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delusionsofgrandeur13 · 15 days ago

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canine

your roommate!simon “ghost” riley x reader

eighteen plus or else. i'll literally find you i stg.

you buy a toy that’s marketed as ‘deathly silent.’ too bad your roommate is a highly trained soldier.

“deathly silent”: that’s what the box said. that’s what the ad, the website, the product name, all said.

and it was, in and of itself, silent.

but you and your noises weren’t.

at least not to your roommate, government trained, experience-laden, finger on the trigger, simon “ghost” riley.

you’d been amicable, cordial roommates for two years. it’d gone without a hitch: he responded to your post online, went through your vetting process. agreed to get a background check.

once he’d moved in, (if that’s what you’d even call it) it was like you still lived alone. even when he was deployed, rent was deposited right on time, every month.

but somehow a man that size had learned to move silently. you’d never quite been able to figure it out. sometimes he’d scare you, sure, but he always apologized and moved on. made sure to make his footfalls heavier for the rest of the day.

over the course of two years, you’d managed to learn a couple of things about him.

he likes his coffee black—he buys the same brand they keep on base.

but when it comes to tea, simon buys artisanal earl grey.

he’s got a couple masks, so he’s always wearing a clean one.

he puts his boots next to yours at the door. jackets are the same story.

he has to make huge portions for himself when he does cook, so you’re always offered some. you stopped declining a month in: the man knows his way around a kitchen.

he likes chocolate chip cookies, but not as much as he likes brownies.

it’s almost weird to know so much about someone you’re not quite friends with. not quite family with.

you’ve never lived in such close quarters with a man you’re not related to or in love with. so this purchase was extremely necessary.

if you never had to hear him..

then he should never have to hear you.

“mm, fuck!” you whispered around clenched teeth. at the sound of simon’s feet walking down the hallway, into his room, you slap a hand over your mouth.

his presence next door just puts words to your unconscious thoughts. every sliver of fantasy pulling you closer to the crest is roommate related.

you’re reminded of his eyes above the skull mask, the bulk of his shoulders in a black shirt. how he spreads his legs when he sits on your couch watching the game. it’s inescapable to you, inexplorable. it’s a safe place in your mind.

your roommate, whose cologne lingers in the hallway. whose empty cups of tea sit in your sink.

inescapable. inexplorable.

a high pitched whine escapes from between your fingers, your back arching from the mattress.

this thing was a lot stronger than you realized.

your legs shake as you reach orgasm number three, your toes clenching. you can barely keep a grip on the toy itself, you’re so wracked with sensation.

pleasure coats your bones, a slickness that oozes out of every pore, out between your legs.

simon heard the buzzing from the kitchen. he’d seen the ‘discreet packaging’ in the trash. this wasn’t his first day on earth. his roommate's got a new toy.

he can’t get the sound out of his head. he can hear it over the sound of water boiling in the kettle, over the football talk show on low in the living room. it’s utterly inescapable.

an attack animal trained to hear frequencies he shouldn’t—simon was cursed with the knowledge that you were fucking yourself stupid behind closed doors.

the thought alone had him throbbing under his joggers, blood swelling the piece of meat between his legs.

it was already torture, living with someone like you.

someone with such a light inside. someone who smiled at him like he wasn’t a monster with a kill count in the tens of hundreds. someone with great legs, that peeked out from tiny sleep shorts. if you asked he’d toss you a pair of his boxers to wear instead.

he was waiting for you to ask, like you ever would.

it was torture, knowing he had a bird waiting at home for him that wasn’t exactly his.

torture that he had to hear your whines as he walked down the hallway, and couldn’t do anything about it.

shouldn’t do anything about it.

he shut his door with a loud click, giving you the chance to stop if you wanted.

you didn’t.

it was torture, but he couldn’t resist any longer.

leaning against the wall, his head tipped back to hear better, he gives in.

simon slips his hand under the waistband of his sweats, fist immediately around his cock.

his thumb brushes over the tip, and he’s making his own noises.

they blend in with yours to soundtrack his thoughts, a scenario where he’d be the one under those sheets with you. instead of some stupid piece of machinery.

you grow louder, your poorly muffled whimpering seeping through the thin walls.

it’s obvious: you’re not trying to hide it anymore.

you can’t.

pleasure has taken over. sensation has gained command of your good sense.

the finish line nears, and you can barely keep the buzzing piece of rubber on your clit as your whole body shakes, shudders. a full-bodied moan rips from your mouth as you soak the sheets, liquid squirting from underneath your fingers.

the next room over, cum coats simon’s knuckles as he shudders into his own fist, the room spinning.

he can’t remember the last time he came so hard.

simon coughs, thankful for his mask. his cheeks are burning hot.

“nice shirt, eh?” he remarks, his eyes trained on the ‘RILEY’ painted over your shoulders.

you turn your head, smiling. it almost hurts to see you like this. like you’d just been rolled around in bed.

“thanks?” you reply, a little confused. it was just the first clean shirt in your drawer.

your roommate’s acting kind of odd.

he shakes his head. you have no clue what you’re wearing. what you’re doing to him.

“s’mine,” he growls out. tone a little harsher than he means for it to be.

you finish stuffing your dirty sheets into the washing machine, dropping a soap pod in after them before slamming the lid closed.

looking down at the shirt you’re wearing, the fact that it’s simon’s is becoming increasingly obvious. it smells like him, it’s about three sizes too big, and it’s sporting a logo reading TF141 over the left breast. pulling at the shirt until you can read the back, your eyes widen at the huge letters of his last name.

“i’m sorry! d’you want it back?” you squeak out, mortified.

“nah, keep it.” simon says, tone flippant. devil-may-care.

if that’s the way it’s gonna be, maybe he’ll slip a pair of boxers into your laundry later.

༄ first time writing cod! writing simon! i thought of this prompt and just knew i needed to put fingers to keyboard about it. lmk if i need to explore this more! ❤︎

divider: @viviansturns

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leclerc-hs · 3 months ago

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lando or charles eating the aphrodisiac chocolate with reader as a challenge to see who will give in first. im going feral thinking abt this…

pairing: lando norris x fem! reader word count: 2.3k warnings: SMUT, like hard fucking SMUT, dirty talk, bad language, lots of cursing, kinda mean lando!, hot hot hot, 18+, like serious fucking SMUT. unprotected sex, p in v…, overstimulation. breeding kink? author's note: ok so i got this request recently but was off of work today so i had a spare few hours to get this written. like I'm telling you this shit is straight up p*rn basically. anyways XOXO. COMMENT IF I SHOULD WRITE A CHARLES VERSION.... ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

It started as a joke.

A stupid dare over a few drinks, a stolen box of expensive chocolates laced with some so-called “harmless aphrodisiac”. And whoever begged to fuck first, lost. Simple.

“Bet you’d crack first,” You teased, waving a piece in Lando’s direction.

He snorted, cocky. “You? Lasting longer than me? No shot.”

“You scared?”

And that was how you both ended up stretched across the mattress of his bedroom, city lights glittering through the dark windows. A half-empty box of chocolates between you.

Popping pieces of chocolate like it’s just a normal Friday night. Like it wasn’t burning under your skin.

The first twenty minutes were easy.

He was lounging against the headboard, legs spread, still pretending to be cool. But you saw all the signs. The twitches. And now he was hunched over, sweat forming on his forehead, cock bulging.

It hit slow, like a boiling heat swirling in your belly, licking along your veins.

Minutes passed.

He was now stretched out across the mattress, hoodie pulled over his head with one arm and tossed aside.

“I’m fine,” you say. Calm and smug. Licking a part of the melted chocolate on your fingertip while you stared at him. “Starting to think it’s not that strong.”

