#i will probably be talking about all of this and more when it's safer to do so without spoilers

[contemporaryelfinchild]

I wanna address some of the points in the comments etc. because I think it's important to talk about.

"Don't they have to cut down trees (natural shade) to build windmills?" Most windmills are built either off shore (no trees) or on wide open plains where the wind is able to pick up speed. When it is located on farmland it takes up very little ground space and does not require cutting down trees any more than your average town would be in a given year. In some places windmills are located along ridge lines (mountains/hills). These do involve construction, sometimes in forested areas. Some trees are cut down to build the platforms and access road.

Not a question, but related to shade. Solar panels can also provide shade for crops and livestock! Every study I have seen on this has been highly effective! The benefits of shade are real.

"Sheep aren't wildlife." True! But there are probably other animals who use the shade as well.

"But windmills are bad because they kill birds." Windmills do kill birds. This is a fact. Outdoor domesticated cats and all windows on buildings kill more birds. If you protest building windmills for this reason you should protest all buildings with windows. But there is, as always, hope. Windows can be treated in ways that reduce bird collisions and so can windmills. Several ideas such as lights, paint, and sound signals are being tested to reduce bird fatalities from wind turbines.

There is no source of the energy that runs the modern world that has zero impact. Dams effect river ecosystems preventing fish migration, causing sediment buildup, and requires flooding a large area - building windmills disturbs landscapes (forests, deserts, costal ecosystems) during their construction and then do, without modifications, kill birds. Also a single one doesn't do much, you do actually need quite a lot of them to have a big effect and some people don't like how that looks - Solar panels take up a lot of space. There is really no such thing as a baren wasteland on earth where you can build miles and miles of solar panels with zero impact and it doesn't help us to delude yourself into thinking that there is. Co-locating them on farmland in ways that is beneficial is a good strategy. A lot of people hate on rooftop solar for being cost inefficient, but residential solar and battery systems actually can take a lot of stress off a grid and can be coordinated as virtual powerplants. - Nuclear takes up the least space and has the lowest environmental impact in its sighting. A single small nuclear power plant the size of a mall can power an entire city easily. The amount of land you need to cover in solar panels to do the same would upset most people. Peoples' main concern is the risk of a nuclear meltdown, but building new nuclear plants would actually let us finally decommission our old ones and the new ones would be a lot safer. We currently have no realistic option to replace the current nuclear fleet with anything other than natural gas, so think about that if you are staunchly anti-nuclear. The waste is a tractable problem if we were willing to tract it. But the mining of uranium has a big social and environmental impact. So does the mining of cobalt or lithium for solar or batteries or your phone.

Everything has negative impacts, but they have positive impacts too. We still need to transition away from fossil fules. There is no perfect zero harm option. I'm sorry. All we can do is mitigate harm while moving forward and accept that it won't be perfect.

[pittsick]

── IN THE CLOSET.

summary: you and Spencer are secretly married, but keeping it hidden from the BAU is harder than expected—especially when a trip to the supply closet turns into something a lot more intimate. between stolen kisses, whispered praise, and almost getting caught, you both can’t seem to resist pushing the limits.

pairing: spencer reid x afab!married!reader.

cw: +18. mdni. semi-public (supply closet). light teasing. light fingering. etablished relationship (secretly married). some fluff / humor. requested.

taglist: @imperishablereverie @userhotd @lvve-talks @prismozo @bluestrd @yardofbrunettes @lacelottie @hrtfilm @tinythebunni @cestdommage @dionnesthedoll ( to be added )

You’ve read the statistics—probably in one of the many case files stacked on your desk. Workplace romances? Not ideal. Workplace marriages? Career suicide.

And yet, here you are: two years into your secret marriage with Spencer, sitting across from him at the BAU, pretending like he’s not the one who packs your lunch, warms your feet in bed, and knows exactly how to make you come undone with just two fingers and a murmur of your name.

Spencer glances at you over his monitor. It’s subtle—so subtle that Hotch wouldn’t clock it unless he were profiling the hell out of you both. But it’s there. That glint. That little spark that says I love you, and I’m definitely thinking about last night.

Your mouth quirks, and you drop your gaze to the case file. It’s safer than catching his eye and giving in to the blush that creeps up your neck every time you remember he’s yours—in every possible, legal, and scandalous way.

It’s mid-afternoon when it starts again.

You're heading to the supply closet to grab a fresh pack of Post-Its—totally innocent—and you hear footsteps fall in behind you.

“Need backup?” Spencer asks, voice low, conspiratorial. You don’t turn. You know that voice too well. You just smirk. “Always.”

The corridor is empty—most of the team is off in the conference room discussing a lead, and Penelope is still tinkering in her office with her latest algorithm baby. You don’t even hesitate when you slip into the narrow supply closet and tug Spencer in behind you.

He closes the door with a soft click.

There’s not a lot of space. Shelves tower around you, stuffed with file boxes and reams of printer paper. The air smells like cardboard and toner. It should not be sexy.

And yet.

His hand settles on your waist, steadying you as he closes the few inches of space between you. His body is warm, all lanky limbs and unassuming strength, and he smells like his office soap and that faint trace of cinnamon in the perfume he swears he doesn’t wear on purpose. (He does because it drives you crazy).

You rest your hands against his chest. His heart is already racing. “Someone’s excited,” you whisper.

Spencer grins. “Someone wore that perfume I like.” You did too. Because of course he had to be excited by a perfume too. Your breath catches, and he dips to brush his lips against your cheek, feather-light.

“It’s just perfume.”

“No,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth now. “It’s my perfume.”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too hard, but he’s already noticed. Spencer always notices. You swear he could read your thoughts even without the profiling degree and genius IQ. Your fingers hook into his belt loops. He exhales, quiet and shaky.

“This is incredibly irresponsible,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“We’re going to get caught.”

“I know.”

His mouth meets yours before you can warn him a third time. It’s not rushed—it never is with Spencer. He kisses like he does everything else: with intention, curiosity, reverence. Like you’re something sacred. Like he’s memorizing you.

Your lips part for him, and he lets out a soft noise that vibrates against your tongue. His hands slide beneath the hem of your blouse, warm and careful, until he’s touching your bare waist.

“Missed you today,” he whispers.

“You’ve seen me all day.”

“Not like this.”

You giggle into the kiss, arms wrapping around his neck as he backs you against the shelf. A stapler shifts somewhere behind you, clattering down onto a stack of envelopes. You both freeze.

Silence.

Spencer glances at the door. “We locked it, right?”

“…No.”

He blinks. “Should I?”

You shrug. “Where’s the fun in that?” He groans under his breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder with a soft thud. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Probably. But I’ll leave you a really poetic note.”

That earns another kiss—deeper this time, with just enough tongue to make you shift your hips against him. He hisses softly, lips dragging to your jaw. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs.

“I have some idea,” you tease, palming him gently over his slacks. The fabric is already strained. He bites down on a moan, hiding it in the crook of your neck. “Sweetheart…” Your knees nearly give at the pet name.

“Spence,” you whisper, fingers tugging at his belt. “We don’t have long.”

He nods, already sliding his hand down your pants with careful hands. Your panties are already damp with anticipation and you let a shaky breath out. Spencer sucks in a breath as he slips a hand between your legs finally.

“Oh my God.” You whimper, biting your fist to stay quiet.

His fingers stroke you gently, reverently. He looks wrecked already, cheeks flushed, lips pink from kissing. His free hand braces you as he bends slightly for a better angle, whispering praise that shoots straight through your core. “So wet for me—always so good, so pretty, so mine.”

His fingers slide in with practiced ease—two, curling just right. You grip the shelf behind you, trying not to sob.

“Jesus, Spence—”

He hums, watching your expression like it’s his favorite novel. “I love you like this,” he says. “You always let me make you feel good.” You’re panting now, every muscle pulled taut, thighs trembling as his thumb circles your clit in lazy figure-eights.

And then—A voice. Just outside the closet door. “I swear the new Post-Its were in here—” It’s Morgan.

You freeze. Spencer stills, his hand deep inside you.

Silence again.

Then: “Nah, I got some at my desk. We’re good.” Footsteps retreat. The door stays shut. You and Spencer breathe again.

He lifts his hand slowly, gaze locked on yours, and brings his fingers to his lips. You stare at him. “You’re such a menace,” you whisper, eyes wide. He licks them clean.

You whimper.

“Can I finish what I started?” he asks, voice hoarse. You nod, eyes blown wide and he grins like the devil and sinks to his knees.

“You’re going to be quiet, are you?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, already wrecked. “Well, I’ll try.” But a strangled noise escape your lips when his fingers finds the way back inside your cunt, glistening with your wetness. Your thighs shakes already, Spencer’s thumb brushes over your clit in featherlight circles.

He curls them just right to make you see stars, for your thighs to clench around his hand, for your back to arch. There’s a smile on his face as he fucks you slowly with his fingers—even though he knows the rest of the team are going to search for you if you are gone for too long.

That’s how you finish, panting and chuckling as he kisses you to mute your moans.

Later, back at your desks, Spencer has a suspiciously smug look on his face, and your thighs are still trembling under the desk. You shoot him a glare, trying not to smile. JJ walks by and pauses. “Hey, you’re all flushed. Everything okay?”

You nod too fast. “Just warm in here.” JJ narrows her eyes, then glances at Spencer. He’s staring way too intently at his paperwork. She smirks, just slightly. “Mm-hm.” When she’s gone, you look at Spencer.

“She knows about us.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like we’re not technically allowed.”

“But if Hotch finds out—”

“He’d probably just ask us to be more discreet.” You glance down at your blouse, still wrinkled from where his hands had roamed. “Discreet,” you mutter. “Sure.”

He reaches across the desks and links his pinky with yours.

And damn it all, you smile.

[onlypinkslut]

since a lot of you have been curious about me, i thought i’d finally do this. i want my readers to get to know every part of me the soft parts, the freaky parts, the chaotic parts all of it. even the messy, unpretty things. you can ask me personal questions if you want. really, it’s okay. i’m not shy about who i am anymore. i’m just me, and this little space is where i let that exist fully.

hi. i’m 23, and i’m the type of girl who lives a little too much in her head but still manages to be loud as hell in real life. i speak both english and french fluently because i grew up in the french school system since i was a kid. french has always been part of how i think, speak, express love, or throw shade. i’m naturally introverted, but not the quiet type more like, i keep a lot to myself until i randomly start talking your ear off like we’ve known each other forever. i’m weird as fuck in the best way. i feel things deeply, i talk fast, i zone out, i laugh hard. i overthink and forget things all at once. i write all my filthy little fics in my notes app, literally. no fancy setup. just me, thumbs tapping, daydreaming at midnight, writing from my bed or the bathroom floor or while eating something sweet.

i procrastinate a lot. like… a lot. i’m lazy, moody, impulsive, i don’t take things seriously unless they hit me in the face, and i’ve got anger issues that flare up when i least expect them. my emotions switch without warning sometimes i care too much, sometimes i couldn’t care less if i tried. i don’t do therapy. i tried it once because someone thought i might have bpd (i was never diagnosed, just had symptoms), and i stopped going after the second session because the therapist made a weird comment about my makeup. which, by the way, i wear a lot of not for anyone else, just for me. it’s part of my armor, my art, my power. i’m a baddie and i don’t want to be fixed. i don’t need to be soft all the time to be real. i’m freaky and hypersexual, and yeah, a lot of that came from trauma, but i’m not ashamed. i don’t care to be healed in the way people expect. i’ve survived by turning pain into jokes, stories, characters, lipstick, and messy truths.

i’m bisexual, and i genuinely love women. like deeply. emotionally and sexually. i’ve mostly dated girls in real life because i feel safer, softer, and more myself around them. we like the same things makeup, cute shit, emotional messiness, being hot and sweet and dramatic at the same time. i’ve only dated one guy. hooked up with another one. but i’ve never had sex. i’m still a virgin. not because i’m shy or prudish or scared, but because i’ve never trusted a man enough to let him take that part of me. it was always rushed. always disappointing. always felt like i was supposed to give in before i was ready. i’ve sucked cock, and honestly… i liked it. i probably have an oral fixation i don’t even try to deny it. i’ve let men suck my tits too, but never let them fuck me. something in me always said no. maybe because i’m waiting for a moment that doesn’t feel cheap. something that feels like mine. not just some random sweaty fuck. and yeah, i write the nastiest shit about men in fiction i go full pick-me freak for fictional dilfs but in real life? you’d never catch me being down bad for a guy like that. not ever. i’m built different. i’m private. i hold myself sacred, even when i write dirty.

i like roblox. i love plushies. not the labubu ones because… EW. i like cute ones that feel soft when i’m sad. i vape. i scroll too much. i get attached easily but pretend i don’t. i don’t go out much unless it’s with my girls. i used to draw, roleplay, and spend hours on wattpad imagining lives that felt safer than mine. i still have a wild imagination. i daydream more than i sleep. i talk to myself when i’m alone. i tease people for fun because i’m a little brat. i romanticize everything and get crushed when reality disappoints. but that’s just me. soft. unfiltered. a little fucked up, but loving. craving safety, even if i act like i don’t need it.

and if you’re still here, reading this… thank you. you’re in my little world now. be gentle. or don’t. either way, i’ll write about it.

[beezer2713]

u shoudl write fluff about my ugly husband

an: ig i'll write this for you.... filthy rat.. for anyone requesting things in the future please give me more to work with! obviously saying which character (i just happen to know what they wanted already) you want included, but also a little more to work with other than just saying you want head cannons, even if it's simple like saying you want fluff head cannons with a gen!reader

cw: possible spoilers for Skips storyline, probably ooc

Skips Shadely/xxXShadowl0rd420Xxx x Gn!Reader

Skips follows around the house all the time, to keep an eye on you and make sure you're properly taking care of yourself

He has to apologize a lot for scaring you whenever you talk to yourself and he answers when you don't know he's there

Obsessed with listening to new music. Demands that you show him anything new you find, sometimes he'll show you his music too under the promise that you won't tell people about it so it stays unknown

Tries to convince you to change the lighting in your house so there's more shadows everywhere

Wears any accessories you make him, even if they don't match his style. He will hide them more though if they don't match, he has a reputation to upkeep afterall

Joins chat rooms with you and brags about his Penumbra to everyone whenever he gets the chance. Skips also loves Thiscord servers once you show him them

Demands that you have matching profile pictures on all your social media platforms and matching bios

Sends you any and everything that he sees online that reminds him of you, from cute couple posts to photos sad looking pasta

Patrols around the house when you go to sleep. He says it's to help you feel safer knowing he's the only thing in the shadows, but it's more for his sake than yours

[kicks-sleep-paralysis-demon]

My Pretties and how they would interact with reader who is neurodivergent (written by a neurodivergent - While writing this I'll try to cater to the most amount of people as possible, but because neurodivergence is a spectrum it probably won't fit anyone exactly. With that being said, if theres something I missed or something you would like me to add feel free to let me know so I can build on this idea <3)

(also another side-note: I have ADHD and SPD and probably autism but I have yet to get that diagnosed, so a lot of these will revolve around sensory accommodations and people skills)

Kick

Would do everything in his power to help you stay comfortable as often as possible. If you don't like how bright the room is then he turns the lights off. If its too loud, then he helps you find the best way to cope with that. If its to quiet, he'll talk to you as much as he can, or put on a show in the background.

(coming from someone recently diagnosed with ADHD ->) if you need help remembering tasks or doing tasks etc. then he will HELP. Texts you reminders, helps with task initiation.

