#getting. and that's probably still the case. so
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fluentmoviequoter · 2 days ago
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Business of Flirting
Pairing: Clark Kent x flirty!fem!reader
Summary: You flirt with Clark Kent every time he comes into your coffee shop. When he finally realizes you do it for more reason than watching him shy away from you, he realizes you're not so different.
Warning/Word Count: shy!Clark, fluff, Lex mention, pictures from Pinterest, 2.1k+ words
Masterlist | DC/Superman Masterlist | Request Info
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“There’s my handsomest customer,” you flirt, smiling as you pull the largest to-go cup from the stack beside you. “The usual?”
“Yes, please,” Clark murmurs. “Slow day?”
“Every second you’re not here is slow,” you reply, drawing a heart on the cup beside his name. “Your day going okay?”
Clark shrugs one shoulder as he nears the pastry display.
“See anything you like?” you ask, laying your arm across the elevated counter and dropping your head against it. “In the case, I mean?”
Clark blinks rapidly, his mouth opening and closing twice before he manages to say, “Anything you would recommend?”
“Oh, I’d recommend a lot of things,” you drawl.
“In the case, I mean?” he reminds you with a shy smile.
“You seem like a brownie guy to me.”
“I do like brownies,” he affirms.
“A brownie, then.”
“What do I owe you?” Clark asks as you slide the door open to retrieve the brownie with disposable tongs.
“Handsome discount,” you remind him. “You don’t pay here.”
“That’s not a good business plan,” he murmurs, dropping a twenty in your tip jar.
“If it makes me happy, who cares?” you counter. Leaning over the register, you whisper, “You should care. You should take me on a date.”
“Perhaps another time,” he answers.
You sigh, turn dramatically, and finish making his drink. “Tomorrow, my love,” you say as you pass him the cup.
“Tomorrow, honey,” he replies under his breath. You’ve trained him well, even if he still gets shy at your attention. “Be safe.”
“You, too.”
Watching Clark leave, you tap your knuckles against the counter. He really is special. Another customer comes in, interrupts your daydream about Clark, and doesn’t tip nearly as well.
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“Evening, Malik,” you greet as you enter the bodega. “How’s your sister feeling?”
“Better, thank you,” the shop owner answers.
You nod and lift a basket, reviewing your mental list of items to buy. Shopping for the coffee shop is easier, you think, because it’s all online and delivered straight to the fridge. Rounding a corner, you stop and smile.
“You better not be buying coffee,” you accuse.
Clark turns, wide-eyed behind his glasses, as he grips his basket. You think it bends in his grip, but then his hand opens. “It’s… for the office,” he explains shyly, looking guiltily at the coffee beans.
“Fine,” you sigh. “You can have this one pass. I knew you were a heartbreaker the first time I saw you.”
“I’m not,” he murmurs, looking at you through his thick, long lashes.
You laugh, shaking your head as you pick up an item from the shelf behind Clark. You’re standing side-by-side, facing opposite directions so that you can see each other in your peripheral vision.
“You, sweet boy, are the definition of a heartbreaker,” you argue. “Picture’s probably in the dictionary and everything.”
“Dictionaries don’t have pictures.”
“Well, if they did, and you were in it, people would still buy dictionaries.”
“Would you be in it?” Clark wonders.
“In the I section,” Malik calls, “for intolerable!”
“I was thinking F for flirty,” you amend. “Or maybe L for lovable.”
“Or P for-“
“That’s enough out of you, Malik!” you exclaim. “I’m trying to make Clark fall madly in love with me!”
“Oh,” Malik grumbles just loud enough for you to hear. “Good luck with that.”
“Anyway,” you say, waving a dismissive hand toward Malik. “Where were we?”
“You were being flirtatious, as usual,” Clark answers, his cheeks and the tops of his ears tinged pink as he looks pointedly at the shelf before him.
“Right.” You snap and ask, “Was I about to break you? Were you going to flirt back, proclaim your undying love?”
“I was going to ask if you’d recommend this dark roast,” Clark says, reaching for a bag of coffee beans.
“Tall, dark, and handsome is all you, Clark.”
“That’s not an answer.”
You smile and step past Clark to finish your shopping. He’ll be by your coffee shop in the morning, and you’ll probably apologize for pushing him even though you really enjoyed it.
A few minutes later, you’re leaving the store. You walk backward to the door, saying bye to Malik. “Tell your sister I said hey and tell her to try raspberry leaf tea; it works wonders.”
The door closes behind you, and Malik shakes his head as Clark approaches the counter.
“Is she always…” Clark trails off, gesturing vaguely upward.
“She is,” Malik answers with a smile. “She’s outgoing and talkative, but she cares. You’re lucky she likes you.”
“Oh, she doesn’t like me,” Clark argues. “She just does it to mess with me.”
Malik hums as he begins ringing up Clark’s items. “Maybe you should be in S or B in her new dictionary: stupid or blind.”
“Thanks, Malik,” Clark says flatly.
“Sure. You’re not going to like this coffee, it tastes like brake fluid.”
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Tapping your foot against the cabinet, you check the time again. Clark has been late once in the two and a half months he’s been coming to your coffee shop, and it was the first week he arrived. He claimed it was because his training had run late, but you suspected he’d just gotten lost on his way over. The Daily Planet wasn’t far, and it was even closer if you knew which shortcuts to take.
The door opens, and you look up hopefully, then try to cover your disappointment with a welcoming smile.
“Hi, what can I get started for you today?” you ask.
The man doesn’t look up from his phone as he answers, “Long macchiato and red eye, both large. To go.”
“Sure thing,” you murmur, tapping the items on the register screen. “Anything else for you?”
“Nope.”
“Can I get a name for the order?”
“Uh, Lex.”
You press your lips together and scribble across the cups. Lex Luthor sends his assistant in every once in a while, but it’s rarely the same person twice. You haven’t seen this particular employee before. Since he’s been glued to his phone since before he entered, you assume he’s new and desperate to impress.
“$10.68,” you say.
He extends a black card, and you reach awkwardly around the register to tap it to the card reader.
“Thanks,” you say as he takes the card back. “I’ll have those done in just a second.”
Clark isn’t coming today, you realize as you put the lids on Lex’s order. Maybe you flirted too much, pushed him too hard. If he ever comes in again, you’ll offer to keep the flirting to a minimum. But you won’t enjoy it.
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Another day goes by without seeing Clark. Then two. Then a week. Each hour feels worse than the last. After ten days without Clark, your other customers and your friends notice the change in you.
“Welcome,” you say when the door opens. Slamming a new filter into a coffee pot, you don’t turn around as you add, “I’ll be right with you.”
“Take your time.”
You spin immediately, dropping the coffee pot in your hand when you hear Clark’s voice. It shatters, sending glass all over the floor and onto your shoes.
“Hi,” you whisper.
Clark’s eyes widen as you step over the glass shards of the broken pot. He begins to reach toward you, but stops when you speak again.
“I’m sorry,” you offer.
“For what?” Clark inquires, tipping his head toward his shoulder.
“I went too far and scared you away and I feel bad that-“
“Wait,” he interrupts. “You didn’t do anything. I went home for a few days. I told you about the trip the week before I left.”
Your brows pinch as you try to remember him mentioning a trip to Kansas. The memory comes quickly. You’d joked that if you joined him, maybe his parents would agree that you’re his perfect match.
“Oh,” you murmur. “I forgot about that.”
“You didn’t go too far,” Clark reiterates. “I know you just do it to get under my skin.”
You laugh, accidentally stepping back onto a piece of glass and further breaking it beneath your shoe.
“I need to clean this up, but that’s funny,” you muse.
Clark looks utterly confused. When you realize his expression has changed, you drop your smile and stare at him.
“You are kidding, right?” you check.
“About what?”
Your jaw drops at the genuine question. “I don’t flirt with you just because it makes you shy!” you exclaim.
Clark shrugs, and you have the sudden urge to grab his face and kiss him over the counter. Apparently, you haven’t been obvious enough. Instead of kissing him, you grab a towel from the counter and squeeze it tightly in your hands as you move carefully to the sink. While the towel is getting wet, you lean back against the counter and shake your head.
“Tell me you know I meant it all,” you implore.
“I… I assumed you realized it had an effect and kept going because of that,” Clark replies, pushing his glasses up with rounded shoulders.
“Clark,” you sigh, turning off the sink. You drop the wet towel over the glass, then use your hands to sweep it toward the baseboard. When you stand, you walk past Clark and wash your hands wordlessly.
“So, handsome, are things going back to the way they were?” you ask.
“What’s the other option?” Clark inquires.
“Two options, really,” you begin as you return to the register, drying your hands on your apron. “First is I stop this and I’m just your barista and maybe your friend. Second, you accept that I mean it all and evaluate whether or not you have feelings for me too. No hard feelings either way.”
“I don’t… I can’t do this kind of thing like you can,” Clark admits. “You’re just so… bubbly.”
“Better B word than I normally get,” you joke. “And I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Clark. I can be the flirty one, you can be the drop dead gorgeous one, we’ll be the perfect couple.”
“I don’t think I can handle you,” Clark mumbles, dropping another twenty in the tip jar.
“You didn’t even order anything,” you point out.
“You didn’t ask!” he argues. “You’re not a very good businesswoman.”
“What can I say?” you ask. “I can’t think straight around you.”
“Seems dangerous. Are you okay? Did any of that glass hit you?”
You roll your eyes and retrieve a cup. “The usual, with a brownie?”
Clark waits for an answer to his question about you getting hurt, then sighs when he realizes you aren’t going to tell him either way. “Please,” he answers. “I told my mom about your brownies, and she told me to ask for the recipe. Insisted I try after I told her it’s probably a company secret.”
You slow behind the counter, processing Clark’s words. “You told your mom about my brownies?”
“It came up,” Clark replies. “I, uh, I was talking about you, and she asked how we met and… brownies.”
Nodding, you work on finishing Clark’s drink. He gets a message that makes him purse his lips, and you know he has to get back to work.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you ask, holding his cup in both hands.
“I promise,” Clark assures you, smiling when you release his cup to him.
As he leaves, you realize you should have written your number on the cup just in case.
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You’re locking your front door when your phone chimes. The text is from a number not saved to your phone.
Hi. This is Clark. Just wanted to remind you that I’m not going to leave because you flirt too hard. - CK :)
Smiling widely, you drop your bag and save his number. As you type out a reply, you laugh to yourself.
Hey, Clark. I guess I’ll have to try harder now. And print the brownie recipe for Mrs. Kent.
Clark doesn’t reply right away, and you watch a video about Superman while you have a glass of tea before bed.
She’ll like that. Good night.
You like the message, then realize something. Clark shouldn’t have your number. He sends another message quickly: a picture of a coffee cup on which you wrote your number. It was the first week after you met, you realize. The picture was taken at his desk, and he kept it.
You’re so in love with me, it makes me look normal, you reply.
Maybe we’re both a little super when it comes to love, Clark answers.
You drop your phone onto the couch and squeal into a pillow. Flirting with Clark Kent was the best business decision you will ever make.
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mayena0526 · 3 days ago
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Unsure if I have any of this. But it bothers me to NO END that my aunt was so insistent about me eating tuna and ketchup.
As a child, I can’t remember ever actually tasting either but the smell of both was enough to turn me all the way off.
When I would eventually (and accidentally) taste each on several occasions throughout my life, I never liked it.
As an adult, my aunt still tries to convince me to eat tuna, ketchup (and mustard, I forgot) by being sneaky about it. Like, she’d slather meatloaf with ketchup, have me taste it, ask me if I like it, and if I say “yes” she’ll say that I’ll have no reason to say no to ketchup now because the meatloaf is coated in ketchup even though I can’t even taste it and now that I know it’s there my stomach is doing crazy flips.
There were times she’d even lie to get me to reconsider a certain food like saying she used some mustard in a salad that I really enjoyed so I should probably also eat some mustard in the future… only to later find out that that’s not the case??? Weird as hell but all that to say it’s not that serious to convince people to eat stuff like this if they really don’t want to.
people are absolutely EVIL about the boundaries of "picky eaters". no, they do not have to try it. yes, they can know they don't like it without having eaten it before. no, they probably have not suddenly grown a taste for the food they've said they hate. no, they probably are not going to like it in the Special Way This One Place Cooks It. yes, you are being a bad friend if you try to "trick" them into eating it anyway
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almostsaidiloveyou · 2 days ago
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BROO more makeup artist reader plsss 🙏🙏🙏 My lesbian the heart loves this fic 😭😭😭
Yes of course lovely ! Here you go, more m.u.a reader <3 and tysm mwah 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩
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Imagine #15: ”Are you made at me? Or just horny?”
(makeupartist!reader - the part before this one - jealous!reader - smut with plot - 1.9k words)
✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩
It's been three weeks.
Three weeks since she kissed you. Since she yanked you down onto her lap and made you hump out an orgasm on her thigh like it was nothing. Since you left her dressing room with her hoodie in your arms and your underwear sticking to you the whole drive home.
She never mentioned it again.
But the damn late night texts began.
Stupid, blurry selfies. Her makeup smudged after a night out (probably right after the shift you worked)
One text read: "Could use ur hand right about now."
Then there were the PR package photos. Random lipsticks and shadow palettes from brands you'd never seen her actually wear. She wasn't the type to wear much makeup outside of red carpets or shoots anyway (if that were the case, then you know it'll be thoughts and prayers for you.)
One message came with a photo and text: "New shade. Wanna come try it on me?"
The most recent one? A mirror pic, sweatpants, sports bra, hair tied up. "Miss ur touch, makeup girl." No emoji, only those words.
You nearly threw your phone across the room. Screamed into your pillow.
Still nothing actually happened since.
You didn't reply to the texts. Not really, maybe a heart emoji once. A 'lol' another time. Mostly, you left them on read. Sent messages about time and place, what style her management wanted to go with, if she wanted to try new products. Keeping it professional. Or tired to.
She didn't push it when you ignored them. Didn't apologize either.
✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩
So tonight? You show up for another late night interview taping. Same job...same routine. You sign in, get your kit set up, patiently sit down on your chair waiting for trouble to come through.
You're not nervous. You're irritated. You can't name it exactly, whatever's been boiling in your chest since that night.
But you know it probably has something to do with the way she's been flirting with everyone. Not even trying to be subtle about it anymore.
Five minutes in the greenroom and she's already laughing with the guest coordinator, eyes locked in deep, grin on her face. She lets the wardrobe girl button up her shirt too slowly, holding eye contact the whole time.
And the media? Don't get started. The rumored hookups & relationships? Too many to count. X (Twitter) is convinced she's dating a new person every week.
But when she finally walks over and drops into your chair?
She spreads her legs wide, like always. Ring clink as she adjusts the sleeves of her top. You pumped her chair up 3 times. Her thigh...the thigh presses against the side of your arm.
You set your brushes down a little too hard. She watches you: smirking. "Missed me?" she murmurs.
You don't answer, you're too busy uncapping the foundation bottle.
Her brows lift slightly, a bit surprised actually. "Wow. We're quiet tonight."
"Keep your face still," you mutter, dabbing foundation along her jaw. She tilts her chin up, voice husky. "Mmh. What's wrong? That time of the month?" You glare at her, pause for just a second, then press the brush to her cheek with more pressure than necessary.
She leans into it like she likes the pain. "Kinky," she mumbled under her breath. You don't laugh, not even a smile. She notices that immediately.
Her grin flickers, "Ohh," she says slowly. "You mad at me or just horny?"
You slam the compact shut.
Her lips twitch, "Oof definitely mad."
You grab the lip brush, grip it like it's a blade. "Stop talking.
She actually does goes quiet. No teasing, only looking. Studying your face: her eyes follow the curve of your jaw, the tight line of your mouth.
And then, softly "Come to my room tonight."
You hand barely fall, but you recover and keep blending. "I'm not doing this again," you say, voice a bit lower than you wanted.
"I think we should talk."
"Bout what?" you snap.
Her voice drops to something real this time. Quiet, more firm. "About what's been bothering you since that night you came on my thigh." You don't say anything. You focus on her mouth, that fucking mouth.
"It doesn't matter," you mutter. "I'm your makeup artist. And that's the problem."