Lando doesn’t reply.

He’s sitting opposite of you. Legs spread wide, forearms on his thighs, glaring.

Like he know’s just how fucked he is.

Like he’s trying to hard to not show it. Not to let you see how badly his cock is fucking aching and leaking inside of his sweats.

But the bulge is obvious.

“What the fuck was in that chocolate?”

You smile. “Just a little something to make you honest.”

“Honest?” His voice cracks. “Baby, I’m seconds away from fucking the mattress.”

His pupils are blown wide, breathing shallow. And you just smile.

“Aw,” you say. Mocking, tilting your head. “Poor baby. Getting hard already?”

“Shut the fuck up,” His voice is rough. Hoarse.

“Ohhh,” you mutter. “Is Lando gonna lose the game finally?”

He shifts, just slightly, not much. Just a fraction. But it must be too much because a soft, broken sound slips past his lips. Like a whimper.

And you freeze.

His eyes snap shut. One fist in his hair, yanks. The other drops to his thigh, squeezing.

You lean back, slow and taunting, stretching your arms over your head, the hem of your shirt lifting up just enough to flash the skin of your stomach.

“You’re fucking evil,” Lando rasps. Words dripping like venom. “Sitting there, all wet and fucking needy, pretending you don’t wanna get fuckin’ ruined.”

His hand moved, slow, slipping down his stomach, fingering the waistband of his sweats.

And you watch, breathless, as he shoves his hand under the fabric, grabbing his cock with a loud groan.

“I’m fucking aching, baby.” He hisses, squeezing himself, eyes flutter closed. “Hard as fuck. Dying. And you’re just sitting there, teasing, like a little slut who doesn’t know what she’s asking for.”

You swallow, whole body throbbing at the violence in his voice.

“Go ahead,” you mutter. “Touch yourself.”

He opens his eyes. Dark. Wild.

“Fuck you.” He breathes. “Not touching myself when you’re right fucking there. Perfect fuckin’ pussy’s mine.”

He shoves his sweats down. Just enough to free himself. His cock is thick, red, and leaking.

You whimper. Unintentionally.

And he grins. Menacingly. Mean.

“You’re drooling, pretty girl.” He taunts. “Want it that bad, hm?”

He fists himself roughly, dragging his hand up his length, smearing his precum down the shaft, a loud groan pushing past his lips.

“Bet you’re soaking that little pussy right now,” he jerks himself slowly, torturing. “Bet you’re throbbing and fuckin’ clenching around nothing, wishing my cock was shoved up there.”

Your thighs press shut. The throbbing between them aching. Burning you.

He laughs.

“Just look at you,” He gasps. “Fuckin needy. Bet you’d ride my cock without a second thought if I told you to.”

You shift forward, like a predator, “I would.” You whisper. “Sit down on you and ride you until you were fuckin’ crying.”

His whole body shudders.

“Fuck,” his head tips back, eyes squeezed shut as he grinds his hips into his own hand. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You crawl forward, until you were between his legs, looking up at him, inches from his leaking cock.

And he was shaking now. Hands fisting at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab you or keep going.

You tilt your head, innocently.

“Beg for it.”

And he chokes on a moan. Lips pressed tight together.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby.” He frowns. “Y’want me to fucking beg?”

You smile. Nod.

His eyes drag down you, breathing so hard his chest is visibly rising and falling.

“Please,” his voice is wrecked. “Please let me fuck you. Please, baby…” he’s fidgeting now. “Need to be inside of you. Need that tight pussy squeezing’ me, fuck,..please”

You lean closer, letting your breath hit the tip of his cock without touching him.

And he fucking whimpers.

“Need to split you open,” He pants. “Fuck you so stupid. Wanna feel you shaking around me. Fill you up and stuff you so full that you can’t walk tomorrow.”

You give him nothing. Just a light drag of your fingers crawling up his inner thigh. Barely touching him. Just enough to torment him.

And his entire body jerks.

“Stop fucking teasing.” Its a low, guttural snarl.

“Why?” You mutter. “Y’gonna come from just this? Just my hands on your leg?”

That does it.

He fucking snaps.

One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back so you meet his eyes. And he looks fucking insane.

Flushed. Sweaty. Pupils blown. His chest is rising.

And his voice?

It’s fucking mean. Angry. Frustrated. Horny.

“Bet you think this is so funny.” He hisses, dragging you up from your knees, tossing you back onto the bed like you weigh nothing. “Y’think I’m just gonna sit here and let you fuck with me while my cock’s fucking leaking for you.”

You laugh, smug. And his control shatters.

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’s on you before you can blink, shoving your knees apart, tearing your shorts down with both hands.

He shoves your shirt high enough over your breasts, not taking it off. He just wants access.

And his eyes land right between your legs.

You’re fucking soaked. Slick and smeared all along your thighs. Pooling.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “Fuckin’ look at you.”

And then his eyes meet yours. Fucking furious.

“All that teasing and you’re this fucking wet?” He slaps your inner thigh, hard enough to make your hips jump. “Pussy’s been begging for me and you’re sitting there like you’re in control?”

He lines himself up. And shoves the tip in. Just enough to feel your tight, hot cunt suck him in.

You gasp, arching your back into him. And he groans.

“Feel that? Feel how fucking hard I am for you?”

He thrusts even deeper, still not all the way in. Just a little bit more.

“You don’t get to tease me and then not take it,” He grunts. “Gonna fuck you until this slutty little cunt’s dripping with my cum.”

You moan. Loud. But he grabs your chin. Fingers gripping your jaw so tight that you can’t look away even if you tried.

“Uh, uh. Don’t you dare come yet.”

He pulls out. Just a little bit. Still grinding into you. “Wanna feel you clench on me when I’m buried in.”

And then he slams all the way in. One harsh thrust that fucking knocks the air out of your lungs.

You cry out. Hands fisting at the sheets. Legs snapping shut around his hips immediately.

He groans. It’s broken and raw.

“Fuck…there it is. That tight little pussy choking me.”

He starts moving. Hard. Dragging his cock in and out with a harsh force. Like he’s punishing you.

The mattress moves under you, the headboard hitting the wall.

And his words. They keep coming.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you baby. Shove it so fuckin’ deep you’ll be leaking with me for days.”

“Made for me. Bet no one will ever fuck you this deep.”

“Y’like when I’m mean, huh? Like when I lose it for you?”

And you can’t even breathe. Cant answer. Can only take his cock as he fucks you deep into the mattress.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d play dirty.” He pants. “And I warned…fucking warned you what would happen.”

And then his hand is trailing down, thumb pressing fast, tiny circles to your clit.

You yell.

“Yeah, go on.” He says. “Soak my cock. Show me who fucking wins now.”

And you break. Coming hard. Your body arches off the bed, walls squeezing him so tight he only thrusts a few more times before he spills into you.

He keeps thrusting through it, slower, like he can’t stop.

He collapses on top of you. “What the fuck are you doing to me, baby?”

He’s still inside of you. Still thick. Twitching. And still so fucking hard.

Your body is limp under him, thighs trembling with need.

But Lando doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Just stayed buried inside of you, cock so deep inside of you that you swear you can feel it throbbing.

And then you flinch because he’s moving again. It’s slow, just a small roll of his hips.

“Lan,” He grabs your jaw.

“No.” He breathes. “You don’t get to say my name like that after what you just pulled.”

Your eyes are glassy.

“Wanted to see me lose it, yeah? Wanted to see what’d I do?” His hips roll deeper, harder. And you whimper.

Pussy swollen, sensitive, full with his cum, and he’s grinding into you like he’s only just started.

“Well here you go,” He hisses. “You asked for this.”

