively trying to take that away from her.

“I hate you,” she spat with venom in all three words.

The foot that was previously propped up on the glass coffee table came down as he sat up, elbows rested on his knees.

“Im sorry…what?” 

“You heard me.” She started back up the floating steps, but halted upon seeing him rise to his full height in her peripheral. She had only made it to the third step. She turned in place and there he was at the bottom, eye level now.

“You wanna repeat that again, while I’m standing right here in your face?” He dared, hands clasped in front of him.

She knew better than to test him. Hate wasn't something they just tossed back and forth. Irritation, maybe. Disgust even. But hate? Joe didn’t play that shit. Not with her or anybody else in his circle.

He nodded with his tongue just barely teasing the hairs on the side of his mouth. “Yeah, I thought so.”

“That fucking character you play,” she squinted looking him up and down. “It’s not a fucking character! You’re a narcissistic, manipulative, controlling—”

“You were singing a whole different tune this morning.” Her mind flashed to just fourteen hours prior when he was balls deep, quite literally driving her up the shower wall. In the aftermath they held each other as she told him how much he meant to her and how he changed her life. The man from this morning and the one in front of her were two different men with the same face.

She shook her head holding back tears. “You’re never who I need you to be when I need you to be it,” she exaggerated. Joe always knew who to be. Always knew exactly where it hurt. If he showed up as something different it was seldom and with purposeful intent.

Something dark flashed in his eyes. “Well maybe if you opened your fucking mouth and told me what you needed, I could provide it. But, no. You’d rather look for answers at the bottom of a shot glass! So tell me, Brielle—tell me! What do you need?!”

“I don’t know!” She screamed in frustration and was snatched off the steps by the front of her hoodie.

Their lips collided. Two tornadoes full of angst coming together to form what was their complicated ass marriage. 

See, Joseph Anoa’i the man outside of the ring was delicate and considerate. He displayed affection as much as he could and never touched Brielle with any thing less than love. However, the man he was in the bedroom, or wherever else he saw fit to take Brielle down, was a beast. Unforgiving and relentless. His ring persona, Roman Reigns, took over him like he had a split personality. He manipulated, tossed and flipped Brielle’s slim frame however he wanted her. Narcissistic in the way he couldn't care less if he hit it so hard that she couldn’t breathe.

Tonight was no different. As a matter of fact, tonight he had something to prove. It was deeper than just make up sex, or angry sex. He intended to break Brielle down. Resentment and frustration grew inside of him like weeds, all stemming from Brielle’s misbehaved, toxic and unpolished ways whenever she got an ounce of liquor in her. The garden was no longer pretty. He was tired of faking the funk. He was going to put his foot down tonight, making sure she felt all the consequences of her actions.

His big hands slid down to the back of her knees, hiking her up so her long legs could wrap around his waist. He never broke the connection. His thick tongue continued to invade her mouth, claiming what’s his.

The pair expended all their breath and stole more from one another. That was the complicated formula of their bond. Give and take. Take then give.

Brielle stared up in awe at the god before her after he released her onto their all white couch. Every ridge and line in his abdomen telling a story of his hard work and dedication to his craft. He removed the black button up to reveal the rest of the artwork on his right arm, never breaking eye contact with his wife. His manhood made an impressive print through his slacks as it begged for freedom.

Brielle wasn’t moving fast enough for him. In fact, she wasn’t moving at all. She was too mesmerized by the sight of him. Good enough to eat, she thought. Every time she saw his body it felt like the first time.

He tore the zipper of her Juicy hoodie down in such haste to reveal her chocolate nipples, he broke it. Before Brielle could complain, she was flipped over and put on all fours. The waistband of her sweats were pulled down to her knees, exposing her warm core to the cold air.

A gasp escaped her lips as they fell wide open from the feeling of his entire mouth latching onto her most sensitive nerve. The entirety of his palms covered both ass cheeks, as he spread them apart to feast on her.

He didn’t have the patience for formalities. She didn’t deserve it anyway. He attacked her clit, switching from sucking and licking with broad strokes of his tongue.

 “Oh my—fuckkkk.” Brielle was stuck between pushing back into his mouth and running from it completely. She wouldn’t get far. The grip his rough hands established on her ass would lock her in place.

“Sweet ass,” he mumbled into her. He pulled away for a second to bite down on her left cheek before going back to eating. A pit of pure ecstasy formed in her lower stomach impossibly fast. She shut her eyes tight, prepared to explode, listening to the wet sounds of him demolishing her and his hefty breaths. Her breathing accelerated while she reached for the pillow to gain some type of hold. And just when she thought she would reach her peak, she was left with nothing.

Joe pulled completely away once he decided she was ready for him. Something like a whimper left her pouted lips. He took his time unbuckling his pants and releasing himself from the confines of his briefs.

“Stay down,” he demanded in a dark tone that sent a chill down her spine.

Brielle felt like a junkie, waiting and barely able to keep still. Joe’s tongue slid out over his top lip at the masterpiece before him. His supermodel wife, bent over and her wet, fat center exposed, waiting for him. His dick jumped and he grabbed the base of it to align with her pussy.

His thick mushroom head glided along her arousal, coating himself to prepare for entry. She struggled to keep still. He kept grazing over her sensitive bud and it was torture. She knew he was doing it on purpose. It was wicked how he watched her desperate, contorted face and listened to her pants knowing he could put an end to her misery.

“Joe—Uhnn!” Brielle release a guttural moan from him pushing himself all the way in and bottoming out. Joe stayed there for a minute trying to brace himself. The grip and slickness always felt brand new. She was a hot head with an even hotter pussy, making it nearly impossible to leave her alone. He’d lose his mind just at the thought of another getting to experience this after him.

Without warning he palmed the back of her neck so her face was flush against the couch cushion and he snapped his hips against hers repeatedly. Mercilessly.

“Get off me.” He shoved the arm she reached back, careful not to lose his rhythm. Although small, as a result of her strict diet and expensive Lagree classes, that ass still jiggled with every thrust.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Ahh!” She moaned out every time he shoved his thickness back into her. 

“Shut up,” he jerked his hips as far as they could go and got comfortable. It felt too good to move and he was determined to make her lose her fucking mind.

Brielle’s mouth fell wide open. She didn’t know what she felt. The line between pain and pleasure started to blur. She reached a hand back, in another attempt to make him ease up, but he caught it just in time and pinned it behind her small back in a vice grip.

“Joe—

“Shut the fuck up,” his top lip curled, thrusting into her again with the same force as before. “I don’t wanna hear none of that shit. Fucking take it.” His free hand came down hard on her ass, immediately causing red welts to form.

Brielle was a glutton for punishment. Her pussy contracted and it was so wet she could hear the squishy noises like somebody was playing in running water.

“You hear that shit, Bri?”

“Yes, baby. She’s so wet for you."

“At least she’s honest.” His breathing was erratic as he tried to talk shit and fuck her at the same time. “She always shows me love.” His hand came down again and he relished at the sight of her ass with new welts forming.

“Fuck!” She cried. Another smack. Then another. His pace never faltering. He let his bottom lip sink between his teeth, concentrating on how his dick slid in and out of her effortlessly. She left him shining and covered in white stuff. Every stroke wetter than the last.

“You hate me, Bri?” His eyebrows furrowed. She tried her best to look back at him. A sheen of sweat covered him and his hair had fell wildly over his broad shoulders.

Joe’s battle with leukemia had him holding everyone he loved in a vice grip, close to his chest, fearing the day he ever had to let go. He didn’t have the luxury to invite negativity and hate of all things into his space. Which is why when Brielle expressed it earlier, it triggered something in him.

Brielle shook her head as much as she could. “No—no!”

“Huh?”

His larger frame hovered over hers as he leaned over and gripped the back of the couch to push harder into it from a different angle.

“Oh god! No—baby I swear I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it. Fu-uuuck!” Her voice shook as she tried to reason with him.

“Tell daddy how sorry you are,” he toyed with her. Joe only needed to hear it for his own ego. He already knew she was sorry. She looked the part. Brows turned down, hands reaching and grasping to hold onto something, while she struggled to breathe and keep her eyes from rolling to the back of her head. Pathetic.

She tried to catch her breath and fulfill his wishes, but his every move sent a shockwave of pleasure right through her. All she could focus on was the feeling happening where they connected.

“Say it,” he demanded through clenched teeth.

“I-I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, daddy. It won’t happen again!”

“Yeah, I know it won’t. Mhm, fuck.” His ways were backfiring on him as he felt the pressure for release build in his lower stomach.

Slowing his movements down, his hand came down on her ass again. “Come on,” he instructed. She already knew the drill, rocking back and forth on him at her own pace to help them both get to the finish line.

Together they ogled at one another. Brielle in complete awe at what he was doing to her body. Joe mesmerized by the beauty below him and trying to reconcile how she became his biggest problem.

He loved the fuck out of her. Would do anything for her. His favorite accomplishment. He vowed to spend the rest of his life with her, but everyday they spent together, that dream grew more out of reach.

How could something so ethereal looking be so problematic? So angry? So insecure?

Small whimpers and cries spilled from her throat before she made a declaration that calmed him as much as it terrified him.

“I’m gonna love you forever,” she declared. It was like a hex. A spell. Binding him to her forever. Cause the hard unshakeable truth was that as long as Brielle wanted him here, he’d never leave. No matter how many fights, how many crash outs, public incidents, he knew leaving her alone would leave him suffering.

Against his initial mission to punish her, his soft nature took control. He leaned all the way down to capture her plump lips in a kiss. He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses from her mouth to her cheek, until he reached her ear. Whispering a mix of loving reassurances and vile obscenities to her.

“I love you so much, Bri. Keep fucking me, baby. Just like that. Yesss. You feel so good,” he encouraged in between huffs of breath. “It’s all yours baby. Take it. Just yours. Nobody else’s.” His deep voice directly in her ear and the smell of her own arousal lingering on his beard, sent her body into overdrive as her pussy spasmed around him.

Brielle’s orgasm caused a chain of reactions. His dick swelled inside her while his balls tightened. At the last second he pulled out and covered her round ass with his release. She wasn’t on birth control and loathed the idea of kids ruining her physique.

He stroked himself until the last of his cum oozed out and threw his head back. “Mm,” he groaned. Shame on Brielle. She laid on the couch, head spinning from the beating she just took mixed with all the shots she took earlier. She was just about ready to call it a night, but Joe had other plans.

“Not done with ya ass yet. Come show me how sorry you are.” Like he had just ran a match fighting off guys twice his size in the ring, his chest rose and fell as his voice became menacingly deep.

His tall frame stood in the living room, widening his stance with his hips slightly pushed forward. His dick was covered in her essence, still hard as a rock, swaying slightly from him shifting his weight back and forth on both legs.

She climbed down from the couch, knowing better than to make him wait. Crawling like the feline she was at heart, she stopped right in front of him. God, he was just fucking perfect. All she really wanted to do was climb on him and drag another nut out, but it had to wait.

Placing her dainty hands on his muscular thighs, she gazed up him and ducked slightly to swirl her tongue on his large balls. "Yeah," he breathed deep, savoring the feeling of her warm mouth.