You don't tell her about the jealousy. About the way you've been going crazy. How you've started dreading every shift with her, because you know exactly how she tastes like, what she feels like pressed between your legs. You wish she were like your other clients. The ones you don't know, who don't talk to you like matter. The ones you've never seen vulnerable and biting their lip when they look a your hands,
But she's not them.
She leans forward, smiling slow and sure. Voice lowers in something deep now, "Come to my room."
✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩
You're standing outside her hotel suite door. You received a text of her current hotel when you were on your drive home. You know you shouldn't be here. But you're here.
Your fist is raised, knocking (more like banging) before you can convince yourself out of it.
She opens the door. Boxers, a tank top, hair slightly damped. She smells like a fresh shower--warm expensive vanilla body wash--skin. "Bout time, I was gonna start touching myself without you." She jokes...partially.
You scoffed but walk inside. The room is dimply lit, one lamp by the bed. Her clothes from earlier draped over a chair next to a small suitcase.
You cross your arms, standing in the center. "Talk."
She shuts the door, locks it, leans against it. "I saw your face earlier, before I went on...right after "
"You frowned and rolled your eyes at the guest coordinator lady. Lookin' all grumpy." She added fast before you could say anything.
"What?" Your furrowed your brows.
"You're mad because I was flirting with her, right?"
"No..." You crossed your arms. "Is this why you told me to come here? To assume I care about who you flirt or don't flirt with?"
"You think I don't notice how you get when I say soemthin' slick to someone else?"
"Dude, you flirt with everyone, that's not new." You glare.
She pushes her hair back and walks closer to you. You just blink. "You didn't care before, so why now?"
You take a step back, quiet for a second. Then "Because--"
She cuts you off, " 'Cause I kissed you?" her voice is now low. " 'Cause I made you cum?"
She's right in front of you, skin warm, glowing. You hate her for being this bold. Hate her for being this fucking hot. And especially hate yourself for giving in....AGAIN.
You don't know who moves first, but your lips crash into her, rough, fast, messy. her arms pulls you in like she's been starving. Your jacket hits the floor, her hands find your ass instantly, squeezing through your jeans. Your fingers tangled into the damp strands of her hair, tugging hard enough to make her groan into your mouth.
She was trying to ruin you. That's how it feels when she kisses you. Like she already knows how and is just about to finish the job.
Her tongue presses past your lips and you taste the remains of her toothpaste. She walks you backwards towards the bed, her mouth never leaving yours. You're so caught up you barely notice when the back of your knees hit the mattress.
"Jeans off," she mumbled against your jaw, biting your skin just below your ear. "Wanna see how much you missed me." She impatinelty unbuttons them.
You hesitate for a second, "This doesn't fix anything, y'know?"
"Didn't say it would."
You yank your jeans down anyway. She watches you, lips parted, eyes low. Her hand drifts between your thighs, palm pressing over your panties. "Finally... get to feel you."
You look away. "Shut up." But she doesn't. she literally never does.
"So good," she hums.
She pushes you on the bed, crawls over you. Her tank top riding up. "I've been thinking about this," she whispers, voice raspy as she kisses your stomach. "…bout how you looked riding me. The way your mouth opened when I bounced my thigh."
Your head tipping back against the mattress, your groan, “You’re actually so fucking annoying.”
She smiles, breath warm against your lower belly. "Mhm, right. And yet..." She hooks her fingers into the waistband of your panties, "...look at you." Completely soaked for her.
She peels then down slowly, dragging them past your knees, your ankles, and tosses them somewhere behind her without even look. She pauses just for a moment, taking you in.
The way your thighs part, your chest rises. The way your eyes avoided hers, looking away, suddenly shy even after everything. She leans forward again, mouth brushing against your inner thigh, tongue teasing the skin, near where you NEED her the most.
"Open up f'me," she murmurs. "Lemme taste how much you find me annoyin."
Your face starts to burn. You swear under your breath but do exactly as you're told: legs falling open, heels digging into the expensive bedspread. She shakily exhales, her mouth parting as she finally lowers her head and licks one, slow, line through you.
You twitch, hips jerk. "Oh god."
She groans, mumbling something incoherent about how you taste.
Her tongue circles your clit before closing around it, lips sealing, and sucking lightly. Your whole body arches, you grip at her hair with one hand, the other hand grabbing the sheets besides you.
She's devouring you, hungry, no hesitation nor teasing. Works you open with her mouth, moaning into it. Moving her head like she can't get close enough. Even if she was already suffocating.
Two fingers slide into you without warning. Unhurried at first curling deeeep until your legs start shaking. You whimper, hips rolling up against her face, chasing the pressure.
You’ve been craving it.
She pulls back enough to talk, her fingers still pumping inside you, "Yea? You gonna cum already? Just from my mouth?"
You breath hard, "Shut up and keep going."
She smirks. "Say please."
'You hate her. You hate her. You fucking hate her.'
You yank her hair hard. She laughs into you, muffled and mean. Nonetheless she listens, her tongue flattens against your clit again, steady now. Fingers moving faster, stroking that one spot that makes your vision blur. Everything build fast, that tight feeling in your stomach, a fluttering eagerness in your legs. You're panting-moaning-whispering her name without meaning to. (Regretting it later on)
She hears it and loves it. "That's it...lemme have it."
Your thighs tighten around her head, your back arches, mouth falls open with a sound you barely recognize. You finally break and it's not soft; its a full body snap!
She doesn't stop, she works you through it, tongue slow now, fingers easing as you shake beneath her.
Gasping, eyes fluttering open as she pulls back. Lips swollen and shiny. She climbs up your body again, mouth finding yours without warning. You kiss her back tasting yourself.
Her hand cups your cheek. She still close when she whispers: "Still jealous?"
You roll her over in one quick (clumsy) move. Straddling her hips. She looks up at you like you just confirmed everything she was hoping for.
You reach down between her legs and press through her boxers. She gasps. You grin:
"Your turn~"
✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩
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endahouselikecarpet · 2 days ago
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Date Everything x Reader
You are sick
[CW- depiction of illness, Doug being Doug]
Bathsheba- There's not much she can do, but she's always there to get you a bath ready if you're achy or cold. Also, sitting in water can help your body not feel like it's heavier than a boulder, at least for a bit.
Farya- While she still wants you to get well as much or more as everyone else, she's also the least panicked about. She hates that you're miserable, but she also knows it's most likely just a cold and you'll be fine in a few days. Make sure you're still eating, drinking plenty of fluids, and take what meds you need to help. She'll be there to help with whatever you need.
Tony- Is the king of home remedies and wives' tales. Doesn't matter if they work or not; he just sort of mixes and matches things. You need to drink lemon soda. Doesn't matter if your stomach isn't upset. He heard that you're supposed to drink clear soda when you're sick, so you need to do it. If you have a fever, you eat a popsicle. At first he's got the basic, frozen, sugar water, but when he finds it up about the ones that are actually frozen fruit, he gets those so it's a bit healthier. Will be a bit pushy with things, but it comes from a good place.
Mitchell- He's is something of a germaphobe. Wants to help you feel better, but does so from a distance. His wheelhouse is food, so he brings you things (mostly soup), that he and Stefan teamed up on. When he brings it up to you, he has a mask on, which is certainly understandable. He also has gloves on, which could be a good precaution if not a bit overboard. He also has on goggles, just in case he can catch germs in his eyes, and then takes a shower and immediately washes his clothes after he's in the same room as you. Keep in mind, this is literally him going, "Hi, here's your food. Hope you feel better." Then leaves. He will still text you though so he can actually talk to you.
Cam- Is not a germaphobe. In fact, he's not complaining about you being sick at all. He's not exactly happy about it, and does want you to feel better. But... do you know how much trash heads his way when you're sick? Pill wrappers, an almost endless supply of tissues, maybe even some cleaner bottles depending on how much you have to use after you're a bit more active. The possibilities are boundless.
Dirk/Clarence- He doesn't want you to feel like you're alone. Will sit with you, sleep next to you, just about anything you might need. Will tell you not to worry if you start to fuss about him getting sick. His version of this is falling asleep like Clarence and then waking up like Dirk. Even if that does happen, he just goes, "Too late to do anything about it now," and goes back to sleep.
Betty- Does her best to be sure that you are resting. One of the quickest ways to get sick is having poor sleep, and one of the quickest ways to get well is letting your body rest. Will be stern, but gentle in insisting that you don't push yourself. She doesn't get too bossy, but will drag you back to lie down if she thinks you need to.
Doug- He is good at staying by your side the entire time. Of course, it's spent telling you things like, "I know it seems like a pretty bad cold, but it's probably just the first example of consumption see in modern times," or, "We should look up your symptoms again to see what else comes up," or even, "Does your throat feel like it's made out of a sponge? Ya, know, like, one of those cheap ones you get for doing dishes?”
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diantimony · 3 days ago
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yipiiii i wanna do some of these
chipotle order? no i'm the one usually ordering
thoughts on veganism? it'll be a while until we can colonize that one, that atmospheric pressure is no joke
a specific color that gives you the ick? seeing chartreuse irl. it hurts so much
mythical creature you think/believe is real? unicorn, we got narwhals and rhinos and pterosaurs with fun crests
favorite form of potato? any with the skin still attached
do you use a watch? nope, unless the one on my phone counts. i hate things on my wrists
what animal do you look forward to seeing when you visit an aquarium? eels!! i love eels, that's a dragon
do you change into specific clothes for the house when you get home? i put pajamas on and then put on outside clothes again next time i need to go out
do you have a skincare routine (and how many steps is it)? nope
on a plane, do you ask for apple or orange juice? never asked for either, just cranberry, tea, wine, or vodka
anything from your childhood you’ve held on to? my interests and imagination, thankfully
brand of haircare/bodycare/skincare that you trust 100%?: generic soap
first thing you’re doing in the purge? i haven't seen this movie but i think i'm locking my doors and staying inside to draw
do you think you’re dehydrated? absolutely all the time, i am so bad at drinking water
thoughts on mint chocolate chip? no thoughts, it's just an ice cream flavor
an anxious compulsion you do everyday? i fall into the trivia trap and spend time reading things that will never apply to me on reddit, in case i ever need that information
your boba/tea order? for boba: purple yam with no bobas or milk. for tea, weird flavors with no milk or sugar
the veggie you dislike the most? my tragic backstory involves eggplants
favorite disney princess movie? does the Hunchback of Notre Dame count, cause that one if so
a number that weirds you out? 2
do you have an emotional support water bottle? nope, i do have one i use a lot that i recently covered in mad science stickers but it's mostly practical. clear, 1 liter, and no straws or crevices that are hard to clean. 10/10 useful
do you wear jewelry? nope
which do you find yourself using, american or british english? usually american, it's what i was taught
would you say you have good taste in music? no and i'm proud of that
how’s your spice tolerance? i tolerate a lot in general but spice is easy
what’s your favorite or go-to outfit? shorts + sandals + obnoxious aloha shirt
last meal on earth? it'll probably be some mix of minerals, eaten by some bacteria and tiny worms living miles underground, as the sun boils away the oceans in a few billion years
preferred pasta noodle? small shells are cheap and easy to use, and quick to cook
weirdly specific and unrelated asks to know someone well:
chipotle order?
thoughts on veganism?
a specific color that gives you the ick?
mythical creature you think/believe is real?
favorite form of potato?
do you use a watch?
what animal do you look forward to seeing when you visit an aquarium?
do you change into specific clothes for the house when you get home?
do you have a skincare routine (and how many steps is it)?
on a plane, do you ask for apple or orange juice?
anything from your childhood you’ve held on to?
brand of haircare/bodycare/skincare that you trust 100%?
first thing you’re doing in the purge?
do you think you’re dehydrated?
rank the methods of death: freezing, burning, drowning
thoughts on mint chocolate chip?
an anxious compulsion you do everyday?
your boba/tea order?
the veggie you dislike the most?
favorite disney princess movie?
a number that weirds you out?
do you have an emotional support water bottle?
do you wear jewelry?
which do you find yourself using, american or british english?
would you say you have good taste in music?
how’s your spice tolerance?
what’s your favorite or go-to outfit?
last meal on earth?
preferred pasta noodle?
ask me anything !
leave an ask for the person you reblog it from!
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elliesfreckle · 2 days ago
Text
over & out | radio au
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📟 : record four 𖣠 do you know what's the best about dreams?
⏯ synopsis : you’re a voice on the other side of the radio. she’s your wrong frequency — a mistake. a fortune, maybe, at the edge of a devastated world. you never told her your name. she never asked what you looked like. but when the nights get colder, in a world full of silence, you keep talking.
⏯ pairing : ellie williams & fem!reader
⏯ content warning : swearing; canon tlou after outbreak world;
⏯ word count : 7k
⏯ a/n : it took me forever to finish, i know, i know. im sorry!! but! now i actually like it so much… my favourite chapter to write, but i know i say that about every chapter. i hope yall wont get bored with the little setting inserts and a bit of the reader's lore drop. you know what i'm gonna say next—sorry for any mistakes and repetitive words. and enjoy ♡︎ ps. i forgot to add some formalities: if you wanna be tagged, or removed, let me know. also— your comments and reblogs make me so uhm—
♡︎ taglist : @angelaut0matec @valeisaslut @bluminescent-moon @marleeeen111 @oneinameliann @500daysofpoppy @isabelckl @elliescoquettegirl @mars4hellokitty @wiildandfluorescent @ellsbigshoes @haminii @500daysofpoppy @purinukie @soltwent
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You had told her to call you later that night, and she did.
That night and the one after it.
It was something like a miracle in the world of science. The outbreak was slightly bending the rules of nature, messing with tides, moon phases, and magnetic poles. And the radio waves as well. Links of the same chain—or the butterfly effect.
Your stranger girl somewhere in Wyoming isn’t a butterfly, you already know that. She’s a moth. The kind that exists for you only after sunset. The one instinctively drawn to light.
She said something stupid in your headset—she had torn through miles of distance, the poor quality of the equipment, forced these waves of signal to listen to her. Only to drop her typical “you here?” and make you interrupt your business and sigh with laughter.
You were here. Probably just for her. There were no groups to coordinate—not after what had happened. Loss teaches patience: no more night patrols, or you’ll run out of people. No tasks. You sat there, surrounded by copper wires pulled from a broken lamp, trying to rebuild the whole circuit of the dead transceiver. Just in case. In case of her.
By the end of the night—by the end of your shift and your renewed conversation—the transceiver was fixed. You’d learnt that she can also work with her hands and has a horse named Shimmer.
She asked what you were doing, and you told her—stripping wires, re-soldering contacts, trying not to burn your fingers off. She said that sounded badass. You shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it, and told her it was mostly just tedious. She laughed (oh, that laughter; more like a sharp, voiceless  exhale) and said tedious things keep you alive these days.
She asked if your hands were steady. You said they had to be. She said hers were too, when it came to her rifle, and for a moment there was a quietness between you, like she was thinking of something else entirely. You were thinking about hands holding a rifle. Yours became less steady. You burned your fingers at the end.
She said she wasn’t good with words. You thought she was perfect with them, just didn’t know how to place them right yet.
Then she told you Shimmer hates rain. You told her everyone hates rain. She said, “Not you, I bet,” and you didn’t answer.
By the time dawn crawled into the room, bruising the windowpanes with lilac light, you’d finished the repairs. Your fingers were smelling of copper and burned plastic. And for a fleeting moment, in the grey hour between night and morning, you wished you could fix yourself as easily as you fixed old circuits.
She was still there on the other end, breathing softly into your headset, like she wasn’t planning on going anywhere soon. You realised she’d fallen asleep only ten minutes later—her quiet breaths filling your ears, each one making the static pulse in a strangely comforting rhythm.
You didn’t say anything after that. Couldn’t. And you couldn’t bring yourself to end the connection either. Just sat there, listening to her steady breathing, your words caught in your throat and locked away by the pressed-down button she’d forgotten to release. You told yourself you’d hang up in a minute, just one more minute, until the room turned from lilac to silver.
What was she dreaming about?
She never told you that. But she told you many other things.
There are many of these Jackson-convos in your collection. She comes again, and you answer. She’s gone—you don’t report. A ritual. The first fake record in your logbook is left a couple of pages behind, forgotten. Time drags on, the summer’s living its last days, temperatures dropping, crying with starfalls.