If there are any chores you can't do due to sensory issues or otherwise then he will help, or find accommodations that will help. He still makes sure your chores are as balanced as possible <3

Gary 'Roach' Sanderson

He GETS it. Shares his coping mechanisms with you, lets you fidget with his hands, sticks as close as possible to you in public so that you both feel safer and more comfortable. If theres an event you both need to attend he's pulling up a map of the venue and marking bathrooms, quieter areas, and every single escape route possible to make sure you both have a way out if it gets too much.

If you both struggle with people skills, then he would do the best he can to teach you what's kept him afloat in society thus far.

Much like with Kick, you each assign chores based off your ability to do them. For example: He can wash the dishes, if you wipe off the counters and dust the shelves.

Rodolfo 'Rudy' Parra

He's neurotypical. But that doesn't stop him from being the most caring partner in the world. Like, I picture him as someone who would 100000% advocate for you in social settings, help you navigate difficult settings and public spaces, order your food for you at a restaurant if you can't do it yourself.

I just. He's perfect. Respects your internal rules as best he can, he would be SO good at comforting you after a meltdown. Can he be my therapist???

He would also help you with anything sensory wise. Socks feel weird? Come on, I'll find a bathroom where you can take them off. Clothes feel bad? We can go home. Too quiet? I can read to you. Too loud? he would literally turn off the breaker just to make sure you're not overwhelmed by the sound of electricity in the walls.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

He doesn't really know what he's doing... He would try his best but he genuinely has no idea how to help you. He's not sure how to help with meltdowns because he's never experienced one or had to help someone with one. He's not great at the whole "comforting people who physically can't stop crying no matter what you say" and he's not great at all the rules you have for yourself and your surroundings.

He does try though, he asks later how to help you better so you explain the best you can what you need and how he could assist you when you need him to.

He also asks Soap for advice, given that Soap is basically an encyclopedia of "How to help someone emotionally" given that he has about a bajillion sisters and nieces, + Ghost

David 'Hesh' Walker

He would do his best. If you're overwhelmed in public then he pulls you both aside as tries to comfort you. He's helped comfort Logan in the past, so he knows vaguely what might help and that sort of thing. I think he's definitely the most experienced in the department of "how to help someone who sucks at hygiene take showers regularly" because Logan was never really taught that he should shower often and not just when he feels greasy.

He also would be really good at reminding you of things, drinking water, eating food, etc. The one thing he struggles with is helping you in the moment of a meltdown or with social situations.

He's not sure what you mean if you say you can't order at a restaurant, or can't talk to the person at the register because thats not really something he even thinks about. He would still do it for you though, and he's a very caring loving partner. He tries to learn how to recognize patterns in your behavior so that you don't have to tell him exactly how you're feeling. (unless you want to then by all means he's all for it)

Logan Walker

He is probably the worst at helping out of all of them. Not intentionally, he just has no idea how to help and even when you tell him he's not sure what exactly he needs to do.

If you're like him and struggle with hygiene then thats a lost cause unless you both make the initiative to try harder. He forgets things all the time, but he does show you the nifty little reminder app he has on his phone.

Over time I think you'd both be able to benefit from each other's experiences but it does take a while to find that balance.

Nikto

You both are like two peas in a pod. Its almost like they can read your mind. They just know when you feel overwhelmed or underwhelmed??? and they know exactly how to help??? and he'll hug you if you need it without complaint??? and he'll hold your hand if you need it?? But at the same time they'll leave you alone if you want to be alone??

They understand what it's like to be so over or underwhelmed by everything that you're clawing at your skin waiting for it to stop.

All of this of course, is because they observe every single thing you do. They notice the subtlest change in your facial expression or body language and what it would indicate.

Krueger

Externally, as always, he's nonchalant. But he picks up on things like Nikto does, just not to the extent that Nikto does. If he notices a change in your behavior he'd just take you with him on a walk away from whatever is going on.

Walks are like the most he usually does, unless you express that going anywhere other than where you are at the moment would be like a stake in the heart, its his go to way of helping you calm down or recuperate from like and people.

He would remind you to do things if he notices you forget them a lot, but instead of texting you its with sticky notes all over the place where he knows you'll find them.

If you're actively having an emotional crisis then he freaks the fuck out internally. He doesn't know what to do so he just takes you to a place he knows would help you usually, and sits with you. Sometimes he sits you on his lap, sometimes he doesn't, but he would act all begrudging when he rubs your back (even though he wants to do everything he could to take care of you) -- if you ever express feeling like a burden then this is what he says

"Burden? You think I would still be here if I thought you were a burden? No. Exactly. Now rest, and drink water Schatz."