She took his heavy dick in her hand, giving the tip teasing licks and swirls. The visual of her on her knees worshiping him was a sight to see as she gathered spit and let it ooze onto him before sinking his length into her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing him as far as she possible could.

“Look at me,” he instructed in a guttural tone followed by a moan. It was music to her ears. Everything about him turned her on. She studied him and the look of mixed lust and love he provided as their eyes locked, prompting her to slide a hand down and rub herself. “That’s right. Get it wet for me.” He rocked back and forth in her mouth, on the brink of another orgasm that quick. She watched the muscles in his abdomen flex from trying to hold his nut in.

He gathered her long silky tresses into somewhat of a ponytail in his hands and pushed her head down to hit the back of her throat repeatedly.

Going as far as her throat allowed he held her there and instinctively her hands pushed at his strong thighs. Tears spilled out the corner of her eyes feeling his warm release coat her throat.

“Aghh!” He threw his head back, going to a whole different realm for a while and coming back down to earth. He looked down at the beauty below him. Mouth still full of him, mascara running, with spit decorating her chin and chest. She looked perfect to him like this. Vulnerable. Submissive. But he knew it was all just a result of the circumstances. This version of her would be long gone and forgotten in the days to come. So he decided right then, he would take full advantage while he could.

He hissed upon sliding out of her mouth as her cheeks sunk in. He lifted her up with one arm and she wrapped her legs around him. His other hand found his still semi-hard thickness to ease into her. Together they exhaled when he slid in. The feeling of her had him bricked back up in no time.

"Hold on. Tighter," he instructed. He maneuvered her long legs in crook of his arms before moving her up and down at full force. All gas no brakes.

Joe hummed softly to himself, turning in the California King bed toward his wife. It was late. Their night didn’t end until the wee hours of the morning. He immediately knocked out when it was over. He was exhausted mentally and physically.

Brielle however, couldn’t quiet her mind long enough to sleep. He found her wide awake, staring up at the ceiling in the dark room. The city lights from their bedroom window cascaded over her enough for him to see her face. Something was wrong.

“What’s going on?” He questioned in a sleepy voice.

“Can’t sleep.”

“Then come here.” When she didn’t make a move to come closer to him, his eyebrows dented. She lay frozen in place, as the noise from the city took away from the eerie silence in the room.

“Do you think I need help?”

Joe released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. They had this conversation before. Too many times. Only it was never a conversation. Mostly an argument of some sort. Him complaining and practically begging her to get help. Trying to reason and get her to see that drinking at every event, at every inconvenience, just wasn’t normal. That it was killing them. Killing her.

“Doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think about yourself?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “…I don’t know.” He watched a single tear slide out the corner of her eye. He wanted to blame his own eyes beginning to sting on him being a natural empath, but he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. He loved this woman. So by default, whatever she felt he also felt times ten.

“I used to look in the mirror and loved what I saw. I was confident. Proud of what I was. And that was when I had nothing. I was a nobody three years ago. Now i’m somebody and I just feel so empty…”

Seeing a glimpse of the girl he met years ago, who snatched his heart from his chest with no remorse, had him frozen in place. Vulnerability was not a dress Brielle wore often. He bore a hole into the side of her face while she confided in him.

“All the flashing lights, the cameras, the money…I don’t know if i’ll be able to handle the day it all stops. I don’t think I know who I am without it anymore. I never meant for it to go this far.”

Joe took her dainty hand in his and squeezed. An attempt to let her know that everything was going to be okay. But the truth of the matter is that he didn’t know if everything would be okay. He knew he loved her and that she loved him right back. Only problem with that? The saddest truth about life is that sometimes love is just not enough.

….Well?😂

I know y’all were asking for a continuation of Biggest Fan, but I already had this in the tuck and was hyper fixating. Plus, I’m not entirely sure I want to continue Biggest Fan yet since I didn’t plan on it. I’ll keep y’all updated.

As always, if you read up until this point, I am forever grateful. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

taglist: @raya-hunter01

[mischiefmaker615]

Chef's Choice

Over the past time of having tumblr, i have collected my personal favorites- stories that i always get drawn back to when i need inspiration, something to read, and/or something to enjoy with whatever mood or situation that needs tending LOL (not in order and there are so many others i love!!) Thought it be best to introduce you to some of the greats out there :D

“Seems like the prince of Asgard is seduced by a mortal woman”

By: @fictive-sl0th

(OMG i absolutely LOVE the doctor themed stories with Loki XD ya never know what direction it's gonna end up ;) )

A Coveted Bride By: @magicbystarlight (i absolutely LOVE jealous Loki, anything in the realm of dark theme and possessiveness XD we don't judge here. it's an enquired taste and darling, you cooked!!)

Duplicitous *Long Snake Moan*

By: @darkficsyouneveraskedfor

(everything you write, i got to read! truth be told, we didn't ask for but we absolutely needed!!)

Pinned Down The Rite Liberties By: @lokisgoodgirl (come on, just by the titles alone you know it's gonna be good! everything you've written, i've fallen in love with each detail, nothing is rushed and personalities are captured beautifully! i've caught myself gasping out loud in public with some of the stuff you bring us and i absolutely love it!)

Overstimulation Welcome Him Home More Between His Thighs

By: @sarahscribbles

(had me drooling in kinktober!!! just the title alone, i hit favorite so i could read it when i got time and darling, you didn't disappoint! so many stories just draw my attention and every aspect of them is truly perfect!!! i need more!!!)

thirty seconds By: @muddyorbsblr (what i would give to be in the readers shoes!! omg i loved this!!! hit all the right feelings and i cant help but reread this far more than thirty times LOL)

The Chambermaid

By: @wheredafandomat

(i want Loki to step on me!!!! i wouldn't mind slave life if it meant serving him LOL gods this was perfect!! i always loved maid x Loki themed stories, keep them coming!!)

Kinktober Day 16 By: @suguru-getos ("we listen and we don't judge" *cough* i love me some CNC! seems like a very hidden kink topic so i got positively excited when i saw this mentioned in your writing and just HAD to read it Lol kinky indeed!!! truly my favorite fic of yours so far!)

Overtime Safehouse Conquer Close Quarters

By: @cleo-fox

(I'm pretty sure all of tumblr knows who you are Lol i have enjoyed EVERYTHING you've come out with; your plots, details and character embodiment, Loki is on point!! i cant even fathom where to begin on making storylines this deep with all the bells and whistles. you are truly an incredible writer!!)

"I can do….terrible things to you." By: @oh-look-at-her (i can't literally do anything but bow down to you and get up only when given permission LOL truly a damn good time reading your work!!)

Firestarter

By: @delaber

(who doesn't love a good enemies to lovers story Lol can't tell you how many people i've shooed while i was in the middle of reading this XD)

Frozen Stiff Happily Never After By: @simplyholl (tbh i struggle finding REALLY good Jotun Loki fics and absolutely fell in love with this one!!! thank you for letting me die in peace now Lol had me giddy and blushing!!)

Have Mercy

By: @mochie85

(you captured his hot and pain in the ass personality so well!!! i LOVED this went through all the emotions on this one!! kinda like an enemies to lovers story Lol why cant it be me!!!)

A Tales of Tangled Desires By: @angelremnants (i fell in love with the part one, not expecting for my request to be answered but i got a part two and absolutely have become obsessed!! i love your writing so much and thank you for the prayer being answered! Lol)

And The Gods Made Love

By: @thefairywithboots

(thank you for my request being answered!! anything you publish, i cant get enough of and love the pure art like pace you take to form every inch of your story!!)

Plus One Thank me for the Ache By: @societyfolklore (EXACTLY what i needed to start the new year ;) thank you!)

Mission Accomplished

By: @asgards-princess-of-mischief

(i love the whole "there's only one bed" scenario LOL this was absolutely perfect!)

Handcuffed Together By: @anonymousfiction211 (it's in the title LOL this had all of my emotions :D it was fun, hilarious and incredible sexy!! truly loved this!)

Gentle Road Rage

By: @writingfics-passingtime 

(THIS HAS EVERYTHING I LOOK FOR IN A FIC!!! Never thought tickling could be so spicy LOL well descriptive, seasoned, paced, his personality is on point, plot is chef's kiss, everything!! i want a part 2!!)

Reincarnation By: @goddessofstories4 (ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL!!!)

[crumblinggothicarchitecture]

Taylor Swift is a Female Rage icon? Get a Grip.

I’ve just received word that Taylor Swift is calling her show “Female Rage: The Musical.” Here is my very much pissed off response to that nonsense:  

The phrase, Female Rage has an intimately rich history:  

Some of the first accounts of female rage dates to the Italian renaissance. To be clear, women in those days were not allowed to become painters- the arts were seen as the domain of men. They did not believe that women have rich inner lives capable of delivering the type of artistic innovation with which renaissance men were obsessed.  

However, rebels abounded, through the might of their fucking rage. Several women created some of the most compellingly emotional paintings I’ve ever fucking seen. They did it without permission, without financial support, and often under the threat of punishment. They did it as a protest. In paintings like “Timoclea Killing Her Rapist” by Elisabetta Sirani (1659), and another by Artemisia Gentileschi “Slaying of Holofernes” (1612) as it depicts the bravery of Judith as she slayed a traveling warlord out to rape Judith and enslave her city. The painting often is referred to as a way Artemisia was envisioning herself as slaying her rapist. These paintings were used against these women as proof that they were unfeminine- and far too angry.  Both these women suffered immensely for their audacity to call attention to the violation men perpetrated on them. Female Rage bleeds off these paintings- bleeds right through to the bone-deep acknowledgement of the injustice women faced being barred from the arts and having their humanity violated in such a sick way. Both women were hated- and considered far too angry.

In philosophy, also as early as the 15th century, an example of female rage is a philosophical text, often hailed as one of the first feminists works in the western world, written by Christine de Pizan titled The City of Ladies (1405). She wrote in protest on the state of women- writing that “men who have slandered the opposite sex out of envy have usually know women who were cleverer and more virtuous than they are” (“The City of Ladies”). People mocked her all her life- but she stood fast to her convictions. She was widowed at a young age with children to feed and the men wouldn’t let women have jobs! She wrote this book and sold it so that she could feed her family- and to protest the treatment of women as lesser than men. Her work was called aggressive and unkempt- they said she was far too angry. 

In the 18th century, a young Mary Wollstonecraft wrote, A Vindication of the Right of Women ( 1792) upon learning that the civil rights won in the French Revolution did not extend to women! She wrote in protest of the unjust ways other philosophers (like Rousseau) spoke about the state of women- as if they were lesser. She wrote to advocate for women’s right to education, which they did not yet have the right to! She wrote to advocate for the advancement of women’s ability to have their own property and their own lives! The reception of this text, by the general public, lead to a campaign against Wollstonecraft- calling her “aggressive” and far too angry.  

Moving into modernity, the 1960’s, and into literary examples, Maya Angelou publishes I know why the caged Bird Sings (1969) in which she discusses the fraught youth of a girl unprotected in the world. It beautifully, and heart-wrenchingly, described growing up in the American South during the 1930’s as it subjected her to the intersection of racism and sexism. The story is an autobiographical account of her own childhood, which explains how patriarchal social standards nearly destroyed her life. Upon the reception of her book, men mostly called it “overly emotional” and far too angry. Maya Angelou persisted. She did not back down from the honesty with which she shared her life- the raw, painful truth. With Literature, she regained a voice in the world.  