“Yo.”
You raise your head from the book you’ve read four times this year. The choice isn’t great, and you’re not picky. The ink is smudged at the edges from old rainwater or tears—you don’t remember which.
The same old clock shows 2:32. Its hands sometimes twitch convulsively, and the next minute they slow down—its days are almost over. After that, you’ll probably have to tell time by the sun. Pretty convenient for someone working nights, right?
“You should call me with a ‘Do you copy?’ message,” you say into your mic, low and quiet enough to not wake up the room around you. If there was anyone to wake up.
You’re speaking honestly, or at least as honestly as you ever speak these days—to her, to yourself, to the fresh jar of wildflowers perched by your elbow. Tiny purple heads bowing under their own weight, like they’re asleep too. Your protest is nothing but the act of protesting itself, and you smile faintly into the dimness, amused. There’s no way you’d actually want to hear those dull words from her, words burned into your memory by hundreds of other voices that came and went through your headset. People come and go. She comes and stays.
You don’t want her to go.
She snorts so loud that the signal creaks with a burst of noise.
“That’s bullshit,” she says, mockingly laughing. “I won’t say that.”
“But—”
“No way. It sounds so stupid.”
“You know what’s even more stupid?” you cross your arms, defensive. The chill bites through your jacket, grounding you for a second. You scrape the stripe on your shoulder with your nail. The threads stick out because of its age. You sigh. “You.”
“Did I personally offend you?” her voice is warm, scratching at the edge of a chuckle.
“Now every time I say that, I’ll remember your valuable remark.”
“Then just fuck them. Greet people with normal greetings.”
“Normal ones like, let me remember—” you pause, dramatically bending your fingers to name the list. “‘ugm—Montana, it’s me’, or ‘Hi, nightshifter’, or (my personal favourite) ‘sup’. No more, no less, right?”
She whistles and shifts in her seat. You hear something similar to the rustling of pages. Could she be reading too? Unlikely. Once you were describing to each other how your work place looked, so now you could imagine her blending into the permanent clutter of her desk.
“Woah, sounds way cooler. Who said that? Kinda wanna meet her.”
Jackson wants to play, you think, catching the teasing drawl in her tone.
Tonight you’re more than ready to play back.
“Yeah, go find another. She’s already taken.”
You bite down on your lip, feeling heat pool in your stomach. She clicks her tongue, a low sound that sends a flicker of something dark and sweet down your spine.
“Montana, you’re on fire today.”
This is what you like most about the two of you. The way distance strips away everything else, leaving only words between you.
Talking to someone so far away feels like standing in the dark with your eyes closed, safe in knowing they can’t see you—only hear what you choose to give them.
You can let yourself burn a little brighter, say things you’d never risk to say if you were face to face. Let your words spill out without thinking twice. You don’t have to measure them, wrap them in polite tones, weigh them against the flicker of someone’s gaze to check if you’ve said too much.
Here, you don’t worry about the quiet gaps or the wrong expressions on your face. You don’t have to look anyone in the eyes or smile when your mouth feels too tired to move. But, ironically, you smile so much with her.
Here, in this crackling darkness, your voice is enough. You can be sharp, teasing, cruel, soft. You can flirt. You can curse. You can admit you haven’t slept in two days or that you’re terrified of your own dreams. You can say things that would rot on your tongue otherwise, hidden and heavy.
Because she’s just a voice, and you’re just a voice. And that’s what makes it so easy.
So safe.
So damn dangerous.
You’re not breaking any laws—if there are even laws left to break. This isn’t wrong. This is yours. Quiet, secret, harmless. Just a distant friend, and really, what harm is there in that?
You turn a page, words blur and settle under the thin light.
“What’re you doing?” she asks, breaking the hum, as if she could see the way your shoulders slump in the chair, the way your mind wanders.
“Reading.”
“At this hour?” There’s a grin hidden in her tone. “First line of your page, c’mon. Impress me.”
You sigh, running your thumb along the paper’s worn edge. Your eyes flick down the page, searching, until the sentence finds you.
Of course. You shake your head.
Fucking perfect.
“I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”
There’s a pause. You can almost hear her squint in confusion before she snorts too loud for 3 am.
“What the hell, girl… you got chairs for all your imaginary friends?”
A small smile tugs at your lips. “Well, one I definitely have.”
“Hey!” Her indignant laugh crackles through the headset. “That’s awful. Don’t you have anything else in your library?”
“What’s not awful then?”
“Comics?”
You let out a short breath of laughter, pressing your palm to your forehead. “And how exactly are we gonna share pictures? Telepathically?”
“Well-well.” she hums,  the sound curling low and warm in your ears. “Any encyclopedias?”
“And who’s the nerd here now?” you tease back, still remembering, but your voice is softer than before.
“Can’t hide my nerdy ass anymore…” she mumbles, suddenly declassified.
Your chest rises and falls peacefully in time with her invisible presence. You imagine her lying on her back somewhere far away, her hair probably a mess—you can’t help but think of it as nothing but a mess—and her eyes half-lidded with sleep.
“Why encyclopedias?” you ask, your tone gentler now, testing the dark for her secrets.
She exhales, almost like she’s forgotten you’re listening.
“Dunno. Guess I just… always wanted to know how shit works. The world. Stars. All that. At the end—I mean, where we’re now—nothing else really matters except space. And even that… doesn’t give a fuck about us. We’ll all be gone long before the sun burns out. Kinda comforting, in a fucked up way.”
And she is not good with words?
You tuck your knees up to your chest in your chair, hugging them close, and rest your chin on top. For you, space feels like loneliness in its purest form.
“You like stars?”
“Used to…”
Her voice is quieter, vulnerable. You know she’d hate this ‘v’ word. Her shell is just like yours, stronger maybe. She’s made of stone—you’re made of glass. North and South; plus and minus—an impossible duo.
“I mean, I went to a museum once. With… someone.”
You wait. You’ve learned not to force words out, the way people force water from a dry well. Eventually, they come.
“He—uh, he made it like I was really there. Like I could… touch all that stuff. Spacesuits, rockets, moon buggies. I got this flyer. Still keep it.”
A faint smile flickers at the corners of your mouth, though your chest feels unbearably tight. “Sounds like he was a good person.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. There is a pause. “He’s a good liar.”
The static hisses. Your smile fades away. You hear her swallow. “We… don’t really talk about that shit anymore.”
Her armor is all those ellipses, the half-sentences she never finishes. The wounds aren’t treated—they fester behind the ‘whatever’s, ‘shit’s and ‘fuck it’s. Not a girl—just an unspoken revelation, bits of honesty sharp enough to cut if touched.
Your throat stings with words you won’t say. I’m sorry. That must hurt. Tell me more. I’m here. But you only nod, swallow your sorries and whisper:
“Stars are still there, you know.”
There for her. Shining. Falling.
Who cares if the sun burns out, when there are so many stars lighting up in the dark?
“Yeah. Guess they are.”
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The sun isn’t even fully risen when you leave your little comms room—your kingdom of wires and static. The morning air is pale, thin, quiet in a way only morning can be, but people are already awake. Always are. Shifting shapes between makeshift tents and half-ruined buildings, voices low and restrained. No one wastes words this early. Everyone’s busy carrying crates, checking traps, mending fences, preparing for a day that will strip a little more life off their tired bodies.
You pause on the doorstep and inhale. The chill fills your lungs, sharp with the scent of pine needles and wet earth. There’s dew clinging to the grass. The sky is grey-blue and streaked with soft gold near the horizon. Instead of the heavy ache you expect after a night with no sleep, there’s only a peaceful, startling freshness against your face, as if the world is gently pressing its cool palms to your skin.
Funny, you think, how easy it is to forget all this exists when you’re trapped indoors, surrounded by rust and blinking lights. Yet all around you, this pretentious sacrifice—you don’t even know for what, humanity?—is ignored.
Out here, everything feels simpler. Trees don’t lie. Dawn doesn’t pretend. The birds aren’t screaming warnings down broken headsets; they’re just… alive. Singing because that’s what they do. Meanwhile, you spend your nights tangled up in old technology, chasing something distant and unreachable—trying to keep something human alive in a world that keeps forgetting how.
Her unsteady voice is in your head—too light without the burden of the headset. We’ll all be gone long before the sun burns out.
Your gaze drifts across the clearing to a lone pine, dark against the paling haze, its needles trembling. She’s right. Humans will vanish long before that tree meets its end—before rot hollows it from within or lightning splits it down to smoking ruin. The earth will go on spinning. The sun will keep rising, scattering light across empty roads and collapsed rooftops. The birds will keep singing without caring who listens. Seasons will come and go, wind will scatter seeds across cracked concrete, ivy will bury the broken buildings, wrapping steel and glass in silent green shrouds.
One day the world will forget there were ever people here at all.
And standing there in the soft hush, you find something devastatingly beautiful in that. A quiet mercy. An absolution. The idea that nature will keep writing its story without them—without you.
The world won’t remember you. But maybe she will. The one fascinated by comics and stars.
You walk slowly, blinking against the light. Your knees ache from sitting all night, your eyes feel gritty, throat dry from hours of quiet talking and breathing in recycled dust. The gravel crunches under your boots. You keep your head down, mind heavy and humming with afterthoughts.
The morning shift change happened an hour ago. Someone else is in the comm room now, sitting in your chair, flicking through channels and logging transmissions with half the precision you would. But it’s enough. Daytime is easy—most of the chatter is routine, people reporting locations, asking for gate clearance, reading out supply lists. Anyone can keep the frequency open, anyone can follow protocol. They don’t need to know signal theory or how to splice broken wires back to life. They don’t need to calculate skip distances or translate old encryption codes left behind by the Fireflies.
That’s why you asked for nights. Nights are quieter, lonelier, but if something happens—something outside the script—they need you. They need someone who knows what to do when the system fails. Who can stretch a dying signal across impossible miles. Who can hear a girl’s voice through the static when everyone else hears nothing.
Sometimes you cover daytime too, when there’s no choice. Sometimes you teach others, quick lessons scrawled on scraps of paper, diagrams in smudged pencil. But mostly, you stay in the dark.
The breakfast line forms along the old cafeteria wall, half collapsed on one side and reinforced with salvaged tin sheets on the other. You stand in the short queue for rations. The tables here are repurposed crates; metal mugs clang against them with muted finality. Someone’s child tugs at their mother’s sleeve, eyes dark with hunger and sleep. Two soldiers stand off to the side, rifles slung over their shoulders, speaking low as they check maps and routes for the day’s patrol. Their boots scuff against gravel; their movements are unhurried but restless, as if waiting to be given a purpose.
You shove your hands in your pockets, kicking at pebbles with the toe of your boot. Summer’s supposed to be easy. Green, blooming, alive. But these woods have been silent for years, emptied of deer and elk long ago. Even birds seem fewer these days.
Two weeks ago, fish still came from the northern dam. Last week, radio towers kept humming with trade requests. Now the towers are quiet. The dam’s gone silent.
Hunger has a sound too—not an empty stomach, but the way people start avoiding each other’s eyes in the breakfast line. Conversations grow sparse. No one wants to say it out loud: that cables and frequency waves can’t be eaten, that even the brightest circuits can’t keep bones from showing through skin.
There’s a soft clatter as the worker behind the counter slides your portion forward—two strips of dried meat, tough as old leather, smelling of old salt and smoke; and half a fist of coarse brown bread. Enough to keep you upright. Not enough to feel full. You murmur your thanks, fingers curling around the small tray.
Somewhere out there, the patrol sent for trade supplies should’ve been on their way home. They were meant to bring back flour, powdered milk, tins of oil—whatever the agricultural base further south could spare in return for tools and spare parts. But no one’s heard from them in five days. Silence is never a good sign.
You keep your gaze low as you move through the line, catching glimpses of the soldiers adjusting their straps, of women portioning out food with practiced resignation, of children staring at crumbs in their palms. The patrol was out there on your watch. But it’s not your fault, you tell yourself. You keep telling yourself.
It doesn’t matter. You’re not hungry enough to feel desperate yet. You wonder when that day will come—when these portions will stop being annoying and start being terrifying. When you’ll have to leave this place. When all your fragile wires and carefully tuned dials will be left behind in the dust, unnecessary.
A voice cuts into your thoughts.
“Hey.”
Soft, hesitant. You glance up. One of the girls from the perimeter watch. You struggle to remember her name. Marcie? Mara? Something short, clipped, with an ‘m’ in it. You give up before you find it.
Her hair’s short above her shoulders, sleeves rolled up, knuckles scraped raw. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, looking awkward just standing in front of you with her tray.
“Morning,” you say, voice hoarse. It comes out more like a croak.
She clears her throat, eyes flicking away for a second.
“Were you the one who fixed the uplink last week? I think I asked half the camp trying to find you.”
She lets out a quiet, awkward chuckle, like she’s laughing at herself for even asking. There’s a scattering of small moles across her cheekbone, and her smile’s a little crooked on one side—not in a bad way. Just… human. Real.
The memory comes back—a corroded connector in the transceiver, signal bleeding out into nothing. You soldered it back together with half-dead tools and trembling hands at four in the morning. The Jackson girl was rumbling about a comic book plot she half-remembered, or maybe a story about a stray cat she named after a movie villain. She talked until her words slurred with sleep. Ended up snoring through her patrol shift. You’d laughed so quietly no one heard.
Your shoulders loosen as the thought drifts through you. Without meaning to, you smile—just a flicker at the corners of your mouth—before you look back at… Marcy? Mary? Molly?
“Yeah, guess it was me.”
The nervous tension around her mouth eases, replaced by a genuine smile. Her teeth catch on her lower lip as if she’s trying to keep her relief in check.
“We would’ve been screwed without the comms working,” she says, voice warmer now. “You probably saved our asses.”
You shrug, looking down at the thin plastic tray in her hands. Compliments feel foreign.
As she shifts, you catch sight of the butterfly patch on her sleeve—same as the one on yours, crookedly stitched above the MCB insignia. Everyone here wears it, though no one talks about who started it, or why.
Maybe it’s just a reminder that there’s still beauty left in this world, even if it’s been torn apart and sewn back together with shaking hands. Or maybe it’s a joke, a soft rebellion against the Fireflies who promised salvation and left ashes behind. Just the same old story—fragile things trying to outlive the dark.
Either way, the thread it’s made of is fraying, curling at the edges. Just like yours.
“You’re welcome?” you mutter, scratching the back of your neck. Then, quieter, “I mean… that’s my job.”
When you look up again, she’s still smiling, brighter this time, like she sees something in you worth holding onto for a moment longer.
“Yeah, well. Still. Listen, we… a few of us usually sit by the western fence after shift change. Drink something hot, talk shit about the world, trade cigarettes and whatever’s edible these days,” she laughs at that, soft and self-deprecating. “You should come by sometime. If you want.”
You blink at her, caught off guard. The humming noise of the crowded yard fills the pause between you—metal clinking, boots on gravel, distant shouting from the watchtower.
She looks away, just for a second, and when her eyes come back to yours, the look in them is gentler. Less sure of itself. “Or… it’s okay if not. I just thought… y’know, you’re always working nights. I’ve heard you so many times, but. We never really see you.”
Your chest tightens at the offer. For a moment, the thought of it claws at your ribs—being out there, words catching in your throat, eyes darting anywhere but at people’s faces. But there’s also a part of you that wonders what it would be like. To sit with them. To hear laughter not filtered through mics.
Existing together in the same fragile moment—so vulnerable, your personal challenge. You imagine yourself there, silent, staring at your boots, feeling the alien rhythm of them—of living.
You swallow, shifting your packaged breakfast. “Maybe? Thank you,” you say, quiet enough she has to lean in to hear it.
She doesn’t push it. Just beams at that. A flicker of relief crosses her face before she turns away to find a place in line, leaving you standing there with your stale bread and jerky. You watch her go, the morning light catching in her hair like the ears of wheat, and you wonder—briefly—what her name really is. It’s too late to ask.
You wonder if it’s always been like this—if your tongue only works properly when there’s a headset pressed to your ear, when the other person is nothing more than a voice carried through distance. With them, words come easy, sharp and honest and a little cruel sometimes, just for fun. Out here, though, with real eyes watching you, expecting something you don’t quite know how to give, your thoughts scatter like birds in the brush.