He grabs both of your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand, while the other slips down and wraps around your throat.

“You’re gonna take every fucking thrust. Every drop.”

And he’s fucking you again. Cock still so hard that it feels unnatural.

Your cunt pulses around him. Soaked and clenching like you’re about to come again.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Still so fucking tight after being filled. Still squeezing me like you don’t want me to pull out.”

He’s thrusting harder, his hips slapping into you.

“Gonna stuff you full again,” His teeth trail your neck. “Gonna fuck you til you can’t say a fucking word.”

And you can’t. You’re babbling. Sobs. Moans. Gasps. And he doesn’t stop. His hand reaches down between your legs again, reaching for your puffy clit.

And you yell. “No..no, Lan!”

“Oh, now you wanna be shy?” He mocks, nibbling at your throat. “Now you wanna act like its too much?”

He pinches your clit. You cry out.

“Teasin’ me an hour ago. Thighs clenched like a little whore.”

He trails up your neck with his tongue. “You don’t get to quit now.”

And then he’s fucking you faster, his fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit and your body shatters.

You yell, spasming so hard around his cock like it’s milking him.

He groans loud. Spills inside of you for a second time, relentlessly grinding into you.

And even then, he still doesn’t pull out.

He slumps over you, panting and drenched in sweat.

But you feel it. The way his cock still doesn’t soften.

He drags a hand over his face, staring down at you.

Grinning.

You don’t even know what time it is anymore. Sweat is dry on your skin. Slick smeared across your thighs.

The bed is fucking soaked. Sweat, cum, saliva, you. And your legs are still twitching from the last orgasm.

And Lando’s still inside of you. Still throbbing.

And he’s looking at you now. Really looking.

His hand cups underneath your jaw, thumb brushing your skin gently. “You’re so fucking pretty when you cry.” He mutters. He says it like he can’t believe you’re here. That you’re his.

Your eyes flutter shut as he leans down, pressing warm kisses to your cheek, then jaw, then the spot beneath your ear.

And he rocks his hips forward again…it’s slow, deep, grinding into your overstimulated cunt with a soft groan.

You whimper but he presses his thumb to your lips. Shushes you.

“Shh, I know, baby,” He whispers. “I know.”

But he doesn’t stop. Keeps moving like he needs to be inside of you.

“Make me fucking crazy.” He breathes. “Acting all innocent, playing games.”

He kisses you. Slow. Mouth lingering against yours as his hand slips under your thigh, lifting your leg over his hip as he pushes into you deeper.

And when he moans into your mouth, you feel yourself clench around him.

“I was going to fuck you angry again,” he says. “Wanted to keep ruining you.”

He kisses you again, breath shuddering against your skin. “But you look to fuckin’ sweet like this. Messy and fucked under me.”

You gasp when his cock nudges that spot just right in your belly as he flips you over, putting you on top of him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You can take it.”

And then he kisses your shoulder. “So good for me.” He groans. “So fucking good for me.”

You moan. It’s shake and desperate, and you start pushing yourself into him a little faster. Thighs burning, body aching.

“There you go,” He’s groaning. “Just like that, baby. Fuck…”

You dig your nails into his shoulder and he loves it. “I wanna come inside you again.” He’s panting. “Need to fill you up.”

And you’re sobbing. Nodding against him.

“Tell me it’s mine,” He whispers. “All of it. This pussy. These moans. This entire fucking body and soul.”

You breathe, riding him faster. “It’s yours.”

He kisses you again, open mouthed and deep, shoving his tongue in your mouth. He thrusts up against you and you shatter on top of him. Again.

Body convulsing, as he comes with a low broken fuck while spilling inside of you again.

You collapse on him. And he just holds you there.

Shaking. Sweaty. Covered.

He kisses your hair, whispering.

“Yeah, you won.”

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris angst #lando norris smut #lando norris fanfic #lando x y/n #lando x you #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando norris #f1 x you #f1 imagines

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humanjarvis · 3 months ago

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nurse for a day

synopsis: who knew a sick doctor could be such a handful?

tags: stubborn zayne who hates being sick, reader takes care of him anyway, sleepy delirious zayne, fluff fluff fluff, humor(?), suggestive for .5 seconds word count: 2k

a/n: i personally think i ate with this one

It was quiet. Too quiet.

As you slink through the seemingly empty house, ducking into shadows like you’re on a stealth mission, you really wish your boyfriend weren’t so damn stubborn.

On your earlier phone call, Zayne had tried admirably hard to mask the nasally tone in his voice—to pretend like his frequent coughs were simply him “clearing his throat.” But you knew better.

He doesn’t get sick often—what with knowing exactly how to prevent it, and all—but when he does, he detests it for several reasons. The most pressing one, at the moment? You love when Zayne is sick.

Not because you think he deserves it, not because you want to see him suffer, but because you get to play nurse. After so many days being taken care of and scolded by the best doctor in Linkon, you finally get to return the favor.

Except Zayne isn’t particularly…appreciative of the favor. You’re a very strict nurse, he’s frowned at you several times before. You tell him over and over again that you only want him to feel better, but that doesn’t stop him from holing up in a bunker every time he comes down with something. It’s the only time he avoids you.

And now, he’s hiding from you. In his own home.

You know he’s here. When you arrived, his freshly washed car was sparkling in the driveway, a full mug of jasmine tea was still steaming on the kitchen countertop, and various office supplies were left scattered across the coffee table. As if he’d heard you coming and frantically abandoned ship.

You’d searched the usual spots: his empty bedroom, so pristine it looked like a hotel cleaning crew had stopped by; the walk-in closet, to make sure he hadn’t disguised himself among the hangers; and his study, where there’d been nothing but heaps of paperwork threatening the desk’s structural integrity.

He’s being extra sneaky this time, you scoff to yourself as you tiptoe around upstairs. Room after room, and no endearingly, adorably, annoyingly stubborn doctor inside.

But then, pressing your ear to the laundry room door, you hear it.

The unmistakable crinkle of a candy wrapper.

You’ve never felt so lucky that Zayne reserves his self-control for you and not sweets.

With a deep breath and a crack of your knuckles, you jiggle the doorknob slightly before bursting into the room. The man inside, hunched over the floor next to a tissue box, jumps at the sudden noise before freezing in place. And then, slowly, shyly, he spins to face you with the wide eyes and stuffed cheeks of a disgruntled hamster.

Zayne has spent enough time with you to know what the unimpressed look on your face means: Explain yourself.

“I don’t remember you knocking,” he sniffles curtly, unable to hide the way his stuffy nose constricts his throat. The rosy blush on his cheeks is the only indication of his guilt.

“I don’t remember signing up to date an escape artist,” you shoot back, satisfied with his resulting wince. “What are you doing all the way in here? Was the space under the desk in your study not suitable this time?”

“Just wanted a—”sniff—“change of scenery,” he jokes lamely, gesturing to the sleek washer and dryer towering over him.

Sighing, you crouch down in front of him, taking in the wall of chocolate wrappers barricading him in. “Is the idea of me taking care of you really that bad? I’m just trying to help.”

“That’s exactly it,” he says dryly. “You always help more than what’s needed.”

At that, your eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to cut through bone. His bones, if he’s not careful. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” he clears his throat, grimacing at the dull burn in his sinuses, “You always help me exactly how I need it, and more.”

“That’s what I thought you said. Now, come downstairs so I can give you the medicine you need, Dr. Zayne. And hand over the candy.”

It was no secret that Zayne loved sweet things. The confiscated tub of chocolates sitting on the counter was evidence enough.

But as you look down at his frowning face, cup of chemically red liquid in hand, you can’t help but wonder if it’s because Zayne loves sweet things that he hates taking medicine.