Interwoven into each of the examples I have pulled out here, is the underlying rage of women who want to be seen as human beings, with souls, dreams and hopes, yet are not seen as full members of society at the behest of men. They take all that rage, building up in their souls, and shift it to create something beautiful: positive change. Each of these cases, I have outlined above, made remarkable strides for the women as a whole- we still feel the impact of their work today. They were so god-damn passionate, so full of righteous anger, it burst out into heart-stopping, culture-shifting art. Feminine rage is therefore grounded in experiences of injustice and abuse- yet marked too by its ability to advocate for women's rights. It cannot be historically transmogrified away from these issues- though Taylor Swift is doing her best to assert female rage as pitifully dull, full of self-deprecation, and sadness over simply being single or losing money. She trivializes the seriousness with which women have pled their cases of real, painful injustice and suffering to the masses time and time again. The examples above deal with subjects of rape, governmental tyranny, and issues of patriarchally inspired social conditioning to accept women as less human than men. It is a deadly serious topic, one in which women have raised their goddamn voices for centuries to decry- and say instead, “I am human, I matter, and men have no right to violate my mind, body, or soul.”  

The depictions of female rage over the last few centuries, crossing through many cultures, is an array of outright anger, fearsome rage, and into utter despair. The one unyielding, solid underpinning, however, is that the texts are depicting the complete agency of the women in question. The one uniting aspect of female rage is that it must be a reaction to injustice; instead of how male depictions of female rage function, (think Ophelia), the women are the agents of their art with female made- female rage. They push forth the meaning through their own will- not as subjects of male desires or abuses, but as their own selves. That is what makes the phrase so empowering. They are showing their souls as a form of protest to the men who treat women like we have no soul to speak of.  

Taylor Swift’s so-called female rage is a farce in comparison. Let’s look at an example: “Mad Woman” (2020). I pull this example, and not something from her TTPD set, because this is one of the earliest examples of her using the phrase female rage to describe her dumb music. (Taylor Swift talking about "mad woman" | folklore : the long pond studio sessions (youtube.com)  

The lyrics from “Mad Woman” read “Every time you call me crazy, I get more crazy/... And when you say I seem angry, I get more angry”  

How exactly is agreeing with someone that you are “crazy” a type of female rage in which she’s protesting the patriarchy. The patriarchy has a long history of calling women “insane” if they do not behave according to the will of men. So, how is her agreeing with the people calling her crazy- at all subversive in the way that artworks, typically associated with concept of female rage, are subversive. What is she protesting? NOTHING.  

Then later, she agrees, again, that she's “angry.” The issue I draw here is that she’s not actually explicating anything within the music itself that she’s angry about- she just keeps saying she's angry over and over, thus the line falls flat. The only thing this anger connects to is the idea of someone calling her angry- which then makes her agree that she is... angry. So, despite it being convoluted, it’s also just not actually making any kind of identifiable point about society or the patriarchy- so again, I beg, what on Earth makes this count as Female Rage?  

In essence, she is doing the opposite of what the examples above showcase. In letting an outside, presumably male, figure tell Taylor Swift what she is feeling, and her explicit acceptance of feeling “crazy” and “angry,” she is ultimately corroborating the patriarchy not protesting it. Her center of agency comes from assignment of feelings outside of herself and her intrinsic agreement with that assignment; whereas female rage is truly contingent on the internal state, required as within our own selves, of female agency. As I stated above, the women making female rage art must have an explicit agency throughout the work. Taylor Swift’s song simply does not measure up to this standard.  

Her finishing remarks corroborates the fact that she's agreeing with this patriarchal standard of a "mad" or crazy woman:

"No one likes a mad woman/ You made her like that"

Again, this line outsources agency through saying "you made her like that" thus removing any possibility of this song being legitimate female rage. There is simply no agency assigned to the woman in the song- nor does the song ever explicitly comment on a social issue or protestation of some grievous injury to women's personhood.

She honestly not even being clever- she's just rhyming the word “crazy” with “crazy.” Then later rhyming “angry” with “angry.” Groundbreaking stuff here.  

Perhaps Taylor Swift is angry, in “Mad Woman,” but it is not the same type of rage established in the philosophical concept of female rage of which art historians, philosophers, and literary critics speak. Instead, it is the rage of a businesswoman that got a bad deal- but it is not Female Rage as scholars would identify it. In “Mad Woman” I fear her anger is shallow, and only centered on material loss- through damaging business deals or bad business partners. She is not, however, discussing what someone like Christine de Pizan was discussing by making a case for the concept that woman also have souls like men do. In her book, she had to argue that women have souls, because men were unconvinced of that. Do you see the difference? I am saying that Swift’s concerns are purely monetary and material, whereas true examples of female rage center on injustice done against their personhood- as affront to human rights. Clearly, both things can make someone mad- but I’d argue the violation of human rights is more serious- thus more deserving of the title “Female Rage.”  

Simply put, Taylor Swift is not talking about anything serious, or specific, enough to launch her into the halls of fame for "Female Rage" art. She's mad, sure, but she's mad the way a CEO gets mad about losing a million dollars. She's not mad about women's position in society- or even just in the music industry.

She does this a lot. The album of “Reputation” was described as female rage. Songs in “Folklore” were described as female rage. Now, she’s using the term to describe TTPD, which is the most self-centered, ego-driven music I’ve heard in a long time.

Comparing the injustice, and complete subjugation, of women’s lives- to being dumped by a man or getting a bad deal- wherein she is still one of the most powerful women of the planet- is not only laughable, but offensive. 

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

First off I LOVE your writing, I’m so happy you’re taking requests again so, may I please request something with Ghost? Like the reader is part of the 141 and Ghost has a soft spot for her and is very protective of her and both having feelings for each other but not saying anything bc both think the other one deserves better or just something like that🥹😮‍💨💖🙏🏻 feel free to keep practicing smut for this one!👀✨

You’re awesome 🥰💞

Blood Was Its Avatar

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Getting close to you was never his plan, but when he can't stop his self-protective instincts from pushing you away, will he be able to repair your strange friendship? Or will his body have to speak for him? (18+)

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, wounds, stitches, death, smut, p in v, throat f-ing, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, implied pain kink, hair pulling, hate sex? but not really?, semi-clothed sex, vulgar language, fluff at the end, etc. just pure filth.

A/N: This is sub-par because I was up until 4 in the morning today and didn't have the energy to edit in-depth lmfao, but enjoy Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

All of Ghost’s problems started and ended with you. He was impressed with that fact, actually. 

They call you ‘Masque’ on account of the mission from years back, ‘07 Ghost recalls easily. When you’d been pinned down and surrounded, the dead bodies of your unit all around your feet. You’d chosen to act while the others had been yelling orders over the radio—rooting around the pooling blood on the ground and slathering your face with it; your body. 

You pretended to be dead. 

Quick thinking, Ghost had told you with a glint in his eye when you’d gotten back, those whites of your eyes ten times more noticeable. Like the moon hanging around a crimson-drowned sky. 

You’d cursed him out and said of course it was, quoting some poem from Edgar Allen Poe as a joke.

“Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.” The Masque of the Red Death. Your claim to survival apparently, as you had just read it a day before.

Ghost said you were bloody fucking crazy and found his eyes darkly watching the way you smirked at him. How the dried blood on your lips would splinter at your loud chuckle as you both entered the C17.

As he knew—all of his problems started and ended with you. Today was no different.

“Damn! Lookin’ good today Ghost, are those new gloves I spy?” You were always so…bubbly. 

“Masque,” the masked-man greats blandly, not even sparing you a look as you enter the meeting room. The screen on the far wall was hooked up to Price’s computer—broadcasting its news out into the dim lighting with images of mayhem and a loop of a video containing the bombing of an embassy building in the Netherlands. 

Profile pictures stain the screen of wanted subjects; captured or killed in the crossfire made no difference here, anyone could see it. 

You drop down into the seat beside his own with a huff, body shed of your usual black gear, and wearing casual fatigues instead���your tags jump on your chest and Ghost sees them glint in the light.

Your face shifts into a smile, prodding with a bump of your elbow. The Lieutenant turns and glares dryly while you carry on, “I asked if you got new gloves; they’re nice.” 

“Needed ‘em.” Ghost drawls, seeing no way out of this as he glances around at the multitude of other free seats. No one else was here yet, and Price had needed to step out for a moment to grab another report from his office one floor up. 

A small grunt echoes from his throat before his eyes dart back to yours. Shifting in his seat, his lax posture tenses before loosening. 

Raising a brow at Ghost, you stifle a laugh.

“That’s it?” He blinks at you slowly, those bright blues trapping you as they shine out from his skeletal visage; his great body hidden under layers of Kevlar and thick canvas cloth. Like some weird and deadly present. You tease him, “No attempt at a conversation, Ghosty? That hurts.”

You sarcastically put a hand to your chest. 

“Then suffer.” Ghost states like he’s reading the newspaper, stretching out one of his wrists by rolling it until it cracks the joints. Where was everyone else? “I’m not fuckin’ talking about bloody gloves, Masque.”

“It’s called a conversation starter!” Under the mask, he raises a dull eyebrow. You glower at him, but the smirk on your lips shows how much you enjoy this.  

“For who? Could have jus’ stayed quiet, then.” Scoffing, you roll your eyes and indulge him—pointedly going silent. Almost immediately an awkward nothingness covers the room with its metaphorical blanket and Ghost’s muscles slowly go stiff as he crosses his arms slowly over his chest. You bite your lip and stamp down a snort. 

A minute spreads like molasses. Two. Three. Five.

“Alright,” Ghost growls, breaking as you pick at your cuticles, humming horribly off-tune to a point where the Lieutenant’s ears were ringing and annoyance faired. “Fucking hell stop it, just say something already to shut up that noise. Sounds like my damn brakes squealin’.” 

You stop and laugh loudly, elbowing him again as he jerks away with a low grunt. Blue flashes, and his heart pounds.

“Jeez, Lieutenant, is my humming that bad for you?” The air rolls with tension.

“More effective than torture.” Ghost utters, his Manchester drawl violent and thick as it coats your ears. You take no offense—you’d been doing it on purpose, anyways; always the one to exploit cracks in the concrete. You'd found out a lot through your studies of the man beside you. Mostly, all of the small tics and unique qualities that made Ghost such a strange character. 

On the battlefield, the large man was resilient and patient. He could wait in one spot for days if he had to, sitting for a perfect shot. Nothing could break the line of purpose and authority he had over the units he was placed in or his fighting spirit. Gunbattles, torture, you name it he’d survived it. 

But he disliked anything below scalding hot tea, detested his objects and packs being messed with…and clenched his hidden jaw at small, repetitive, noises.

Low, horrible, humming, tapping fingers, tongues clicking over and over. You had no idea why, but the sight of making this experienced and handsome man glare at you with annoyance made your face heat up. 

You chuckle in the meeting room, eyes crinkling up at him before you reach for one of the pens and notepads on the table. Clicking the bottom, you shrug and start to scribble nothing into the side margins as blue ink bleeds like foreign blood. 

“What’s Price got for us today, then?” Your voice echoes, “We shipping out with the others or going Black again?” 