Maybe that’s why you like your Jackson girl so much. Because on the radio, you can be anyone. Yourself, even. Or someone bolder.
The path back to your quarters is empty, silent but for the crunch of gravel and the faint metallic scent of rust hanging in the air. The ground is littered with fallen screws, splintered wood, fragments of cables gnawed through by time and damp. Somewhere nearby, water drips in a steady rhythm from a cracked pipe, echoing through the stillness. You pass a wall covered in flaking posters for bands that don’t exist anymore, their bright inks bleached to ghosts by sun and rain.
You almost miss her at first—just a flash of movement near the corner. Then, two gleaming eyes catch yours from beneath a twisted beam. She steps out slowly, cautious, tail flicking with annoyance or pain. It’s hard to tell. Her fur is matted and sticking out in sharp tufts, ribs etched beneath the thin skin. One ear is torn at the tip. She looks like she just clawed her way out of hell.
“Hey there, scrappy thing.”
You murmur, voice barely carrying over the quiet dawn.
You crouch down, then sit on the cold step, unwrapping your breakfast. The cat creeps closer. There’s enough to take the edge off your own emptiness. Not enough to share.
But you tear the jerky in half anyway and hold it out. She looks at you with narrowed green eyes, suspicious, but hunger’s stronger than fear. The cat snatches it so quickly her whiskers brush your fingers, and you flinch, though she’s too thin to do real damage.
If anyone saw you now, they’d shake their heads. Waste of rations on a half-wild animal. But her hollow eyes look at you like she understands something no human ever will.
You watch her eat, tearing and gulping, crumbs scattering across the porch. Your own bite tastes like nothing, but you chew anyway, gaze drifting out to the horizon. The sky is softening into pale gold above the distant tree line. For a moment, you imagine just walking past the buildings, tables and fences, and heading straight into those woods. Away from this half-starved human world.
There’s nothing out there for you. And you’re too tired to keep searching.
A crow caws somewhere beyond the abandoned fence, the sound settling heavy in your chest. Nothing moves except the cat, bored already, busy cleaning her paw with long, deliberate strokes. The world is quiet. It feels like the two of you are the only ones left to witness this slow beginning of the new day.
Behind your back, inside those walls, there are bunks crammed side by side like crooked teeth. At night, the air is thick with other people’s breathing, the restless shuffle of limbs in sleep. There’s no space there, no quiet to sink into.
Maybe that’s why you cling so tightly to your comms room—hours alone, just you and the faint glow of dust-fogged bulbs. Here, in the dark, you have room to exist.
You don’t dream of home. Because home isn’t a bunk or a cracked ceiling above your head.
Home is… something else. You just don’t know what yet.
You finish your food without hurry. She finishes hers faster. For a moment you just sit there together, sharing the silence, until the cat flicks her tail and slips away between the twisted weeds.
You watch the place she disappears into for a long while, and then you stand up, brushing crumbs from your lap, and go inside.
Just for a second, you wish you could follow her.
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“Hey. You awake?”
Her voice slips through the static like it’s always been there. Like it never left.
You glance at the clock out of habit. It’s dead. Its hands froze at 2:32. You think it’s stupid how your mind instantly drags you back to her—to that night. Just a broken clock, dead batteries, nothing more. But still… you keep looking.
With a quiet sigh, you reach for the radio and flick through the frequencies. Static crackles, voices bleed in and out—
“Post Three, checking in. Nothing to report.”
You murmur a short acknowledgment, your fingers moving automatically, logging their words in a notebook already filled with cramped scrawl. Another channel. A low conversation between two watchmen about the moon looking bigger tonight. Another. A short burst of chatter from a watchpost further south. Another.
Finally, you settle on hers.
The silence there feels different—thicker, waiting, almost warm. Like leaning your forehead against a locked door, knowing someone is standing just on the other side.
Tonight feels more crowded. Usually, it’s just you and her, tucked away alone in the dark, as if the world outside ceased to exist once her voice came through. But tonight… the air is full of people, fragments of other lives weaving through the static like threads of bright color. It’s like you’re both hiding at the edge of a crowded party, pressed together in a dim hallway—or sitting in the kitchen, away from music and dancing, away from everyone who’s too busy laughing to notice the way night softens voices and opens up hearts.
The quiet corner where people end up talking about life and death and the way the world spins, with the morning just an hour away.
Just two strangers, breathing the same secret air.
The corner no one ever comes down—but any second now, someone might. A random passerby. Or a whole crowd pushing through, flooding your quiet space with light and noise. The thought makes something tighten low in your stomach—part fear, part thrill. Like standing too close to the edge of something deep and dark, and wanting, despite everything, to lean just a little closer.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, pressing your thumb into the curve of the dial. “I’m here.”
You’re sitting cross-legged, a blanket sliding down your shoulders. Outside the small window, the sun hasn’t even started thinking about coming. The cat curls on your legs, her thin body trembling with each exhale. You stroke her bony spine. She purrs like a faulty motor.
“What’re you up to?” Her voice is lazy, scratchy with tiredness.
You wonder—how much labour did she finish before calling you? Was it heavy work, hard on her shoulders, did it hurt her hands, or her back? Was it her heart that hurt, or her body?
You want to ask. Want to know everything.
But you keep your mouth shut.
Because asking would weigh the moment down, drag it under, when all either of you wants is to float above the heaviness for a while. To keep this place light. Safe. A little unreal, like it’s supposed to be.
“Thinking,” you say, staring at the unmoving clock, the quiet room, the little creature keeping you company tonight. “About the fact my clock’s dead. Stopped at half past two. Maybe that’s a sign.”
“Sign of what?” she snorts softly. “That your maintenance skills suck?”
“Hey, rude,” you say, tucking your hair back beneath the headband. “Maybe time just… gave up here first. Before the rest of the world.”
She hums, neither agreeing nor teasing this time. You hear shifting fabric on her end, the creak of what might be a mattress or a floorboard.
“What’re you thinking about apart from clocks dying tragic deaths?”
You hesitate. Then sigh, shifting your legs under you. The cat stretches out, her tail flicking against your ankle.
“There’s a cat here,” you say quietly. “Been hanging around the station. Looks like shit, to be honest. All bones and knots.”
She hums. “Stray?”
“Yeah. We’re sharing breakfasts now. Can hear her purring all the way up to my skull.”
“Sharing is caring,” she teases softly. “You got a name for her yet?”
“I just call her… Cat.”
“Well, that’s no fun. Lemme think…”
You hear rustling on her end, as if she’s rolling onto her back, staring up at whatever ceiling she’s under tonight. There’s a long, thoughtful pause. Then a solemn conclusion:
“Name her… Megatron.”
You scoff, loud enough that it echoes in your little booth. The sharp sound startles the cat from her sleep; she jerks upright, fur bristling, and slips down to the floor with a quiet thump before slinking into the shadows. A pang of regret twists in your chest.
“What the hell, Jackson… you’re terrible with names. Never have children.”
She seems incredibly proud of herself and chuckles.
“We had a horse once. Named him Callus.”
“Jesus Christ,” despite your words, you can’t help but smile until your cheeks hurt. “Stay away from my Cat.”
She whispers low, almost fond.
“No promises.”
There is another burst of rustling, she sounds muffled. “But look. She’s badass. And ugly as sin, you said. Fits perfectly.”
“She’s not ugly!” you mutter.
You roll your eyes and glance around, searching for the cat’s silhouette. She’s curled up on the old torn couch, looking like she’s found the closest thing to heaven she’s ever known. And maybe… maybe it is.
Megatron. God.
“Hey, guess what,” she begins suddenly, with the purest of grins. You already feel that something isn’t right there. You’re cautious, suspicious and, of course, curious.
“What?”
“Jesse and Dina made a bet on you.”
Her friends. It’s funny how you learned their names before you even learned hers. She mentions them so easily. Their names slip off her tongue with an absent fondness, like constellations she’s used to seeing every night. You wonder what it feels like—to call someone by name without choking on it.
You shake your head with a sly smile.
“On me?”
“Yep.” She's clearly enjoying this. “Jesse thinks you’re my imaginary friend. Like, he’s convinced I’m making you up to avoid helping him with patrol paperwork.”
You grin, imagining it. “And Dina?”
She exhales, like she’s rolling her eyes. “She’s worse. She thinks you’re some spy trying to get Jackson’s strategic secrets outta me.”
You clap a hand over your mouth to keep from making the same mistake twice and waking up the whole town with your embarrassingly stupid laugh.
“Guess I’m doing a shit job so far.”
“And the bet is—” she continues, amusement lacing her words. “If you’re real, Jesse has to do Dina’s patrols for a week. If you’re not… well, I think he gets her breakfast rations for two days.”
You smirk with the corner of your mouth.
“Aw, poor Jesse. Guess I should side with Dina… but I kinda love them thinking you’ve gone nuts.”
“Yeah?” The question carries that crooked smile of hers, teasing and pretending to be dangerous. “Makes two of us.”
“Well, obviously. I am your imaginary friend, after all.”
For a heartbeat, silence falls between you. Then her voice returns, stripped of humour. Raw with its honesty. Almost tender.
“Lucky me.”
The words land hard in your chest, a heaviness blooming under your ribs, pressing into your lungs. You swallow around it, blinking at the table’s scratched surface as if answers might appear there. But nothing comes. Only the warmth that spreads, slow and aching, through every part of you.
This damn Jackson, with her damn Jackson ways—turning the world light with her teasing, only to let it crash with two quiet words. Her simplest phrases settle so heavily. She doesn’t even need to see you to leave marks like that, doesn’t need to reach out to pull something loose inside you. And God, you’d give up every brittle morning ration just to catch the shape of her mouth as she let those words fall into the dark.
Your fingers find a stray pen and roll it from one side of the radio to the other. You press at the ragged edge of your thumbnail, feeling the sting where the cuticle tears.
You don’t know what to say to that—there’s no smart comeback, no sarcastic retort to deflect the way your chest tightens. So you clear your throat, searching for any anchor to pull yourself back to safety.
“I almost forgot,” you say, the words rushing out too quick, too eager to cover the silence her honesty left behind. You lean forward in your chair, reaching for something on the shelf beside the radio.
“I’ve got something for you tonight.”
There’s a pause on her end. You think you hear the faint rustle of blankets as she shifts.
“For me?” she perks up; you can hear it in her inhale. Surprise and curiosity dancing together in her tone.
You run your thumb along the frayed edge of the book before opening it, letting the musty scent of yellowed pages seep into your lungs. It’s heavy in your hands—not by size, but by memory. On the inside cover, scrawled at an angle in the top corner, there’s a short line in faded ink. A date. A few words. Their handwriting. You don’t read it. You never do.
You never let yourself read the book fully, not anymore. Just enough to know it’s there. Enough to feel the echo of them sitting beside you, telling you to look up at the stars instead of down at equations.
You haven’t taken it out since—well. Since they were gone.
You flip through until you find the first page of a chapter.
“Yeah.” you rub your eyes, pushing away the memory. “Thought you might like… a bedtime story. Black holes, wormholes and time travelling… Romance of physics.”
She laughs again, properly this time, and you think about how that sound feels like warmth against your chest.
“Hit me with it, Montana. I’m all ears.”
And for a moment, the room feels warmer. As if time moves forward only because the two of you choose to fill it with your voices. The coming morning simply doesn’t exist for you now. In the night, anything can seem possible, though daylight will always prove it was only a small, beautiful foolishness. And you’re drowning in it.
You start reading about the end of stars—how even giants collapse under their own gravity. How their deaths make space brighter. How their endings become beginnings for something else.
Something that outlasts stopped clocks and frozen nights.
“Listen to this.” you flip to chapter 6, your whisper is soft in the dim room. Your thumb traces the faded line of text. “‘A black hole is the result of a large star using up all of its hydrogen fuel… pulled back by the star’s gravitational field. …we cannot see them…but you know they exist.’”
Silence blooms between you, soft and infinite, broken only by the quiet static of the radio—like distant stars crackling light-years away.
“That’s…” her voice comes, hushed, contemplative. “Beautiful in a weird way.”
Your lips curve, small and tired. You shift on your chair, gaze falling to the shadowy corners of your room, the sleeping cat curled like a faint galaxy on the battered couch, tail wrapped around herself as if holding in her last warmth.
“You’re quiet,” you murmur, smoothing out the pages with your fingers, feeling the coolness seep into your skin. “Does it make sense to you?”
“Yeah,” she breathes out. There’s a noise on her side—maybe the sound of her exhale. “It’s like… that feeling I get talking to you, even at night. I don’t see you, but I know you’re there.”
Your heart tightens, painfully gentle in your chest. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the chair. Above you, beyond the cracked ceiling, beyond the rotting beams and sky thick with dark clouds, there are stars, scattered like handfuls of silver dust thrown across the black. Silent, unreachable, burning with light older than this broken world.
You think of her words. How even if the distance devours you whole, even if your voices are pulled back into nothing like hydrogen into collapsed suns, there is still this truth between you:
You don’t see each other. But you exist.
For a moment, it feels like the universe still makes sense.
And then—
Just quiet.
The quiet of stars breathing in the dark.
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You go.
It’s easier than you thought it would be—just putting one foot in front of the other, walking through the dim-lit paths towards the glow of lanterns. The sky above deepening to velvet blue as the first stars begin to pierce the dusk. The firelight flickers ahead, warm and alive, drawing you closer.
They’re gathered outside, voices low and laughter soft around the crackling flames that send golden sparks swirling upward, fading into the night. Someone’s telling a story about a patrol gone wrong; someone else interrupts, half-choking on dry bread with silent laughter. A quiet chorus of life.
You stand at the edge for a moment, hidden in the shadows. And maybe it’s because of her, or maybe it’s about her, maybe it’s because of the way her words still burn in your chest like falling stars, but you step forward. You find a spot a little apart, settle down on the cool earth, pulling your knees close.
Her voice echoes softly in your mind—“Lucky me.”—and you wonder if she’s watching the same stars from somewhere far away.
Someone shifts closer to you—the girl with the moles. You finally know her name now. It’s spoken so casually by one of her friends that it just… settles into your mind without effort, like it had always been there.
She smiles at you across the flickering light, her mouth curling up in a way that’s almost shy, almost brave. You don’t smile back, not really—but there’s a flicker of something in your eyes that makes her look away, cheeks warm in front of the camp fire.
Above, a sudden streak of light cuts across the sky—a shooting star, brilliant and fleeting.
You breathe it in.
Maybe this is a sign. More meaningful than the clock and half past two. Maybe she’d laugh at you.
It’s a small moment in the vast universe—a reminder that even in the darkness, light falls. And sometimes—it’s enough to wish upon. Maybe they were not so wrong, and when you’re lost, looking for that light is the only thing that’s truly worth it.
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[ log saved: 3:58 ]
M: Let’s share something. J: A bed? M: Funny.
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maidragoste · 3 days ago
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Inevitable
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Ex Husband!Cregan Stark x Reader
I am happy to share more of the ex husband Cregan universe!
I really hope you all enjoy it because you have no idea how many times I've rewritten this idea🥹🥹
As I always say, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. Above all, the comments motivate me to keep writing 🥰🥰💖💖
I remind you that my inbox is open in case you have questions, headcanons, or ideas you'd like to share 🤗💖
I also want to let you know that my commissions are still open!
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
Now, I wish you all a good read!
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Whenever Cregan comes to see Rickon, he stays at your house. Your family says it's a bad idea and that he should stay somewhere else, but you don't see the point in making Cregan spend so much money on a hotel room when your guest room is free. Besides, Rickon is happy to have you home; he likes his dad at the table when they eat. You notice he talks more excitedly about kindergarten when Cregan is there than when it's just the two of you.
But today, Rickon is grumpy. You can hear Cregan struggling to get their son to eat his vegetables as you go downstairs. It's strange because your Rickon was never a picky eater, just like his father, who seemed to be able to eat anything.
“What's going on?” you ask as you enter the dining room, approaching where Rickon is sitting. “Are you okay?” you ask as you touch his forehead, wanting to see if he has a fever. Your concern eases a little when you no longer feel his hot skin.