Once he’d finally trudged into the kitchen, you’d sat him down on a barstool before fishing the dreaded bottle out of the cabinet. “Why not a lozenge instead?” he’d asked. “One of the citrus ones.”

You hadn’t fallen for his trap, of course. But as he eyes you like he’ll make a break for it any second now, a weary part of you wishes you had.

“You know,” you lean in conspiratorially, “they say if you plug your nose, you won’t taste it as much.”

“Illness doesn’t make me a fool,” he mutters bitterly. “I, more than anyone, know how fruitless that trick often is. It doesn’t even work on the kids in the pediatric ward anymore.”

“And why would a 27-year-old man need the same encouragement as sick children, I wonder?” you crack slyly.

Zayne looks away, taking a sudden interest in the floor tiles.

Snorting, you double-check the dosage in the medicine cup and hold it out to him. He regards it with abject misery, his big, hazel eyes staring up at you pleadingly, and you feel a crack in your resolve.

“Fine,” you grumble, pivoting to raid the pantry behind you. Retrieving the most acceptable pastry you can find—there are about 7 different options—you set the blueberry muffin on the island in front of him.

At the peace offering, those hazel eyes light up slightly, driving out some of the pallor on his face. With a deep breath, Zayne grunts softly before downing the liquid like a shot, shuddering at the aftertaste. Eyes closed in a lasting grimace, he reaches blindly for the muffin before you push it into his grasp, and he sighs in contentment when he bites into it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, you can’t help but grin fondly.

If only the pediatric ward could see him now.

After Zayne recovered from the horrors of modern medicine, he’d sullenly asked for more tea, since the batch he’d made earlier was cold now. Pinching his cheek, you’d sent him to sulk on the living room couch so you could keep an eye on him. Which had worked, for several minutes. You’d gathered the ingredients, and he’d flipped blankly through a journal, intermittent sniffles reassuring you of his presence.

But as you gawk at the abandoned sofa, you realize he must have ducked you while your back was turned.

Yep. Definitely an escape artist.

With a frustrated growl, you hurriedly plunk the tea bag in and listen for signs of movement. Hearing the faint clicks of a keyboard, you stomp up the stairs to his study, not caring if the drink in hand sloshes over the rim of his favorite penguin mug. Serves him right.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you snap, setting the cup on his desk to put your hands on your hips.

“Working,” he answers with an innocent upturn of his lips.

“I mean,” you clarify, “what do you think you’re doing when you should be resting?”

Too distracted to keep typing, Zayne switches his attention to the stack of papers before him. “I feel much better already,” he lies flatly, breaking eye contact when yours bore into his.

As an incredulous laugh escapes you, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What would you say to one of your patients if they tried to work through an illness?”

“I’d say that as a medical professional, I only have the jurisdiction to advise them on the best course of treatment. Once out of hospital care, it’s up to them to exercise judgment and decide if they’re able to work or not. Like I’m doing now,” he retorts, and you almost commend his ability to bullshit such a polished answer.

“Right, of course,” you entertain him sweetly. “So is that why you just scrawled your signature through the bottom of that confidentiality agreement?”

With sluggish alarm, Zayne jerks his head down to survey the damage, and sure enough, his swooping penmanship has rendered the contract illegible.

“How could I have missed the signature line?” he whispers, face aghast with disbelief. “I…I don’t even know what…”

“I do,” you sing triumphantly, walking around to haul him up from his armchair. “I know exactly what’s wrong.”

The main reason Zayne hates being sick isn’t the symptoms. It isn’t the unneeded pity, the inopportune sick days, or even the insidious slide of what tastes like poison down his throat.

No. Unfortunately, for your stubborn snowman of a boyfriend, the main reason Zayne hates being sick is simply of his nature: cold medicine makes him terribly drowsy.

Its heightened effect on him is just like his alcohol intolerance—something in his genes just can’t handle outside influences.

So as you lead him back to rest on the sofa, laying his head across your lap, it becomes clear you’re now dealing with an oversized koala.

“You smell nice. I think. I can’t really smell anything,” he murmurs into your navel, tickling your skin with his rhythmic deep breaths.

“Mm. You smell nice too, under the medicine scent. Like jasmine tea.”

As you gently massage his scalp, he burrows into your stomach, lifting his head up seconds later as if remembering something.

“Did you d’something different with your hair today? Looks nice,” he slurs, blinking at you with sleep-laced eyes.

“Yep!” Nope. “Thank you for noticing, Zaynie. So observant even when you’re sick,” you coo, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

With a delirious hum, he smiles softly at the praise before his gaze lands on your chest, rising and falling above him. “You’re very…warm,” he whispers, baby pink tongue wetting his lips. But just as he leans up to nuzzle into you, you stop him halfway.

“Oh no, you don’t,” you chide, catching him by the scruff. “Not right now, at least.”

A quiet sigh is his only resistance, and as he slumps back down, he brings a hand around your waist to leave a lingering kiss on your stomach.

“Are you tired, Zayne?” you ask, cradling his head in your palms to meet his clouded gaze.

“Mm. I’d like to go to bed now.”

As you turn off the bedside lamp, preparing to leave Zayne in peace for the night, feverishly warm hands pull you down onto the mattress. Lying beside him, you flutter your eyes closed as he presses a tender kiss to your cheek.

“Aren’t you worried about getting me sick?” you question, raising a brow in the moonlight.

Chuckling, he shakes his head languidly. “Sinus infections aren’t contagious,” he yawns. “But even if they were, transmission would only give me the chance to look after you in return.”

“Are you sure? Someone once told me I’m too stern of a nurse. I’d hate to be the same way as a patient.”

Zayne frowns contemplatively as he rests a hand on your hip. “Even though your methods are…involved,” he swallows, “I appreciate the consideration you’ve shown me today. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Approval from the illustrious Dr. Zayne,” you whisper, gently tapping his reddened nose. “I hope this means he won’t hide from me next time.”

As he winces, you can almost see the events of this afternoon replaying in his mind. “If he can help it, there won’t be a next time. But yes, I won’t hide from you again. I truly do feel better with you here beside me.”

“And you’ll feel even better with proper rest,” you remind him. “Sleep. I’ll stay right here until you do.”

Finally relenting, he turns on his side, holding you to him like a child with a teddy bear.

And though he’s never believed in them before, when Zayne wakes the next morning, nose clear and fever broken, he thinks you might be a miracle worker.

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buychocolateboxesonline · 1 year ago

Text

A Guide to Buy the Right Chocolate Boxes Online

It is not easy to make the right decision when you buy chocolate boxes online. You must consider the following factors like the design, style, and size of the boxes, what are the capacity of a box to hold chocolates and the quality of the material used to make the chocolate boxes.