The Captain usually paired the two of you up for Black Ops for a reason—Ghost the strategic mastermind to your reckless bloodlust. Push and pull. 

Missions were rarely a failure. 

Ghost sighs, finally getting the sensation of control back into him. “Black,” he begins, “least for us. Old Man’s sending Garrick and Johnny out in hopes of drawin’ a few bastards out first. Netherlands. We slip in the back—off the books, ‘course.” 

He watches you from the side of his eye, gaze following your pen as you sketch out a small stick figure with a skull for a face. Ghost stifles a huff as he scratches at the side of his face.

“Well, of course,” you slyly tease, glancing at him before looking back to your pad. “Are we getting any soldiers?” 

“None. Just us.” 

“Ooo,” Ghost watches your lips curl and feels his body slowly still. “Sounds like fun.”

“It sounds like I’m going to have to babysit again,” you laugh again and dark blue seems to spark with some strange emotion. Ghost clears his throat and takes down a breath.

“Oh, please,” you chuckle, “I’ve saved your hide a few times before, Ghosty, be nice to me.”

“Nice isn’t in the job description, Masque.” 

“Well, it isn’t for you, grumpy. I think Johnny and Gaz are lovely.” Your nose tilts up teasingly as Ghost grumbles like a cat. “But that’s alright, I like you anyways.” Winking, you go back to your pointless scribbling as footsteps echo from the hallway. 

Ghost stares, his hands on the armrests slowly clenching into fists as he studies your expression. His eyes slid over scars and blemishes he’d already looked at a million times over, seeing in his mind’s eye the stains of blood and that every present smile—the burn of your presence beside him like a brand in his stomach. You never seemed to let him get too far away from you on Ops, but it wasn’t some form of obsession. It was worry; he’d seen it. 

You didn’t like it when you couldn’t see his back ahead of yours. Ghost guessed it had to do with your lost unit. He never pressed it. 

In fact, he’d noticed himself not eager to see you off himself. Had spent many a night in the onsite gym after missions because of it, where he’d given you the cold shoulder after. He didn’t like that feeling. That hesitation. 

Ghost knew only to trust people as much as he had to…so why did he like when you said nice things to him? His jaw clenches, shoulders rolling to dispel tension as he rips his eyes away from your body as if you were fire incarnate. Your head perks up at the sound of talking voices getting closer to the meeting room. 

Soap and Gaz enter a few moments later and Price shuffles in behind them. You smile warmly and greet them, shifting the notepad closer to yourself nonchalantly. 

Ghost grunts and stays stationary, straightening up when he realizes he's slightly leaned toward you during your conversation. His new gloves pull taunt over his knuckles and he suddenly wants to rip them off. 

—

You begin to wonder when you’ll be free from blood coating your fingers but know deep down you never will be. At least, not if this was how you’d be getting covered in it.

Sitting inside the hotel bedroom, you slowly extract a blood-coated bullet from Ghost's large thigh, grimacing when he grunts from over you. You’re in between his legs, kneeling, as the metal finally breaks free from the skin barrier—the entry wound is small but nonetheless dangerous. His pants were cut from thigh to knee, a long spit that showed pale, scarred skin. 

Keeping a tight grip on the forceps, you hum under your breath in satisfaction. 

“No bullet fragments—lucky you.” 

Ghost forces out, “Yeah, feelin’ proper lucky.” You chuckle, moving back and dropping the bullet to a food plate you’d put on the floor. Shuffling, you take up the rag placed over your upper arm and bring it back up. Patting the gushing wound, you frown and think back on the events that got you here as the Lieutenant shifts and bites his tongue. 

The intensity in his blue eyes burns into you, lungs deeply inhaling with a silent breath. Your fingers tingle, but you diligently press the fabric to the wound and try to ignore the heat from Ghost’s flesh or how his legs flinch with every trail of your nails. His muscles are pure iron around you, and you’re suddenly very aware of the position you’re in. 

Swallowing stiffly, you sigh and notice him slightly shiver when your breath caresses his upper leg. You stop immediately, lips going tight.

It had been fifteen minutes earlier when Soap and Gaz had set up in a far more open and less secluded hotel three blocks away—directly across from the base location for your gaggle of targets. As planned, you and Ghost would be off the books and go in when they were too distracted by the Sergeants’ in plain sight. 

Fire was supposed to be the cover story. Go in, take care of business, and set the place alight after the area was clear of civilians. But no one was counting on the targets being surrounded by three more friends. 

Of course, guns lead to bullets and bullets to flesh. You can still hear the ringing in your head when Ghost had jerked you to the slide and shoved you behind the far wall—skull snapping back to look in horror as his leg exploded with gore. 

Fucking bastard had been distracted by you and hadn’t had time to dodge. That wasn’t Ghost, but then again, Ghosty wasn’t quite the same, was he? Least, not to you.

“You’re a fool, you know that?” You huff, something swirling in your chest as your gloves peel the layer of cut pants farther down to see better. “You should have looked after yourself.”

“And what?” Ghost grumbles, letting you do what you wanted to him.  “Let you get fuckin’ shot, Masque—you have a bloody death wish?” His last word comes off with a growl as you press tighter into his thigh. 

His hand instantaneously snaps out to grasp the back of your hair tightly with an instinctual low groan. Naturally, a small whine exits your lips in retaliation.

You both freeze and the room jumps up to a hundred degrees; your lower body flips as your skin burns a million degrees. Fingers still, you feel your breath hitch when his calloused fingers scrape your scalp, your hair in his expansive palm. It was a pure reaction you knew, and when you’d asked him to let you help out with this problem you had thought this might happen—he’s a soldier after all, just like you.

But he hadn’t denied you. If anything, since six missions back, you were the only person who he wanted to work on him. He’d never said why. 

You look up at him from the side, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Ghost’s heart skips beats before he clears his throat, snapping his hand back immediately and slamming it to the mattress. A second of strained silence settles where you both try to forget what the fuck just happened.

“Keep bloody going then,” He says, deep and grating to a point where you shove down a shiver. Your head feels light off of his scent, and you have to ask yourself why you’re feeling so feverish all of a sudden. 

You bite your lip and nod, hand moving away to grab at the sanitized needle and thread with your forceps—dropping the rag back onto your forearm to let it hang. For once in your life you’re left mute by his actions. 

Mute to the fact that you’d liked them. 

Your face burns like a hidden fire; epidermis alight with the strength to rival the flames the two of you had started fifteen minutes ago. Lungs stutter and hands inside the gloves go clammy. It’s only after you were halfway done with the stitches that you mutter words.

“Shouldn’t have taken that bullet, Ghost.” He had been stone still the entire time, hands clenched beside him and his thighs like rocks. Feet firmly planted. It was like he was barely breathing, too. 

Ghost blankly stares, staying quiet as you continue. 

“You were distracted. That never happens.” His form was almost entirely shadowing you; great spanning shoulders from above tight like a looming statue. You dig the needle deeper with a push of the forceps, threading through yielding skin with quick punctures. He doesn’t even flinch. 

Ever since ‘07, there was an obvious aversion to partners stemming from you. You distanced yourself from forming close bonds with those who you hadn’t already known. In many ways, Ghost and the others of One-Four-One were the closest you could get to people now.

Ghost, you admit, was far closer than all the others combined. 

But this sentiment was known—both the aversion and the care you held. The Lieutenant wasn’t good with words, but he knew how to read you better than anyone; the way you carried yourself. He knew you didn’t like it when he got hurt in front of you. 

Ghost had to ask why he even bothered to shove you out of the way, regardless. You would have been fine. So why had his eyes gone wide and his iris flared with a dead glow when he’d seen the gun swivel in your direction? The man grunts at a deep dig from your sutures but you continue to mutter to yourself as he glares at the far wall, venom-like. 

His sin was that he had grown to care about you. His burden and his curse. 

This couldn’t continue. 

Ghost looks down at you with a sheen of distanced nonchalant-ness and when you lent back with a sigh of your lips, his body moved. You blink in surprise as you feel his muscles bunch and before you know it you’re being grabbed harshly by the arms and lightly shoved to the side. 

“Ghost!” You snap, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stands to his feet—blood training down his thigh and kneecap before disappearing back under the stained cargos. “What the fuck?! I’m not done with it.” 

Attempting to stomp closer, he swivels his head to you as his spine goes formal. Your feet stall from under you and your veins pump faster, forceps and slick gloves freezing mid-air. 

You blink. He’d only ever looked at you like that when you’d first met. 

Blue is a silent sheen of ice and cold death; black sockets behind his mask are more like voids holding chilled sapphires. 

Why was he looking at you like he didn’t know you? Once more you say, confused and suddenly small, “Ghost?” 

“Enough.” His voice was monotone and barky, the tone final. Your fingers tense at the sound. What…what was this? “You need to get your head back on, Masque. I can’t watch over you like a bloody Private every time you get stiff-legged, copy?” 

Your jaw slackens. Inside, your heart smashes itself into your ribs in a violent pang. There’s a moment of complete and utter silence in which Ghost remains standing with concrete tied to his feet. He sees the flash of confused hurt in your eyes, the way your muscles jump for a moment.

A suffocating wave of regret strikes him, but he felt like he had to do this—keep up boundaries. Even if his throat was closing in an attempt to make him shut up. 

Ghost’s accent makes him sound harsh and unforgiving. “Price’ll need us back in fifteen. Get your shit together.” 

He bends down and snatches bandages with a quick hand, beelining to the bathroom and closing the door with a firm hand. Blankly, you stare at the barrier as the wall rattles; face burning—unable to speak beyond a small sound in the back of your mouth. 

The two of you stay separated for the remainder of the time, not speaking, and not moving from your respective areas. 

When Ghost finally leaves ten minutes after he’d pushed back the self-loathing and guilt, freshly bandaged, he finds your stuff already gone. He glances around the area slowly, taking in the wails of the fire trucks from blocks away and the neighboring rooms of the hotel as residents speak in mutters from behind walls. The air is cold and lifeless. 

He grabs his things in total silence, swallowing down saliva paired with long breaths. Ghost’s eyes remain tight. Body wound and coated in rigidity that could rival a rhino’s armored plates.

Mind whirling, but still ever mute, he leaves the hotel and heads to the coordinates Price had given the two of you alone. The absence of your warm body beside his was more jarring than anything he’d expected to experience.

Ghost didn’t want to admit how many times his eyes trailed to the empty concrete at his left.

—

When you lose something in someone, you tend to lose it hard. Thus still, that was the case here. Ghost and you always jabbed at each other—it was in your nature to do so—but this was different. The Lieutenant could be cold, but…never to the extent to shove you away from helping him with his wounds. 

Both of you always did that with the other, if that be physically or just being in the same room, while getting fixed up. 

If Ghost didn’t want you around for whatever rage-inducing reason, you weren't going to grovel or beg. The sudden switch-up still stabbed you in the heart though. 

On the second week, it got easier. 

You passed by Ghost without a single comment, shifting into the meeting room once more. He grunts as you shimmy through the door right before him, his feet halting before he runs into you. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Masque, you lost your bloody eyes or something?” You don’t answer, blankly walking to the end of the table and taking the single chair with steady steps; sitting down and dragging a notepad to your general area. 

Blinking, you look up at the projection and skim the small details they give over. 