<3

~~~ btw Schatz means treasure in German js for anyone who doesn't speak the language.

I did my best on these, I think that some of them I got kind of side tracked and a few of them are super long but oh well lol

[wild-surge]

I'm a bit on the fence about this one; on the one hand, I don't think he'd want to deal with any of the Raven Queen's servants but I feel like the raven would be able to see things about him that few else can (I think it's supposed to be connected to/a part of the Raven Queen herself? Or some kind of perverted psychopomp in her service?).

I think it will be safer then if I leave this for you to write, maybe add some of Val's POV after everything is over and done with; she'd definitely be a bit testy with him and, knowing her, might forego explaining why - question is how he will react to this angrier, more mood swingy Val (I'm also this close to making this less serious and having Astarion - probably, because they have beef - just make a crude joke about the time of the month causing the mood swings).

I think this is cute; I think she'd understand Val and listen patiently, though she may not totally relate to everything she says. She'd keep Val's confidence, but beyond that I'm not sure yet....

I think Val would actually forget that this kitty actually talks with Deet and is on his side. It wouldn't be talking with Sister, more likely talking at her out of frustration general frustration with her own feelings and with Deet. She'd probably start doing that when Withers is busy with Arabella and then just gets used to talking at something alive that can't - to her knowledge - judge her or tell her she's an idiot. That sort of dynamic. More of the "canon" Val coming out.

I like this; would the group be able to feel a bit more of her divine self in that moment?

Honestly I could see this going either way so have fun :3 If going by divine anger I think others might finally notice the smell of burial flowers (though with the overall rot of SCL they might ignore it?) - I think it would definitely be associated with more negative emotions; anger, fear, discomfort? Though she could handwave it by being a Kelemvorite (question is who would believe it to be a sort of blessing from her god).

If not here, then in the Gate's cemetery - he'd smell the flowers and make an association?

maybe we can give Val a little break from feeling guilty 😭 and let him initiate that kiss? Now, I do have this thought that he's never really kissed anyone outside of sex, so he might assume that one always follows the other—and at the same time, it's the only expression of romantic affection he really knows? He'd be mentally preparing himself to "perform", but he's definitely in a bad place for it and I'm sure there's zero mood after fighting Balthazar. Deet would be relieved and very grateful if Val cut it off before things went too far.

Oh she'd still feel hella guilty 😅 but yeah she would definitely NOT initiate anything romantic with him - even is she already came to terms that what she feels for him is way-way beyond being protective, to put it lightly, he is in a vulnerable place. Having Val take the first step would - to me - read too much as abuse/grooming? (I think him being all soft-but-also-protective of the egg would have a reaction from her. In life, she gave the egg to Lae'zel and she herself never had any maternal instincts - and that won't change. But, "Deet is mama" actually hit a spot in my head and I could see a slight role reversal? If he's mama then she's gonna protect mama.)

And yes, I was tossing the ideas how far they would go at it - definitely not far but I was more wondering what would be more in-character for him in that moment; a shyer, softer approach or something slightly more animalistic because he feels raw after everything, and the dominant alpha behaviour would just be posturing to not appear weak (honestly the more I think about it, it could technically be a part of the role reversal where she takes on a bit of stereotypical male role - protecting him, watching over him as he sleeps etc, and he just feels he needs to set this straight?).

I like this! I'll think about this over the weekend. I do see the Thaniel & Oliver stuff happening before Ketheric is defeated (and pre-Shar's Gauntlet--I don't like leaving once we're down there so I save it for when I know I'm done with all the stuff I want to do).

Ok! I had a minor conflict planned before this but it won't work pre-Balthazar so I might need to do some brainstorming. I was thinking they just had a fight about something (nothing serious, maybe even the whole post-He Who Was spat - she's still there for him but just. Angry. Standing a bit further away, a bit quieter etc). Just something that would, for those brief few seconds, trigger him into thinking what now. Just to get that nogging of his going (now that I think of it, it would fit better before Gauntlet, so that the kiss would not come out of nowhere?)

I can see that and that's good to know. And yeah, I'm like 99% sure he'd be attracted to Halsin and accept his proposition in Act 3 (if he's established with anyone, he's of course clearing it with them first, but he'd be into it).

I was actually dancing around the idea of him not even asking her (he did ask Shadowheart and just got too excited at the prospect) but no matter how I put it, it feels too meanspirited for him.

Val would not say no, because she thinks that: a) he'd dump her (because of boring sex?) b) she will have to leave and does not want him to be left alone c) she does not want to pressure him into anything, too angry at Mystra for what she did.

She would, however, definitely be sad and uncomfortable. Question is how well she'd hide it from him and how he would react. If he botches the perception roll, she'd definitely grow distant from everyone - even if not in a physical way, so not to bring too much attention to that.

Face blank, Deet appraised her gear. "You look like an aarakocra during mating season," he deadpanned. He recalled that one season he spent in the forest canopy, pretending he wasn't enthralled by bright colors and shiny trinkets—it never went anywhere. A quizzical expression flickered across his brow and he gave the sorcerer one last, lingering look before shaking it off and walking away.

And this brings me back (and actually inspired it in the first place) to the idea of a bit of role reversal. I don't remember much about aarakocra but for the sake of my train of thought I pictured the males as having a more colourful plumage. And just ran with that ^^; I'm trying to figure out anything companion specific for her in SCL but I don't think there would be any "companion quests" for her; because it's at the same time too much and too little?

I'd stick to her using her powers to free Shadowheart once Shar grabs her - maybe the cleric notices something weird about her then but would keep her secret (or not even address it?).

Shar is definitely stronger than her so there might be some effects from venturing into Shadowfell uninvited (though I think Aylin and Isobel would help with that afterwards). Myrkul is not at his full power and came up "only" in his avatar so there definitely would not be much interaction (even if she feared them) and after eons she knows how the fight with him goes, so she'd keep her distance in fight, maybe Misty Step to Aylin to free her.

On that note: I could picture Ketheric being absolutely triggered by her presence and not understanding why (though I do not remember how it went if you took untadpoled Halsin with you to the Towers so I really don't know if you'd want to have this included).

Raphael and Yurgir definitely see through the glamour. I know god!Gale zaps Raph's ass but Val is a minor deity so it's hard to tell where she stands in comparison to Raphael. I'm thinking slightly below him when he's on the mortal plane but he does not know that. So while he may tease/threaten about spoiling her secret, he wouldn't do it there. And she'd definitely refuse to go to House of Hope - there the glamour won't work at all and while she is still strong, she'd probably be terrified of Deet learning what she was.

Dream Guardian - who they are and what they represent for Deet? I think in this chapter I make a vague reference to "familiar eyes" but other than that I skip any focus on them.

Val? Val won't take that scene well, but the next interaction during honour guard attack will be worse.

I think I meant to add something but forgot it now -_-

"So… you're keeping the egg?" he hears the disbelief in her voice, knows what's coming next and feels his hackles raise in defence.

"If you come to jest--"

"What? No, I--" she groans, her shoulders dropping, glances at the egg with such an odd expression that he's not sure whether to shield the little one with his own body.

"I'm sorry," she whispers finally "I'm not…" shakes her head, kneels in front of him, brows furrowed but a small smile dancing on the corners of her lips "We'll need to figure out how to carry him so he doesn't get harmed on the way."

"Him?" her eyes widen, purples flashing.

"Or her." she shrugs, but there is some uneasiness to her now "You might need a better blanket, the nights are getting colder the closer we are to the valley, you don't want him to get cold."

"I know how to care about the egg," he growls, he took care of abandoned nests before, raised the hatchling to adulthood. He didn't need the girl to tell him what to do.

He turns away from her, arms wrapping around the little one again as he becomes aware of the temperature dropping. If he's not enough then he will call for Sister to lend her heat.

He sleeps through the night and in the morning wakes up under a heavy blanket, soft from years of use but still thick and smelling like bramble flowers.

This was a supposed to be a series of short snippets and this chapter is already 3500 words long, wtf brain, you have another long ass thing to write, why come up with another story T_T

[adamsrcnan]

OKAY OKAY here we goooo an annoyingly long-ish post about all my thoughts on The Sunshine Court

Spoilers Spoilers Spoilersss you've been warned

First things first it is so interesting to see Nora writing from not one but TWO new people's perspective. Jean's perspective is just devastating being inside his head is heartbreaking the constant fear and panic and how much of his energy is used on just pushing down every memory of what was done to him. His coping mechanisms are terrifying and i truly do hope by the end of book 2 he has a healthier way of dealing with it bc baby boy stop hurting yourself :( Every sentence was so painful to read. But also his resilience the entire time to get through it no matter what, god i fucking love him!!! He is a fighter.

Jeremy's perspective is sooooo refreshing. He is such a little sweetheart i could cry. The fact that he sends hand written letters and he's so caring and genuine but he can also be so stern. When he dropped that "i asked you a question" to Lucas fkehdjdfjdh OK SIR. I'M SAT. His relationship with the family butler is so endearing as well i need more background on that for sure! My only one criticism is that he didn't have enough pov chapters and i'm hoping we'll learn more in the second book of course because there's still so much about him and his (dysfunctional? toxic?) family dynamic that we don't know yet but also i'm greedy and i wanna know EVEYTHING about him !!!

Kevin and Jean are so just tragic it actually breaks my fucking heart like "you didn't have to slit my throat on the way out" JEAN??? and "promise me you won't try again. I can't lose you." KEVIN??? And the fact that Jean to this day is still keeping that promise. Also Jean's obvious but secret long term crush on Kevin the way it's subtly dropped every time Jean has to stamp down on his desire's and "temptations" GOD PLEASE I CAN'T STAND IT

SPEAKING OF!!! BISEXUAL JEAN ??? BI JEAN??? BI JEANNNN !!!!

Neil and Jean oh my God like where do i even start?? The guilt Jean feels at what happened to Neil in the Nest and him finally calling him by his name after Riko's death and telling him his game was good. And Neil seriously needs to give himself more credit for how much of a caring person he is because the way he indirectly told Jean that he thinks he is worth saving and didn't even hesitate before asking Stuart to send someone after That Guy after what Jean told him. Neil Josten the man that you are!!!

Jean's little sister Elodie what a beautiful name. Them being so close and him reading to her. The way he found out about her death jolted me differently. It was so awful and i'm so sorry Jean didn't get to see her grow up and meet her again.

Renee and Jean oh my god. Jean thinking she's beautiful (bitch me toooo) And the whole right person wrong time ugh i can't stand it. Him wearing her necklace all the time, enough that Jeremy always notices it. And unabashedly stealing her picture from the foxes lounge. Like he did not give a fuck. He said this one is mine. One good reason to stay alive being rainbows i'm gonna FKSJSKDHDH. Theirs would be such a soft love.

Speaking of soft loves Laila and Cat are EVERYTHINGGGG. God they are so cute with their little domestic life and their rich gay boy son who crashes on their couch with his cardboard cut out dog. That whole friendship dynamic is beautiful. Their fierce protectiveness and care over Jean as well and the patience they have with him even after the little kitchen incident. When Cat took Jean out for a drive on her motorcycle god that was such a heart warming moment and Jean helping them cook as well and becoming the girls' little sous chef it's so cute so endearing !!!

FINALLY FINALLY THE JEREJEAN DYNAMIC

PLEASE I'M GONNA SCREAM

Jeremy being the one who told Jean that Riko was dead i don't even know what to begin with THAT like hhhhhhh. The way they're both stupidly attracted to each other but won't/can't do anything about it. THE WHOLE "say yes Jeremy" SCENE WTF WAS THATTT I WAS GOING INSANEEEE. Both of them having to stop mid sentence when they catch the other looking FINE as hell. Jean being so obvious that even Lucas picks up on the way he looks at Jeremy. Jeremy being there to ground Jean in a Moment and helping him come down from it. Grabbing his face and telling him he's okay. Moving into the room with him to make him feel more comfortable !! The way Jean grabs Jeremy's chin (boiiiii). Jeremy constantly reminding Jean that he is NOT A RAVEN ANYMORE no matter how many times he has to say it. Jeremy saying he'll wait as long as it takes until Jean speaks to him. JEREMY GIVING HIM A HUG AND JEAN CLUTCHING DESPERATELY TO HIS SHIRT FUUCUFHDHSJHSSUHDH and then the "will you help me?" And the "Anything you need" AND THEY'RE GOING TO TAKE A CERAMICS CLASS TOGETHER?!?!?!!!! i can't i can't i can't i caaan'ttt

There's so much more to say but i'm gonna leave it at this for now because i need to go re-read it again and take my time with it this time round but i really could not have asked for anything better Nora truly outdid herself here !!! I'm forever grateful she blessed us with this after so long.

[phantom-kiwi]

Spent too much time watching youtube last night and ended up watching videos about horror movies, it was mostly entertaining but it just reminded me of how much I despise the "waaahh horror movie characters are always so stupid and irrational just do this and that instead you'd be out in no time" argument people seem to always be making anywhere horror media because like. My sibling in christ the entire point of horror is to put People in Fucked Up Shit. Do you know how the body reacts to stress. Do you know what fear does to your thinking abilities. Do you know how much training it takes for someone to be able to deal with distressing situations in a rational and efficient way. Have you never gone tunnel vision mode because you were scared even for just a couple minutes. Like come on

[swearimnevergivingup]

EMERGENCY CONTACT 

ex-boyfriend!nanami kento x reader ─ teaser

sypnosis: when a hospital visit leaves you too weak to go home alone, you don't think twice before agreeing to let the nurse call your emergency contact. only... the person who shows up isn't who you expected. you thought nanami had walked out of your life for good three years ago – so why is he here now?

content: exes to lovers, long-term relationship in the past, just two people hung up over each other, yearning, so much yearning, reconciliation, fluff, a bit of humour, explicit smut, nanami kento has a big dick…., hurt/comfort, angst as they talk about their breakup but a happy ending!! porn with plot, makeup sex (but it’s 3 years in the making)

a/n: a teaser of my ex-boyfriend!nanami x reader one shot! i've actually been sitting on this one for a veryyyyy long time now, and it's mostly done - just waiting for the right time to post it :) there will be a happy ending i promise. there's also an nsfw drabble in my masterlist if you want, but be warned there are plot spoilers EDIT: FULL ONE SHOT IS OUT! HERE <3

you sit on the edge of the bed, the discharge paper crumpled in your hands. your body aches, your head throbs, and the bright fluorescent lights are way too harsh on your eyes.

you kick your feet idly, letting the sound fill up the quiet of the hospital room. you’ve been waiting for the nurse to come back and give you the all-clear to leave. she had asked if you would like her to call your emergency contact first – advising that you were still weak and would be much safer with someone to help you get home. exhausted and bleary-eyed, you had simply shrugged and agreed without much thought. 

your mom would probably rush over, give you a stern lecture about taking care of yourself better, though her worry would be evident in the way she’d sneak side glances at you the entire drive back to your apartment.

“i told you not to overwork yourself,” she would chide, her brows furrowed. “you can’t keep living like this.”

guilt presses down, heavier than the fever pressing at your temples. she’s right, of course. you’re just not sure what else to do. your industry treats burnout as a badge of honour, and slowing down means falling behind. you’ve already sacrificed so much, so what’s a few skipped meals, a few dizzy spells?

a knock on the door draws you out of your reverie. your eyes flicker up to find the same nurse from before at the door, clipboard in hand.

“it says here that your emergency contact is a person named…?” she squints at the papers in her hand, “…nanami kento?” she peers up at you from her clipboard, offering you a kind smile.

your stomach drops.

nanami… kento? 

you haven’t heard that name in months, much less seen the man himself in two years. the sound of his name reverberates in your ears, a familiar ache washing over you once more. 

“we actually tried to get in touch with him earlier while you were unconscious, but he didn’t pick up.” she continues, her tone cheerful, oblivious to the distraught expression on your face. “good news though, i just managed to contact him and he’s already on his way h—”

“wait, no!” you cut her off, your voice sharp with panic as you frantically wave your hands in front of you.

“oh…?” the nurse blinks at you, now startled by your sudden outburst, as you scramble to explain yourself.

“t–that won’t be necessary. i’ll uh– i’ll call someone else right now,” you say quickly, standing up to grab your phone from your bag. “he’s– he’s…”

my ex-boyfriend. 

“…he doesn’t live in tokyo anymore,” you finish, voice softening in panic-soaked whisper. “he definitely won’t be able to come.”

and he probably doesn’t even think about me anymore.

“thats odd,” her eyebrows lift. “it’s just… when we called him, he said he would be here soon, and he sounded quite worried, actually.” she eyes you with a gentle concern.

oh god, no. 

you sit down just as quickly as you stood up, clutching the sides of the bed frame like an anchor and feeling like you might be rapidly cycling through the five stages of grief. 

stage 1, denial: because there’s just no fucking way. nanami kento, who hated you so much he quit his job and disappeared to kyoto to get away, a whole train ride away from tokyo, is supposedly coming to pick you up? 

step 2, anger: why the hell did you let them call him? what were you thinking? why is he still listed as your emergency contact? which puppy did you kick? what god did you offend?

step 3, bargaining: maybe you can hobble out of here and call a taxi before he arrives. no wait, the nurse had said it wasn’t advisable with your condition. is hiding in the toilet or under the bed a feasible option instead? you can’t help but peer down the edge of the hospital bed. no, too much space underneath. he’d spot you instantly. fuck.

you’re about to progress to the next stage: existential crisis when someone clears his throat at the door. 

you know instantly who it is without having to look up.

you really don’t want to look up.

how many seconds is a reasonable time to spend staring at the ground below your feet?