#chocolate box #chocolate boxes #empty chocolate boxes #empty sweet boxes #empty dry fruit box #buy chocolate boxes online #chocolate packing boxes #chocolate boxes wholesale #empty chocolate boxes wholesale #sweet boxes wholesale #empty sweet boxes wholesale

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bi-writes · 11 months ago

Note

thinking about mob baking simon a cake for his birthday (without his prior knowledge) mm good soup

mail-order bride

"you think he likes chocolate, baby?" you ask the cats. they sit side-by-side at the breakfast counter, being good girls as they sit on their chairs and watch you mix batter. "he totally likes chocolate. big boys like daddy love chocolate, don't they, girls?"

you grease two circular pans, pouring the chocolate cake batter into them. you set them in the oven before getting to work on your chocolate buttercream. you're using the new mixer simon bought you--it's beautiful, stainless steel, heavy. when you saw in the store a few weeks ago, you gushed at it, telling simon you saw someone make cinnamon rolls, bread, cakes, all in this mixer, but when your eyes skimmed over the price, you said nothing more, just smiled up at simon and let him lead you over to where the cast iron pans were (you wanted a real one).

a few weeks later, you noticed it on the kitchen counter. sparkling silver, right there, with the whisk attachment on it just waiting for you. and in the cupboard, ingredients--bread flour, powdered sugar, cornmeal, corn starch, dutch process, baking chocolate, whole wheat flour--all for you to play with. and when you baked him the most decadent triple chocolate coffee cake he had ever had, he bent you over the same table his empty plate sat and ate your cunt out with your apron still on. when you kissed him afterwards, he still tasted like chocolate.

you turn off the mixer, reaching in with a spoon to lick the buttercream off of it. you hum with delight, setting it aside, and when the oven timer dings, you pull the cakes out to let them cool.

you wrap simon's present as everything settles. special order, a favor you called into johnny. it's in a nice wooden box, and you tie a big red bow on it, and when you go back into the kitchen, you level and stack the two pieces of cake between buttercream and use a spoon to make a fancy decoration over the top of it.

the front door sounds as you're putting the finishing touches on the cake. you can hear him coming closer, and you gasp.

"no, no, no, don't come in the kitchen yet!"

"wot?"

"just--wait a little bit in the living room, okay?"

"for wot?"

"simon--" you groan. "please? for me?"

you don't hear anything after that except for the tv turning on. when you finish putting the last candles on the cake, you light them, picking up the plate and coming into the living room.

simon looks surprised. he was concentrating hard on the tv, watching the game, but his face relaxes when he sees you holding the cake. the cats perk up from where they're laid down beside him, and their ears flit as you start to sing happy birthday.

his whole face twitches. he stiffens, his palms flat on his thighs as he grips them tight. you set down the cake on the coffee table in front of him, candles glowing as you take a seat next to him. he's still staring at the cake as you finish the song.

"happy birthday, dear simon...happy birthday to you."

you smile at him, wrapping a hand around his bicep, squeezing it gently. you kiss his shoulder before motioning to the cake.

"you can blow them out now, simon," you say softly. "make a wish."

he doesn't move. he stares straight ahead, his eyes fixated on the flickering candles. you reach down and take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers and hugging his arm. you sit with him quietly, looking at the cake with him, and after a minute or so, you turn back at him.

"simon?" you whisper.

he's crying. you put a hand on the back of his head, scratching his short hair, and you cup his face gently as you wipe his tears. he's silent. the tears come, but he still doesn't move, still won't meet your eyes. you smile, going over to pick up the cake, and you hold it in front of him.

"here...make a wish, simon," you say softly. he picks up his sleeve and wipes his face, leaning over to blow out the candles. you put down the cake, standing up to go get his gift sitting on the kitchen table. when you sit down next to him again, he's still staring at the cake, still trying to pretend his face isn't wet with tears, but he stops wiping them when you place the box in his lap.

he unravels the bow. when he opens the case, he lets out a little chuckle, smoothing his hand over the foam inside.

there are an array of throwing knives laid before him. perfectly crafted, in different shapes and sizes, and when he picks one up and twirls it around between his fingers, the weight of them and the ease at which they move tells him you only picked out the finest quality. they're beautiful, and it's a thoughtful gift, and when he closes the lid on the box, he still can't meet your eyes.

"i'll cut us some cake," you say softly. you busy yourself getting plates and a cake knife from the kitchen, cutting generous slices before handing him one of the plates. he picks up the fork, and when you notice his hand shakes, you take the plate back from him gently and scoop a bite onto the fork for him. you don't say anything, just hold it up to his mouth, and once he takes a bite, you set the plate down and watch as he chews.

when he swallows, you sit again in silence. you reach over and take simon's hands in your own, squeezing them gently before bringing them up to your mouth to kiss softly. when he finally looks at you, all you do is smile.

he hadn't even remembered it was birthday. he never told you when it was, but he supposes you must have been curious enough to look for yourself. he can't remember the last time someone made him cake. he can't remember when he last received a gift, especially one like this. he doesn't know when he last thought himself happy enough to celebrate anything at all, but there is no other way he would've wanted today to go.

joy. you bring uninhibited, unfiltered, all-consuming joy. the way you're smiling at him--he can already see you in the kitchen in that apron, baking this cake, talking to no one but the cats as you carefully decorate it. the way you're looking at him--he knows you dreamed about this all week, scheduling the day so you could have the cake done as soon as he got home.

and chocolate. his favorite. decadent, sweet chocolate--it's still under his tongue, and he wants another bite already, he cannot wait to devour the slice that waits for him on the table.

"happy birthday, simon," you whisper, and when you lean in to hug him, he cradles the back of your head, tangling a hand into your hair as he presses you to his chest. "i love you."

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck--

"love you, too, baby."

"what did you wish for?" you mumble into his shoulder. simon snorts a little, shaking his head.

"if i tell ya, it won't come true."

"oh, yeah," you giggle. "keep your secrets then."

he doesn't want more; the only thing he wishes for is more time. more time with you. as much as he can get. to live long enough that he gets to see your face for as long as possible.

that whatever he sees for the last time will be you and you only.

#oof #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #order up

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hyunjincanraptoo · 5 months ago

Text

Trying aphrodisiacs with Hyunjin

Warnings: smut, that's all

Word count : 2.5k

As usual: Alexa, plays Chain by Lolo Zouaï

The soft hum of a movie played in the background, but neither of you were really paying attention anymore. Hyunjin was sprawled across the couch, socked feet tangled with yours, a half empty wine glass between his fingers. His hair was a little messy, cheeks warm and red from the alcohol, and he looked too effortlessly pretty for a lazy night in.

"You really bought it", you said, holding up the black box in your hands. The label was sleek, with golden details, and completely ridiculous:

‘Tabs

Break, bite and bang’

"I had to”, Hyunjin laughed, sitting up straighter. "The guy at the shop swore it’s a ‘sensual awakening experience’. Whatever that means”. You raised an eyebrow. “You know it’s just going to be a placebo, right?” "Maybe”, he said, smirking, "Or maybe we’ll be crawling all over each other in twenty minutes". You rolled your eyes, but your face was already heating at the implication, “You say that like it's not already a bad idea risking it to happen”. He shrugged, grinning, “Exactly why it’s fun”.

The box opened with a soft snap— inside, a handful of glossy chocolates, each wrapped individually, “So we’re really doing this?” you asked, giggling nervously, “For scientific purposes”, Hyunjin said, already unwrapping his. You mirrored him, popping the piece in your mouth. Rich, dark, slightly bitter— like it had some herbal undertone you couldn’t quite place, “Not bad”, you said, licking a bit of melted chocolate off your thumb.

You didn’t miss the way Hyunjin’s eyes briefly dropped to your mouth before he quickly looked away, “You feel anything yet?”, he teased, “Nope. You?” “Is it normal that I already want to kiss you?”, he said casually, and then grinned when you turned toward him with mock offense, “Kidding. That’s probably just the wine”.

You just nodded but you were starting to notice the heat building under your skin. A low, humming warmth curling in your stomach. You shifted slightly on the couch— and when your thigh brushed his, it felt… sharper. Like a tiny spark.

You both froze.

“Did you feel that?”, you asked. Hyunjin blinked. “Yeah”. The air grew thick with something unspoken. His eyes were darker now, a little too focused on you. He licked his lips without thinking, and your heartbeat made a mess in your chest, “Okay”, you said, sitting up straighter, pretending nothing was happening. “This is fine. Totally fine” “Totally”, Hyunjin echoed. But he was already leaning just a little closer.