Ghost stares from the doorway, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he slips inside and slowly strides to the table. 

The days had been difficult for him, struggling to re-situate himself to his isolation after you’d been with him for years. Sure he had Johnny, Gaz, and Price, but you were…

Ghost places a veiny hand on the back of a chair about four down from yours, knuckles white as he’d shed his gloves not five minutes ago. His eyes stay stuck to the tabletop, hips shifting. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard to push you out. Not only physically but mentally. 

He found himself thinking of your face at night. Like a phantom, it would snap into his consciousness when the lights went out and the shadows got long. Your smile and your skin. How your fingers would gently press into his flesh when you were threading a needle through him—shivers of pleasure and pain intertwined by the scrape of your nails. 

Ghost’s hand tightens on the chair, and you spare him a tense glance as he seemingly fights within his mind. 

The Lieutenant wonders at your willpower and your drive. He spent the weeks hating that he had gotten what he wanted, and then he hated himself more because of that fact. It was good to keep you away from him. Not only for himself but for you. 

You both were becoming too….attached. Ghost would have none of it. It had bled over into him using his own body to protect yours that was just…was just…

“...Those new tags, then?” You look away from the screen and shift your gaze to him as his voice bounces. 

Around your neck, the new reflective metal of your new dog tags glint. Your heart skips when he speaks to you, but he still doesn’t look your way.

“That an apology?” Deadpanning, your unimpressed gaze glares into his face as his hand strangles the chair. 

The room returns to strained silence. You huff.

“Pretty shitty one there, asshat.” Ghost’s shoulders roll under his gear, a great sigh quickly exiting him. Everyone had noticed the tension over time—it was becoming a detriment to the team.

The Lieutenant’s blue eyes darken, and in his body, a great heat was beginning to burn. Just looking at you provoked lucid and vulgar thoughts, and as the dim light from the projector makes shadows on your face, Ghost traces them with a chained desire. Being away from you was a physical pain to him, but he also knew that being around you was worse. 

All of Ghost’s problems may have started and ended with you, but they also grew in his own head. They’d been there in the back corners ever since he’d given you your nickname; found out he liked the way your face was wet with spilled blood and sweat. Your body. Your hands on the hard flesh of his upper thigh…trailing up... 

Ghost’s pants get tight as he stares without saying anything. Watching you scribble on your notepad. Glaring. 

“Why can’t I get you out of my fucking head?” Your ears twitch at the low growl as if coming from a beast; seconds later, your brain catches up to process the words. Your pen stops its pointless scrawling just as your breath does. Ghost spits out, seeing your form straighten in the chair, “Every bloody thought, you’re right there!” 

His boots stomp to the floor, and before you know it a hand is trapping the back of your head, fingers carding through hair to angle your chin up. Your breath gasps out as your wide eyes lock on Ghost’s, his hold tight but not uncomfortable; as if he knows the perfect amount of pressure to make your blood surge and your pupils expand.

You stare into volatile blue with silver flecks, a skeletal mask stained from dirt and blood. Ghost’s thumb digs into your scalp. 

“Answer me, Masque,” he grunts, accent so thick you momentarily struggle to string the words together in your stupor. 

Ghost’s nose is close to yours; breathing in each other’s air as the temperature rises. Your throat bobs with a swallow. Below you, you feel your legs clench together as the Lieutenant's fingers lightly pull on your roots when you don’t respond—small sparks of electricity run down your spine that make it straighten instinctually. A soft purr flies from your lips; face on fire as your lashes flutter. Your hands clench at the dull pulse in your lower body.

The Brit’s dead eyes stare down at you, glinting; studying you deeply with growing satisfaction in his heart and tension in his boxers. 

You both glare half-lidded, panting, and flesh heated. 

“Is this your apology?” He tightens his hand and you bite your lip, small whine meeting his ears as he represses a groan at the sound. Your voice was breathy but smug. 

“You fucking wanted this, you naughty little beast,” Ghost growls, moving even closer to tower over you. “You’re playin’ me.” You mold into him as you still sit in your chair, your chin set onto his upper abdomen as the midsection of your breasts presses into his crotch; brushing against his hardened bulge firmly. 

You shiver at the feeling, your core leaking out slippery fluids to stain through your pants one second at a time. Every twitch of his fingers leaves you wanting to arch into him. Feel him.

Ghost feels your hands go to wrap his open thighs, nails digging into the back of his pants as his mouth opens under the mask to force out air. 

“You liked me in between your legs, didn’t you?” Your tiny, teasing, voice serenades him as he quickly begins to lose control of his composure. 

“Shut it,” Ghost grunts, mind yelling at him to move away, “Shut your damn mouth.” 

Those pupils were so wide his eyes were almost entirely black, feral chest moving quickly. 

“I already know why you snapped at me…” One of your hands travels back to the Lieutenant’s front, skin tingling at the scratch of a belt and the rough fabric of his cargos. You leave it over his crotch and add a tight amount of pressure; mouth lightly opening at the weight and size of him as Ghost grunts deeply, thighs jerking forward. 

Blinking at his glassy eyes you breathe out into thick air and the veiled threat of something more. His hand in your hair is so tight that you feel your pulse under the tendrils—you enjoy every second of this cat-and-mouse game. 

After all, no one knew who the mouse was yet.

You rub your hand up and down and watch Ghost’s clothed dick, feeling his muscles straining to keep himself in control. He lets you continue as he watches with a clenched jaw, his pants getting gradually wet with precum; hips twitching. 

“...You can’t get enough of me touching you, can you?” Your statement ignites something immediately, and you’re being grabbed by your shoulders and forced to your feet. 

Staring wildly, you cringe at the soaking patch under your clothes but let Ghost place your backside on the table. He presses into your hips to keep you there—legs opened and feet planted to the floor below on their tip-toes.

The man breathes like a lion, nose in front of yours. You slightly smirk at the far-off haze in his eyes, lust and pleasure blending and bleeding into the almost bruising hold he uses to press you down.

He watches you for a minute or two—taking in your scent and the rabid instinct that infects the both of you now that everything was on the table. 

You knew you were right; he knew you were right. Licking your lips you look down and stare at his blatant hard-on hungrily. Your brow raises slowly.

“You going to let me take care of that, Ghosty?” He’s up and locking the door after he slims it shut.

“This is it,” Ghost grunts, “one time, Masque. That’s fucking it, you hear?” 

“Awe,” You cue, swishing your legs as he stomps back over, hand grasping his belt and whipping it off with a flex of his forearm. Your core tightens, hips trying to press back into the table. “That's so cute. You think once is enough.” 

A hand captures your jaw, “I said,” he breathes, the other hand going to shift up the bottom of his mask up to his nose. You gasp at the sight of blond stubble and milky scars. A strong jaw wound like a spring. Ghost’s musk invades your nose and you feel your palms so clammy. “...Shut it.”

Hard lips slam into yours.

Like some game between the two of you, your mouths fight one another with aggressive grunts stuck in your throats, sharp inhales of air between partings. Ghost’s lips mold and conform to yours, clinging around the supple flesh—there’s a deep-rooted intensity, a hunger, and a desire mixed with sweet stubbornness. The tang of metal and old canvas opens to you just as your mouth does when his teeth bite down at your skin.

Quickly sucking down breaths, you feel his tongue push past layers and slip into your awaiting clutch; Ghost groans lowly and explores as his hands bare down into your hips, one making its way to grip at your hair again. Your own dig into his waist as he leans over you. 

He latches onto your hair and peels you back from him, tongue sliding out of your mouth as he moves to nip at your chin—angling your head whichever way he wants to. Your skin burns as the man bites down at your neck, hot saliva stuck to your lips as your chest pants fast with a low whine at the mixture of pain and bliss. 

Below you, your legs are wide to allow Ghost to stand between you, his firmness leaving your hips canting at every hickey he leaves behind and how he shivers into you as you move against him. It was addicting to him—your taste and how your flesh yields to him as he clamps down on it ruthlessly and rapidly. In no time he’d traveled the length of the area behind your ear and down the swell of your shoulder; shirt pushed back by his nose.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, eyes glassy as you blankly stare into the far wall over the Lieutenant’s shoulder; your panties are soaked through and the evidence can be felt. A long whine exits your chest when Ghost licks at the deep marks he left behind, blown eyes coming back to stare at you head-on as if in a trance.

His lips are red and swollen, mouth open with silent, fast, breaths. His large chest moves quickly over yours. He orders you in a hoarse voice; strained, “Get on your knees.” 

Licking your lips your widened gaze stays locked on his, the hand in your hair tight and keeping you away from slamming your mouth back to his. The air is electric, both of your bodies yielding to one another's even if you don’t realize it. 

As much as you wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at the comment, to make him apologize to you for what he’s done, you realize that your body has already complied with the request. Slipping off the table, Ghost watches like a hawk and backs up two steps—feet splayed as you move for him. Your knees slowly lower you down to the floor, connecting with the carpet as you sag, fists clenched and shaking. 

There’s a small, heart-pounding, pause. “...Good girl.”

Your jaw drops at the smirk on Ghost’s face and those flashing dead eyes of his, blood thumping with a newly ingrained need. You swallow and feel your throat bob; legs shifting to push back the inner-body itch that grows by the second. 

“Now you can listen to me, yeah? Such a slut for it.” Ghost’s hands slowly trail to his pant’s zipper, sliding the piece down the teeth with barely audible metal on metal. Your fingers twitch at every small pop; how the zipper itself had to move forward with the strain of his sizable erection. You can’t even look away from it—how his pants are stiff against tense thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rucked up to show the black ink of tattoos.

Ghost had tattoos. 

When the teeth had run out and the man’s hands grappled for the waistband of both his cargo and his boxers, you’d found out you’d been staring the entire time, pupils so wide they matched Ghost’s and the black stain of his face-paint. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Masque,” he grunts, knuckles white and going still, “bet your pretty little cunt is soaked and I ‘aven’t even shown you my bloody dick yet, eh? Well, the thing’ll ‘ave to wait, I’m puttin’ that mouth to good use first. Teaching it who to listen to.”

You startle back, blinking away the burning heat on your cheeks that leaves you uncharacteristically stuttering at the vulgar degradation. But Ghost doesn’t notice, doing what he can to move the various straps along his thighs and his upper hips to be able to free himself quickly—eager and dripping to be down your throat. 

The throat and mouth he’d fantasized about for ages. 

Stiffing down a whiny moan, you finally see the veiny girth of Ghost’s cock as it comes free over the top of the tight white cotton of his boxers; a happy trail extending up his visible abdomen when his wrist snatches it out. 

“Put to good use?” You breathe out, “Christ, you’re going to make me fucking mute, Ghosty.” 

“Well, Sweetheart,” he breathes a sigh of relief as he plays with the leaking tip with his thumb. Your hands itch to brush against your achy clit, the pressure in your chest almost enough to make you sob at the sheer nothingness. Sweat glistens over your forehead. Eyes glare at you as you watch thighs tense and loosen. “That’ll be fine by me. Don’t need you speaking when I’m paintin’ your damn cunt with my cum, do I?” 

Jesus, you both were in the fucking meeting room. Going to fuck in the meeting room. 