You're so focused on Rickon that you don't even notice how Cregan stares at you, fascinated. You always look beautiful, but it affects him to see you wearing the pretty dress he gave you a few months ago, using Mother's Day as an excuse. In reality, what affects him the most is the burgundy lipstick, the same lipstick that left his lips and face marked every time you kissed him.
“I’m not hungry,” Rickon says, still arms crossed, though Cregan notices his frown soften at your touch.
Your eyes move away from Rickon and focus on Cregan. “How much did he eat?” you ask because you didn’t see how much he served him, so you have no idea if what Rickon left on his plate is a lot or a little.
“He doesn’t even get to eat half of it,” Cregan replies, ignoring how his son looks at him, betrayed for not lying to you. “I asked him if his stomach hurts, and he said no. He probably got tired at the park, and that’s why he’s grumpy,” he says, trying to reassure you.
In reality, Cregan thinks Rickon is only acting this way because you’re having dinner with your family instead of eating with them. But he won’t tell you because the last thing he wants is to make you feel bad. It’s his weekend; he can take care of Rickon alone, and you deserve a break from being a mother.
“I’m not grumpy,” your son grumbles, proving the opposite.
Before Cregan or you can say anything, the doorbell rings. The moment you go to open the door, Rickon starts kicking the table. Cregan catches his leg before it hits the table again. His grip isn't strong enough to hurt him, but it's strong enough to keep him from moving.
"You're going to hurt yourself, and your mom will be sad," he said. There's no harshness in his voice, but his gaze is stern. "Besides, if you hurt yourself, you won't be able to play soccer at the park."
Rickon doesn't say anything, but his lips form a straight line, and he stops trying to move his foot. Cregan lets go just in time for you and your father to enter. Cregan can't help but feel a little sad when he sees that you're already wearing your coat, hiding your dress.
“Cregan” is the only thing Otto Hightower says by way of greeting. The coldness in his voice is evident. You grimace, uncomfortable, and Rickon frowns.
“Sir,” he greets, unintimidated; after years, he’s grown accustomed to your father’s attitude. To Otto Hightower, he would always be an idiot who impregnated his daughter and then took her to the North, far from him. Besides, he doesn’t care much for Otto’s opinion; in his opinion, your father doesn’t deserve you as a daughter.
“Rickon, I heard you don’t want to eat your vegetables,” Otto said, his voice returning to his normal tone. “If you don’t eat them, you won’t get taller.”
“I don’t care,” the boy replies. Cregan bites his lip to keep from smiling, but any humor he has shows when he sees the alarm in your eyes. Of course, you wouldn’t laugh; you never spoke to your father like that. You always tried hard to be the perfect daughter. He still remembered how distressed you were when you found out about your pregnancy because you were sure your father would be disappointed.
“Rickon, don’t talk to your grandfather like that,” you scold him, still shocked. “I’m so sorry, father. He’s just…”
“Grumpy, you already told me, don't worry,” Otto interrupts your nervous apology. “Well, it's a shame you don't care, Rickon, because I thought you wanted to be taller so you could go with Jaehaera and Jaehaerys on that roller coaster you told me about.”
You watch, impressed, as Rickon goes from being annoyed to picking up his fork and eating again.
“We should go, or we'll be late,” your father says, clearly pleased with himself.
You rush to kiss Rickon on the cheek, and without thinking, you kiss Cregan on the cheek as well. The both stare at each other in surprise when you move away from his face. You're debating whether to apologize or just say goodbye and run away when you see Cregan smile. That smile shouldn't have any effect on you, but you feel heat rise in your cheeks, and for a brief moment, you think about kissing him, but this time like a wife should say goodbye to her husband. But you hear your father call your name, so you wish your favorite boys goodnight and leave, even though you wish you could stay home.
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It wasn't Cregan's plan to stay up waiting for you to come back from dinner. He wasn't worried about your safety because he assumed your father would bring you back home. But then, before going to sleep, Rickon apologized to him for being mean at dinner and confessed that he was only upset because he didn't want you to leave, because he had heard his grandfather tell you that he wanted you to meet someone.
Rickon had no trouble falling asleep; after all, he really was tired from playing in the park. But Cregan couldn't stay still, pacing all over your dining room. Thinking about another man telling you how beautiful you were when he should be the one telling you, you blushing at another man's compliments, and you laughing with another man. He felt jealous and helpless because he felt like he'd put himself in this situation. The selfish part of him tells him that he never should have agreed to sign the divorce, but his love for you is greater, and he could no longer bear how you seemed to wither away with each day you spent in the North.
Cregan still loves you, and sometimes he thinks you feel the same way about him. You two may be divorced, but he's still yours. His heart belongs to you. And in all these months, he's never once considered trying something with another woman. He didn't want to, and he didn't see the point in it. No one could ever take your place, no one could ever make him feel the way you do.
You and Rickon are the best things that ever happened to him, and he hates the idea of another man taking his place in your lives.
As soon as Cregan hears the car, he approaches the dining room window and moves the curtain slightly to see a man get out of the car and open the door for you.
As he watches you accept the man's hand to help you out of the car, even though it wasn't necessary, he knows he should be grateful that the man seems like a gentleman, but the sight only irritates him more. He watches as the two of you walk up to the porch, and now he can get a good look at your companion's face. Fucking Alester Tyrell. Cregan perfectly remembers how that idiot told him, every chance he got, that when you and Alester were little, everyone thought you'd end up marrying him. It shouldn't surprise Cregan that Otto would try to set you up with your rich childhood friend, but damn it, he'd lose his mind if he ever saw you moving on with Alester. That idiot couldn't possibly become Rickon's stepfather.
Cregan is thinking about opening the door and interrupting them. You'd probably be mad at him, but he didn't care; he wasn't going to watch you kissing that idiot. But then he sees Alester trying to move his face closer to yours, and you avert yours. Cregan doesn't need to see any more. He moves away from the window and walks to the entrance. It can't even be five minutes before you walk in.
"Cregan," you say, clearly surprised, looking at him with those doe eyes that always melt his heart.
He doesn't say anything, and you leave the bag of desserts you brought for him and Rickon on the side table. You both know what's going to happen next, and if you were more reasonable, you'd try to avoid it. Or maybe it's inevitable, something that was bound to happen sooner or later. Because you don't think you could ever love another man other than Cregan.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he announces as he takes a step forward, giving you time to back away, run, make up an excuse, or just reject him.
Of course, you don't do any of those things. Instead, you take a step forward, and that's enough for him to stop wasting time and go straight to you.
Cregan's big hands wrap around your waist and pull you toward him as he kisses you. He kisses you like a starving man, and you have no complaints. You kiss him with the same intensity because you crave him, you desire him, and you miss him the same way he misses you.
Cregan and you kiss again and again because you can't get enough of each other, it's as if you need to make up for the time you've been apart.
Alarm bells should go off in your head when Cregan picks you up, but you don't even think about it; you wrap your legs around his hips. It feels right, it feels natural as he carries you to your room. Maybe you always knew the night would end this way, and that's why you chose her dress and lipstick.
And tonight, as Cregan makes love to you, all he thinks about is that he's finally home.
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Taglist for all my House of the Dragon works
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@chaotic-fangirl-blog @venus-flytrap3 @ajordan2020 @iloveallmyboys @sweethoneyblossom1 @fudge13 @crystal-faith   @tita004 @ichanelvxgue @snowprincesa1 @joyouart @rosey1981 @alastorhazbin @papichulo120627 @apollonshootafar @jasminecosmic99 @partypoison00 @labellapeaky @rebelliuna @bxdbxtxh15 @impartinghades @thegirlnextdoorssister @angeliod @snh96 @aleemendoza2425-blog  @natashaobo @watercolorskyy @nyenye @savagemickey03 @kishie8 @ewwwitsel @arabis-world @missusnora @nzygftoji @alisoncdariel @cookielovesbook-akie @partnerincrime0 @klara-lily @427120lxld @justhereiguess2 @buckylahey @wa801 @artistadistrada2002 @thelastemzy @justanotherkpopstanlol @aemondwhoresworld @cassiopeiablog @multiversemayhemme @dixie_elocin
hotd masterlist
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worddevourer · 18 hours ago
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The lure to be the guy from the meme is simply too strong.
For the curious, the reason why this is the case is this:
Progenitus is fuckoff huge, and very difficult to get rid of. However, it's very expensive, in very restrictive ways, which means you can't play it for a long time, and you're probably warping your deck to have all the colors. The primary way of cheating that cost would be by getting it into your graveyard (fairly easy to do), and then bringing it back from the dead (comparatively cheap, and less color restrictive).
However, the bottom paragraph means it's never going to be in your graveyard to reanimate, so you're basically forced to pay full price.
Then, once it's on the field, your opponent still has time to do something (I.E. kill you), because it doesn't do anything on entry.
The mouse, meanwhile, hits the board on turn 1. It's not immediately strongly statted, but each turn you target it, it gets permanently bigger. And, critically, the bit about blowing up in your opponent's face when it dies means that even if they kill it, it basically still just hits them. And then, when it dies, you just... play another mouse. Because it costs 1.
Basically, Progenitus doesn't even hit the board, because you need 10 turns to even play him, and that damned mouse will kill you on turn 4.
But at the same time, there is a card that looks crazy and imposing that actually is a key part of a good deck.
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And you know why this works and Progenitus doesn't?
Because: A. Progenitus doesn't allow you to immediately win the game, and this does, (because you're playing spells that draw more spells that win the game) and B. There is a card you can play on turn 4 to cheat that Omniscience into play way ahead of schedule.
In short:
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This is the most real MTG post of all time cause I'll give you one guess which of these two cards was an absolute menace in standard and had to be banned and which one hasn't seen any play since getting reprinted
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n0rmal-cat · 3 days ago
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Kpop demon hunters x reader- selling your soul for job experience Part 9
[this is for the Mystery fans, also there's like a whole week in between what they do in the movie so expect a few more of these parts]
[also this is probably the only time i update back to back😭]
headcanon's part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8
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Reader looked at their phone, a series of emojis flooded their notifications, it was mostly just romance sending them a fingerprint. The tiger and crow they can understand...what the hell did a finger pint mean?
They sighed and just blocked the number, they didn't want to deal with that right now. God, was it hard when almost everywhere they looked, they would see at least one of their faces, billboards, plush key chains on people's bags, their own soda line?...
They shook their head with a humph. Sure, they could return to their apartment, but the guys would track them down in no time. Maybe wandering around wasn’t such a bad idea right now.
So that's exactly what they did, they looked at the card Jinu gave them out of their phone case and smirked to themself "Now's a better time than ever to follow through on my threats"
It wasn’t difficult to find a clothing store stepping inside, they were instantly met with a rush of cool, conditioned air. “Oh, that feels heavenly,” they smiled, closing their eyes in bliss.
They took a look at their phone once more. “Right, stick to yellow and green for the upcoming fan signing”
“Why yellow and green?” a soft voice interrupted from behind.
"ahh! I told you not to follow me?!" Mystery stood behind them with a tilted head.
"Yes, but then Jinu told me to follow you," he shrugged.
"So you listen to Jinu but not me?" they asked, annoyed. 
“Correct,” he replied blankly.
"I-whatever are you the only one here, or are the rest of you lurking in the shadows?" they asked, glancing around the store.
“Just me. Jinu decided not to come because you… ruined his face,” he said matter-of-factly.
Reader scoffed, “Serves him right! I didn’t sign up to be texted by some dead person’s phone that’s just cruel.”
"I don't think you should be talking about that in such an open place." Mystery looked around at all the people who were also shopping.
Reader rolled their eyes. “Fine, follow me if you want, but I’m not babysitting you.” They marched over to the shirt section, Mystery trailing quietly behind like a lost puppy.
"So?" he asked
"So what?"
"My question, why green and yellow?" he leaned down to look at the shirt with them.
“I don’t know, I just think those colours would look nice on you guys. Stand still,” they instructed and held a shirt up to him. "What do you think, yes or no?"
“I’ve only worn black for a century and a half. I wouldn’t know,” he replied,
“You’ve only been a demon for a hundred and fifty years?” the reader raised an eyebrow.
He nodded silently.
"Well, I think it will look good on you," they put it over their arm.
Mystery just watched as reader picked out a few more items, their hands were getting pretty full. He eyed a shopping basket, walking over to get one himself.
"Here," he held it out, offering the basket to them.
"Oh, thanks," they raised a hand to take the basket, but he quickly pulled it back. "No, I'll hold it," he insisted.
"Sure..." reader shrugged, dumping everything into the basket.
"Say, did you want new arm warmers? You only have the yellow one so far," they asked, turning back around. 
"Yes, I would like that," he nodded.
Reader hummed in response, "I think I saw some over here. Since you're the least annoying of the bunch, I'll let you pick the ones you like best."
The two walked over to the small section of arm warmers the store had. “Thanks,” he said, taking a pair off the rack to examine.
Reader let out a chuckle. "How can you see like that, your hair is practically touching your lip?" 
"I can see just fine?" he pouted.
"Here, let me just" reader pushed the hair out of his face, a decision they immediately regretted as their breath hitched.
Mystery looked away, blushing. “Is it that bad? Jinu said if I thought my face would scare the fans, I should just hide it,” he mumbled, looking away from them.
That snapped them out of it. "Scare them? Mystery, your face is very pretty, you shouldn't say stuff like that." They cupped his cheek, which he seemed to unconsciously lean into.
"Thanks for being nice, but I don't think the fans will feel the same." 
Reader laughed, "I think I know at least one person who would say otherwise." his eyes looked up to meet theirs silently, asking who they were talking about.
"A little birdie told me that one of the hunters may or may not have a secret crush on you," they smirked.
"Sussie told you that?" he asked with wide eyes.
"No-yeah, he did, she even recognized that these were from you." They tilted their head toward his arm warmers, which they had on
His face turned a darker shade of red than it already had been.
"How about just for now you keep it behind your ears, then when we get back you can put it back the way you like it?" reader parted his hair, putting his bangs behind his ears.
"Okay," he didn't protest and went back to looking for the arm warmers he wanted
"These," he showed them a pink pair.
"Nice, now let's go find cat ears and a collar for baby." They grabbed his hand and dragged him away with fire in their eyes.
"W-why?" he stuttered as his basket was being jostled around.
"Because currently I'm mad at all of them, you're just lucky you're here, because if not, I would have made you wear scene clothes, which you would look great in by the way."
"Seen clothes?..." he thought to himself.
The time flew by fast, just like any other shopping trip would, though they did find everything they needed for the boys.
"I can't wait to see their faces haha," they laughed to themself.
"Is that all?" he held the basket up for them to see
"Yup, we did a good job today." They gave him a thumbs up, which he nodded to. "Let's head to the checkout then!"
Waiting in line, something caught reader's eye, they gasped and picked it up off the spinning rack, "mystery look"
"Hm?-" his vision darkened as reader put the purple sunglasses on him.
"Perfect," reader smiled and put them into the basket and went to pay at the now free register.
"Will that be all for today?" the woman at the counter asked with a smile 
"Yup!" reader exclaimed, mystery standing idly behind them.
"And would you and-" her eyes went to mystery " your boyfriend like a bag"
"I-i" reader felt like they had just been shot. "Yes, please," he said, taking the bags the girl gave him.
Reader's mouth didn't close until they exited the shop. 
"Why did you do that!?" They grabbed mystery’s shirt collar, shaking him around.
"Did you want to correct her, and perhaps embarrass her in the process?" his expression was genuine, was that really the reason, no he was a demon how could trust him!?
"Do you want me to carry the bag?" he raised an eyebrow, reader let go of him.
"No, it's fine, you carried the basket, I'll carry the bag." They took it away from them with a blush.
"Can I have the arm warmers first, actually?" he pointed inside the bag.
"Oh, yeah sure," they pulled the pink pair out and handed them over. He put one on his left hand. "Take those off," he asked.
"What?"
"The yellow ones," he said again.
"Oh, but-" he swiftly took off both their arm warmers and replaced the right warmer with his pink one. "There, now we both have one."
"wait-"
"Do you want me to do the pink smoke thing, or do you want to walk back?" he asked before they could protest.
"Pink smoke thing," they replied point blank
In an instant, they were back in the apartment. "Wow! I need to learn how to do that!" they yelled in excitement.
'Who the hell is that?" Abby walked by, eating a yogurt cup.