Well, the aphrodisiac was definitely working.

“It’s getting hot in here?!”, he said, voice too high pitched. “Maybe it's just in our heads”, you replied, voice a little too breathy, "Maybe”, Hyunjin echoed again, but his gaze had shifted to your collarbone, where your pajama had slipped slightly off one shoulder. His fingers twitched on the cushion between you, like he was trying not to reach out.

The movie still played, but neither of you had any idea what was happening on the screen anymore. You shifted again, crossing your legs, trying to get some relief— and his eyes definitely followed the motion. You swallowed, “Okay. I’m warm. Like, unnecessarily warm” "Same”, he muttered, "Is the heater on?". You both glanced at the thermostat— off. Sure.

“Okay, maybe it’s not just in our heads”. You reached for your wine glass to distract yourself, but your fingers brushed his instead. Just a light touch, accidental, harmless— except it wasn’t harmless. Not this time.

Your whole arm tingled, awareness shooting up your skin like a live wire. You glanced at Hyunjin, and he was already staring at you like you'd just set the room on fire, “Are you also feeling…” “Yeah”. You both sat there in stunned silence for a second. Then, he burst out laughing, “Oh my god. We’re idiots”. You laughed too, “This was a terrible idea” “Or a brilliant one”, he said, voice low now, a little rougher. He leaned in just slightly, and you hated how good it smelled— his cologne, his skin, the faint chocolate still on his breath.

Your stomach tightened. Your heartbeats skipped, “I swear to god, Hyunjin, if you look at me like that again…” “Like what?”, he asked innocently, but his eyes were anything but innocent. “Like you’re about to climb on top of me”. He grinned, “I’m trying really hard not to”.

That shouldn’t have been hot. It shouldn’t have sent a throb of heat between your legs. But your body was humming, needing him deeply. You tried to stand up, desperate to cool off, maybe splash some water on your face, but the moment you got to your feet, you felt dizzy, flushed, your skin hypersensitive and aching, “Okay, no. This is stupid. I need water. I need cold air. I need…”

Hyunjin stood too, standing right behind you. Suddenly, his hand landed on your waist and everything in you lit up at once. You gasped, “Oh god! Don’t touch me”. He froze in place, “I barely touched you!” “Exactly”. You looked at each other, eyes wide, panting, hearts racing like you’d just run a marathon.

Then you both broke into laughter again. Nervous, breathless, almost desperate, "This was supposed to be a joke", you said weakly. Hyunjin leaned in closer, hands still hovering your waist, “So what if it isn’t anymore?”. You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. Not when his lips were inches away, and the tension was thick at the point to be palpable.

But then, in an impulsive act, his mouth crashed into yours. Hot, frantic, greedy. Exactly the opposite of his personality, the kiss is needy, messy, starved. Your hands tangled in his hair, his body pressing against yours like he couldn’t get close enough, and every single nerve of yours screamed for more.

His mouth was warm and insistent against yours, and for a second, your brain short circuited. This was Hyunjin— your best friend. The same idiot who steals your fries, sleeps on your couch way too often, and knows every embarrassing story about you. But right now, all of that blurred beneath the heat of his hands and the desperate way his lips moved with yours.

You should’ve stopped it. You meant to stop it. But then his fingers found your waist again, dragging you closer, and everything rational inside you shattered. You whimpered into the kiss, your body pressing to his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hands slid under your shirt, not even trying to be subtle now, and you gasped at the contact. Your hypersensitive skin burned under his touch.

“Fuck”, he breathed against your mouth, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, “This is… fuck, I didn’t think it’d hit this hard”. You nodded, equally breathless, “I can’t think straight. I just… Hyunjin…”. His name on your lips did something to him. He kissed you again, harder this time, hungry, messy, like he couldn’t hold back anymore. His hands roamed like he didn’t know where to start. Waist, hips, up your back, tugging you flush against him.

Your head fell back with a shaky moan as he pressed open mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, the edge of your collarbone, “You’re my best friend”, you said suddenly, breath hitching. His hands stilled for half a second, his lips hovering just above your skin, “I know”, he murmured, “But right now, I don’t think I can pretend I don’t want you”.

You let out a shaky laugh, part nervous, part delirious with desire, “This is gonna ruin everything” “Maybe”, he said, voice low, almost trembling, “But I’d rather ruin everything than stop touching you right now”.

It was enough for you to surrender. You pulled him back to you with a groan, your fingers threading into his hair as his mouth crashed against yours again, his hands finding every inch of exposed skin he could reach. You were both losing control fast. Clothes slipping, kisses deepening, breaths turning into ragged moans. He pressed you down on the fluffy carpet, hovering over you, eyes dark and wild with desire. “Tell me to stop”, he whispered, lips brushing yours. But you didn’t. Instead, you pulled him in closer and kissed him like you’d been waiting years.

And maybe you had.

Your clothes disappeared in a blur of kisses, breathless laughs, and trembling hands. Neither of you spoke much now, there wasn’t room for words, only the frantic pace of touch and the fire crawling under your skin. His shirt came off first, then yours. The moment his skin touched yours, you both gasped— heat meeting heat, every nerve lit up and begging for more.

Hyunjin’s lips trailed down your neck, tongue teasing against sensitive skin, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch, “God, you’re driving me insane”, he murmured, voice deep and wrecked, like it physically hurt to hold back. “You think I’m not losing my mind too?”, you whispered, clutching at his back, nails digging into his skin as he pressed his hips down against yours.

The friction— hot, perfect, too much and not enough all at once— made your body jolt. He groaned low in your ear at the contact, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding between them to spread you wider beneath him. Your breath caught when his fingers found you, stroking slowly and deliberately. You were soaked, already aching from just kisses and heat and him. His touch was expert, sensual, gentle but with just enough pressure to make your legs tremble.

“Fuck”, he whispered, watching you melting into pleasure under him, “You’re so wet already. Is this all because of me or the aphrodisiac?” “It’s you”, you gasped, hips rolling into his hand, “It’s always been you, Hyunie”.

Something shifted in his eyes. something softer beneath the hunger, like he’d been waiting to hear that for far too long. He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, tongue tracing yours in a rhythm that matched the movement of his fingers between your legs. You were so close already, body shaking, moaning into his mouth with every pulse of pleasure he gave you, “I wanna taste you,” he said against your lips, his voice low like a prayer.

You didn’t even get to answer before he slid down your body, eyes never leaving yours, lips trailing kisses across your stomach before settling between your thighs. The first flick of his tongue made you cry out. Your hips lifted, thighs tightened around his head as he licked you exactly like he’d dreamed of it. Like he needed it. Slow circles, teasing swipes, sucking just right until you were a panting mess, fingers tangled in his hair, begging without shame.

When you finally came, it hit hard— sharp, overwhelming, stars hit your eyelids as your whole body shook with release. He didn’t stop until you were twitching under him, your chest heaving, legs weak. And then he was back above you again, kissing you through the aftershocks, hands cradling your face like you were something precious, “I need you”, he whispered, voice barely holding together.

You reached for him, pulling him closer, “Then take me”. Without thinking twice, his body settled between your legs, skin against skin, warm and trembling with need. You could feel him hard and heavy, pressed right where you needed him most. But even now, as wild with desire as he was, Hyunjin paused. His forehead rested against yours, his breath unsteady, “This changes everything”, he whispered, “I know”, you breathed, reaching up to cup his cheek, “But I don’t care. I want you”.

That was all he needed to hear.

You felt the slow press of him entering you, inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you so perfectly it was almost unbearable. Your mouth fell open in a gasp, and his low groan echoed yours as he sank all the way in, hips flush against yours. “Fuck”, he muttered, eyes squeezed shut, “You feel so good, princess, so damn good”.