You lick your lips and stare as Ghost stalks close again, gripping your chin and opening your jaw with his thumb and first finger. His dick was right in front of you, and you can smell sex and sweat like an animalistic aphrodisiac as it coats your brain with lust as you moan out. 

Your arms tense with a want to reach and touch it, watch as Ghost falls apart below the twist of your wrist. It was so addictive you feel yourself clench at the visual, your body shivering violently. 

“Oi, fucking focus.” Your tongue sneaks out and licks Ghost’s finger and he feels his grip tighten on you with a puff of hot air. “Little brat.” 

He stares into your mouth and breathes deeply as a smirk peels the edges of your lip. Blue swirls with anticipation. 

“Keep it open, then.” Ghost’s hand drops from you and you easily keep your mouth open as his hand goes back to his cock, grasping it firmly as the other finds the top of your head. You shiver and shift your thighs under you, your body striking like a drum to oxycontin and adrenaline. “That’s a girl…” The Lieutenant growls, and the tip of his dick slips into your saliva-dripping mouth with hidden fever. “Fuck.” 

Your eyes flutter at the taste, letting him maneuver your face closer to the base as your hands snap to his thighs—nails digging in and eliciting a sharp inhale as you press into the two-week-old wound under his pants. Ghost curses under his breath but watches in flooding pleasure at the image of his cock disappearing farther and farther into you. Inch by inch you tell yourself to breathe through your nose; feeling the make of his veins and the mushroomed tip traveling farther and farther back. 

Moaning in the base of your neck, Ghost instinctually jerks his hips at the sound, feral grunts trapped in his chest. Your eyes go wide with the prickle of tears, not from pain but from the surprise as you gag. His hold on your hair tightens and you mewl as he continues to lose himself to the feeling of your wet heat. 

He was so big it was like your throat was ripping new sinews just for him, and you reveled in every moment of the feeling of his predatory gaze.

“So bloody tight for me—can’t wait to be in that cunt of yours…can’t be better than this. Have to test it.” He talks more when he’s horney. 

Slightly gagging again at the sheer size, his palming hand presses you deeper and you take him as well as you’re able, still space between your nose and his pelvis as your knees dig harder into the ground. Ghost groans gutturally, head slightly lulling back and panting like a dog, looking down at your red eyes and far-off gaze. Your hands kneed his upper thighs and he smirks slowly. 

Without another word and with sweat staining him under his uniform, bits and bobs from his gear start to clink together and dance as his hips set a rough pace; you find your head being puppeteered back and forth with his thrusts as your scalp flames from his hold. Tears burn immediately.

“Yeah, that’s it—such a good little slut for me, Masque. Gettin’ it down, fuck,” Ghost pants, as you hollow your cheeks, back arching into you and leaving your nostrils flaring to take down air for your spasming lungs. The sight above you was sinful. 

Your Lieutenant in full gear, pants and skin-tight boxers stretching and shoved down just under the clutch of his crotch. With every back-and-forth motion, the zipper grazes the underside of your engorged throat as every vein can be undoubtedly seared into your esophagus like a brand. 

Ghost’s eyes flutter and flinch, but never once does his hazy gaze leave your mouth as he continues to jerk your head back and forth. Saliva drips drown your chin and the nearly painful burn in your navel lets you know how true this was a relief not only for Ghost but for you as well. You wanted to touch yourself, but you can’t stop touching the Brit—not for a second. Shit, you think you could fall apart just by looking at this; you were sure Ghost was thinking the same thing. 

“Look at that, makin’ such a fucking mess of you.” His abdomen tightens and rolls with every jerk and rut, and your eyes roll back with a deep whine in the back of your throat when he hits the back of your throat. Sweat splatters down your temple as the air is steeped with animalistic desperation. Ghost whines thickly in answer and seems to speed up as your hands claw at his thighs. “You like that, pet? Huh? Being my little cock-sleeve.” 

Your nails dig deeper into his flesh and he shivers wildly; eyes flash at the sight of himself disappearing into you and exiting just after as the slap of wet skin reverberates. The tension in his chest increases and he starts to desperately kneed at your hair. 

“If I’d known you’d take it down like this, I’d-I’d have made you hate me sooner, yeah?” Tension fizzles up his jaw and you know he’s close by how he bites down into his lip and tilts his head back. 

Instinctual tears travel down your sweat-slick face, the thought of being used like this vulgar and as dirty as the sounds that echo in your throat and strike down your spine. 

“Fucking hell,” Ghost gasps, and his pace stutters as he twists your locks. Your teeth graze along his flesh as you dig your thumb into his wound to steady yourself. Whining loudly, the action seems to get to the man using your mouth for his pleasure, as not three rough thrusts later the warm feeling of his cum splatters the back of your throat in thick, hot, spurts. 

Choking for a moment, the widening of your eyes meets Ghost’s fluttering lashes from above. His free hand goes behind you to slam onto the tabletop; back curved over you as he shakes and sputters as he rides out his high. 

Cum drips out of the seams of your stretched lips, and with a deep breath through your nose, your hand lowers from Ghost’s thighs as you carefully pull your face back from his pelvis. The sensation of his cock leaving your mouth and bringing saliva and his fluids with it was animalistic at best, they spill to the floor and off of your chin like a small river. 

Licking your lips, you swallow what you can and try to catch your breath as your chest rages. Blinking rapidly, your eye twitches as you bring a hand up to your sore and ragged throat, Ghost’s heaving body stiff and hunched as he stares at the table blankly. Sweat dribbles down the side of his nose, sneaking out from under the top side of his mask. 

There’s a long minute of nothingness as you both try to breathe and understand the gravity of what you’ve both done. And then you both lock eyes and stare. 

The air stills over as Ghost’s large pupils stare at the mess on your face—seeing it drip down your throat as you tilt your chin up to him. His chest purrs like a cat and you don’t even think he realizes that he does it. 

Two seconds later you’re being manhandled up to the top of the table, backside hitting it as a hand goes to your belt. Lips connect with yours and groan at the taste, the clinking of metal hitting your ears as you submit to his prodding tongue as it licks along your inner flesh. 

Your fingers snap to trail around Ghost’s neck, moaning into him as he slips his hands into your pants, pulling back and ordering, “Up.” Eager and filled with lust, you raise your legs and he rips them down to your knees, dragging you closer to the edge. 

“Good girl.” He smirks, black-smeared eyes creased. If you could speak you’d tell him to shut up and fuck you already. 

Your slick skin meets the air and you gasp, Ghost’s hands waste no time trailing up the flesh of your hips, pitching to make you jump. Glaring, you try to drag him back into you but he’s built like stone, clicking his tongue. When his fingers collect the fluids that drip out of you, you whimper at the stimulation—two calloused fingers getting entranced by that as they stop at your clit. You stare desperately into amused blue eyes as he pressed deep, your thighs tensing as they jerk. 

“Any more of this and you’ll stain the table, won’t you, Sweetheart? I get you this worked up, yeah? Bloody hell.” You pant, and lines form on your forehead at the indecent circling of his fingers; not being gentle as he sees your mouth open and your lungs gasp. Sharp spikes form in your thighs, and they move in tandem with Ghost. “Look at that…” 

Deep chuckles mock you, but you both know this has to be fast—and with how worked up you were, it would be. 

“Alright, then, brat,” Ghost takes his hand away and you whimper before he grunts and grips you by the shoulders. Your lust turns to confusion. “Suppose you did well. Let’s make this quick, eh? Got work to do.” 

Flipped around, you squeak as your clothed chest meets the table, ass presented as your feet scramble to connect with the floor. Surprised, you whip your head to the side to stare back at a highly smug Ghost as one of his hands goes to grab onto your supple flesh, massaging it before it sneaks to your hip. 

“Easy with it, I’ll take care of you, Masque.” In little to no time he’s lining himself up with your dripping pussy, so wet it’s easy except for the fact that he’s huge enough to make you mute by a blowjob. Your back arches into the table with a long moan as the length slowly spears you open, instinctually widening your legs as best as you’re able. 

Closing your eyes, you press one of your hands to your mouth to stifle your noises, thighs spasming as Ghost curses under his breath; gear clinking into each other.

“So bloody tight.” With a swift thrust and a knock of your pelvis to the edge of the table, your eyes burn with the feeling of holding Ghost in your most intimate area and the knowledge that he would completely wreck it for anyone else. Your lungs fight for air, but a long mewl exits your fingers as the man shakes over you with restraint. “Christ.”

Tight wasn’t the way to describe it—you were like a fucking noose. Your sensitive walls know every vein and bulge, the scrape and dig, far more intimately than your throat ever could. Like a carved stamp, they’re reforming to Ghost’s dick every second. 

Tapping the side of your forehead to the table, the man can’t help himself anymore and starts to thrust into you; feral squelching and fluids staining the top of his pants. Your face burns, the rocking of the table hypnotic as your toes fight to stay on the ground. The sensation of being so full truthfully made your mind go blank, fingers twitching as Ghost continued to palm at your hip—his other hand going to press into your spine, keeping you stapled to the table. 

His gear slammed and rubbed into your ass, bruising it no doubt, but you found you didn’t care at all. Pleasure rocked down with every ruthless intrusion. 

“Can feel ya ‘round my cock,” you keen at the words, tears dribbling down the side of your face as you try to hold back sobs of pleasure. Ghost increases his pace, rabid slapping echoing off the walls as he feels his sole focus on your mind-shattering bliss. “Can’t have ‘em hear how loud you are, now, can we? Can’t let ‘em know I’m shagging you in their meeting room like a little fucktoy, eh?” 

He angles his hips higher, pushing your farther up the table as his hands only drag you back. Every moment leaves your core tightening even more; molten heat pooling as the edge gets closer. 

Footsteps echo down the hall outside, but both of you are too focused on the other and the ache that only increases like a pair of cuffs. Your mouth lets loose insistent gasps and moans while Ghost breathily groans at every other interval of his ravaging cock as it brushes your cervix. 

You whine loudly, spine arching and legs desperately trying to close. Ghost chuckles and your reaction spurs him on—hitting that same spot over and over again as you sob. 

“Right there, yeah? That it, Masque?” You nod rapidly, and the Lieutenant's grip tightens with a loud grunt, “Fuck, that’s it, bloody slut.” 

The coil in your gut gets tighter, shining with desperate shakes of your body and the numb way you try to meet Ghost’s thrusts before you entirely lose the plot of reality. 

“You’re close,” he breathes, feeling your pussy trying to keep him in, slick trailing down the insides of your thighs and transferring to the Brit’s clothes. His boxers were soaked. “C’mon, then. Don’t disappoint me, Masque. Lemme see you cum on my cock before I fill you up like the good girl you are, yeah?”

Your body spasms, thighs tensing and toes curling at the floor; fingers scratching down the table as you press over your mouth harder in a last-ditch effort to remain in control of yourself. The coil snaps and suddenly you’re digging your forehead into the wood below you, orgasm ripping through you like a knife as cum paints Ghost’s dick as he continues his relentless chase of his second release.

“There it is, fuck, look at all that, Love. Paintin’ me like a naughty fuckin’ portrait.” Ghost gasps, a hand coming up to connect to the table by your head, feeling you completely flood his pelvis—he doesn’t stop even when you whine in overstimulation, fucked-out eyes wide and mouth dripping drool into a small pool. The milky ring at his root grows and grows. With a loud moan, he looks down and watches the vulgar sight rabidly, pounding into your heat as his own end gets closer and closer. 