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theses are the outfits I'm referring to btw, the Concept art has my whole heart.
the tag list-
@tumblblob @snowy-violet @yumi-does-stuff @d3sperate-enuf @kashasenpai @scara-simp69 @starwormy @luv1ayala @00hellohello00 @julia-loves-cupcakes @twilightknightt @caffeinatedtale @xoxoyukixoxo @mousedit @minthoneynbasil @iminyourwallsbbg @nightmarewasteland @qxuanii @insideoutjulie @stuxxnioe
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mrs-hatake · 2 days ago
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JJK Men’s reaction to You not saying ‘I love you’ back
Pairing: Toji x F!Reader, Gojo x F!Reader, Nanami x F!Reader & Geto x F!Reader ⟡ Genre:  fluff, humor, prank fic, AU - No Powers, AU - Non Sorcerers ⟡ O.D.P (Original Date of Publication): August 8th, 2024
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Toji
“I love you.”
Static silence fills his ear. Toji pulls the phone away from his ear to make sure that the line is still connected. When he sees Your name is still on display, he brings his cell phone back to his ear, repeating, “I love you.” This time louder and clearer, just in case there’s something wrong with the signal.
Still not hearing Your voice, Toji sighs heavily. His thick fingers rub the space between his eyes, “What’s wrong now?” He asks, his hand returning to the steering wheel. The street light is red and traffic is heavy. He is not in the mood for whatever fit You’re having.
“Nothing.” Comes Your response, voice small, sounding like an upset child. Toji closes his eyes. He can feel a headache coming on, both from the traffic and from Your attitude.
“Fine. Don’t say anything.” Toji is not up for games. Working as a firefighter is no joke. Returning home every night covered in ash, skin glistening with sweat and muscles tense, it’s no wonder he’s almost asleep into his plate by the time dinner is on the table. 
Just as he’s about to jab his large thumb on the glaring red button, “Wait, stop!” he stops.
Toji waits patiently. As patiently as a ticking time bomb. 
“It was a prank,” he hears You mumble. “Someone on Tiktok said don’t say ‘I love you’ back to your partner to see how they’d react.”
Toji grunts. His eyes rolling so hard his irises disappear for a second, “And you thought it would be funny?”
“I’m sorry.”
The light turns green, he steps on the gas, “Brat.” 
A heartbeat later and Toji hears, “I love you.”
As if someone has doused his ire with cold water, his anger and impatience is washed out of his system.
“I love you too.” He sighs into the phone, glad that the cars are finally moving smoothly. If luck is on his side, he’d probably be home in less than five minutes. “Don’t think You won’t be punished.”
“Eep!”
Is the last thing Toji hears before the line is dead. 
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Satoru
“Do you really have to go?” You whine adorably at your boyfriend who is sitting at the genkan, tying his shoes. 
Satoru jumps once he’s done with his shoes, his hoodie, lined with fur, bouncing in the process. His arms instantly wrap around You, smothering Your face into his wooly jacket, cutting off all of Your air supply. 
“I know, baby.” Satoru whines back, his soft cheek nuzzling Your hair, “But it’s parents-teacher night and I can’t bail.”
You scoff at his explanation. Of all the nights the school has to pick a parents-teacher conference, it has to be on Your night off.
“You owe me.” You pout, lips trembling dramatically, up at your boyfriend once You’ve pulled back.
Satoru steals Your lips into a searing kiss, “I know.” He mumbles between each kiss, “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
Having had his fill, Satoru pulls back and goes to Your apartment door. Slender hand on the gold doorknob, he turns to face You with a blinding smile, “Love you!”
If there were crickets, they’d be chirping very loudly.
Satoru lowers his dark shades, “I said, I love you.” 
Taking in Your crossed arms and still pouty lips, Satoru scoffs. He marches his way over to You and picks You up in a twirl. His laugh accompanies Your screech before setting You down. 
“Love you?” The statement comes as a question now, not knowing if You’re still mad at him.
Seeing how anxious Satoru is, a breathless chuckle escapes Your lips, “Relax, it was a prank I saw on Tiktok. Thought I’d try it on you.”
“Oh-ho,” Satoru’s white eyebrows lift all the way up, meeting his hairline, “I’m definitely getting back at You for this.” He says through a shit eating grin.
Rolling Your eyes, You kiss him one last time, “I love you too.”
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Kento
“I’ll be returning home late.” Kento comments as he fixes his tie in front of the mirror. As always, his appearance is impeccable. Blond hair gelled to the side, suit wrinkle free and his brown shoes spotless. It’s no wonder that people still try asking him out despite the wedding band on his finger. 
“We’re having a private dinner after work with a potential client.” Kento continues. His explanation sounds just as boring as his expression. Despite coming home exhausted, complaining how much he hates corporate scum, he still has yet to resign. When You’ve brought up this issue, Kento explained that no other job can pay for his pastry addiction. 
Once satisfied with his image, Kento steps away from the mirror. His footsteps are soft as he makes his way to where You’re lounging on the dark brown leather couch. “So don’t wait up for me.” he instructs then leans down to kiss Your eager lips. 
“Gonna miss you.” Your tone comes out all high pitched and bubbly. A tone that Kento hates but has, begrudgingly, grown to tolerate. 
“Missing you already.” Kento mumbles against Your lips that chased after his. “Love you.” he whispers softly, barely succeeding in pulling away.
He’s at the genkan, pulling on his black coat, when the silence reaches his ears. “I love you.”  Kento repeats, louder. 
When he is still met with silence, Kento clears his throat, “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Your blank face expression immediately cracks and giggles bubbles out and bursts through your lips, “I’m so-sorry!” You laugh, not able to take Kento’s bewildered face seriously, “It’s a…a prank!”
A soft sound, almost resembling a chuckle. Kento shakes his head. It doesn’t show but relief seeps through his bones. 
“I love you.” Kento says one more time, not caring that he’s running a little late for work. 
“I love you too!” With Your wide and cute smile, Kento heads to work with light steps. 
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Suguru
“You promised you’d take me out on a date!” You accuse Your boyfriend as You blocked the apartment door with Your body.
Guilt and expiation spreads across Suguru’s handsome face, “I’m sorry, love.” His purple eyes meet Yours as he explains, “The hospital called, they’re short staffed.”
Geto Suguru is a pediatric intern, working at the local hospital just a few blocks away from his apartment. Though his job is taxing, demanding him of his labor and robbing him of his youth and hours, Suguru always made sure to save his free time and what little energy he has left towards You. Which explains why Suguru sounded so regrettable – and slightly fearful – when he canceled the date the both of you have been planning for the past month.
“They promised to give me tomorrow off. We’ll go out for lunch and drop by one of Your favorite bookstores, how does that sound?”
Unable to look at the guilt eating up Suguru, You drop Your stance and step away from the door.
Relieved by Your act of mercy, Suguru engulfs You in a big, bear hug. The one he knows will earn him forgiveness for whenever he messes up.
“I love you.” Suguru mutters, strands of Your hair tickling his lips as he kisses the top of Your head. 
“Y/N?” Suguru pulls back, his head tilting to the side, “Are you still mad?”
“Ugh,” You roll Your eyes, “You’re too cute to pull any pranks on.” You say while cupping his soft cheek, pecking his lips twice.
“I love you too.” You caress his cheek as You continue to say, “And I’m not mad. Just a trend for couples I saw on social media.”
“Oh.” Suguru flushes in embarrassment but the mirth twinkling in his eyes tells You he isn’t really upset at the prank. “I love you more!”
His arms tightens around You one last time before leaving for his twelve hour shift at the hospital.
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agentpeggycarterrogers · 1 day ago
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She shrugged. “I just think that all makes you, you. You’re kind and respectful, and a bit private about all this, and I think that’s wonderful. I think it’s also wonderful that we get to share this together, these new parts of each other, this unlocking of these other sides of each other. I love what we have.” 
Peggy just held onto his hand. “I must say, I love that this is how you are, because I think I wouldn’t want you to have a hundred conquests in the future, not just because I want you to myself - I mean, I love that we’re each other’s firsts and only. I think that’s beautiful and special. And if you had, I would think it’s not like you. I love how your mind works, I love that this is who you are. We understand each other so well. That’s why we’re good together. That’s what makes us perfect partners.”
She went on. “I wouldn’t want a hundred conquests either because for me sex is about connection, trust, love. Not what you can give and take, or about how much you’ve had. Or who you’ve bedded. I only ever wanted you. I’ve only ever truly loved and needed you. I couldn’t have this with anyone but you. Because I wanted to hold you and love you, not just to say I’ve had you. For us, it’s about what we can share. I also understand that it’s different for everyone, but I still do think sex is a big deal, it’s personal, it’s deep, it’s vulnerable, and you’re sharing all of yourself with that other person and you have to trust that person completely.” 
She nodded. “But now I do understand what everyone was going on about, but I get the impression that some women think of this as a chore to please their husbands, I believe that’s what I was taught and what I heard when I was younger, probably when I was engaged to Fred. I feel like not enough people have this - what we have. Love, deep trust, a real connection. But it’s just something I wonder about. I would hear bragging and about conquests from men in the army and in the office, and then complaints from women that it’s all their husbands want. There was the perception that the women that do enjoy it sounded a bit scandalous - or like a floozy. Now I know that’s not the case, but I was naive then.” 
She took a sip of her tea. “Now I have you. I love you. You’re all I need, all that I want, and I can’t get enough. I suppose that’s the most important thing. I don’t know what point I was trying to make, just sharing I suppose. I love that we’re so open with each other, and so trusting and I love that we’ve been so private otherwise. The point is, I suppose, that I love you, all of you, and what we share is perfect for us.” 
Peggy supposed as well that that was enough discussion of the philosophy of sex. She smiled. “Maybe tonight? Why just maybe?” She leaned across the table and kissed him. “You see, my love, I am addicted and can’t get enough.” 
She sat back down in her chair, intending to eat her breakfast. “I think I’m more interested in a castle than a church, if I must say. We’ve seen quite a few cathedrals, and a castle would be a lovely change of scenery. But yes, love, I do understand that they’re all starting to blend together. But of course if we have time to do both, we can do both.”
@steven-g-rogers
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Steve nodded. “It’s funny, there’s things I learned about myself in the future that just aren’t known about people now.  And I’m very glad I know them, because it makes me understand how I tick better.  But one of the things I’ve learned is that the way I think about sex is atypical.  I was never interested in it at all until I met you.  I’ve told you that before.  But when men talked about sex and women in general, I could be happy for them if they were talking about someone they loved back home, indifferent if they were telling me their ‘conquests’, or upset with them if they were being disrespectful, and trust me, they heard it when that was the case.  But if someone tried to engage me specifically, by either asking me about my sex life or asking me what I thought about a person or act, that’s when I’d start to squirm.”
He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “But with you, it’s like I suddenly understand what everyone was talking about.  I’m not embarrassed, I’m far from indifferent.  I think we might be a lot alike like that.  I think that might be one of the many ways we’re a good fit.”
He leaned forward and ran his tongue over his bottom lip.  “And trust me, I plan to eat my fill.  Maybe tonight.” 
He nodded.  “I did look at the itinerary, but a lot of the places coming up are towns I don’t know with a castle or a church.  They all mixed together in my head.  I wonder if we have time to do both this stop.” 
@agentpeggycarterrogers
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eriwithpetalsandletters · 2 days ago
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My Brain Registers Him As One Year Old, Eight Months
A chaotic return to the paddock, featuring diapers, data science, and an F1 driver named Kimi.
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story created purely for entertainment and imaginative purposes.
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After four years off-grid studying data science—four years of thesis hell, bad sleep, hair fall, and emotionally bonding with her Python errors—Y/N L/N had finally returned to the paddock.
She didn’t roll in quietly.
She strolled back with a degree, a lanyard around her neck, an energy drink in her fist, and vengeance in her heart.
The moment she reappeared, every driver within ten feet reacted like they'd seen a pop-up boss battle.
Max tackled her in a hug. “You survived academia.”
Charles kissed her cheek. “Welcome back, mon chaos.”
Pierre offered her a protein bar and said, “It’s been weird without you.”
And then… she met Kimi Antonelli.
He was polite. Sweet. Talented. Basically a baby duck in race gear.
He smiled at her, nodded once, and said, “Hi. Nice to meet you properly.”
And she stared.
Openly.
Emotionally.
Publicly.
Finally, she blurted: “No. Nope. My brain refuses to register this man as 18 years old.”
Charles blinked.
“Kimi is 18,” George offered helpfully.
“I KNOW!” she shouted. “But my neurological system says ‘That is a baby. That is a very polite baby. Offer snacks and check for teething rash.’”
Lando, half-eating sour worms nearby, froze mid-bite.
The next day, the paddock buzzed with post-race tension and lingering interviews. George, Max, Charles, Lando, and Kimi happened to be gathered around a table near the media lounge—half discussing lap data, half trying to steal Lando’s gummies.
Then, like a comet of unfiltered energy, Y/N stormed in.
She practically launched herself toward them—bag swinging from one shoulder, sunglasses still perched on her head, and expression bordering on feral joy.
Without warning, she slammed the plastic bag onto the table with dramatic flourish. Snacks scattered across the surface like confetti: fruit pouches, granola bars, rainbow pretzels, gummy vitamins, and one very specific package labeled “For emotional support drivers only.”
“Okay,” she announced, hands on hips. “I need you all to know I have officially spiraled.”
“What just happened?”
Y/N turned to the group—and began ranting, arms flailing.
“Yesterday, I went shopping to buy snacks for you degenerates.” She pointed at each one like they were suspects in a clown lineup.
“As I was choosing gummy bears and granola bars, my feet carried me to the baby aisle. THE BABY AISLE. You know why?”
Kimi, sitting politely, smiled like this was his favorite show.
“Because my brain said: ‘We need to get something suitable for Kimi, the baby. Probably diapers.’ So I stood there—comparing absorbency. Wondering which brand was best for nighttime protection. FOR KIMI!”
Max leaned against his chair, wheezing.
Charles buried his face in his hands, “Oh mon dieu.”
Pierre said, “Please tell me you didn’t buy them.”
Y/N raised her hand like a victory flag. “I ABSOLUTELY PUT THEM IN MY CART.”
She continued.
“Then I walked back to the snack aisle. Feeling proud. Confident. Until I started hearing whispers—these sweet little grandmas going ‘She’s so young... but she has a baby.’” She held up her hands dramatically.
“AND INSTEAD OF CORRECTING THEM, I PANICKED. So I yelled in public, 'WHAT SNACKS SHOULD I GIVE MY NEPHEW?' to cancel the rumor.”
George dropped his bottle. Lando sat on the floor. Daniel laughed so hard he slapped a wall.
Kimi just nodded solemnly. “It’s okay,” he said. “I like fruit pouches.”
The next morning, she arrived with a carefully labeled box.
Antonelli Snack Pack. Inside: apples, string cheese, raisins, mini juice boxes, and one size 4 diaper folded like origami with a sticky note that read:
"Just in case my brain short-circuits again. Love, Auntie Y/N."
Kimi opened the lid, blinked, then smiled softly.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome, baby,” she replied, throwing a gummy bear in his direction.
Max leaned in. “You’re an actual menace.”
“And I’m proud.”
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keirareidss · 1 day ago
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birthday wishes and gentle kisses - a.h
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♡ summary: it's readers birthday! pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader warnings: tooth-rotting fluff wc: 1.6k a/n: guys, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!! this is a very self indulgent fic but I don't care cuz it's my day! 😁
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You wake to gentle kisses on your face, warm, slightly chapped lips trailing soft skin. Eyes fluttering open, you find your boyfriend hovering above you, a smile on his handsome face.
"Morning, sweetheart."
"Morning." Your voice was raspy from sleep but Hotch didn't mind, dipping down to finally slant his lips over yours. You hum in protest, pulling away. "Morning breath."
"I don't care." He murmurs, kissing you again, his large hand finding your jaw. It was a few days before your birthday and you couldn't wait. You absolutely loved your birthday, though, you were less the type for presents and more interested in experiences.
Last year, Aaron took you on a sweet weekend retreat out in the country and the year before, the BAU girls took you to an escape room while your boyfriend set up a nice dinner in the park complete with fairy lights and a cozy blanket.