taking measured breaths to steel yourself, you count to three before slowly raising your head to look at him.

you swallow hard upon doing so, your voice instantly dying in your throat. 

standing right in front of you, it's undeniable that he’s just as handsome as ever. the same chiselled jawline and hollowed cheekbones, the signature blue dress shirt, and the same calm, steady presence that used to make you feel so incredibly safe. his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and you have to try really hard not to notice the way his biceps pull the fabric tight against his arms. 

and.. he still smells entirely familiar, the distinctive smell of the cologne you gifted him on your second anniversary being hard to miss. you wonder if he’s finished the bottle, or if he went out and repurchased the same one. you wonder if he thought of you while doing so, if he remembered the night you shared together the night you presented him with the gift. 

you wonder if he knows you still think of him – when you pass by his favourite bakery, when you cook a dish that used to be enjoyed together, or when it’s late at night, and the bed’s far too cold, and you find yourself missing the warmth of a certain ex-lover.

he was more than your ex-lover, though. he was your best friend, your home, and… you’d always thought he’d be your husband one day. 

you quickly shake off that thought before it cracks your heart right open again.

there’s a tired look in nanami’s eyes that mirrors your own, and his tie is slightly loosened – he must have rushed over.

there’s a brief moment of quiet. neither one of you speaks, the silence thick with unsaid things from the past that come rushing back in an instant for you. shared memories – the laughter, the promises, and the pain, that you’ve tried to block out with one too many drinks alone or with friends. 

he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he doesn’t ask why your emergency contact list still has his name. he doesn’t ask anything.

“come on,” he says simply, not meeting your eyes. “let’s get you home.”

he can’t even look at me. 

so why did he even bother to come?

he just takes your bag from the side table, slings it over his shoulder, and holds the door open for you like it’s been no time at all.

thankfully, the car ride home is short and traffic is smooth, ensuring your suffering isn’t needlessly prolonged. after giving nanami your address, you simply opt to stare out the window, pretending to take great interest in the passing blur of trees and headlights. anything to avoid looking at him.

“thanks for coming,” you mumble, voice stiff and rigid. “i’m sorry about the inconvenience.”

he glances over at you. “that’s alright. i work nearby.” he’s straight-faced as he stares ahead, and the tone of his voice is imperceptible. you can’t get a read on his emotions at all, even if you tried.

you ignore the part where he just revealed that he’s back in tokyo. working. it shouldn’t hurt you that you didn’t know. he came to pick you up when he didn’t have to, when he didn’t want to, and that should be enough.

“still,” you say quietly, shifting in your seat. “thank you.” 

you know this man like the lines on your palms – every freckle, every sigh, every scar he never let anyone else touch. you know the exact way he takes his coffee and how he prefers to fold his shirts. you have his initials inked into your skin, for goodness' sake. he used to trace over them absentmindedly when he thought you were asleep.

and yet.

here you are.

he was the love of your life, and you’re reduced to exchanging cheap pleasantries like strangers. 

“it- it was an accident,” you attempt to clarify, sitting up straighter. “the nurse asked if i wanted to call my emergency contact, and i wasn’t thinking so i said yes, and she tells me she’s just called uh– you, and i must have forgotten to change my–” you cut yourself off, wincing when you realise you’ve started rambling.

“...thank you,” you say again stupidly, for lack of anything else to say to fill the space between you. “i… i appreciate it.”

it’s almost laughable how awkwardly you’re sitting, with your entire body turned away towards the window, like you’re trying to squeeze yourself towards the door and as far away as possible from the driver’s side. you might as well be trying to climb out of it.

“you’ve thanked me enough tonight,” he makes a sound that could seem like a bit of a laugh escaping him. you want to reach for it. to capture the precious sound with both hands and never let go. 

“so…” nanami asks, softer now. “do you feel alright?”

“y–yeah.” you mumble, looking down at your hands. “just the usual, you know. it’s really not a big deal.”

“the fainting spells?” his eyebrows raise and he glances at you as he takes a right turn. you’re close to home. “you still get them?”

you nod, surprised he remembers. “uh huh,” you reply absentmindedly. “it’s just work. i guess i’ve been overdoing it lately. but i’ve got the weekend off so… i’ll use that time to get some rest.”

“i was really worried when i got the call,” he says quietly. “you should take better care of yourself.”

you turn your head to look at him, caught off guard. but his eyes are still fixed on the road, focused and unreadable as he pulls up to your apartment complex. there’s not a flicker of emotion on his face – nothing at all to tell you what he’s really thinking. 

“yeah,” you mutter. “tha—” you quickly stop yourself. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

the engine clicks softly as he shifts into park, but neither of you move.

you stare out the windshield at the streetlights glowing against the pavement, casting long shadows that stretch like ghosts between you.

you bite your lip.

you should let him go. you know you should. thank him again, close the door behind you, and leave this buried in the past – right where he left you those two and a half years ago. 

but your thoughts are moving too fast, resisting another dreadful goodbye. this can’t be it. not after everything. the way his voice cracked slightly when he said he was worried – that was real, right? there’s still so much you want to say. there’s so much you never got to tell him.

so blame it on the hospital meds, or the adrenaline, or the fact that he still smells like that stupid cologne you bought him, but before you can talk yourself down, the words are already tumbling out of your mouth.

you don’t look at him when you say it. your fingers twist painfully in your lap, breath caught in your throat. 

“do you… want to come up for a bit?” 

a pause.

you’re beginning to wish you could take it back. to laugh and say nevermind, to play it off like it didn’t mean anything. you glance at him, mouth opening to offer some half-hearted apology, but he speaks before you do.

“yeah. okay.”

it takes a second for the words to register. then another to believe he really meant them. 

you nod once, then without looking at him again – because you can’t bear to see the look in his eyes – you reach for the door handle and hurriedly step out. 

a/n: nanami what r u thinking...

masterlist here / taglist is open!

[hearts4hughes]

ೃ࿔:･ bsf!rafe starts dating sofia and ghosts you

he was always yours…until he wasn’t.

you don’t remember when the shift happened—when lingering looks turned heavier, when brushing hands stopped being accidental. you just know it never went anywhere. because rafe was your best friend. he had been since middle school, since braces and bike rides and bad decisions with summer consequences. it felt safer to leave it unsaid.

until wheezie told you. “he’s been asking me weird stuff,” she said one night, legs curled under her on your bed. “like what kind of flowers girls like, or if i think scrunchies are still a thing. i swear, he’s gonna do it. he’s finally gonna ask you out.”

your heart did that stupid thing—clenched and soared all at once. you smiled like a fool and let yourself believe it. you started wearing your hair down more. painted your nails, let the hope live a little.

so when rafe texted “come by. got something to show you.” you thought, this is it. you wore that sundress he once said made you look like trouble and smiled at the mirror.

but he wasn’t waiting for you with flowers or reciting what he was going to say to you. he was with her—sofia. she was tucked under his arm like she belonged there. all glossy and sweet and brand new. her voice too loud and her smile too wide. the type of girl you and rafe used to giggle about.

“this is sofia,” rafe said, almost sheepish. “my…girlfriend.”

you just smiled, bit your cheek hard enough to draw blood, but smiled. “oh, wow. i’m happy for you.”

liar.

~

it was ok at first. sure, he didn’t sit as close to you anymore and he told you less and less (unless it was about sofia). but then he starts missing things. movie nights, beach days, your birthday, kind of—he texts sorry, things came up with a stupid champagne emoji and you stare at your screen until it blurs.

you try not to care. try to be chill—normal. the way he probably wants you to be. but it builds slowly and cruelly. every canceled plan another cut. until it snaps.

he shows up to your house to borrow a charger, of all things. you’re in the driveway before he even knocks, heart in your throat and fury in your fists. “so this is it?” you say, arms crossed. “you’re just ghosting me for some girl you met like—what, three weeks ago?”

rafe blinks and doesn’t answer right away. you take that as permission to keep going. “you forget everything we’ve been through? every night i sat with you when your dad was on a bender, or when topper left you stranded at that party? i was there. i’ve always been there. and now she shows up with her fake nails and new highlights and you just—what? forget me?”

his face darkens. “don’t talk about her like that.”

“why not? you don’t even know her.”

“i do.”

“yeah?” your voice cracks. “then what the hell am i, rafe?”

and he explodes. “she’s my girlfriend!” he growls, voice mean and low. the same voice he used to use on other people, but never you. “not you! she is!.”

you go still. just…still. your mouth opens, then closes. the world tips sideways. he sees it. the way you crumble, just a little. his expression shifts—regret, guilt, something softer—but you shake your head before he can speak. “don’t,” you whisper. “don’t say anything else.”

he steps forward. “look, i didn’t mean-”

“it’s fine,” you lie. “really. i hope you and sofia are just great.” you muster up the best faux smile you can and bring your voice up an octave. you’re getting good at it—pretending. “you don’t have to worry about me bothering you anymore.”

you don’t look back. you walk away from him, from that driveway, from everything that once felt safe and unbreakable between you. and when you get to your room, you let the door shut and the silence fall like it’s permission. then you cry—not loud, not dramatic…just quiet, painful little sounds that shake in your throat and make your ribs hurt.

you don’t text rafe. don’t check if he texted you. don’t even stalk sofia’s instagram. you just try not to hope.

~

a week passes. seven full days of radio silence. seven full days of heartache and shitty chocolates in heart-shaped boxes. you hate that you count them. saturday comes around once again. dusk spilling through your window like it’s sneaking in. you’re lying in bed, headphones in, not crying anymore, just numb. then, theres that knock.

it’s not at your door, it’s at the front door. you almost don’t check, almost pretend you’re not home, almost hope that someone else gets it before you. but something makes you move. you rise to your feet, stepping all of the candy wrappers and ripped up notes with rafe’s handwriting. trudging down the stairs, your stomach twists. your body knows before your mind does. and when you open it, he’s there.

he’s in a hoodie that looks like he’s slept in it. jaw bruised like he picked a fight and didn’t win. eyes bloodshot, hands twitching like they don’t know what to do if they’re not touching you. “can i come in?” he asks, voice hoarse.

you stare at him. this ghost of your best friend. this boy who shattered you with seven words. “why?” you whisper.

he swallows hard. “because i was wrong.” you don’t say anything, fingers playing with the hem of your oversized shirt. “i shouldn’t’ve yelled at you like that,” he goes on. “i shouldn’t’ve picked her.”

“you didn’t just pick her,” you murmur. “you left me.”

rafe frowns. “i know—fuck, i know. i thought—i thought maybe if i tried with someone else, it’d go away.”

“what would?”

“the way i feel about you.” your breath catches. “it’s always been you,” he says, quieter now. it’s a confession and it hurts to say out loud. “since freshman year. you had braces and wore those stupid cat socks and you punched topper in the face for calling me a daddy’s boy. and i think that was it for me. i was just gone.”

you stare at him. throat constricting around nothing. “then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“because you were my best friend,” he says. “and i was terrified of ruining it. of ruining us.”

you blink fast, heart hammering. “wheezie told me,” you whisper. “she said you were gonna ask me out. that you’d been asking her about flowers and scrunchies and stupid stuff and—i thought it was finally happening.”

rafe steps closer. his hands are shaking. “it was,” he says. “it was for you. all of it. but i got scared and did something stupid and i hurt you. i know that.” he runs his hands over his face. “but please—i need you to know, none of it meant anything.”

you search his face. the cracks in it. the truth bleeding through. “you broke my heart, rafe.”

he nods. “and you’re breaking mine just standing there.”

you inhale shakily. then you whisper, “say it.” his brows furrow. “say it’s me.”

he steps forward, gently cups your face in his hands. “it’s you,” he breathes. “it’s always been you.”

that’s when finally he kisses you.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey

[bruisedboys]

hwang junho x reader, no spoilers for season 3!

hwang junho who’s the most protective boyfriend you’ve ever had, and he’s proud of that title! and even though you like to tease him and pretend it annoys you, you secretly really love it and don’t want him to ever change <3

like listen, he’s a cop, it’s sort of a given that he’s gonna be at least a little protective of everyone he’s close with. it’s been hammered into junho’s instincts to protect those around him, but after everything that’s happened with his brother and discovering the games, he can’t risk anything happening to you. you’re his everything, and if you ever got hurt under his watch — even just a little bit — he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

junho’s protectiveness shows itself in all the little things. like, how he always follows the sidewalk rule, walking on the side nearest the road, shielding you from passing traffic with his body. he does it unconsciously at first — stepping around you if you’re on the outer edge of the sidewalk, nudging you away to take your place. after a while of this, of him gently correcting you every time you accidentally walk on the outer edge, you get used to it and fall into the habit of walking on the “safe side” of the sidewalk, as he calls it.

also, junho always always takes the side of the bed closest to the door. call him paranoid, but he’s certain he could protect you if any danger came through the door while you were sleeping. he feels safer sleeping nearest the door, with his body shielding yours from the entrance. junho also tends to sleep with his arms locked around you, holding you to his chest — it’s not very practical, but it makes him feel safer nonetheless. he’ll admit he’s maybe overdoing it just a little bit, but sue him if he wants to protect the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

junho’s quite touchy too when you’re out together — not in an overbearing way, not in a pda way, and not in a super obvious way, either. just in the way that he feels he needs to have a hand on you, or his arm around you, in case anything happens, so he can pull you to safety as quickly as possible. he’s very subtle about it — just a big hand on the small of your back at the grocery store, or his arm curved around your waist at the pub. his hand on your thigh while he drives, or his fingers interlocked with yours when he takes you out for dinner. it’s subtle, almost like he does it without realising it, and somehow that makes it even more endearing.

of course, with junho being a cop, he makes sure you know (and follow) all the proper safety precautions. he’s well aware of how criminals work and tries his best to equip you with the right protection. if you don’t live with him, he’s constantly asking if your security cameras and alarms are all working and up to speed — in fact, he’ll come over and check them himself, just to be safe. he makes you promise to have your phone on you at all times, and prefers you have your location on when you’re not with him. he buys you a charger to keep in your car, and a portable charger for your bag, so you don’t ever run out of battery at a bad time. he probably makes you carry pepper spray in your bag, too, though he hopes you’ll never have to use it.

junho tries his best not to be overbearing, and he succeeds for the most part. he’s quietly protective, subtly looking out for you at all times. he never pushes it too much, and he respects you enough to know you can look after yourself just fine. sometimes though, you’ll tease him — giggling when he stands a little too close in the line at the grocery store, or telling him, “no one’s gonna break in, I have nothing worth stealing,” with an eye roll while he checks your alarms for the second time in one week. but it’s always lighthearted, and if anything, junho’s convinced you tease him because his protectiveness makes you flustered, and you’ve got no other way to hide how it makes you feel. though, that could just be his ego talking.

if you asked junho to stop, he would. he’d do anything you asked, clearly. but you don’t ever ask him to stop. you like that he protects you — it makes you feel special, and you wouldn’t trade him for the world <3

-

thank u for reading, reblogs are appreciated! also my request are open for junho hehe x

[ohbo-ohno]

animal, sick as they come

summary: Ghost has been starving his whole life. Never enough food to fill his stomach, never enough blood to cover his hands, always leaving him hungry and ready to snap. You’re the supposed solution to his problem, willing or not. (or: the kidnapped home chef au)

wc: 14.2k

cw: graphic nonconsensual sex, kidnapping but you’re lowkey chill about it, rough sex, pain play, dirty talk & light degradation, non-consensual spanking, rough/painful anal sex, gratuitous description of cooking/food written by someone who once lit a pot of boiling water on fire and is really just trying her best

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

You may have never been kidnapped before, but you can’t imagine this is how it’s supposed to go.

The masked man looms in the doorway to the kitchen, shoulders so wide that he can’t stand in the opening properly because he wouldn’t even fit, the very top of his head hidden by the worn frame. He’s a beast of a man, hulking in every sense of the word, and you can’t help but wonder how he managed to sneak up on you in the first place. Surely you’re not that unaware of your surroundings? He’s easily 6’4, probably no less than three hundred pounds.

Not much time had passed since you’d woken in a dark room with a thudding pain between your temples, mouth dry and throat swollen. You were sure you’d been blindfolded at first, eyes dry and heavy, until ice-cold water splashed onto your face and your eyes flew open on instinct.

He’d just… been there. One minute you were walking home, trying to avoid large puddles and squinting through pouring rain, and the next you were shivering and scared, your captor towering over your crumpled and bound form.

You’d lost control of your bladder the moment the sight of him registered. He’d looked down, snorted, and lumbered away to find a hose. 

You’d been inconsolable when he told you to strip, shaking with your sobs and keeping your arms wrapped tight around your chest. Even when he’d grunted ‘m not gonna fuck you when you reek of fuckin’ piss, you hadn’t been able to calm enough to follow his demands. It was only when he’d reached up to run a hand over his face and his shirt lifted just enough for you to get a glimpse of the piece on his hip that you’d been snapped away from your panic.

You can see the shape of it now, tucked in its holster. You’re fucking terrified that at any moment he could pull it out and end your life, like that. It would take hardly any effort at all. Just a twitch of the finger and bam, you go from captive to corpse.

“How long’ll it be?” The man grunts, massive arms crossed over his chest, breaking you out of your fearful stupor. 