“Shite,” His forehead hits your spine, taking the skin into his teeth and biting hickeys as his open mouth leaves trails of saliva. “Took me so bloody well, cunt was made just for me.” 

His body shakes and with one last shove from his hips, he spills into you with a loud whimper muffled into your flesh. Teeth biting down so hard that you moan in turn, the spent releases dribble out of you like a stuffed bird. You feel his chest atop you as he places his weight slowly down; the fast-panting mirroring your own. 

Sweat connects the two of you as it bleeds through your clothes, the smell in the air and the scent of delirious sex staining your bodies. 

Your mouth remains open and hoarse, scraped dry. Ghost above you moves delicately as he pulls back up, moving back to peel your messy hair away from your blown eyes. After a moment his small voice hits you—the accent deep. 

“All good?” Your eyes slowly rove to him as he kisses your forehead, shivering violently as he slips out of you; the wet drip of cum hits the carpet in the still silence as you whimper at the feeling. “...Masque?”

Dull concern emanates from his tone and you blink back. You clear your throat and utter in a torn voice, “...P-pretty good apology, Ghosty…S…shit.” 

Smugness burns in his orbs, but the roll of his eyes hides it quickly. The puff of his chest couldn’t be hidden from you, though. 

His hands reach down and hike up your panties and cargos—both items completely wrecked. The large splotch on Ghost’s own clothes showed you that you weren't alone in that aspect. 

As he carefully flips your limp form back over and pulls you up by your arms, you groan in annoyance but shut up when his hands go to zip your zipper and clip back your belt. 

“Couldn’t have had a revelation in your barracks room?” You huff, itching at your throat. “You’re buying me cough drops, you ass.” The state of your voice was laughable. Anyone would know what happened if they spoke to you. 

Ghost sighs and begins with his own clothes, stuffing himself back into his boxers and growling at the chilled fluids on his pants as he pulls them back up. He goes and retrieves his belt before walking back. 

“Acting like you weren’t beggin’ for it.” He slides you a smirk before he grabs onto his mask and begins to cover his jaw. 

Your hand snaps out and stops him. Ghost startles, eyes flashing before his muscles stiffen. You raise a brow and he slightly calms. 

Scoffing, you lean in and place a final kiss on his lips—a tinier and tender kiss. Gaze wide, the man stares off as his heart starts to beat fast again at the firm press. After you’re done your hand goes up and grasps the fabric yourself, carefully re-shrouding the mystery of a man with a smile. 

He watches blankly.

“We okay?” You ask, tilting your head as your lower body aches when you shift on the table. “I miss my annoyingly gruff Ghost. This new one’s a jerk.” A small laugh graces your ears, and it makes you beam. “I know why you did it,” you admit, and hold out a hand between your bodies. “But pushing me away will only hurt the both of us. Let's try this, Ghost. Please.” 

“...You’re makin’ it seem like a good deal, Love…is it?” He holds out a hand of his own, large and scarred hands that had gripped you so tight before utterly loose and awaiting. 

“No clue,” you admit with a smirk, “Wanna figure it out?” Ghost watches as he always does and always will, searching into your eyes for any hint of hesitance or denial. 

“Always liked a challenge.” He grunts and encompasses his hand with yours. You squeeze it and nod, chest light as your normal breath comes back.

“You know what a real challenge is? Trying to take down your fucking dic—” The meeting room handle jiggles and you both snap into action. 

Ghost tosses you your notepad and you slide a shoved-away chair his way on shaky legs, slipping into a free seat with failing knees. You both sit side by side on the opposite side of the table, shoulders bumping and faces hot not three seconds later. Ears twitch at the sound of a key entering the slot. 

You try to act normal and begin messing around with your notepad, stealing a pen from Ghost’s gear as Price opens the door. At the sight of the two of you, he pauses and stands in the doorway.

“Ghost…Masque.” With a squint, Price looks around the room slowly, confused at the rod-straight spine from his Lieutenant and the way you awkwardly scribble nothing onto your pad. 

“Price,” Ghost utters as you look up and fake smile, waving as you tighten your hips under the table in an attempt to hide the evidence spilling out of you. 

The Captain continues to stare, scrutiny in his eyes, for at least a full minute. 

“Problem, then?” The Lieutenant asks. Price’s lips thin and he gains a sheen of deep annoyance. You groan under your breath and knock your head to the table at the next comment.

“In the fucking meeting room?!”

TAGS:

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[cheriladycl01]

Could you do SMAU for Toto Wolff with wife reader where she is a huge bookworm and he always so supportive about her passion And the Internet has gone crazy about it. Thanks :))

Bookstagram - Toto Wolff x BookwormWife! Reader

Plot: Taking a look through your bookstagram and how supportive Toto Wolff is of your love for reading. Encouraging you to pursue your dream of writing.

Credit to multibabydoll for the GIF

You loved reading and books. Before you met Toto, you used to be a bookseller and then worked for a publishing house. You actually met Toto because of the influx in Motorsport Romance's that made your company send you to a race to get some ... hands on experience and you ended up having your own sort of Motorsport Romance with a Team Principle.

You ended up marrying Toto and at first it was hard, but when COVID came and you ended up working from home since then so coming to the races had been much easier.

y/user

Liked by lucyscore laurenroberts and mercedesamgf1

y/user: My reads of the month! Really loved both of these and I can’t wait for book to from Lauren!

Book 1: Things We Hide From The Light by Lucy Score

Book 2: Powerless by Lauren Roberts

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lucyscore: I’m glad you enjoyed this one!

-> y/user: it’s really good!

fan1: i love these!

toto.wolff: Is this the book you were reading on the plane?

-> y/user: Yes, the other one I read at the race track!

laurenroberts: babe! I’m glad you enjoyed! Come to a book signing and I’ll get you a proof of Powerful!

-> y/user: no stop! I’d love that!

DM’s

laurenroberts: Hey Babe, got an event on 29th November, in Florida. You want to come as my special guest?

y/n: id love that! Thank you so much for the invite! I’ll just need to talk to my husband. I’ve never travelled solo and I’m a nervous traveller!

laurenroberts: That’s fine! Just let me know as and when babe!

“Babe, can we talk for a second” you asked your husband as you walk into the kitchen where he is sat with his morning coffee.

"Yes honey what is it?" he asks looking over at you, pushing a glass of orange juice towards you.

"Well, one of the authors that I really like invited me to a book signing.."

"Oh that's amazing sweetheart. Are you going to go?" he says checking his emails not fully paying attention.

"Well, thats the thing. It's over a race weekend... and" you start but his head bolts up to interrupt you.

"You better not be asking for my permission for if you can go, you know you don't have to ask!" he says almost as though he's offended you with think that of him!

"No, no of course not. But I'm scared to go alone, you know how I am!" you explain and he nods remembering the last time you guys flew.

"Well, how about I buy you a nice first class ticket and make the experience worth it. I'll pay for a fancy hotel and a spa evening for when you land ... how does that sound" he grins pulling you into him kissing your forehead.

"You don't have to do that for me!" you exclaim feeling bad!

"Ah no honey, I do this all for you!" he smiles pulling you in for a full kiss.

y/user

Liked by stephaniegarber and ashleyposton

y/n: What do you guys prefer, Romance or Fantasy. I love finding quiet corners at the race track!

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stephaniegarber: Did you enjoy it?

-> y/user: It was so good! I moved straight onto Legend! And Toto brought me OUABH!

ashleyposton: I see those outlines! Thank you for your review on goodreads!

olivia_blake: ahhhh, i hope you enjoy it!

fan1: Y/N is definielty a motorsport romance girlie considering she literally lived one!

->fan2: i forget about this!

"Baby, you have to stop packing so many books!" Toto laughs as he gets out his card to pay the extra bagging expense where your bags had ended up being overweight.

"I'm so so sorry! I didn't realize how many I'd take back with me, American Books are so much more floppy than the ones at home... even though I prefer our covers!" she answers, going to get her card out.

"I'll pay baby don't be silly!" Toto laughs tapping his card as air port staff come over and help you guys take the bags away.

"You are my little book worm aren't you!" he grins pinching your cheeks like an older lady.

"Stop!" you say swatting his hand away.

y/user

Liked by toto.wolff and others

y/n: Toto helped me rebuild my book nook AND took me out for a book haul! It's up on my YouTube now!

Link

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sarahjmaas: looks amazing!

toto.wolff: I'm happy to help baby!

-> y/user: BEST HUSBAND.

You and Toto had spend the day putting up the swinging chair, and making the room cozy with fairy lights.

He had started to organize your shelves in colour coordination order making a rainbow. You felt so bad when your need to have them in genre and alphabetical order took over.

"Baby, as incredible as this looks, I'm never going to find any books!" you argued and he looks and pulled out Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros.

"See I found you current smutty dragon book!" he smiles handing it to you and your eyes widen at the lingo he was using.

"Have you been... watching my videos?" you ask in shock.

"Mmmm yes honey. i find them very amusing!" he admits and you just stare at him in shock.

y/user

Liked by lewishamilton and toto.wolff

y/n: He looks like this so that I can look like this …

I LOVE MY HUSBAND

Tagged One Person

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fan1: shes so unserious ... lmao

fan2: and you look fab!

You were thankful that Toto worked as hard as he did, he treated you all the time and you treated him in return.

Your husband was so supportive and was without a doubt the best thing that had ever happened to you.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul l @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @viennakarma @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @seomako @urdad-hot @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount @styl1shl1v

[gemmahale]

Ficbook.net and Unauthorized Translations - An Update

Update to the update: some of the fics have been removed! 🎉 This happened before I finished this write-up even!

You may have seen this post last night about some CoD X Reader fics having unauthorized translations posted to the Russian site ficbook.net. @karlachismylife was monumental in helping me understand what's going on, and there's some explanation in that link from her POV as well.

Basically - multiple people have copied and translated fanfics into Russian and hosted them on ficbook.net. They're rough translations, some going as far as to use literal translations for turns of phrase. Most likely, they were run through a translation software (Google Translate or similar) and then roughly edited. (Juju mentioned that there is a subset of jobs in Russia where that is your job description. 😖)

Most of them have come from Tumblr posts, some from AO3. Very few had attribution beyond "tagging" the original author. (Aka - no consent was given for these translations.)

@syoddeye took the time to compile a list found here (google sheet). At the time of writing, 65 fics CoD x Reader fics were found - we know there's more but we only have so many knives in a day. (Sy did not look into slash fics either.)

Authors that have been tagged in the comments: I'm sorry you found out this way. I wanted to tell you in person, but given Tumblr's likelihood of thinking I was spamming you, I felt that this was the best option to alert you, provide you with options, and let you determine how you wish to move forward.

So what can be done?

If you already have an account, please report the fics! I'm told that spamming reports gets it taken down. Also consider messaging the author and ask them to remove them - they do not have the author's consent to publish them.

If you want to make an account and report the linked fics, you can. I have chosen not to, because I don't want to give Ficbook any extra support I otherwise might by doing so (clicks, ad views, account numbers).

If the author does not have closed comments (or you have an account), you can leave a comment on the fic.