He pulls away planting a final kiss on your nose before he speaks, a gentle tone meant only for quiet mornings like this.
"Have you thought about what you want for your birthday?"
"Yeah, actually, do you know what I really want?"
"What?"
"What I really, truly want... is for your beard to come back." He chuckles, his head dipping a bit as a blush rises on his cheeks. Your hands find his jaw, feeling at the bit of stubble, missing when there was a lot more hair there.
He'd let a beard grow out when he was in Pakistan and when he got back... let's just say it was the best night you'd ever had with him. Then, when he shaved it the next morning, you'd nearly cried.
"Are you serious?" His tone was playful but you still felt that little twinge of hope.
"As a heart attack." He laughed again and hope disappears, leaving you with a pout on your lips that Aaron felt compelled to kiss.
"Sorry honey." You sighed in defeat. "I'll get you anything else."
"A seven day trip to Venice?"
"You're really trying to drain my bank account aren't you?" He grins nuzzling his nose against yours.
"You said you'd get me anything. Are you trying to back out on your promise?"
"I would never." You loved when Aaron got all smiley and teasing. It warmed your insides to see him act so domestic with you, like he didn't have to catch serial killers every day, like he wasn't subjected to the most gruesome sights. "If you really want that... I'll figure something out." He murmurs, probably already thinking of how to get out of work for seven days.
"No, honey, I was joking. I don't know, maybe just a nice dinner or something."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I don't know. It's up to you. We'll see if you know me." You grinned. Hotch smiled, but inside he started panicking. If you left all of this up to him, he had a niggling gut feeling that he'd let you down.
A simple restaurant dinner wasn't special enough in his mind, you do that every year, he needed to do more.
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Aaron was stressed. He'd been thinking non-stop, distracted from his work by the prospect of how to celebrate your birthday. A knock on his office door took him from his thoughts.
"Hey, Hotch, I finished the file on- are you alright?" Derek's eyebrows furrowed when he noticed the stress evident in his boss's face.
"Fine. Just working on something."
"What case could possibly have you this bothered?" Derek chuckled, leaning against the door frame, crossing his arms.
"It's not a case." He says your name and Derek instantly understands. "It's her birthday in a few days and I have no clue what to get her."
"Just buy her some jewelry or something."
"That's not good enough. I want this to be special."
"Are you getting her a gift?"
"She prefers experiences." Derek's nose scrunched.
"Alright, well, I'm not the one to ask about this-"
"That's why I didn't." Aaron cuts him off, only half serious.
"-so, I can send someone... more suited in special dates your way." Hotch finally glanced up, leveling him with a curious gaze.
"Who?"
∘⋆․⊹․∘⟡˖*⊹∘⋆․⊹․∘⟡˖*⊹∘⋆․⊹․∘⟡˖*⊹∘⋆․⊹․∘⟡˖*⊹∘⋆․⊹․∘⟡˖*⊹∘⋆․⊹․∘⟡˖*⊹∘⋆․⊹․∘⟡˖*⊹∘⋆․⊹․∘
"Oh my god! Oh my god, this is amazing! I have so many ideas, hang on." Penelope pulls out her phone, finding her notes app. "Okay, idea number one: Theme Park."
"I can't do roller coasters, not after what happened to my ear."
"Okay, moving right along, breakfast buffet."
"I'm pretty sure she's planning on sleeping until 11 at the earliest. And I was planning on making her breakfast."
"Alright, what about a drive-in movie? You can cozy up in the backseat, bring a bunch of blankets, you know."
"Maybe... what's the next one?"
"You could go to mini golfing!"
"I don't think she'd be very into that." Penelope was undeterred. Hotch wondered just how many ideas she had in her notes. And why.
"Oh! What about taking a class together or something?"
"What do you mean?" Hotch asked, his head tilted as he looked up at the brightly colored woman in his office.
"Like a pottery class, or a cooking class?"
"I don't think so, but that gives me an idea."
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The morning of your birthday, you woke to the smell of bacon and golden sunlight streaming into the room through the cracks in the blinds. Your eyes peeled open as the door creaked, your boyfriend, dressed in sweats and an old band tee, entered, a tray in his hand. On it, sat a plate with eggs, bacon, toast, and sausage, a cup of orange juice, and a small vase with a lily in it. Your favorite flower.
"Aaron, you didn't have to do this." You murmured sleepily, rubbing one eye as you shuffled to sit up.
"Of course I did." He smiles softly, sitting on the bed next to your legs, settling the tray over your lap. You reached out to fiddle with the light pink flower. "There's a bouquet of them on the kitchen counter."
"Thank you." You sent him a sweet, grateful smile, placing a small kiss on his cheek. "So... I heard you've been stressed at work lately, everything okay?" Curse Penelope and her close relationship with his girlfriend.
"Yeah, everything's fine." You nodded, sitting up straight so you could eat. "I have something planned for later tonight." You perked up.
"Oh? What is it?"
"It's a surprise." He grinned, leaning in to steal a kiss from your lips, tasting of bacon grease and your chapstick.
"Mmm, sneaky." He let you finish your breakfast, moving to sit against the headboard next to you, chatting idly. The rest of the day was mellow, Hotch silenced his phone, intending on spending the entire day with you, and you cozied up on the couch, head in his lap as you read.
You ended up taking a short walk, watching a movie together, and when dinner time rolled around, Hotch suddenly headed to the kitchen. After a few minutes, he called out,
"Honey, can you come in here please?" You pushed off the couch, following his voice to the kitchen where, to your surprise, he'd lit candles, set out ingredients along the whole counter, and held out a glass of wine.
"What is this?"
"This is your birthday surprise." You scanned the ingredients, quickly figuring out what they were for.
"Homemade pizza?" A smile was growing on your face at the sweetness of it all.
"Do you like it?" You stepped closer to him, taking the wine glass and setting it aside.
"It's amazing. There's just one thing missing." His eyebrows furrowed, How could he have missed something? He made a list. Checked back over it at least four times.
You sauntered over to the pantry, pulling out your favorite accessory. You slung the 'kiss the cook' apron over Aaron's neck, moving behind him to tie it around his waist.
"Seriously?" He raised an eyebrow, glancing back at you. You just grinned, hand moving down to give his ass a squeeze through his sweatpants, which he jolted away from with a sharp laugh.
"Okay, I'm ready to cook." You stepped up to the counter. "Where do we start, chef?"
The night was filled with giggles, flour fights, and a few too many glasses of wine. You made your pizza heart shaped and Arron's was, well, rather lumpy looking. You both chose your toppings and then they were in the oven, your back against the counter, Aaron stood in front of you with his hands braced on either side of you.
"Happy Birthday, my love." You snaked your arms behind his neck, pulling him down to brush your lips against his.
"Thank you. This was perfect."
"I'm glad. Only the best for my girl."
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The pizzas were delicious, perfectly cooked and made with love, and the company was good too. Once you were finished with dinner, Aaron brought out the birthday cake he'd ordered, a pink velvet with buttercream frosting, designed with pink bows and ruffles and pink writing on top.
He stuck a few candles on top of it, lighting them before setting the cake in front of you at the dining table. He pulled out his phone and you gave him a questioning glance.
"Garcia asked for a picture." He muttered, waiting for the grin to spread across your face before he took the picture. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, watching with a smile as you closed your eyes, blowing out the candles. You plucked on out, licking the frosting off.
Hotch smiled, bending down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, tasting buttercream. Honestly, it didn't what you wished for, you had everything you could ever want right here.
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Taglist: @cinnamoncunt, @dramioneforevertilltheend, @tinythebunni, @khxna, @person-005
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w0rm3y · 2 days ago
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Delirium Fed Delusions- R. Sukuna
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overview: you're struggling to comprehend your alliance with your husband, Sukuna. warnings: MDNI, explicit smut, including the belly mouth, yay, biting, mentions of cannibalism and death, but it's sukuna, so, yk... also borderline stockholm syndrome and insinuations of kidnapping, manipulation, and toxic relationships wc: 2.6k a/n: honestly, I had a completely different thing planned out for this where I was going to talk about the duality of Sukuna, but idk, I just didn't get there? So enjoy a drabble where Sukuna essentially rage baits reader lol.
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Sukuna was, for all intents and purposes, an evil person. But just as he was an evil person, he was a good husband.
Yes, he slaughtered people for fun, but he also played with your hair until you fell asleep.
Yes, he used his voice to say the most heinous things, but he also handed you the most heartfelt compliments you’d ever heard in your life.
And, yes, sometimes that metallic taste of blood still lingered on his tongue when he kissed you, but he always kissed you so sweetly.
He was good and evil, but in a way that you fell in love with almost instantly. Your marriage to Sukuna was like a giant game of picking and choosing your battles, at least that’s how it was in the beginning. 
If there was one phrase that encapsulated your husband, it was ‘compassion with suffering’. 
And if there was one phrase that encapsulated your relationship, it was ‘lean toward the light’.
And you’d only adopted this mentality after learning to accept and understand Sukuna as a person, rather than the monster everyone painted him out to be. 
Yes, he ripped people apart, but why were they provoking him enough to hurt them in the first place?
Yes, he consumed innocent people, but the man has necessary bodily functions–he needs to eat.
Yes, he had a terrible case of a god-complex, but to you, Sukuna was a god. 
He was your god. 
If you lean toward the light, understand him as a person, and accept him for all his flaws, you’re left with one final thought: Sukuna didn’t do anything wrong.
Were you delusional? Yeah, probably, but Sukuna allowed you to live in delusion if it meant keeping you by his side and happy. Because even if he was evil, he still wanted to ensure your felicity. 
With Sukuna, delusion and delirium went hand in hand.
You were content. Sukuna was content. 
And his contentment promised your own.
It was a thousand-year-old cycle that could feed itself, ouroboros-style.
You didn’t realize it in the beginning, but after standing by him for this long, you began to grasp the concept of it, and you liked it. You liked it because it was created by Sukuna, and you liked everything that was created by Sukuna, and you remember everything that he’s created for you.
Thousands of years ago, you wouldn’t have dared question him about his choices and why he’s done such terrible things–why would you question a god that you’ve willingly put all of your faith in?
But curiosity is like an open sore that festers until it takes over your entire body with lethal infection, threatening to strike your heart at any time and force you to cave into your confusion. 
Why is he so horrible? Why did those people deserve to die? Why did he choose them to die? Why couldn’t he have let them go? Why didn’t he care when they screamed? Why can’t he be compassionate to everyone?  
Why did you deserve to outlive all of them? Why didn’t he kill you, too? Why are you still around? Why are you different?
“Why do you love me?” you asked him one evening while you both sat in front of the open shoji, soaking up the humid summer air that was wafting inside from the garden. The smoke from the kiseru in his hands tickled your nose when you glanced toward him, waiting for his answer. When you didn’t receive one, you dared to ask another. “Why was I good enough to be your wife? Why not the others?”
He brought the kiseru to his mouth, inhaling slowly–you knew it was done to piss you off, he understood just how impatient you could be sometimes when it came to your daily intake of delusion. After enough time had passed, leaving you almost frothing at the mouth for his answer, only then did he give in, but, of course, it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.
“What did I say the last time you asked me the same question?” he countered through plumes of smoke.
“I don’t remember.”
A twitch in the corner of his mouth alluded to his amusement, and that was all that gave it away, too. To anyone else, he looked almost bored, maybe even disgusted, but to you, he looked… content. 
“Of course, you don’t remember,” he groused, entirely elusive. 
He was always elusive. 
You tried again. “Why, Sukuna?”
“Why do you feel the need to question me?”
“Curiosity.”
“I see,” he hummed, dumping out the kiseru ashes into the grass below the edge of the engawa. Tapping out the excess, he continued, “If what you’re experiencing is curiosity, it’s not about the feelings I have for you. Save up your courage and ask me what you really want to know next time.”
Your lips curled into a scowl. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer you that night. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet and stepped inside. 
For the next few weeks, you did your best to live by his words, to impress him the next time your curiosity got the better of you.
“You’re exceptionally quiet these days,” he commented one evening after dinner. Like before, he’d invited you to sit on the engawa with him. While he used his kiseru, you watched him. “What is it you’re doing in that little head of yours?”
“Building courage,” you answered, tight-lipped.
“You’re rather slow at doing so. Am I so fearsome that it takes you this long to ask me a single question?” A frown twisted onto your mouth, the sight of it making him snicker. “I suppose I’ll assist you. What was your previous question?”
“Why do you love me?”
“And what question have you come to after that?” he asked, bringing the mouthpiece of the pipe to his mouth.
“Why haven’t you killed me?”
Smoke wafted out of the corners of his mouth as he contemplated the question before musing, “You’re getting closer.”
Frustration clawed at your insides. “Why can’t you just answer my questions as I ask them?”
“Because you already know the answers to these questions.” Sparing you a glance, you could see the amusement glimmering in his red eyes. Leaning in closer to you, he blew a plume of the thick smoke into your face as he asked, “What is it that my wife really wants to know?”
“Why do you love me?” you tried again, making him click his tongue in disapproval. 
“Who says that I love you at all?”
If you were frustrated before, you are angry now. “Do you not?”
“That’s not what I asked you.” He pulled back, settling himself a few inches away from you. “Who says I love you?”
Through gritted teeth, you answered, “You do.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“All the things that you do for me! All the things that you say to me! The fact that you haven’t killed me yet!” you exploded, though you hadn’t meant to. 
With a satisfied hum, he sucked on the kiseru again. “See? You already knew the answer.”
“But I want to know why!”
“Why, what?”
“Why am I still here?!”
“Why do you think?” If you weren’t terrified that he’d actually cut you into a thousand little pieces, you might’ve slapped him across the face. “Well?”
“Because you love me?” you offered, exasperated and exhausted. 
“There you go. You knew the answer to that question, too. Now look at how much breath we’ve both wasted on useless talk, all because you can’t figure out what it is that you really want to know.” A silence fell over you both as he finished smoking and dumped out the ashes. “Keep gathering courage, wife. You’re getting closer.”
The next time your curiosity began to bubble over, you were straddling his stomach, the monstrous mouth there licking you inside while the mouths on his hands sucked on your tits. He must’ve sensed your straying thoughts because the tongues that swirled your nipples were soon replaced with sharp teeth biting down, shocking you back into the present. 
You hissed sharply as your hands encircled his wrists to make him stop.
“This part is for you, you know,” he chided, his annoyance very evident.
“I know, m’sorry!” you gasped, pulling at his hands when the pressure increased. After a few seconds, the sting in your sensitive flesh eased up and was then soothed by the tongues again. 
“Take what I’m giving you, or we can move on, whether you’re prepared for it or not. Stop wasting my time-”
“Stop wasting mine!” you blurted out, shocking him enough to fall silent. Raising a brow, he stared at you, waiting for an explanation for your outburst while he gently tapped the skin on your chest, a sign that he was more pissed than he was letting on. “Why do you love me? Why haven’t you killed me?”
“Do you want me to kill you? Is that why you keep asking me? Because, if so, you are on the right path-”
“Why do you kill other people?”
The finger tapping on your chest stopped, and the murderous glint in his eyes softened. 
“A new question.”
A bit of hope flared in your chest that you might’ve finally figured it out that time, but the hope didn’t last too long.
“You know the answer to that, too. Let me ask you, so you can say it out loud, and hear it for yourself: why do I kill people, wife?”
You hesitated before saying, “Because you like it?”
“Because I like it,” he repeated, confirming your answer. “If you already knew, why did you ask?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Mm, I think I do. You’re trying to choose which side of your morals you should follow. The ones that every other human trails after like a lost puppy because it’s what they’ve been told to do, and the morals that I’ve shredded to pieces for you.” A twisted grin curled onto his face. “What? Did you think I’d say I kill people because I needed to? Because it was necessary for my survival? Is that going to make this easier for you?”
When you didn’t answer–because you couldn’t–he chuckled and grabbed your hips, pulling you flush against his stomach mouth. Your breathing hitched as the thick tongue filled you completely, the tip of it slovenly swirling over your cervix. 
“Would it make you feel better knowing the one who fucks you only kills in the most ethical of ways? Or that the mouth you’re riding now has only lapped at spilled blood when it's necessary?”
Your hands fell forward onto his chest to support yourself as a strangled moan left your lips. 