You blink at him, wide-eyed and silent. He’d given you clothes – clothes that fit, to your comfort and horror – so you’ve been spared the further indignity of forced nudity, but the extra layer doesn’t make you feel much safer. 

He dips his chin when you don’t answer, dark eyes boring into yours. That only makes you clam up more, joints stiff.

He huffs. “Dinner. When’re you gonna fuckin’ feed me, bird?”

You stare at him, baffled. “What?” It’s the first word you’ve said to him without sobbing, and your voice trembles, shrill and weak.

He steps forward, angling his shoulders to fit into the room, fuck, and you skitter back, pressing yourself to the wooden cabinets. They’re tall, taller than the countertops in any house you’ve ever lived in, and the lip presses into the middle of your back.

“There’s food in the fridge,” he grunts. “Get to work.”

You’re not sure you could move even if you wanted to, your fight-or-flight instinct having settled firmly on freeze. 

He rumbles low in his chest and plants one hand on the island in the center of the kitchen, leaning over it. He’s so tall that his head nearly reaches the other side of the counter, hardly a foot away from yours. The counters are the perfect height for him. 

“What’s not clicking, girl?”

You pinch yourself, a quick twist of skin to make sure that this is all real and you’re not just trapped in the world’s most confusing nightmare.

“I-I don’t… you want me t-to cook? For you?” You manage, voice strangled.

He looks spectacularly unimpressed with your lack of understanding, and a distant part of you recognizes that you should probably be worried about making your captor displeased so quickly. However, the far larger part of you hasn’t had a rational thought since he hosed you down with freezing water and is still almost entirely useless.

He turns to the side to open his fridge, hand dwarfing the handle, and drops a chunk of frozen meat on the counter. It’s wrapped in brown parchment paper, a little string holding it closed. The fridge rattles with how harshly he closes the door and you can’t help but flinch. 

If he weren’t closer to the exit than he is to you, you’d have bolted away the second he turned his back. But he’s close enough that he could reach out and grab you with one hand if you got to the doorway, and you can’t even bring yourself to think about what he might do if you were caught. 

“Cook it.” He nods at the meat, voice bored like this is simple. Like it’s obvious, and your lack of understanding is an inconvenience that he’s rapidly losing patience with.

You listen, because it is obvious. He’s the captor, you’re the captive. At any moment, at the slightest whim, he could shoot you, strangle you, beat you, or a dozen worse things you can’t imagine for fear of ruining his dinner with your bile. 

He has every advantage and you don’t have anything but the shapeless hoodie and sweatpants he gave you. Here, you are nothing and he is everything.

So with shaking hands and tears streaming down your face nearly the entire time, you listen. 

You find a pan – he doesn’t help you and it’s incredibly awkward to try and dig around in unfamiliar cabinets without turning your back to him, but you manage it – and get the burner turned on. He steps out of the doorway again, still watching you from the hallway, and that gives you just enough bravery to inch towards the fridge, snatching the butter from it like he might lurch forward at any minute. 

It’s a good cut of meat. A ribeye, think and with not much fat on it. You’ve worked in the resturaunt business for a long time and it’s obvious to you that this is cut by a local butcher, not some packing plant. This is fresh. 

You have to stand with your back to the counter beside the stove to keep him in your eyeline. He doesn’t seem to mind, though the black balaclava covering him from scalp to neckline keeps almost all of his expressions a mystery to you. 

“How do you want it?” You manage to ask, after what must be five minutes of psyching yourself up internally and darting your eyes between him and the meat. 

“Rare,” he says, and you find that you’re not exactly surprised by his answer.

Basting the meat is the hardest part, but you manage. You’ve watched your father do this since you were born, spent countless nights in the corner of your parent’s restaurant watching line cooks and chefs and dishwashers and paying them all far more attention than you ever did your homework, nodding off in class the next day because the restaurant was open until eleven and your parents never once left early.

You could cook this meat in your sleep. Even with his minimal ingredients (he just shakes his head when you ask where the garlic is, and you quickly realize the only seasonings you have to work with are salt and pepper), you’re confident that the meat has come out tender and juicy, if flavorless. 

There are no sides. No drinks. No dessert. If you’d made this meal for either one of your parents, they’d lecture you for so long that the steak would go stone cold. 

You don’t have a plate to serve it on. When you ask tentatively about the dishes, voice hardly audible to even you, the man doesn’t answer. 

He instead begins to stride towards you, sending you careening around the island to try and keep as far from him as possible, hips crashing into the sharp edges of the counter and socks slipping across the tile. He ignores you completely as he leans over the over, sniffing loudly. 

You’ve thrown yourself, completely unintentionally, to the side of the counter with a large and well-stocked knife block. Before you even really think about it, you’re gripping a carving knife with both hands and holding it straight out in front of you, like you’re hoping he runs into you and impales himself. It’s probably your best bet, considering your knees are nearly knocking and barely holding you up.

He is entirely unconcerned by you. He grabs an oven mitt that was either always black or has been scorched so badly that it’s been darkened, the back of it split with its thin lining peeking out, and grabs the cast-iron by its handle, turning back to the rest of the kitchen. 

He snorts when he sees you, the sound distinctly amused and unafraid. “You think you could hurt me? With that thing?”

You may be shaking in fear, the knife quivering in front of you even with your knuckles clenched so tight they nearly spasm, but you still manage to find yourself almost offended.

“I’ll stab you,” you threaten, voice quiet but the steadiest it’s been since you woke up in that damp basement. “I’ll do it.”

The cheeks of the balaclava pull up, the imprint of his lips clear throught the fabric as he smiles, an indent where his teeth must be. “Don’t think you’ll like what happens if you try, pet.”

He steps around the island again, striding for the door and completely dismissing you. At least, that’s what you think until he calls, “Follow,” over his shoulder, like you’re an animal being called to heel.

The dining room is visible from the kitchen, a section of one wall carved out so you can see into each room from the other. You only lose sight of him for a second before he reappears on the other side of the wall, heading to sit at the table. 

The room has a horrible dark red carpet, the walls the same old-fashioned panneling as the hallway he’d dragged you down hardly an hour earlier. He seats himself at the head of a small rectangular table. It’s the only chair in the room despite the fact that five more could easily fit at the table, one leg shorter than the other. There’s nothing on the walls, no decor anywhere, just one table and one chair for one man.

You linger in the doorway, shifty and nervous, halfway to rushing back to the kitchen if only for some deluded sense of familiarity you’ve already built. 

“Don’t make me chase you,” he warns, eyes narrowing into a brief glare before he drops the pan in front of himself, silverware already set at his place, cast iron still smoking. “Neither of us’ll like it if you ruin my meal, bird.”

Then, he digs in. 

You’ve seen a lot of people eat. More people than you can count, in fact. You’ve seen them eat good food, bad food, life-changingly good and life-changingly bad food. As a child you’d been fascinated by the expressions on customers’ faces when they tried something new for the first time.

A woman with her eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows raised high as she bites into a new chocolate cake recipe your mother spent weeks making you taste test, moaning so loudly her husband had blushed. A man nearly collapsing over his bowl of soup on a cold winter day, just barely keeping his tie from falling into it as he desperately shoveled another bite into his mouth. You’ve seen people cry over your father’s wagyu, pepper your mother’s face with kisses after tasting her dacquoise.

This man eats like none you’ve ever seen before.

He’s like an animal. It takes him just a second to push his mask up to his nose, revealing pale skin decorated with atrophic and keloid scars both, then he’s pulling the pan as close to his chest as he can and hunching over it like a predator guarding its kill. 

He seems entirely unworried about burning his wrists on the edges of the pan, instead focused on tearing his steak into barely bite sized pieces with his fork and messily rubbing it in the extra butter still pooling in the bottom of the pan. 

He doesn’t even pick the first piece up with his fork. He pinches it between two fingers and pushes it between thin, scarred lips, ignoring what must be a burn on his fingertips. He chews twice, then swallows. His digits shine under the low light of his dining room, juice from the meat dripping down his fingers to cover his hand, nails choppy and with a little piece of fat stuck under one until he digs it out with his tooth.

You gape as he does it again and again, pushing two, then three pieces into his mouth at once as he works through the meat. 

It was a massive steak. It took more than half an hour to cook, if the clock on his stove is right. It’s gone in less than five minutes.

He moans as he eats, nearly pornographic in a way that makes you shift in discomfort. The steak is rare enough that the juice dripping from it is pink, the meat itself a brighter color than the man’s thin lips. Juice sluices down his chin as he chews with his mouth open, bits of the meat caught between crooked teeth. 

When he gets to the last piece of the cut, half of it submerged in butter, he holds it in front of himself for just a moment. Then, he turns to you for the first time since he left the kitchen.

His lips are flat, expressionless, as he holds the piece of steak up in front of himself. His elbow is planted firmly on the table to keep his hand in his eyeline, and he looks at you expectantly, silent. 

Your stomach growls, loud enough for him to hear. His lips twitch up in a smirk before he smothers it. You glare. You have no idea how long the drugs knocked you out for, how many days it’s been since your breakfast omlette. Standing over the oven, smelling the steak as it cooked, has made you hungry. 

The two of you are silent as you inch forward, hardly daring to lift your feet from the carpet. It doesn’t take you very long to reach the table, not when the room is as small as it is.

You shift the knife to just your dominant hand, your now free hand reaching forward slowly as you keep your eyes trained on his. The steak is still so hot that steam is still curling from the pink center of it, right between his eyes. He’s still as a statue.

Then, the second your fingertips brush the meat, he snatches it back, slipping it between his lips. 

You flinch back as your mouth drops open, offended and startled by his sudden movement. Your fist tightens around the knife, no longer so limp at your side. 

He chews with his mouth open, smiling meanly at you. His teeth are stained pink from the juices, and you think for a moment that it almost looks like his gums are melting. 

“Forget your manners, pet?’ He asks, only swallowing once he’s finished talking.

You wince at the lack of manners, your p’s and q’s brow beaten into you with a stiff wooden spoon to the back of your hand when you were young, shocked to see someone ignore what you’ve always seen as instinctual and then ask you about manners. “What?”

He leans forward in his seat, greasy hand set on his jean-clad knee. “You didn’t say please.”

You blink at him, caught in some sort of trance that you have no idea how to pull yourself out from. “Oh.”

He sits, still and silent, for several long moments, belly rising and falling beneath his folded fingers, before speaking again. “You’ll call me Ghost while you’re here.”

Your brows furrow a bit but you nod, fingers trembling where they rest limp against your thighs, knife almost entirely forgotten in this almost-hypnosis he’s dragged you into. You can’t quite make your lips move enough to give him a verbal answer, but he seems to accept the nod. 

He snorts, eyes narrowed as he looks at you. He doesn’t even have to tilt his head up even though he’s the one sitting. The realization makes you sweat, something hot igniting low in your belly. 

Before you even register that Ghost is moving, he’s snatched the knife from your now-slackened grip. He drops it into the pan immediately, the handle and blade both becoming drenched in the butter. 

You’d nearly forgotten you even had the knife but the lack of it now drags the fear back up your throat, makes your heartbeat louder and your fingertips colder. 

“Don’t need that,” he grunts, leaning back and folding his hands over his belly, fingers sliding against the fabric and already staining. This close, you can see that it hangs over the hem of his pants just enough to cover the button. You swallow thickly. 

“‘S good,” Ghost says, looking you up and down. Just like in the kitchen, the chair and table here are taller than what you used to, like they were tailor made for your captor instead of bought from a store. You’re only barely taller than him even as he sits, but he somehow still manages to make you feel like he’s looking down on you. 

There’s something in you that keeps you from backing away, even though being hardly a foot away from him makes the backs of your eyes sting with tears. It’s like your feet have sunk through the floor, like you’re up to your knees in shag carpeting and you can’t even try to get yourself out until the behemoth before you looks away.

“Congratulations, girl,” he rumbles, lips quirked up into a mean smile. “You just bought yourself a life, right here with me.”

You can’t stop the tears from falling, shaking hands clapped to your mouth in a fruitless attempt to muffle your sob. 

Ghost leans forward, smile growing when you stumble back until the small of your back meets the half-wall. “What’re you cryin’ about, doll?” He lowers his voice, like he’s sharing a joke with you. “Think I won’t treat my new pet well?”

Your heart feels like it’s going to beat so hard it gives out, its galloping thump felt even in your teeth, gums numbing. Your tears blur your vision, but you can see enough to know when he stands from his set, the chair creaking as he scuffs towards you.

He comes into focus when he crouches in front of you, his knees hovering just above your naked feet, toes curling into the carpet in a futile attempt to get as far from him as you can. 

“I won’t,” he says lowly, hot breath gusting over your face and lighting your nerves on fire. “Not until you earn it. Y’hear me?”

Whimpers eek through your fingers at his words. There’s something in his eyes that still looks hungry, little drops of grease dripping from Ghost’s fingers to your toes, and it makes you feel like prey just inches away from the predator’s jaw. 

His hand darts out, smacking your clothed thigh and making you yelp. 

“Don’t fuckin’ ignore me,” he snarls, sharp and sudden anger upon him like a wave, your thigh stinging from his hit. 

You nod as soon as the chain of words connects in your brain to mean something, head bobbing up and down quickly in desperation to avoid any more physical contact.

His eyes narrow, unimpressed. “Repeat it, then.”

“I have to–” you cut yourself off, breath suddering out of you almost painfully. “I have to earn it.”

“Earn what?”

Exasperation mixes with terror, eyelids straining to stay widened, unwilling to miss another twitch from him.

Think I won’t treat my new pet well? He’d said. You have to earn it.

You can’t think of a way to distill that down into a singular answer, not quick enough for him, at least. 

“I don’t– I don’t know,” you sob.

His movement is slow this time, but it’s no more possible for you to avoid his touch than it was when you hadn’t seen anything coming. His hand drags into your hair, nails catching on scalp, and he tugs your head back, slamming it into the wall. 

“Everything,” he hisses, the fabric covering his nose brushing against yours, snot sliding down your fingers. “You earn everything here. You work for it all. Get it?”

You can hardly nod this time, his fingers tightening around the strands of your hair and pulling at your scalp, but thankfully it’s enough for him.

“Good,” he spits, leaning back and standing, dragging you with him. 

Once you’re standing, half crouched to try your best to ease the pain rippling from your head but pushed up on your toes so his hand isn’t practically lifting you, Ghost grabs you by the elbow instead and drags you out of the room before you can even fully realize what’s happening.

He grabs you in the exact spot he had when he’d dragged you to the kitchen in the first place, each finger laid precisely where there were already bruises emerging. His grip so tight you can’t even think of trying to rip away – you imagine your arm would come off your body before Ghost’s hand came off of you. 

He drags you from the dining room and down a small hallway. From what you’ve seen of the house, and what you can remember that isn’t clouded over by a haze of panic, the floor-plan is closed off, more claustrophobic than anything else. 

Every room seems connected by a new hallway and they're each thin enough that you couldn’t walk by the man’s side – the two of you might not even be able to walk chest to chest without somehow getting wedged between the wood-panneling, considering the bulk of him. 

Your toes drag, catching on the warped wood floor as he pulls you behind him. Your hands are wrapped around his wrist in a wasted but desperate attempt to keep everything below his grip from going numb, leaving your choking whines and sobs and pleas to rush out of you, voice bouncing off the panneled walls. 

Ghost ignores you entirely, doesn’t even seem to notice when you dig your nails into his skin and you try your best to yank. 

You start to grasp at the walls, trying to slow his stride in whatever way you can. You have no idea where he’s taking you, no idea what you’d do even if you did somehow manage to break free from him, but you try nonetheless. 

He doesn’t react, no matter how much you scream and hiss, no matter how much you claw and kick and make your body dead weight, nearly breaking your wrist from the way you yank and twist. 

It’s only when your fingers catch on the edge of something thin that you’re given a tangible thing to wrap your hope around.

You only realize it’s a picture frame once you’ve already yanked it from the wall, the photo itself a complete mystery to you.

It’s the adrenaline that makes you pull back and slam the frame glass-first into the side of his head, reaching up as high as you can to make contact. There’s a horrible crack when glass meets fabric, a screech when you drag it down the side of his face, glass catching on mask and skin and more glass.

Ghost doesn’t let you go but he does stumble into the wall, grunting like a bull and batting your opportune weapon like it’s hardly more than an annoying mosquito, sending it crashing to the ground despite your death grip. 

He falls back into the wall, tugs you with him with enough force to nearly knock you off your feet, your head a mix of fear and victory and adrenaline and pain and more fear, coherent thoughts a far-off dream.

“Little fuckin’ cunt,” you hear him spit, heavy boot smashing fallen glass into further pieces as he turns to press you against the wall with his body, heavy and hot against you.

His eyes are raging, scarred lips curled to bare his teeth and little pieces of glass sticking from his skin and balaclava. 

You only have about four drops of blood to speak of for your desperate attack, and with your kidnapper furious and holding you down all you can manage to think is why the fuck did I do that? What was I thinking? 

There’s no room for anything but shame when you’re staring down the barrel of God only knows what he’ll deicde to do to you. 

“Off to a bad fuckin’ start,” he hisses, spittle landing across your cheeks. “Thought I’d be nice to you. Send you off to sleep with hardly a damn scratch.”

Ghost snarls, shakes his head like a beast shaking off fleas. Glass goes flying around his head. You can hardly breathe.