Russian: Автор оригинала лично подтвердил, что не давал разрешения на перевод и публикацию. English: Author of the work personally confirmed that they did not give permission to translate and publish.

Finally - check in on your author friends that are on that list. It's devastating to find out your work has been plagiarized, translated and hosted somewhere else without your consent. Reblog their work, share comments, hype them up!

A couple of notes: (Juju correct me if I've fucked any of this up 💚)

The posters are likely not making money off the unauthorized translations. The website and their owners definitely are (ads, "premium features", promotion tools, etc.)

Ficbook.net is the biggest Russian language fanfiction platform - somewhat akin to AO3, but it doesn't have a great reputation within Russian circles because of the stealing and underhanded practices the owners use.

AO3 is banned in Russia, and Tumblr is one of the few places Russians can easily (aka without VPNs and Mirrors) read English version of fanfic.

CoD isn't the only fandom affected - there are dozens that have more posted, and we only scratched the surface in our list.

Finally, if you want to translate works, TALK TO THE AUTHOR. A lot of folks don't like having their work shared without their consent. Even if you feel like you are doing a good thing spreading it to a wider audience, YOU NEED THE AUTHOR'S CONSENT. If they've deleted their presence and their stories from hosting sites (tumblr, AO3, etc) - you don't get to pretend you're doing them a favor by reposting them. Respect their decisions.

[delilahsturniolo]

no body, no crime

— m.s

chapter 1 . . . denial

in which. . . you and matt are private investigators, trying to figure out an unsolved murder from years ago.

warnings. . . mentions of murder, death, suicide.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. do not take inspiration without asking permission first and please credit me if you are taking inspiration from my writing. happy reading! :)

(this is based off of the book series a good girls guide to murder! this is not a direct retell of it but this does include some similar plot points!)

“i think he did it but I just can't prove it.”

“no, no body, no crime.”

“but I ain't letting up until the day I die.”

the cursor on your computer moved quickly as you scrolled through different articles. you were sat in your office, your eyes glued to your laptop screen. you read the headline of the article you opened, it was published in 2015.

EMILY JONES, 17 year old girl brutally murdered by her boyfriend on June 17th, 2015.

you scoffed in disbelief as you read this.

everyone knows the story. emily was at a party with her boyfriend justin, they got into an argument and he shot her, a few moments later killing himself.

blah blah blah, you were tired of hearing that. you don’t think that’s what happened, you refused to believe it.

and why exactly? you didn’t know. but what you did know, is that you had every desire to find out what truly happened.

everyone in the detective agency thinks you’ve gone insane. there was no way you were so intrigued by a murder that happened years ago, you wouldn’t stop digging into it.

it was just all so weird, nothing added up. the police refused to investigate further, closing the case without explanation. it was suspicious, really suspicious…

and you were going to figure out the truth. what really happened to emily and justin that night?

you bit your lip, abruptly shutting your laptop and getting up. you walked out of your office and through the headquarters, entering the office of the only person you knew could help you.

detective matthew sturniolo. one of the best investigators in the company. well, to you not really. you thought he was just like any other detective. either that, or you refused to believe he was better than you. you sighed, knocking on his door.

“don’t come in!” he grumbled from the other end. you only rolled your eyes, entering his office. he turned his head to look at you from his desk.

“didn’t i just say don’t come in?” he narrowed his eyes at you. you just chuckled sarcastically. “oops.” you shrugged, taking a seat on the chair opposite of him.

“okay so what ever happened to asking—“ matt began to speak up, you cut him off though.

“i don’t need your sarcasm right now, i need help.” you interrupted, your voice laced with a pleading tone, which matt was a little taken aback by.

“you’re asking me for help? that’s a first.” matt crossed his arms, but leaning a little closer to hear your request.

you weren’t amused by his response. you took the file you were holding and placed it down in front of him. matt’s eyes furrowed in confusion, he looked up at you, his blue eyes meeting yours.

“what’s this?” he questions.

“open it and you’ll see.” you replied, gesturing to the file. matt huffed, opening the file. his eyes widened slightly as he looked at what was inside.

“y/n, really? the emily jones case? you still won’t let this shit go?” matt scolded you, his eyes analyzing the old police reports and statements inside the file. he closed the file and pushed it back toward you.

“if you’re asking me to feed into your crazy delusions and help you solve a case that’s already been solved years ago, then no.” matt mocked you, making air quotation marks with his hands. however, you only shook your head.

“you don’t get it, i don’t think justin killed emily, it had to have been—“

“y/n, stop! everyone knows the story. justin killed emily, and he killed himself after. his DNA was on the gun. just let it go.” matt’s voice softened at his last few words.

you grabbed the file, opening it and taking out a few of the papers. you looked up at matt.

“don’t you find it weird? how the police did absolutely nothing? they didn’t even try to investigate further, they jumped to conclusions and were so quick to close the case. emily and justin were in a happy, healthy relationship. why would he just shoot her? you don’t find that a little odd? all of the suspects have different stories, something else happened that night. and, someone out there knows.” you explained to matt, his eyes locking with yours.

“matt, i don’t care if this happened years ago. people deserve to know the truth. it’s our job, we need to re open this case.” you pleaded.

matt took a long, deep breath. “alright.” he spoke casually, your eyed widened in surprise.

“wait, what?”

“alright. i’ll help you, but on one condition.” matt leaned in closer.

“just know that this doesn’t mean i don’t absolutely despise you anymore, you better not be wasting my fucking time with this shit, okay?” matt crossed his arms, you eagerly nodded.

“i promise, pinky promise.” you held out your pinky for matt to take, he chuckled lightly and connected his pinky with yours before letting go.

“alright then, let’s do this.”

“you’re on, sturniolo.”

© delilahsturniolo

join the taglist here! 🤍

a/n 💌: WOOHOOO first series! what do you all think?

[neil-gaiman]

I'm asking anyone who might have some understanding on the subject about this because I'm being exceedingly stubborn.

I wrote a novel. It is being published. In the second chapter is a passage that I think is really good (the passage I plan to read at readings). It describes a diner, the regulars, and the jukebox. Suddenly, from the jukebox comes, "I'm too sexy for my love; too sexy for my love; love's going to leave me," which ruins a regular's day. My publisher wants me to remove the lyrics for copyright reasons, but it's three lines, and the passage loses a lot of its snap if I have to write, "and then the opening words to 'I'm Too Sexy,' by Right Said Fred leapt from the jukebox and forced upon her one of the most egregious earworms of the twentieth century." (Actually, if I have to go with the title that isn't bad. It needs tweaking, but it's a start.)

When I was an editor, I was told five lines fell under Fair Use. My research today isn't as clearly delineated. Is it asking too much to use these twenty-one words for comedy?

It's not fair use, because it's a significant portion of the song. So what you do is write to the song's publishers/songwriters and ask for permission, and normally you get it. Sometimes you have to pay something, but not very much.

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

Could I request Miko, Lisa, and Navia with an author s/o who writes hot-selling stories based on them?

(Genshin Impact) Miko, Lisa, and Navia's S/O writing stories about them

Yae can't help but laugh upon reading S/O's stories, quickly realizing who the protagonist resembles.

With a grin she leans onto the table S/O is currently writing on.

(Yae) "Well, it looks like you were certainly inspired by a certain someone. Do you really think that I'm that mischevious?"

(S/O) "Oh, I don't think it. I know it. The real question is if anyone else has realized it yet."

(Yae) "Hm, well your protagonist is already a woman, but not a kitsune. Perhaps we should add in that detail?"

She absolutely loves her own characterization, coy, mysterious, intimidating, it was anything but boring.

And that's all she really asked for.

Well, that and some mora for S/O using her likeness.

(Yae) "If you want to continue using me in your stories, I want a little bit of the share."

(S/O) "Yae, you already publish my books-"

(Yae) "Mhm, but I don't recall you ever asking permission to have me as your main lead. Therefore, I want some compensation."

(S/O) "Will Fried Tofu work?"

(Yae) "...Perhaps.

Lisa has quite the amount of time to read books in the library, and it isn't long until S/O has her proofread some of their works.

She knows they sell well, and figures she might as well give her two cents on the matter.

Before realizing their protagonists sounds very familiar.

(Lisa) "Brown haired, green eyes, very flirty...How creative, S/O!"

(S/O) "They say write what you know, right? So, I figured I might as well make the main lead the most interesting woman I know."

(Lisa) "I'd normally agree, but she also seems to be very lazy. Are you trying to imply something?"

Lisa asks with a slight grin. Though her tone is teasing, S/O knows damn well to answer correctly.

(S/O) "Creative liberties, my love. It only means something if you think it does!"

(Lisa) "Hm, a reasonable answer. Any other traits about them I should be aware of before I continue?"

(S/O) "They're very smart. That one is based off you."

(Lisa) "Good answer."

Lisa finds it amusing to see how S/O views her on a daily basis put to paper.

Navia doesn't take too much time to read books with how busy she is, but she makes an exception if her S/O is the author!

It takes her a good chunk of the book before realizing that the protagonist was kind of familiar...

(Navia) "S/O, the girl in this story is very reminiscent to the stories I told you about me."

(S/O) "Hm? I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Navia crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow alongside giving them a smile.

(Navia) "Down to the gun umbrella? Why did you not tell me sooner that I am your main star?!"

(S/O) "I wanted it to be a surprise, was it?"

(Navia) "Hah, I'd say so. But she's really ditzy. Do you see me that way too?"

Suddenly, S/O was silent.

(S/O) "You just have a lot of energy is all, I wouldn't really say ditzy."

Navia began pouting.

(Navia) "I am not like her at all, I don't make decisions out of the blue like that!"

(S/O) "..."

(Navia) "...Okay, not ALL the time!"

[burningvelvet]

Lord Byron's first edition copy of Frankenstein (1818), one of only two known surviving copies to be personally inscribed by Mary Shelley (the other is to her friend Mrs. Thomas). Byron took this copy with him when he went into the Greek War of Independence, and it was among his personal things when he died there in 1824:

Mary didn't disclose her name in the inscription because the novel was published anonymously and she initially wanted to keep it that way. However, Byron did reveal her identity in a letter to his publisher, correcting his assumption that Percy was the one who wrote the novel:

"The story of the agreement to write the Ghost-books is true — but the ladies are not Sisters — one is Godwin’s daughter by Mary Wolstonecraft — and the other the present Mrs. Godwin’s daughter by a former husband. Mary Godwin (now Mrs. Shelley) wrote 'Frankenstein' — which you have reviewed thinking it Shelley’s — methinks it is a wonderful work for a Girl of nineteen — not nineteen indeed — at that time."

Under Mary Shelley's consultation, Thomas Moore writes in his Life of Lord Byron (vol III):

"During a week of rain at this time, having amused themselves with reading German ghost-stories, they agreed, at last, to write something in imitation of them. 'You and I,' said Lord Byron to Mrs. Shelley, 'will publish ours together.'"

Percy, writing as Mary with her permission, mentions Byron and himself (in the third-person) in the novel's 1818 preface thus:

"Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of whom would be far more acceptable to the public than any thing I can ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write each a story, founded on some supernatural occurrence.

The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my two friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in the magnificent scenes which they present, all memory of their ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which has been completed."