You clung to him, overwhelmed by how deep he was, how right it felt. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him even closer as he began to move— slow at first, gentle, like he was trying to savor every second of this moment. Each thrust dragged a moan from your lips, your body arching into his, nails raking down his back. He kissed you hard between each breath, each movement, a fevered rhythm of lips and hips, skin and sighs, “You’ve no idea for how long I’ve wanted this”, he said against your neck, his voice shaking.

You matched every movement with your own, matching his rhythm, anchoring him with your hands as pleasure grew tighter inside you. The friction, the heat, the way he kept whispering your name— it was everything. “I should’ve told you”, he panted, moving faster now, “Should’ve said it a long time ago” “Said what?”, you gasped, eyes fluttering, overwhelming tears rolling down your face.

“That I’m in love with you”

The words did something to you. You pulled him into a kiss so deep it stole your breath. Your response was not spoken, but felt in the way your whole body wrapped around him, the way you gave him all of you. Every thrust grew messier, more desperate until you were both on the edge.

You came again, clenching around him, moaning his name as waves of pleasure tore through you. He followed moments later, groaning against your shoulder as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering through his release, breath ragged and body trembling.

For a long moment, neither of you moved— just tangled limbs, racing hearts, sweaty skin, and the weight of everything you’d never said until now. Hyunjin’s body was warm against yours, his hand resting gently on your hip as he nestled his face into the crook of your neck. You could still feel the warmth between you both, the remnants of your shared breaths, the pulse of everything that had just happened.

He lifted his head slowly, his eyes still dark with the aftermath of what you'd just shared, but now there was something softer, something real. His thumb traced small circles on your skin, “So…”, he began, his voice low, still breathless, “That was... intense”.

You laughed softly “That’s one way to put it” “I’ve wanted this... wanted you for so long”, he said quietly, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours. “It wasn’t just the aphrodisiac, YN. I... I’m in love with you. And I always have been. Since the first day of elementary school”.

Your heart skipped at the confession, the weight of it settling into you like the warmth of his touch, “I know”, you whispered, brushing your fingers through his messy hair, gently tugging him back into another kiss. This one was slower, more tender with no urgency, just the soft acknowledgment of something new, something deeper.

He smiled against your lips, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, “Is this going to be weird now? Like, with everything? With us?”. You shook your head, “It doesn’t have to be weird. We’re still us. Best friends, just... with more now”. He chuckled, a little nervous, but also relieved, “You’re right. But damn, I never expected you to be that good in bed”. You rolled your eyes, hitting his arm, while he laughed “Idiot”.

He rested his head against yours, his hands gently caressing your back, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right. You didn’t need anything else.

Just him.

Just this.

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

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enhani-ki · 4 months ago

Text

caught - reader x ni-ki

warnings: smut, nsfw, aphrodisiac induced, explicit language, etc.

you had just gotten home, it was really too hot outside. your body were sticky with sweat from the walk back and swear,

it was one of the worst feeling ever.

the first thing you did was hop into the shower and let the cool water soothe your overheated skin.

and while drying yourself in the living room, you also emptied your bag onto the table. there's your phone, wallet, make up... until your eyes landed on a small box of chocolates.

your friend had shoved it into your bag earlier, complaining hers was too full.

curious, you snapped a photo and sent it to her.

[you sent a photo]

you: can i try this?

minutes passed but there's no reply, and longer you stared at the box, the more you thought, just one, why not?

so you ate one out, popping it into your mouth without any second thought.

you started to feel... weird, after a while. your cheeks flushed, your breathing grew heavier, and your body suddenly felt restless in a different way.

you had just stepped out of the shower, yet your skin felt hotter than before.

your nipples hardened too, you started pressing your legs together involuntarily. just groaning, tossing and turning against the couch, grasping for relief, while your mind wandered.

you miss your boyfriend.

your tall, gorgeous, dancer boyfriend. the man who had the most perfect face and body, perfect hands, hands that knew every inch of you. hands that could grip your hips as he fuck you from behind, he could wrap it around your throat and make you whimper. his voice, his smile...

"riki..."

"fuck," you exhaled, the towel had already slipped off your body while you were rushing to your bedroom. you sat over a pillow and rolled your hips fast and desperate.

your fingers dug into it as you rocked harder, imagining the way your boyfriend can fill you up, how good he feels inside you. your mind replayed the last time he had you pinned against the wall or bed, fucking you so deep you were actually going dumb and crying. you missed him. you missed his weight pressing you down, his breath against your ear, his cock stretching you open-

and ni-ki's heart had nearly stopped when he heard moans the second he stepped into the house.

his body moved on instinct, long legs carrying him fast towards the bedroom. did something happen? are you okay? what the fuck is going on-

is there someone else with you?

and you were there, so lost in your own pleasure, so caught up in the fantasy, that you didn't hear the door open. you didn't hear the footsteps, nor his belt being unbuckled behind your back.

then a hand suddenly covered your mouth, and pulling your body away from the pillow.

a startled gasp left your lips, you tried to scream. "help-"

"you couldn't wait for me?" ni-ki asked, his breath brushed against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

you scared him too but all he could think right now is his poor baby just got so desperate and had to fuck a pillow.

his lips crashed onto yours before you could even answer, kissing you upside down—just hungry and possessive.

"riki," you moaned, biting your lip. "i need you so bad, baby."

your body arched, your skin burned with need to feel him everywhere. then you sat up, hands trembling as you pulled his zipper down, removing his jeans and boxers fully in one go.

his cock sprang free, thick and aching with precum glistening at the tip.

your mouth just... watered.

and just as you were about to take him into your mouth, ni-ki suddenly shifted, lying down beside you instead.

you didn't even care, you just positioned yourself above him, bringing your knees to either side of his head.

you want to suck him off first but you also needed something either like a friction to keep you from aching.

then you leaned down, wrapping your fingers around his cock before taking him into your mouth. ni-ki groaned, his grip tightening on your ass the moment your tongue swirled around the tip.

then he pulled you down onto his mouth even more.

you just whimpered, struggling to keep up as your pleasure from his tongue made you dizzy, and feral.

you were humping the pillow for too long so now you couldn't last in his face. your walls started clenching, your moans muffled around his cock as you came hard.

ni-ki was there drinking and licking, keeping you right there, making sure he got every drop of your release.

he flipped you onto your back after, his body moved on top of yours, cock already pressed against your entrance, one that was already wet from your mouth.

"please," you whispered, holding on the back of his neck.

"okay," he kissed you, sliding into you so deep, he had both of you moaning at the stretch. "it's so tight," he groaned, burying his face on your neck.

the pace was slow at first, but you needed more so you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, making him lose it.

his hips snapped into you fast and relentless. his mouth found your tits, sucking hard, leaving marks, moaning against your skin.

every thrust sent sparks through your overstimulated body, leaving you dizzy, and delirious with need. "faster, riki..." you begged.

ni-ki cursed, obeying immediately, fucking into you even harder, and rougher. the sound of skin slapping, moans and breathless gasps, filled the room.

his hands were everywhere gripping your thighs, pinning your wrists above your head, grabbing your face to kiss you deeply between thrusts. you felt like you were burning, like your body couldn't handle this much pleasure at once, but you also needed more and more of his dick.

ni-ki panicked, "fuck, baby- i'm gonna-"

you moaned as his pace turning erratic. "me too... gonna cum."

your back arching as another orgasm crashed over you, your walls were squeezing him so tight he's losing his mind. the feeling sent him spiraling. he groaned loudly, his movements grew sloppy as he came inside you, his hips jerking with every wave of his release.

his body trembled against yours. both of you were gasping for air and grasping at each other like you'd fall apart otherwise.

ni-ki didn't move after he came, he stayed inside you, panting, his forehead pressed against yours, hands gripping on your hips, heart pounding while his entire body still tingling from how insane that was.