“Tha’s not good enough for you, is it?” He says, hand coming up to lock around your throat. You’d cry out if he left you enough air, but he’s squeezing so tight you can barely get enough breath to stay conscious. 

“You need a heavy hand, ‘s that it, pet? Need someone to show you what happens when you fuckin’ misbehave?” He pulls your head a few inches away from the wall on the last word, slamming you back enough to rattle your brain in your skull, eyes unfocused and hardly seeing and unable to groan with his hand squeezing your airway shut. 

You try to shake your head, can’t manage to do anything more than shift with the grip on your throat. You think, briefly, about how he could snap your neck with one hand. His palm rests over your vocal chords, fingertips pressing against the nape of your neck. A flick of his wrist and you’d be dead. You think your heart may give out, overwhelmed and unable to keep up with everything Ghost is drawing from you, spitting at you.

Capture myopathy, a friend told you once, sitting beside you in a required biology class only one of you was interested in. When a rabbit is so scared that their heart gives out on them and they die. Just like that. Snap. Easy dinner for a fox. Isn’t that sick?

Sick. She’d said. This, you think, is sicker than anything a fox could do to a rabbit. 

“You’re lucky your meat was good,” he says, tone calming into something less rageful and more frustrated, hand loosening enough to let you breathe more easily but still keeping you from speaking. “Don’t mind trainin’ you up knowin’ you’ll be an investment. Just need some work, huh?”

You try your best to nod, eager to pick training over certain death any day. 

He hums, thumb stroking the crease of your skin between neck and shoulder and you can’t stop your shiver.

“Don’t worry, bird.” His teeth gleam when he flashes them, finally leaving your space. He practically throws you in front of him with the hand on your neck, letting it shift to wrap around your nape so he can guide you forward. “I’ve had pets before. All those tears tell me you’ll at least be easier to break in than the boy was.”

You only have a brief moment to wonder who the fuck the boy is, if he’s in this house, and what that could possible mean for you, before Ghost is nudging open a rickety door and nudging you down the stairs. 

He lets you go once you’re firmly on the narrow staircase and taking slow, tentative steps out of fear you’ll miss one in the dark. Ghost takes his hand from you, looming as you make your leaden-footed way down.

You can’t stop your sniffles or your tears, terrified of the nightmares that must be waiting at the bottom of the staircase and back in the basement you’d woken up in. You know some of what waits for you, what the room will look like and what will be in it – Ghost had been with you since he dragged you to the kitchen, there would’ve been no time for him to change anything – but you’ve got no idea what training means or what Ghost will do to you when your feet hit concrete. 

You don’t move any further into the room when you reach the bottom, Ghost easily stepping around you and choosing to ignore you in favor of looking for whatever he’s decided he needs. The sight of a small carabiner with keys latched to one of his belt loops makes your idea of running back up to the door leave as quick as it comes.

“Over here,” Ghost calls, back turned to you as he crouches down and fiddles with something at the wall.

You don’t move, feet anchored to the floor.

He huffs when he doesn’t hear you following him, shifting one knee to rest on the ground so he can turn over his shoulder and level you with an unimpressed look.

“You really want to make me come get you?” He rumbles, and the threat is enough to get you rushing forward then pulling to just as sudden as stop just out of his arm’s reach. 

It doesn’t matter much, you can’t really do anything to stop him when Ghost’s arm darts back to grab you by the knee, his torso leaning back to get a hand on you and tugging you forward. 

You can’t keep yourself from falling to your knees right at his side, nothing around for you to grab onto other than him and even looking at a face-full of concrete you know not to make any unnecessary contact with Ghost, not if you can help it. 

The weight around your neck is sudden and unexpected, his quick movements around your head even moreso. You don’t even have enough time to decide if it would be worth it to try and fight him off before there’s a resolute click, and he’s pulling back with something thick wrapped around his knuckles.

It’s a chain. Silver, hardly a hint of rust on it, thick and well-kept, and leading right back up to your neck.

You don’t put it together until shaky hands come up to press around the- the collar. Thick leather, two or three inches wide, just tight enough that you can feel it on every exhale. 

A collar. A collar with a chain leash, heavy enough that you can feel the hint of pressure pulling you towards Ghost, the length of the chain that’s not tight in his fist resting in loops by his boot. 

You can’t do anything but stare up at him, wide eyed and trembling, can’t begin to think of what to do before he’s standing and tugging you with him.

“Here now,” he grunts, not bothering to give you any time to get to your feet. You sort of stumble after him, knee scraping the ground as your head is jerked along. You can’t let yourself lag at all, not unless you want to get dragged along by your neck.

You feel like you’re moving through quicksand, every move only making things worse for you. Every forced step forward is another step closer to him, every jerk of your head pulls at the hair stuck in the back of the collar that he hadn’t bothered to move before locking it onto you, every panicked breath only serves to keep your breathing short and hitched.

Ghost drops himself onto the small cot pressed against the wall, it’s metal legs creaking under his weight. You can’t straighten fully with how short he keeps the chain, which leves you in a terribly vulnerable hunched position, eye-level with his stomach and bent at the waist, knee throbbing.

“Over my knee,” he rumbles, voice quiet. “Get this over with.”

You stare up at him with wide eyes, panting open-mouthed, drooling. A panicked animal with its leg caught in a trap, unable to do anything but stare up at the jaws closing around its body.

“Please,” you beg, voice hardly a whisper. “Don’t hurt me.”

His eyes are hard behind the mask, mouth a firm line as he looks down at you. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat beneath the thick leather. 

Ghost doesn’t give you another chance to obey. One quick jerk of his hand and you’re toppeling forward, choking on spit and holding your hands out to catch yourself. 

He manhandles you quickly – one hand on the chain yanking it further down, head forced lower than his knee while his other hand grabs you by the hips and hefts you on top of him, elbow jamming itself between your thighs while blood rushes to your head. 

You yelp, legs kicking out as you push at the bed with one hand, the rough ground with the other, throwing your head back and forth as much as you can with the leash giving you almost no room to move.

“Settle,” Ghost hisses. You don’t listen, can’t listen with the way panic alone rules your mind, and in response he lands a harsh smack on the center of your ass, enough to push you forward a few inches.

Your pleas come to a sudden stop, breath stuck in your throat as you absorb the pain, a noticeable sting even through the sweatpants.

“You’re gettin’ fifty,” he grunts when you’ve gone silent, tucking two fingers in the back of your pants and tugging them down, lifting up one knee to lift your torso so he can yank them to your waist. “Take ‘em, then we’re done.”

“No, no, please, God,” you choke, one hand flying to your mouth and pressing against it. Tears stream down your face, cheeks blazing with heat, a horrible mix of terrified and humiliated that leaves you all but limp over his legs.

Ghost snorts above you and you jump when you feel his cold hand make a pass over the fat of your ass. “Won’t be thinkin’ that much longer.”

You only have a brief moment to think hysterically is he making a joke right now? before there’s a horrible pain on your ass, the smack loud in the otherwise silent room.

It takes a second for the pain to hit you, but when it does you yowl. You push up on his thigh with both hands as another smack rains down, pulling as hard as you can against the chain.

“Stop, stop, stop it!” You screech, toes sliding uselessly against the cement as you writhe, all of your struggles doing absolutely nothing to stop his hand from falling again, this time right on the center of both cheeks. 

“Y-You can’t- you can’t d-do this!” You wail, throat filled with tears and snot as you realize you can’t even get close to standing, not with his grip on the chain as immovable as it is. “Stop!”

His next smack is his hardest, his grip around the chain loosening at just the right time to allow you to be sent sprawling over his lap, sobbing at the pain that lights up your backside. It hurts, and now your forehead is nearly pressed to the floor, leaving you completely off balance.

Ghost grunts as he shifts one of his legs, tucking your flailing limbs between his thighs and forcing you to be bent over just the one thigh, knees hovering inches off the ground.

“Stop your fuckin’ wailin’, Christ,” he hisses, peppering you with more spanks, each of them as hard as the last and forcing all the air out of your lungs. “Damn lucky this is all you’re gettin’. I should make you count ‘em, start over every time you get one wrong.”

You cry out at that, wriggling desperately and only serving to push your ass further into the air, trapped on both ends.

“We’d be here all damn night,” Ghost mutters to himself, hardly audible over your fit. “One picture ain’t worth bruisin’ my hand over.”

Your feet just barely brush against his thighs when you manage to kick up, but you’re embarrassed to find that you don’t have the strength to do much more than hang limply in his hold, one hand reluctantly wrapped around his calf to keep yourself from falling to the floor. 

Your tears and sobs don’t stop as he continues his assault on your ass, but there’s a part of you that almost… settles. Not into the pain, not when he’s smacking you hard enough to jolt your body forward and make you wail at every new touch, but into the steadiness of his smacks.

He doesn’t wait more than a second between hits, each spank no heavier or lighter than the last. It hurts, hurts worse than anytime you’ve burned or cut yourself in the kitchen, but after the first minute or so your body comes to expect what’s coming.

That doesn’t make it any easier to handle. You couldn’t stop your crying if you tried, like his hand is resting on your tearducts instead of your ass, squeezing every bit of moisture out of your eyes. 

He stops at some point, hand resting on your cheeks. He squeezes, nails digging in deep, and pulls your cheeks apart. You sniffle at the indignity, free hand covering your eyes as your face crumples.

“Half way through now,” Ghost says, ignoring the way you cry out. You can’t imagine taking one more hit, let alone twenty five. 

He shifts back on the cot and for a moment you have absolutely no idea what’s happening. It’s not until he not-so-gently readjusts your legs, his own laid out flat in front of him with his feet hanging off the cot, your body readjusted so you’re lying properly over his thighs.

It’s more comfortable, certainly, but you’re not sure you want comfortable right now. It feels impossible to imagine the brute above you as thinking of your comfort, completely analogous to his actions and leaving you a confused and weak mess. 

Ghost shifts his hand along with the rest of him, dropping the chain entirely in favor of resting a heavy palm on the back of your neck, equally as effective at keeping you still. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment on your heaving breaths or shaking thighs, just lets you breathe with your hands curled beneath your chest and your forehead pressed to the thin sheet covering the cot.

The next spank catches you completely off guard, your body having gone limp and leaving you unprepared for the sudden pain. It reignites your sobbing, your throat on fire from all the screaming you’ve done. You can hear your voice crack as you absorb the pain, shoulder shaking.

“Christ,” Ghost sighs, hand briefly leaving your ass. 

He’s lifting you by your hair a moment later, thick fingers laced through the tresses as he pulls your head back and stuffs something in your mouth. You whimer at the feeling, tongue working at the frankly disgusting taste, brows furrowed.

“Keep that there,” he orders, and you just barely get a glance of the side of his head before he’s shoving you back down, face-first. You realize, blinking slowly, that he’s shoved his mask in your mouth. “Can’t be bothered to teach you to shut the hell up, gonna hafta work on that once you learn how to behave.”

He spanks you again and this time your sob is muffled as you bite down on the fabric and grind it between your teeth. 

His pace is slower now, hand more thudding than stinging. It feels like he’s putting his weight behind every smack, each one delivered with what you’re sure is bruising force. Though truly you can’t tell much of a difference, not with your whole ass already feeling like it’s on fire. 

It gets harder and harder to differentiate between new and old pain as he lays brutal spanks over spots that are already hot and throbbing, varying the strength of each smack this time. You sink into the pain, limp and unable to do anything but take it.

“Better,” Ghost says, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing your scalp when you jerk at the sound of his voice. His next hit lands on the crease between your thigh and your ass, but your whine is almost silent. “Can hear myself think now, for one.”

Another smack, and your body doesn’t even jerk this time. You’re not even fully present in yourself, mind floating. You don’t quite feel like an outside observer, more like you’re just a few inches removed from the situation. All your sensations feel dulled, and you bear the pain as best you can. 

“Can enjoy the sight too,” you hear him say, and suddenly there are pauses between each smack, a little break Ghost takes to rub your glowing ass and thighs as much as he wants before laying another handprint across your soft skin. 

“‘S too bad I don’t fuck where I eat,” he muses, and you groan into the mask at a particularly rough hit. “You don’t take much fightin’. I like that in a girl. Go down real easy with a firm hand, don’t you?”

You shake your head as best as you can, which really isn’t much at all. He snorts at your effort, tightens his fingers to keep your head still.

You’re sapped of all energy, unable to move even as his punishing spanks linger lower on your ass, and even when he bullies a hand between your thighs and spreads your legs.

“Look at that,” he says, voice low. You can feel it through his stomach, goosebumps racing from your ribs to the rest of you. “Dirty girl, are you?”

You’ve got enough wherewithal to try and squeeze your legs shut when his fingers prod at your center, yanked back into your body at the sharp turn from painful to… something else.

He strokes two fingers over your slit, and you groan at just how much slick you can feel him spreading. You have no idea when it happened, have no idea why it happened, but you’re drenched between your thighs. Your cunt feels as hot as your ass, and the realization yanks a horrible little whine from you.

“Guess that wasn’t much of a punishment,” Ghost muses, spreading your lips and letting cool air ghost over you. You feel him blow a breath across you and struggle more than you have since he’d laid you flat across him, knees coming to tuck up under yourself.

“No,” he says simply, landing a horrible, smarting slap to your pussy. It sends you flat to your tummy again, squirming against him and wailing through the pain. It hurts. “Down, girl. No strugglin’ now.”

He only continues to stroke you, now pushing the steadily dripping wetness from your clit to your asshole, making you tense and writhe where you’re pinned, his order ignored.

“Think I’ll do the last few here,” he says, landing another harsh smack to your center, this time focused on your clit. “Make sure you remember your lesson.”

He doesn’t wait any longer, just begins to lay quick, harsh slaps all across your cunt – your spread lips, your hole itself, your clit. Once, even, on your bottom hole, digging his nails into your stinging cheeks to spread you wide for him.

It hurts more than any of the smacks to your ass did, undeniably, but you’re sapped of all energy and find yourself hardly able to cry, let alone struggle. You’re too busy being swept away in a maelstrom of pain-pleasure you’ve never experienced before to even try defending yourself.

Your only option is to lie still and wait for him to finish with you. So that’s all you do.

It feels like it’s been an eternity when he finally stops. 

The hand near your ass gropes you firmly, pinching what you can already feel are tiny little raised spots from where his palm landed the hardest. 

You don’t have the energy to even think of struggling when he finally moves you off him, letting you flop uselessly to the cot as he moves out from under you. There’s the sound of metal clinking, the tension from the collar finally eased as he lets it go completely.

He doesn’t bother to pull your pants up, but he does nudge your legs closed. It’s a bit of decency you didn’t expect from him. 

You can’t do much more than blink wearily at him as Ghost reaches to tug his mask from your mouth, lip curling in disgust at the drops of saliva that fall from it. Good, you think. That’s just the start of what you deserve, bastard.

He crouches in front of you a moment later, bringing his face into full focus in front of you.

He’s… not traditionally attractive, that’s for sure. Even your defeated and exhausted mind can recognize that you would’ve avoided this man had you seen him on the street. Probably would’ve even risked being seen as rude and crossed to another sidewalk before he walked past you. Seeing as this is where you’ve ended up, your instincts wouldn’t have been wrong about him.

He’s got a square head and blond hair buzzed close to the scalp. The scars you’d seen across his cheeks and jaw extend further up his face, something textured across his temple that you can’t guess the cause of, eyebrows patchy and only half-grown in from burns, little bumps decorating his scalp.

But there’s something captivating about him. In his eyes, maybe, such a dark blue that you can only tell they’re not brown because he’s hardly a foot from you. There’s something about him that says look at me. Don’t forget where I am.

Though maybe, you think deliriously, you’re only thinking that because he’s the captor who just spanked your ass raw and dragged his fingers through your cunt.

“Rule one,” Ghost rumbles quietly, breath gusting over your lips. “You hurt me, I hurt you. Heard?”

It takes all the energy you have left to nod, eyes falling shut even as the little prey voice in the back of your head screams at the danger so near, never mind that you haven’t been able to do anything to keep him from you. You’re too loud to listen to the voice anyways, only a very distant part of you acknowledging it as you slip into a sort of half-sleep.

You don’t hear him leave.

From there you settle, bizarrely, into a routine. 

Every day begins with you waking up in the basement. Always before Ghost comes to get you, some primal instinct buried deep knowing that you need enough time every morning to brace yourself for seeing him.

He locks the chain, the leash, to a hook on the wall a couple feet above your cot every night, the key to the padlock always left on him. The chain is long enough to give you plenty of room to roll and shift in bed at night but it’s too short for you to reach the small bathroom across the basement. There’s no clock for you to keep track of time with but you spend what must be half an hour every morning just sitting on the cot, waiting for Ghost to come get you.

He’s always nearly stumbling when he comes down the basement stairs to fetch you, sleep keeping his bones heavy. It’s only in the mornings when you see him with his shoulders hunched, movements weighted down, any other time he’s perfectly alert. 

You think, at first, that your best shot at trying to hurt him would be in those early mornings when he’s groggy and slow moving, but Ghost never lets you off the chain when he’s like that. It’s always after he’s stiffened up, shoulders rolling back and permanent-scowl firmly back in place.

He’ll unhook the chain from the wall first, rarely saying a word as he half-drags-half-leads you over to the bathroom, doesn’t let you close the door while you do your business and shower.