“I kill because it’s fun. I eat people because they taste good. And I do it all because I like it. The depravity of it amuses me because it can. No one can stop me, not with morals, not with strength, not even with that confused, fucked out look on your face right now. Understanding me isn’t going to grant you the cosmic knowledge of how you can change me–it won’t work. And understanding me and why I do the things that I do isn’t going to make you understand why you choose to love me, despite all the horrible things that I do.”
With the tight grip he had on your hips, he started grinding you against his stomach, watching your face morph and shift between pained and pleasured.
“But on some level, wife, you knew that, too. So, I’ll give you one more chance today to ask the question that you really want to know the answer to.”
He slowed the movement of his tongue inside you, giving you a chance to speak. When you gathered enough of your bearings to do so, you asked, “Why do you do bad things?”
He tutted at you and pulled you off his stomach to bring you to lie on your back beneath him. “Wrong question.”
“Can you just answer me?”
He took both of your legs into his hands and folded them back into the bed, leaning over you until his face was right above yours. 
“Why do you think I do bad things?”
“I don’t know-”
“You do know, because we’ve been over this before. You keep asking like my answer will change, but it won’t.” He forced his cock into you then, pulling a pained whimper from you. “I do bad things because I like to.”
“Why do you like to?”
“I don’t know. Why do you like to lie on your back and spread your legs for me?” You turned your face away from him, not bothering to give him an answer; his question was a rhetorical one, anyway. But then he grabbed your face, bringing your eyes back to his. “I’ve never needed to give you a reason to stay with me, and I never will. But if it makes you feel better, I wouldn’t let you leave even if you wanted to. So stop trying to find an out, I’m not giving you one-”
“I’m not-”
“You are.” With his fingers pressing deeply into your cheeks, he leaned forward, kissing the pout that had formed on your lips. “It’s to be expected. You’re scared, no matter how much you try to convince yourself you’re not.”
“I don’t want to leave you-”
“But you’re looking for a reason to stay, and I’m not giving you one, but I’m not letting you leave, either.” The pressure of his fingers on your cheeks lessened as you came to the next question that was plaguing your mind. He must’ve seen it in your eyes because he leaned back, saying, “Let me hear it.”
“Why are you a bad person?”
His quiet snickering filled the air following your question. 
“Because being a good person is boring,” he answered, half-heartedly, as if he were merely entertaining your conversation. It was his way of signaling he was done talking about it, and your theory was proved correct when seconds later, he covered your mouth with his hand. “And I don’t have to be a good person for you to love me.”
You didn’t bring it up again. You didn’t have to because what he said seemed to satiate this burning, confused feeling within you just enough that your curiosity wouldn’t boil over. However, the pot was left above the fire, the sore was still splayed open and infected, and your questions were still there. 
Constantly.
Why does he love you?
Why hasn’t he killed you?
Why does he kill other people?
Why is he a bad person?
Why have you stayed?
Shouldn’t you be fighting to get away from him? 
And doesn’t the fact that you’re willingly staying by his side mean that you’re just as bad a person as he is?
The next time your courage was high, you asked him that.
You had just laid down with him in bed, ready to sleep for the night, but that question was pounding in your head, making sleep impossible.
“‘Kuna,” you called out, but didn’t turn to face him. His fingers that were pressed into your waist twitched, letting you know that he was awake. “Am I a bad person?”
His huff hit the back of your neck. 
“Not to me.” You felt him shift behind you until his hand pulled you back to his chest. “Do you think you’re a bad person?”
“A little,” you admitted. “You do bad things and I love you for it, but I don’t know why. You’re a bad person, Sukuna, but for some reason, you’re a good husband, and it doesn’t make sense. I just want to know why I’m so different for you. I’m not looking for an out or a reason to stay–I want to be here, but I don’t know why.”
“Why do you need to know?”
You shrugged. “Just want to make sure I have a purpose.”
You felt his lips curve into a small smile against the back of your neck. “You have a purpose. You’re my companion.”
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ianouireid · 3 days ago
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Not-So-Alone Time
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“Self-care leads to cuddling on the couch with your boyfriend.”
pairing: mid-seasons!spencer x dark-purple!reader
cw: fluff, mint chip ice cream (i’m not sorry), one or two cuss words, subtle dislike of awesome music
wc: 1.2k
a/n: lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off was playing while writing btw :p
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You didn’t hear the front door open. The only reason you knew Spencer was back was the slight toe of converse coming into your view.
You were sat on the floor, gliding black polish over your toe nails while Panic! At The Disco played from the silver, beetle shaped CD player perched on the windowsill a few feet away.
Today was a day for pampering, you decided. Work had been tiring recently — dealing with white-supremist assholes and whiny women who somehow managed to find every little thing to nitpick about literally all day. Your shift was quite literally the worst it’s ever been, so it was a justified pamper night.
You started by taking the longest and hottest shower you could muster up (sorry water bill, self care was due), then you shamelessly scooped mint chip ice cream into a bowl and called it dinner, because you were an adult and could do that without being yelled at to have “actual food” first. Yay adult-ism?
You planned to finish your self care routine — painted toes included, — and listen to every CD you had until you eventually passed out on your couch, wrapped in fuzzy blankets and dulcet 2000s punk teenager music.
Dream night for you, maybe not for your boyfriend. In your defense, you thought he would still be stuck in Colorado for the night, working on… well, whatever case they were working on this time.
It wasn’t that Spencer wasn’t about self expression — because please do trust that he expresses himself in the nerdiest, most scientific way he ever possibly could — but it was your music that he wasn’t sure of.
He was happy whenever you were happy, but so god help him your music was an acquired taste, especially compared to his classical mixes that he claimed prevented obsessive behavior.
The lyrics were just so obscene and… sad? He didn’t quite understand that it wasn’t always necessarily the words but more so the overall vibe of the song that you enjoyed.
But that’s whatever. You were on the path of training him to appreciate sad teenager culture, despite neither of you being teenagers, or sad — the latter only happened periodically.
“Hi lovey,” You smile, looking up at him from your spot on the shaggy rug before stretching to hit the pause button on the CD player. He looked so worn out, hair shooting every which way and subtle bags forming under his eyes. He still had that gentle smile on his face though, the one that never left when you were around.
“Hello,” He mumbles softly, taking a seat next to you and plucking the black nail polish bottle from your hands before taking over your job. You’ve taught him well.
“How was work?” You continued, watching his careful precision of the paint covered brush swiping over the nail on your pinky toe.
“Work was work. Angry underdog getting revenge, you know, the usual.” He shrugs, dipping for more pigment. He never got into too much detail when telling you about cases because 1.) you didn’t care for real gore, and 2.) he didn’t want to tell you all the real gore. Your horror movies were more than enough, he felt.
“Well as long as you were safe, that’s all that matters to me.” You smile, looking across at him as he caps the polish and moves your legs to stretch fully across his lap. The corners of his lips twitch up, before he’s leaning towards you and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. He pulls away before you get the chance to really savor it.
“I’m always safe. Just for you.” He responds with a small reassuring smile, letting out a quiet sigh as he rests his back against the couch, probably being the first chance he’s gotten to fully relax. However, you both know he’d risk his own well being if it meant keeping the rest of his team or random civilians safe. You know because you’ve gotten multiple phone calls from SSA Aaron Hotchner informing you that he’s been injured. Various accounts of them.
“Did you eat?” He randomly asks, but him worrying about your wellbeing wasn’t a foreign concept.
“Does ice cream count?”
“No, ice cream doesn’t have proper nutrition and balanced macronutrients to fit the form of a proper meal.”
“So I have to cook?” You groan slightly, not meaning to.
“No, I haven’t eaten either so we’ll order takeout. Thai?” He asks.
“I love Thai.” You smile as your stomach growls subtly. You shift the tiniest bit so you’re at a better position to card your hands through his hair for the first — not close to last — time this evening as he pulls out his phone and dials the number for the only Thai place that you both mutually hold appreciation for.
He orders your food, having your order memorized already, while you twirled and brushed through his brown locks with your fingers. Your favorite pastime, one could argue.
The phone was turned off with a small click, being set on the floor next to his thigh. He glanced over at you — and if you looked close enough, you could see the hint of mischief in his eyes. Before you had time to dwell on it, he was lunging forward, sending your back to the ground with a thud and him laying on top.
“Spencer what on earth are you doing?” You chuckle, wrapping your arms around his torso gratefully.
“Loving you.” He mumbles into your neck where his face was buried. Hands were braced on your back.
“Well I'm glad you’re loving me then.” You whisper, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head before leaning your head back all the way and enjoying the peace of being smothered on the floor by your genius boyfriend.
You laid in silence until a knock from the door sounded throughout the apartment, sending Spencer to his feet and walking away while you sat up and climbed into the corner of the couch. You reached for the remote as the scent of Thai food wafted towards you — along with your boyfriend.
“How about Cursed?” You suggest as he sets the containers down on the coffee table, taking a seat next to you. He gives you a short glance, shaking his head with a smile while dishing out the food.
“Again?” He chuckles, casting you a teasing look.
“Okay… Apollo 13 tonight, Cursed tomorrow?” You try again, to which he nods with a smile. He leans back with his serving of food, handing you your own before you cuddle up closer to him. You eat your scrumptious dinner while watching his choice of movie, holding the moments you get with him very close to your heart.
An hour later, your plates were abandoned on the table and he was passed out with his head on top of your own. You shifted your eyes to check if he was really sleeping, before reaching for the remote and switching it to Cursed. You would watch whatever movie or show he wanted to, until he was asleep. This was the time for your choice of media, because there wasn’t room for him to complain. You would’ve turned it off in a heartbeat if he asked you too, though.
You were only able to make it 17 minutes in before eventually dozing off and nuzzling closer to the warmth next to you.
If you had to pick a moment to live in forever, it would be ones like these. Ones where you got to love each other loudly without the confinements of the world getting in between you.
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saturns-peachy-honeymoon · 2 days ago
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curtis sister! reader headcanons
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summary: what life is like as darry, sodapop, and ponyboy's sister
content: platonic!gang x reader. possible implications of steve randle x reader. slight angst integrated throughout
warning: a bit angsty around family dynamics, readers self worth and death of the curtis parents. profanity. mentions of canon typical violence
word count: 1308
a/n: in this case, the reader is younger than soda but older than ponyboy. i imagine curtis!reader as being a mix of the boys: dreamy like ponyboy, sunshiney & caring like soda, mature beyond your years & type a like darry 
If any of the boys try to flirt with you, Darry will bite their heads off in seconds 
With that said, Dally flirts with you shamelessly just to piss your brothers off
You shared a room with Ponyboy when you were younger; now that you’re older, you have your own room, and Soda and Pony share
The first couple of months after your parents passed, you slept in Soda’s bed in their room when Soda started sleeping in Pony’s bed
You were such a daddy’s girl when you’re parents were alive. Every now and then, when you’re really missing your dad or have a nightmare, you’ll crawl into Darry’s bed 
You’re Darry’s second in command when it comes to running the household 
You call him out when he’s being too hard on Ponyboy, and he actually listens 
In a similar way to how Ponyboy idolizes Sodapop, you idolize Darry
You admire how hard-working he’s always been. First, in high school, when he was working part-time and still managing to have fantastic grades and be a huge football star. That respect grew so much when he put his life on hold to take care of y’all (although you were devastated he had to do it) 
You do, unfortunately, put a lot of pressure on yourself to be perfect like Darry (and you won’t listen when anyone, even him, tells you perfection is unattainable, and he certainly isn’t)
He worries about you overloading yourself with school work, extracurriculars, and chores, and really encourages you to just enjoy being a kid while you can 
You wake up early most mornings to talk to Darry while he gets ready to work, picking his brain on certain things and seeing how he’s doing. Although sometimes you don’t even talk, just quietly enjoy each other’s company. He doesn’t tell you often, but those moments mean the world to him 
While Darry is probably your favorite person and the one you look up to the most, Soda is one of your best friends 
He listens intently when you talk about drama with your friends at school and doesn’t get weird and overprotective when you talk about crushes 
You’re probably the only person he feels like he can be emotional with
There are some nights when he’ll just sob in your arms about everything that’s happened
Because of how close in age you are (I’m imagining 9/10 months apart) everyone jokingly refers to you as twins 
This happens even more frequently when you two end up in the same grade (either through you skipping a grade or him getting held back) 
Ponyboy and you have what could be considered a semi-complicated relationship 
You’re the only one who understands him when he talks about books and movies 
You love reading his writing. You’re kind of his editor (catching spelling errors and whatnot), but also his biggest cheerleader 
You’re also soft in a way he really responds to, and very affectionate like Soda. You almost remind him of your mom, and he trusts you with his secrets 
You gentle parent him into eating and taking care of himself 
Here’s the only problem: he is so incredibly jealous of you. Most of it is subtler stuff, like the way he envies how easy it is for you to talk to people and how much everyone loves you. But what bothers him the most is: You’re a dreamer like him, so why doesn’t Darry ever get mad at you? 
Like Soda, you hate when Ponyboy and Darry fight. You wish they could just sit down and talk to one another
I also feel like you're lowkey annoyed that you get babied more than Ponyboy does, even though he’s younger than you 
You are automatically everyone in the gang’s little sister, and dear God, help the poor bastard who tries to mess with you 
Steve is probably one of your best buddies in the gang
Sodapop has always brought you around a lot since you’re so close in age, and Steve’s grown really fond of you (y’all are basically a trio) 
You’re also in a lot of the same classes, so it just makes sense 
You meet his energy while also calling him out when he goes to far (especially about Ponyboy) 
When his dad kicks him out for the night, if Johnny or Dally are asleep on the couch or he's really upset, he’ll just crawl into bed with you (this has been happening since you were kids)
Darry has mixed feelings since he knows how long this has been happening, but now that you're teenagers, he doesn’t love the concept of a seventeen-year-old boy crawling into your bed in the middle of the night 
I feel like you and Steve have either had crushes on each other at some point in your lives (probably middle school) or would gag at the idea of being romantically involved with each other - there’s no in between 
Either way, in a bind, Steve is always your fake boyfriend 
If you ever need anything and can’t get a hold of your brothers, you are 100% going to him first
Johnny is your number one gossip buddy - he is such a good listener, and he overhears so much juicy shit
You always clean up Johnny when he gets hurt by Socs or his parents 
You’re often included in the trio of Dally, Johnny, and Ponyboy, especially when they go to the drive-in 
If you need to get away, you go to Dally. He’ll hide you in a second, letting you hang out in his room at Buck’s until you feel up to going home 
He’s also the best possible secret keeper, and y’all definitely go to one another when you have a no-questions-asked favor 
You do not hesitate to call any of the boys on their shit 
Dally taught you how to fight (he also gave you a switchblade, which would piss Darry off endlessly) 
Two-Bit teases you constantly 
He probably calls you “Little Lady” all the time 
You really try to get him to drink less 
He constantly swipes little trinkets, jewelry, and makeup for you because he knows Darry can’t necessarily afford to buy you girly little things, and you would never ask for it 
You babysit Two-Bit’s baby sister all the time. She really looks up to you 
Occasionally, you wonder where you fit into the family. Darry is the caretaker, Soda is the heart, and Pony is so brilliant, what does that make you? 
You’ve learned to alter some of the boys' hand-me-downs into clothes that are wearable for you (so many of Darry’s old button-ups have been turned into dresses for you)
You try so hard to fill the hole your mother left - sewing rips in their clothes, learning to cook, and overall taking on a lot of the emotional labor in the household (because yes, Soda takes a lot of it, but you’re home way more often than he is) 
You burn out frequently, but feel really guilty for putting that on any of your brothers (Darry already has so much on his shoulders, Soda carries so much emotional weight from the other boys, and Ponyboy is too young) 
Your mom would always braid your hair when you were stressed, so Sodapop goes to Ms. Mathews to learn how to do it himself 
You nearly sob the first time he does it 
He later teaches Darry how to braid, too 
You’re the number one problem solver in the gang 
You are Sodapop, Steve, Ponyboy, and Johnny’s go-to person for dating advice
So much drama stems from sharing that damn bathroom with three brothers and whoever else happens to be in your house at any given moment
Darry straight up will not let you date. And if he does, it’s after a long interrogation and with a strict curfew
a.n. y'all, why do i wanna make this a series?
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