"holy shit," he breathed out.

you let out a breathless laugh, brushing your fingers through his damp hair, holding him in your arms. "yeah..."

he swallowed, hands sliding down your sides, still gripping, still needing to feel you. like the thought of stopping, pulling out, and not being inside you will hurt him.

"baby," he murmured, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips. "i still wanna fuck you."

you let out a soft giggle, your body clenched around him told him you wanted it too.

"i don't think you can still move," you whispered, playing with his hair.

ni-ki groaned against your skin, trailing kisses up your neck.

"but that's fine. i'll do all the work now."

"you're perfect," he chuckled in relief.

you can feel him softening, but somehow his dick were still filling you inside perfectly, still pulsing with need despite how wrecked he was.

you smirked, biting your lip as you rolled your hips just a little.

ni-ki whined, his fingers dug into your skin, his head dropping against your shoulder. "fuck, baby, don't-" but you did it again, rocking against him, feeling him twitch back to life inside you.

a soft chuckle left your lips as you kissed his temple. "i thought you wanted to feel me?"

"i do," he groaned, his voice breathless, wrecked. "but i'm so fucking sensitive."

you ran your hands down his back, nails grazing his skin lightly as you slowly lifted your hips before sinking back down. a strangled moan left his throat, his arms wrapping tighter around you.

"oh- shit..."

you grinned, pressing your lips to his ear. "too much?"

ni-ki let out a shaky exhale, his hands trembling as they tried to guide your movements even though his body was too weak to follow through. "no," he rasped. "don't stop."

you took over, moving at your own pace, rolling your hips, feeling him grow hard again inside you. ni-ki became helpless beneath you, making noises and broken whimpers as his body shuddered with every grind of your hips.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, tilting his head up to look at you. his eyes were glassy, blown with pleasure, his lips swollen and parted as he panted, begging for more without saying a word.

he looks so pretty, blushing and fucked out.

his fingers dug into your thighs as his hips weakly tried to meet yours. "you're ruining me."

you smiled, leaning down to kiss him, swallowing every moans as you rode him, doing exactly what he wanted—because after all, he was the one who said he still wanted to fuck.

and you can't even remember what happened after, now you slowly woke up with ni-ki pressing soft kisses to your face, and your body was aching in the best way possible.

he then stood up to get water, running his hands through his hair but his dazed eyes flickered to the small box that had fallen from your bag. he furrowed his brows, his still pleasure-addled brain struggled to process but somehow, he was able to comprehend that the chocolate is laced with aphrodisiac.

"so this is how you were able to keep going?" ni-ki asked holding up the chocolate.

you tilted your head in confusion, he threw the box for you to catch.

"oh my god?" you scoffed in disbelief, "this is why i was so fucking horny..."

ni-ki laughed, unwrapping and munched on one.

"wha- why'd you eat that?"

he walked towards you and cupped your face, pulling you into a messy, chocolate-flavored kiss.

so ready to be ruined even more.

a/n: it wasn't even their chocolate T_T but anyway, thanks for waiting. this is a very short one, hopefully i can finish the others so i could post it right away <3

masterlist: マスターリストm.list

taglist 𖤘: @dolliewon @ziiao

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solxamber · 5 months ago

Text

Receiving Gifts on White Day with: Savanaclaw

go here for other dorms

Leona Kingscholar

Leona is leaning against your doorframe like he’s been there for hours—which, knowing him, means he probably showed up ten minutes ago and decided waiting was too much effort. He’s got a small, hastily wrapped box in one hand and the absolute laziest expression on his face.

“Tch. You’re finally awake,” he drawls, tilting his head as if he wasn’t the one who decided to show up at an ungodly hour. “Took you long enough.”

You rub the sleep from your eyes, glancing at the box. “You’re one to talk. Did you just roll out of bed and come straight here?”

Leona smirks, tossing the box at you with a careless flick of his wrist. “What do you think?”

You barely catch it in time, noting the messily tied ribbon and the clear signs of last-minute effort. “Wow. Such romance. Did you bite this?”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “I don’t see you complaining.”

Curious, you open the box—and immediately pause. Inside is an assortment of high-quality chocolates, but tucked beneath them is… his scarf. The one he wears all the time. The one that still smells exactly like him.

Your heart stutters. “Leona, is this—?”

“Just take it,” he grumbles, looking off to the side. “If you’re gonna get all sentimental, at least do it quietly.”

Oh, he’s so embarrassed. You grin, stepping closer and very deliberately wrapping his scarf around your neck. “Guess I’ll have to wear this all the time now.”

His ears twitch. His tail flicks. And then—before you can react—he yanks you forward by the scarf, leaning in until his lips are just by your ear.

“You better,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerously smooth.

….You’re not surviving this day.

Ruggie Bucchi

The moment you open the door, Ruggie is already eating one of the chocolates meant for you.

“‘Morning, sweetpea,” he greets around a mouthful, grinning like he hasn’t just committed high treason.

You stare at him. Stare at the half-empty box in his hands. Stare harder.

“Ruggie.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you eating my White Day chocolates?”

He gasps—actually gasps—like you just falsely accused him of a crime. “Hey, c’mon. Ours. These are ours.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re literally eating them right now.”

Ruggie snickers, popping another one into his mouth before handing over what’s left of the box. “I was just making sure they weren’t poisoned! ‘Cause I love you and all.”

You take the box, scanning the tragic remains of what was probably very expensive chocolate. “I swear, I’m putting a lock on my snacks.”

“Pfft, like that’s gonna stop me.” Then—before you can react—he leans in and nuzzles his nose against your cheek, grinning against your skin. “Besides, don’t I deserve a little boyfriend tax for all my hard work?”

“What hard work?”

“Being this charming.”

You stare at him. Contemplate throwing a chocolate at his face. Instead, you pop one into your mouth and deliberately hum in satisfaction.

Ruggie immediately pouts. “Oiii, c’mon, don’t be mean—”

“Partner tax,” you say smugly.

His ears flick back. Then, with a very exaggerated sigh, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in.

“…Guess I’ll just have to earn some extra payment, huh?”

….You walked right into that one.

Jack Howl

Jack stands at your door, gripping a small box like it’s a life-or-death mission. His ears twitch, tail swishing slightly, as he very seriously presents his offering.

“Here,” he says gruffly, shoving it forward with concerning force.

You take it before he accidentally crushes it. “Jack, relax. It’s just White Day.”

He immediately stiffens. “I am relaxed.”

You squint. “You look like you’re about to fight someone.”

Jack sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… wanted to get it right.”

Oh.

You open the box and find neatly arranged chocolates—clearly homemade, slightly uneven but very carefully decorated. Your chest tightens. You pop one into your mouth, savoring the rich, slightly bitter flavor.

“They’re perfect,” you say honestly, watching as Jack’s tail wags before he can stop it.

“…Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.” Then, on impulse, you grab his collar and pull him close, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

Immediate system shutdown.

Jack freezes. His cheek turn scarlet. His tail spasms like a broken antenna.

“I—You—”

You grin. “Happy White Day, Jack.”

He covers his face with both hands. He's never gonna recover from this.

You win.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona kingscholar #twst leona #ruggie bucchi x reader #ruggie x reader #ruggie bucchi #ruggie #jack howl x reader #jack x reader #jack howl #twst jack

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 7 months ago

Text

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

-----------------------

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

#fic: neighborly #john soap mctavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #soap x reader x ghost #soap x ghost

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