(There’s a way he looks at you in the morning, when he’s at his rawest. Something animal and hungry in a way you don’t see even when you serve him his meals, pupils blown and lingering on your curves, unabashedly staring at your ass when you glance over your shoulder at him.

It had been terrible, at first, to get naked in front of him. He’d just stare, and most days you could see his hardness tenting his pants. Hell, some days he came down the stairs with his cock making itself plenty known, not a speck of shame in him.

You’d once listened to him jack himself off while you were in the shower. You’d had to step over the puddle of cum on the tile when he’d tugged you out of the room, nearly slipped into it when he’d pulled you just a little more harshly than usual.)

The chain stays in the basement, always unlatched from your throat along with the collar before he shepherds you up the creaky stairs, never much more than a foot or two away from you. 

Then, breakfast. 

It had taken a while for you to really believe him after he’d said you were only there to cook. What kind of person kidnaps a woman just to keep her as a private chef? But days went by where he never once touched you any more than necessary to get the collar on and off, his only reaction to your body a seemingly unintentional erection and usually ignored when you were naked. 

Days, weeks pass where all you do is cook. Three meals a day, snacks when he’s hungry (which seems to be always). 

Ghost’s cabinets were bare the first week of your captivity. He had enough meat in his freezer to last him months, but little else. There was a loaf of bread on the counter, a few condiments in the fridge with crusted lids and misshaped bottles, and some cans of soup in the pantry. Nothing else. He’d drop a cut of meat on the counter and expect you to work with it and seemed plenty content when you served him the blandest roast chicken of your life.

It took you three days until you worked up the nerve to ask him to go grocery shopping. It was the first thing you said to him that wasn’t a plea for your freedom. 

You’d been terrified that you’d end up face down ass up over his thighs again, your ass still bruised from his first punishment and his subsequent much quicker corrections. But he’d hardly reacted, had just given you a piece of paper and a short pencil with bite-marks on the eraser, told you to write what you thought you needed.

He locked you in the basement for hours (you tracked the sun through the sole window as best you could, left behind fear and anger for boredom around what you guessed was the three hour mark) when he left. Briefly, you’d regretted asking in the first place. If the bastard wanted to eat nothing but protein and die of a nutrient deficiency, who were you to stop him? It would serve him right.

But you have nightmares, sometimes, of being stuck in the basement. Your captor dead in his bed, fallen to the bathroom floor with his head cracked open, bleeding out in the forest one of the times he goes off hunting. And you, stuck here, chained to a wall. No key, no way out, no one to find you.

A part of you had breathed a sigh of relief when he came home, letting you up to the kitchen and supervising while you dug through the plastic bags and put everything where you wanted it.

He doesn’t… do much during the days, is the thing.

He goes hunting, sometimes. You find that that seems to be his most consistent outing. He’ll spend hours out there at a time, sometimes coming back with nothing and other times coming back with a twelve-point buck you watch him drain through the kitchen window. He also has to keep his weapons – his many, many weapons – in shape, and you find that it’s not rare to spend an afternoon watching him clean guns or sharpen knives.

You enjoy his hunting moods most. He’ll disappear for hours on end to even find his kill, then spend days skinning and preparing the meat, then doing whatever it is he does in his shed with the bits of the body he doesn’t bring you to cook. Those days spent in the forest or the shed for him guarantee you hours of time alone, which isn’t nearly so miserable when he doesn’t keep you in the basement. 

Sometimes he goes out after dinner. You’ll hear the front door slam shut after he locks you up in the basement, his truck’s old engine loud enough to be obvious when he revs it. You’re never sure where he goes, who he might even go with since he never takes calls, but you also have little interest in asking.

But most nights he watches TV. Almost exclusively old VHS recordings of The Price is Right, Wheel of Fortune, Password, and shows so out-of-date you’re sure you could count the pixels on the screen. He’ll roll himself a blunt and relax into an old recliner with cracked leather, eyes half-lidded and hazy.

(You watched him rest a hand in his pants, once. He hadn’t even been focusing on the TV, eyes far away and breathing heavy as he stroked himself slowly beneath his jeans. You don’t even think he finished, he was just… relaxing. You’d decided to just be glad he wasn’t coming after you for that job.)

Sometimes he’ll watch the same Manchester United games every night for a week straight, grunt approvingly or shout at the TV at the same points no matter how many times you’ve seen him watch it. By the end of your first month in his captivity, you could guess who scored every goal in the team’s 2012 championship game. You have absolutely no idea why he doesn’t just turn on the newest games.

You learn quickly that Ghost mounted a hook to nearly every wall in the house, and that he’s not shy about chaining you in the same place for hours at a time and leaving you to your own non-existent devices while he lumbers off. You spend the most time in the kitchen, undoubtedly, but you find that the horrible plush carpet in his living room isn’t too uncomfortable to sit on either.

It doesn’t take many days for your fear to turn to boredom, is the thing. Absolute, complete, mind-numbing boredom. There’s simply nothing to do but watch Ghost, and for a kidnapper he’s turned out to be spectacularly uninteresting. 

He’d laid out the rules in the first few days. You hurt him, he hurts you. Listen to his orders, don’t make him repeat himself. Don’t try to escape, you won’t find anyone to help anyway and he doesn’t want to chase you down. Don’t try to fuck with the food you make him, he expects good meals consistently.

It had been the third you’d struggled most with, though you could hardly blame yourself. You’d thought he was going to make you bleed when he caught you trying to throw yourself out of a recently-broken window.

He’d taken you over his lap a few more times for smaller infractions too. To make sure the lessons stick, he’d said. They did. Ghost hits hard, and even after just his first punishment you’d been plenty cowed. You don’t give him many reasons to punish you again.

The bright spots in your life are, as they have always seemed to be, food orientated.

There’s a part of you that hates how much time you think of ways to quite literally serve him, but you have nothing else to do. He may enjoy his shows, but after about two weeks you think you may go insane if you have to focus on much more Tom Kennedy in an other-wise silent house. 

You spend long hours staring out his windows at the foggy forest surrounding the cabin, running through the recipes you’d wanted to try before you’d been taken, notes for your parents’ dishes that were never listened to, plans on what you could make for Ghost himself with what he would provide.

And he does. Provide, that is. He provides plenty.

The fifth day of your captivity, he drops a chicken carcass on the wood island. Whole, unplucked, the blood from its neck still drying.

“I can’t…” You start, hesitating at the doorway to the kitchen as he moves further in. “I’m not a butcher. I can’t cook it like that.”

Ghost looks over at you, mask covering his expression. You find that it’s a fifty-fifty chance he doesn’t pull it on in the morning, dependent on some factor you’re not allowed to know.

“I’ll cut it up,” he grunts, turning his back to you and tugging a drawer open, digging around noisily. “Don’t need you to do anythin’ but cook it.”

You shift from foot to foot as he turns back to the bird, empty trash bag at his side and carving knife in his hand. 

For a man who you’ve always assumed to be inept in the kitchen, he handles the bird like a professional. He has it plucked in less than a minute, his mess minimal.

His butchering is less impressive, though no less effective. He’s a bit of a slob with his cuts, reckless with his knife in a way that has you craning your neck to see just how much breast is left on the bone. 

Ghost is slow-moving, careful in a way you’ve never seen him when he pops the thigh from the leg joint. It must’ve been a well-fed bird during its life, there’s plenty of meat for his thumb to dig into as he carefully rotates and pulls, not too much strength but not too little. A balance he seems to struggle to find before the thigh finally pops away from the body easily, and he moves on.

It’s… intimate is the wrong word, but it’s not far off. His hands – damp from being washed, something you’d been glad to see him do without you needing to draw his attention back to you – are shiny with the bird’s juices covering them, his thick fingers brutalizing the delicate, pale meat. The job is done quickly and cleanly enough to leave you plenty of meat.

He doesn’t butcher it completely for you. He leaves the wing connected to the breast, the breast and the tenderloin one large piece of meat when he lays his carving knife on the counter. His most precise cuts are around the oysters, each of them dug out and set to the side quickly. 

It’s not a quiet process, his knife cutting through bone and joint. But it feels particularly loud with the only other sound the soft humming of the fridge, the call of a bird outside the window. 

You feel squirmy for reasons you can’t quite place when he’s finished, bird butchered and glistening under the dim kitchen light. The look he gives you, heavy and stifling, doesn’t help. 

You make him get mason jars next time he goes to the store, mourning all the stock that goes to waste because you’ve got no way to store it. He praises the tenderloins you make for dinner that night, voice rough in a way that makes your cheeks heat.

Most of the food he buys for you to work with is store-bought, but the meat continues to be fresh. He enjoys the food most when he kills it himself – he moans when he bites into a piece of duck in a way that you feel no shame in calling pornographic – but you learn that he’ll settle for anything fresh.

There’s a calendar on the inside of the pantry. 

It’s an old military one, each of the pictures a dramatic shot of a soldier, covered in filth more often than not and staring across some sort of beautiful landscape. It’s from 2014, each of the pages worn and ripped where fingers have pinched and flipped. Each of the days is already marked off with an X in the box, some of them even with little notes written in different colors from over the years.

G birthday in Lancaster

S appointment - needs ride

L retirement on base

You know when he flips it to read June that you’ve been with him a month. You’re not happy, far from it, but you don’t spend everyday shaking in fear. 

You know what to expect from Ghost, he knows what he expects from you, and you’ve settled into an almost-peaceful cohabitation. 

He takes to ordering you prettier clothes about halfway through your second week. Sweatpants get traded in for sundresses and uncomfortably tiny shorts, sweatshirts exchanged for cardigans and low-back tank-tops. 

Some days, watching him feed the chickens through the window in your daisy-print sundress and flour-covered apron, you feel almost like a homesteader’s wife.

If not for the chains hanging from the walls, of course. 

You’re wearing one of those dresses when Ghost comes to visit you in the kitchen, nearly six weeks after he’d taken you.

He’d been letting you wander the house off-leash more and more, in small doses. Whether confident in his ability to catch you or your inability to get far from the cabin, you’re not sure, but you’re thankful nonetheless. You’re still a little sore from your last escape attempt, ass smarting from his belt, and haven’t quite gotten into your head to try again yet.

You’re leaning over the counter, tasting a fresh brownie from the middle of the pan while he smokes with his Wheel of Fortune on, having sent you off with a pat on the ass and a I want somethin’ sweet, doll. 

You’ve never been nearly as good at baking as you have cooking, and you’re not sure you’ve perfected your brownie recipe yet. But you’ve always had a bit of a sweet tooth, and Ghost keeps his house cold. Biting into a still-steaming gooey brownie, the top just enough of a crust to give the bite texture, the chocolate melting into your tongue, is one of the best things you’ve done since you first woke up in that basement. 

You don’t realize you’ve made a noise until there’s an echo behind you, Ghost’s groan so quiet it’s nearly drowned out by the TV in the other room.

You jerk back from the counter, hands braced on the rounded corner as you look over your shoulder, sure that there’s a pipe groaning in the wall.

Instead you see your kidnapper, already hardly a step away and boxing you into the counter, hulking body smothering you with ease.

Your spine goes ramrod straight, brownie abandoned in its pan as he presses himself into you, hard chest pushing against your softer back. You’re silent, stiff, too surprised and scared to do more than wait. 

“‘S got you moanin’ in here?” Ghost rumbles, heavy against you. “Thought I said I wanted a treat.”

“I–” You gasp, arching when he presses his hips into you. His sweatpants don’t do anything to disguise his length and you can feel every inch of him against your back. “I–I made brownies.”

“Hm…” One hand comes to rest on your hip, his head lowering enough that you can see his profile in your peripheral. “Let’s have it then.”

You don’t move at first, fingertips tingling and lips pressed tightly together.

He huffs, smacks your ass once. He pushes the fabric of your dress up just enough to clip your skin, simple granny panties doing little to soften the blow. You gasp and jerk forward, soft stomach pressing into the counter.

“Give me one,” he says, hand rubbing where he’d just spanked, fingertips just dipping under the edge of your underwear. “C’mon, bird, I want a bite.”

Your fingers quiver as you lift the brownie in your hand to his lips, holding it just over his shoulder as he feels you up with both hands, roughly kneading the cheeks of your ass as you try to stay as still as possible.

Ghost gives you more of his weight and bites the brownie, the sharp edges of his teeth scraping your knuckles. You jump at the feeling, unwittingly grinding yourself against him. 

“Fuck, pet,” he moans, face dropping to rest his forehead against your temple. You can do nothing but stare at the cabinet. “That’s fuckin’ delicious. I need another bite.”

You’re reaching towards the pan to cut him another piece when you realize he’s shifting to his knees behind you.

“Ghost,” you whine when he takes your hips in his hands, hefting you up so you’re fully resting on the island with your toes unable to even skim the tile. Your eyes are wide as you stare at the backsplash, unable to quite believe what’s happening.

“Hush,” he scolds, and you get a smack to the thigh for your trouble. “I want my sweet thing.”

Ghost eats your cunt the same way he eats your food: voraciously, messily, and shamelessly.

He gives you no warm up, no time to prepare for something he’s only hinted at wanting to do before. There’s one broad swipe of his tongue across your sex, then his lips wrapping around your clit and your eyes rolling back into your skull.

You’re not sure that he cares about your pleasure, but he’s certainly giving you plenty. He licks from cunt to clit again and again, tongue quick and stiff against where you’re sensitive and drawing breathy moans from you, nails scratching uslessly at the counter.

He focuses mostly on your hole, licking up your slick like it’s the best thing his tongue has ever touched and leaving you pushing back for more unconsciously, wanting more than just the tip of his tongue inside you. 

“Greedy,” he huffs when you nearly slip off the counter. He slips two fingers into your leaking hole and you squeal at the stretch, noticeable even with his mouth working you over. “This is for me, not you, pet. Settle down and let me eat.”

You cry out when he laps at your clit, quick, broad licks over the bud and just enough pressure to make your mouth hang open. He gives you almost too much suction, your brain rattling around between your ears when he crooks his fingers and tugs.

He uses just one hand on your thigh and two fingers in your cunt to shove you up the counter, giving him more space to have you practically sitting on his face. He laps around his own fingers, fucking with you just enough to coax more slick for him to drink, your knees knocking against the cabinet.

Eventually, what feels like it must be hours later, you come. The combination of Ghost’s fingers pressing at just the right spot, the suction on your clit and the sound of his mouth against you making you feel insane and finally pushing you over the edge.

It’s heaven, to have him lick and suck you through your orgasm. Your limbs feel tingly, bright white starbusts flying behind your eyes as you go limp across the counter, head pressing against the backsplash.

It isn’t until he doesn’t pull out his fingers, doesn’t pull his tongue away, that you start to feel truly gone, a puppet dancing to his tune, a piece of fruit squeezing whatever juice he wants into his mouth for as long as he wants.

“Not done with you yet,” you hear him murmur, the rumble of his voice against your cunt making you moan from overstimulation. “Gonna drain you dry, pretty thing. Shouldn’t have made yourself so sweet if you didn’t want me taking it all.”

You want to growl that you can’t make yourself taste like anything, but he slips a third finger into your hold, curls his fingers and rubs his knuckles against your g-spot, and you’re coming too hard to even attempt a protest.

By the time he pulls your dress back down and pets your ass, taking a brownie from the pan without even bothering to use the knife to cut himself a piece, there’s nearly as much drool dripping from your mouth as there is your cunt.

From there, your life centers around two things: food and sex. Both of them exist only because of and with Ghost, him your constant companion as you unwillingly grow more and more comfortable in his house. 

You cook him a stew made from cow leg he’d dropped on your counter that morning. Small russet potatoes float in the broth, popped into his mouth whole and swallowed almost as completely, pieces of carrots he chews to mush and celery he avoids, wine soaked meat leaving grease stains down his shirt. 

Ghost puts you on your knees beneath the table, feeds you his cock while he feeds himself your food. You suck him as well as you can, trace your tongue over the thick vein up the side of his cock, ignore the throbbing in your jaw and try to push his foreskin back to suckle on his head.  He wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, doesn’t let himself come until he’s finished with his meal. You can’t tell if his groaning is for your work on the stew or your work beneath the table.

Fuckin’ heaven, that mouth. Want me to send you off with a full belly, huh? Bet you like your meal as much as I like mine.

Half a dozen eggs, scrambled, served with enough bacon to make you feel sick from the smell alone and half-soaked in maple syrup. 

You, needy and desperate, grinding your cunt across his thigh. You lean back as far as you can with your hands carefully resting on the table at your back, desperate to avoid his syrup-sticky fingers, and end up with a view of his cock lancing you. He scoops your slick up with his clean fingers, picks up another piece of bacon and rips it in half, offers you the bit he doesn’t take.

Please, please, Ghost, I need it so bad, it hurts and it’s supposed to, love, I said I wanted a show with my breakfast, didn’t I?

A rack of lamb, sliding off the bone, bites of it shared between Ghost and you as three of his fingers work slowly in and out of your ass, leisurely and for his viewing pleasure more than your own orgasm. Red juices smeared across your lips and face, dripping down his chin and staining his fingers. A thumb on your clit, meat shoved between your teeth as you come. 

Gonna fuck you here too. Gonna make it hurt, listen to you cry a little when I eat. Oh, hush, you’ll be fine, don’t get yourself worked up. Not yet, at least. My cock’ll spread you out at least twice this much, save your tears for when you’ll need ‘em, pet.

Sticky fruit laid across your stomach, cantaloupe and watermelon and kiwi and banana. His fingers picking them off you piece by piece, savoring them as he fucks you hard. You laid flat to the table, legs spread why and throat sore from your cries, the stark difference between the way he relishes the food and the way he fucks you like an animal making you feel wanted in a way that threatens to drown you.

You need it bad, don’t you? Slut. Pretty, tasty, perfect little slut. Fuckin’ squeezin’ my dick off, goddamm, honey. Gonna fuck you full, gonna fill you up and feed you plenty. 

Stir fry you make with hog maw, a recipe you’d never tried before given to you by a girl in cooking school who was set to inherit her parent’s restaurant. His face moving between your cunt and his meal, your whines about a UTI and cross-contamination go ignored, and he holds his bowl beneath your cunt while he strokes your g-spot with two calloused fingers. 

Tightest fuckin’ cunt in the world. Pretty little thing and her pretty little meals, just made for me, huh? ‘S that right, pet? You’re made just for me and my mouth and my cock, hm? Gonna give me a nice little dressing for my food?

A night spent in his bed, after you make him angel-food cake from scratch. Waking up to a cock pressed against your ass, chain leash and collar heavy around your throat and locked around the headboard but the sheets soft under your skin, pillows thick and his own body warm in a way the basement never gets. 

Ghost isn’t awake yet. He’s snoring like a freight train, completely unaware of the way you stare at him in the blue-dark of the early dawn hours. 

The chain is heavy in your hand, cold against your soft palms. You feel almost like you’re in a trance, the world still hazy around its edges as you shift to kneel over him. 

You don’t know how much strength it takes to strangle a person, but evidentially you don’t use enough. 

You wrap the chain tight around either knuckle, press your hands hard into the mattress on either side of his head, and hold your own breath. His snores quiet, his breathing shudders. He coughs once, twice, you feel his hips and legs begin to shift beneath you and you really put your body weight behind your hold. He goes still.

Then, his eyes fly open. 

There’s hardly time for you to think fuck before he’s flipping you onto your stomach, harsh hand shoving you into the mattress while another rips the chain from your hands and pulls.

You wail a breath as your head is pulled back, scalp nearly touching your spine as Ghost forces your back into a steep arch, ass pushed into the air.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he hisses. You can’t tell if the heat in his words is rage or hunger or some sick mix of both, have even less of an idea which one you should be hoping it is. “You tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?”

You can barely breathe through the anticipation, the fear that’s been gone for so many days suddenly wrapped around you as tight as the collar, but you find enough breath to shout when he lands a horribly heavy hit across your ass. 

“Ghost!” You shout when he only follows it with several more, eyes squeezed shut as he overwhelms you in pain and discomfort.

“What?” He snarls, fingers clipping your cunt and making your squeal. “What, now you don’t like pain? I watched you cream my cock without a single finger in your cunt last night, girl, but this?” Another spank, harder than you’ve ever taken and burning. “This too much for you?”

You huff, squirming as much as you can in your strained position. 

“You wake me up with a goddamn chain around my neck and bitch when I beat your ass for it?” His voice is nearing a shout now, thick with what you’re sure is anger. “You’re gonna try and kill me in my own fuckin’ bed and pitch a fit when I make you sorry?”

You can’t find it in you to do anything but cry, chest tight and eyes squeezed tighter while he doles out punishment, bruising slaps landing anywhere from your cheeks to your cunt to your thighs to your hole, his hand spreading you wide for him.

“Spread,” he grunts eventually, a harsh hand shoving your knees wide. “Need to get to that hole.”

You don’t get to listen, he makes you do what he wants without giving you a chance to, and then lays a dozen terrible, painful smacks to your asshole.

You’re nearly screaming through them all, feet slamming into the bed as the pain rushes through you. He yanks the chain hard when you try to pull forward and bury your face in the pillow, forcing you to keep the tortuous pose he’s holding you to.

You feel the bed rocking with the force of his hits, spit and tears dripping down your face as you can do nothing but lay there and take it. 

“Naughty, naughty fuckin’ thing,” he spits, two rough fingers pushing into your cunt with little care for your cry. “My own little chef tryin’ to strangle me, I can’t fuckin’ believe it. I bring you here to feed me, give you a load in your stomach anytime you need it, and you wrap your leash ‘round my throat?”

“I’m– I’m sorry!” You wail, inconsolable as he roughly rubs a palm over your clit, your cunt quickly getting slick. You’re still damp from the way he’d bent you over earlier, a mix of his and your cum wet between your thighs.

“Not good enough,” Ghost hisses. He quickly fucks his fingers back inside you, once twice, then pulls them out again.

You go taut as a board when those slick fingers move up, towards your far, far tighter hole.

“No,” you gasp, struggling even pinned as you are, a sense of panic shrouding your mind. “No, no, nonono, you can’t, oh God, please, Ghost, don’t–”

Ghost drops the chain in favor of grabbing you by the throat, tearing you back so violently that you’re staring at his sneer upside down. 

“Shut the fuck up.” His spit is tacky when it lands on your cheek, mixing with your tears, and his smile looks evil as he glares down at you. “Gonna make sure you don’t even think of that shit again. Gotta make it hurt if you’re gonna learn a lesson.”

You sob as he lets you go, head finally falling limp to the bed as you turn your face to the side so you can still breathe. You watch as he reaches for a half-full bottle of lube on his bedside table, the label peeling and stained. 

“Gonna cry for me some more?” He coos, laughing when you jump at the cold feel of the lube on your ass, thighs tense with nerves. “You know I like it when you make yourself look silly, pet. Go on, cry all you want. Still gonna fuck you.”

One finger pushes the lube into your ass, then two, then three. He gives you no time to adjust, only one thrust from each digit before he forces you to stretch further, lands slaps across your ass seemingly whenever he feels like it.

“Ghost, pl-ease,” you cry when you feel the hot head of him press against you, sure that it’ll be excruciating. 

He threads a hand into your hair, pulls you up enough that he can bend to speak into your ear.

“You’ll call me Simon while I fuck your ass,” he says, voice low. “I wanna hear you scream it when I hurt you, pet.”

You listen to him against your will, the scream he wanted tearing from you and echoing the sheer pain of being fucked by someone as massive as Ghost with such little prep.

Your hole feels like it’s on fire, the pain racing through the rest of your body and leaving you limp and panting, only able to close your eyes and endure as he mercilessly pushes forward, uncaring of your pained hiccups and cries.

“Simon,” you whine when he bottoms out, warm balls settling against your neglected cunt. “Hurts…”

His laugh is mean, nasty in your ear. “Good, fuck, say it again, girl. Tell me how much it hurts.”

“So bad…” is all you manage, even just those words warbling off into nothing as he pulls out, fucking himself back in with a harsh thrust that nearly chokes you. 

“Can’t believe you tried it,” he huffs, bracing himself over you as he sets a ruthless pace, no consideration for your comfort. You can see the chain in his right hand, feel the way it just barely tugs at your neck with how viciously you’re moving along the bed. “Been waitin’ for you to give me a chance to do this to you, to fuck you up.”

Your fists clench in the sheets as you do your best to breathe through the pain, the slide of the lube only making his thrusts marginally easier to endure.

“Been waitin’ to get my cock in this hole. Wanted to watch you cry and make you put your tears in the food, gape your little hole and make you ride me while I smoke, shit. Tightest ass I’ve ever felt, love, goddamn. ‘S that feel good?” A slap to the side of your face, rousing you. “You feel good with my cock drilling your little ass?”

“No,” you moan, miserable.

“Good,” he hisses, thrusts quickly becoming uncoordinated as he stares down at your ruined face, his eyes gleaming. “You’re so much sweeter when you’re hurtin’, girl. Wanna keep you like this all the time.”

You sob at the idea, already unable to imagine how excruciating it’ll be to sit tomorrow with your ass covered in welts.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Ghost pants, staring at you ravenously. “Cry a little more for me, attagirl…”

You feel his cum shoot deep inside you before his thrusts slow, the heat spreading as he fucked you through his orgasm, face twisted in pleasure. Your tears haven’t slowed, even as the pain lessened and lessened throughout your fucking.

“Fuck, fuck, that feels good,” he breathes, grinding himself against you as he empties the last of himself inside you.

You feel nearly catatonic as he pulls out, only able to whine when he slips free from your hole and then again when he rearranges you on the bed, limbs sore and neck stiff as he continues to hold you by the leash.

“Took it well,” he grunts, shifting to lay on his back again and tossing the lube to the table beside him. “You gonna pull that shit again?”

You sniffle shaking your head no, only verbally answering when he cocks an eyebrow. “No, Simon.”

He smirks. “I’d love if you did,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. “Would love if you gave me another chance to ruin you. Just go ahead, love. I’ll tear into you whenever you want.” He tilts his head, considering for a moment. “Whenever I want too. ‘Cause you’re mine to do whatever I want with, aren’t you?”

You nod, hands tucked beneath your chin as he tugs you closer by the hip, fingers pressing into rapidly developing bruises and making you whimper.

“Yeah, gonna fuck you ‘til you cry as often as I want. And you’ll gimme those tears every time, won’t you?”

All you can do is nod, a part of you calmed and feeling safer as you watch the predator’s teeth pull away from the prey’s neck when he nods.

The plate you balance is larger than your face and still nearly overflowing with food.

It’s filled to the edges with steak, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and rolls. You have a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, a corkscrew held between your lips and one glass in your hand as you saunter towards Simon.

“Smells good,” he grunts. You’ve learned that his compliments are concise but rare, and you greedily take in the praise from him. “Enough for us both?”

You snort. There’s enough food on your plate to feed five people, easily. But Ghost’s stomach is never-ending, and you’d made sure that there would be no way he’d go to bed hungry.

He spreads his thighs as you approach, pats one of them like you’re not already lowering yourself to him. He takes the glasses while you lay the plate, setting his silverware to the side as he opens the bottle and fills the glass nearly to the brim.

You hum as you take in a breath of the food, that familiar sense of pride from a meal well-made settling in your chest.

Ghost cuts the food while you lean back on his chest, watching his thick fingers work. 

He lifts one of the little pieces of steak to your mouth once he’s cut it, swiping it through the potatoes and guiding you to look at him with a finger on your jaw.

He presses the tender, rare meat between your lips and you take it greedily, letting your eyes slip shut as you savor the taste. He kisses you almost immediately after, passes his tongue over the food before you can even swallow, but lets you keep it.

You giggle when he pulls back, swiping a thumb over the potato on your lip. He picks himself up another bite, pinches a bit of carrot with his steak and swallows without chewing, a moan slipping from his lips. You feel yourself dampening against his thigh, breath hitching.

“Happy Valentine’s day,” you say, voice quiet and held just between the two of you.

He snorts, ever unromantic. “Eat up, doll. Wanna have you for dessert after a meal this good.”

You smile softly at him, opening your mouth willingly when he lifts a bite of food to your lips.

[plaidos]

You’ve probably answered this a million times but do you feel safer in the U.S. or the uk in your experience?

i was talking to a friend about this last night — considering that the transphobic legislation in the US is immediately being taken to court, and in the UK, the so-called (incumbent) leftwing party is arguably more enthusiastically against trans rights than the rightwing one, i’m going to say “yes” lol.

like i cannot stress to anybody enough that there is no political opposition to transphobia in the UK. it is a shared opinion of both major parties & very few if any british politicians would even lift a finger to do anything that helps the trans people here. this might be a frustrating, slow moving conversation with a lot of back-and-forth in US politics, but it isn’t a conversation at all in the UK. they literally just expanded the definition of rape to include trans people who don’t disclose. when Scotland ruled trans people should be allowed to self identify, the UK in a blatantly illegal and unprecedented move overruled it, even though Scotland is supposed to be a devolved government. when they blocked in, the UK cited fucking national security.

so yeah. i don’t just “feel” like the US is safer — the places i’m going to in the US are literally legally safer for trans people. period.

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Rain Showers

Pairing: Mechanic!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: A blown tire. A borrowed jacket. And a love and life that grew because of it.

Word Count: 3.2k+

Content: FLUFFFF , pregnancy and kids , kissing , some suggestive hints , cutie cutness!

A/N: this came from me getting a flat tire the other day being stranded and thinking hmm wish i had a Bucky rn and also @navybrat817 and her talk about southern Bucky *drools*

It started with rain.

Pouring rain.

One second the warm breezy spring night was quiet and peaceful , the crickets buzzing and chirping under the blush of beginning twilight. 

The very next , the skies cracked open without a single sound or warning. Y/N’s phone had said 20% chance of light showers — when she checked the night before but the deluge soaking through her hair and onto her dress-covered shoulders as she ran heel-first to her car was more like a monsoon.

“Dammit,” she swore under her breath , flinging open the door and diving head first inside.

The engine began as she started the car and then turned over with a familiar cough and grunt. Her grandmother’s farmhouse faded in the rearview as she peeled off the windy gravel driveway , windshield wipers slapping in lazy protest against the surprise downpour.

She chose to wear a short summer floral dress, something her grandma had teasingly complimented with a wink and a "You'll knock some poor boy dead in that, sweetheart." 

Right now it felt more like a soggy wet napkin clinging to her soft skin.

The road stretched long and winding through the back hills and valleys , barely lit by her dimming headlights. 

She was maybe fifteen minutes from town when a sudden sound erupted.

BANG.

The whole car jerked sideways with a violent shudder and unraveled. She wrestled the steering wheel, heart slamming against her ribs as she detoured off to a newby shoulder. Her tires screamed and screeched on the gravel. 

For a momen t, she just sat there , hands clenched white knuckled on the wheel , chest rising and falling like a pair of jackrabbit's.

Then she screamed to herself. Not out of fear—but sheer frustration.

“You have got to be kidding me, why universe!”

She shoved the door wide open into the rain , sandal wedges squishing in the sopping wet mud. One glance at the back left tire told her all she needed to know.

Blown out. Shredded. Completely and utterly useless.

She didn’t know how long she sat back in the car just sitting , arms wrapped around her knees , trying not to cry. 

The rain pounded harder , relentlessly. 

Her phone? Dead. Charger? Non-existent. And she was stuck on a road that probably hadn't seen another car or sign of life that was a deer since last week.

She was working up to let out another good scream when headlights cut through the downpour in the distance.

She froze squinting.

A white truck rumbled into view—big , boxy , older than her but running strong roaring down the road. It slowed beside her car as the window rolled down slowly.

“You alright, ma’am?”

She blinked. Again and Again.

The man behind the question had a face carved like a marble statue , strong jaw, high cheekbones , scruff peppering his chin littered with peppery greys throughout—and eyes too soft for a man that big. 

His voice was all country warmth and beautiful Southern drawl, deep and smooth like the sweetest honey and molasses.

She hesitated , instincts prickling realizing her compromising situation.

But he didn’t push. 

Just waited in the rain , one arm resting out the open window , his other hand clearly visible on the wheel.

“My tire blew,” she said finally ; quickly. “No spare. And my…my phone’s dead.” She hung her head low like he was going to scold her or something.

But he just nodded. “Storm’s just getting worse. My place is up the road. You’re welcome to ride out the rain there with me. Safer than sittin' here in a dead dark car on slick gravel.”

She hesitated again. Blinking.

Then looked around sheepishly.

The storm wasn’t letting up anytime soon. Her limbs were shivering now from being cold , we t, and fearful. And this large handsome man hadn’t come off threatening—just kind.

“Alright,” she said quietly. “Just until the storm passes.”

He climbed out and jogged around to open the passenger door for her.

“I’m Bucky, by the way,” he gave her a lopsided smile. “Barnes.”

“Thank you Bucky” You blushed, giving him your name as well as you two headed off for his home.

The cabin was about a mile down the road—tucked between towering pines, with a deep wooden porch and flickering amber lights inside. 

It was cozy. Weathered. Smelled like cedar and old books.

As they made it inside he kicked off his muddy boots and shed his jacket as she snuck a look at his arms now visible. 

Bucky disappeared to the bedroom she had guessed and came back handing her a soft warm towel and gestured toward the couch.

“Cushions are pretty soft , got extra blankets in the closet. Clothes too—my sister leaves stuff here sometimes. Think you two might be about the same size.” He looked her up and down as he spoke making her flush again and the tip of his ears turn red.

She peeled off her soaked dress behind the bathroom door and changed into an oversized T-shirt and sleep shorts folded neatly on the counter he had provided. They smelled faintly of vanilla and something like sawdust.

When she came out , he was fluffing a pillow for her on the couch.

“Hope that’s alright,” he said, stepping back nodding to the sofa.

“It’s perfect Bucky ,” she said, voice soft. “Thank you.”

He nodded once, then headed toward the hall.

“Sleep tight,” he called. “Yell if you need anything at all.”

She smiled and curled under the thick quilt , body finally warming up , eyelids dragging heavy , shut.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” she mumbled.

He paused in the doorway taking one last glance at the pretty girl curled up under the blanket his ma handmade , sprawled out under his roof , all cozy and soft.

“Night, Y/N.”

THUD.

THUD. THUD.

Her eyes blinked open to the faint light of early dawn peeking through fogged windows and curtains. For a second, she didn’t remember where she was , slightly frightening her. Then she smelled coffee and heard boots on the hardwood floor.

She sat up on the couch , rubbing sleep from her eyes clutching the quilt to her chest.

Eyes scanning the room till she found him bent over by the waist at the door , tugging on his work boots , plaid sleeves rolled up over strong tanned forearms , his over shirt hanging open over a simple white tee.

Her dress was laid neatly across the arm of the couch. Washed. Dried. Smoothed flat like something fragile.

“Morning,” he said without turning, hearing her little yawn. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, it’s okay,” she stretched slowly. “You, um… you washed my dress?”

He looked up and gave a half-shrug half grin. “Figured you’d want it clean if we’re headed into town.”

“Town?”

He stood straightening , grabbing a thermos and his keys. “My buddy Clint’s got a shop on Willow. I gave him a ring early this morning—he towed your car out while you were still sleepin’. Figured we could meet him there , get your tire fixed and all that.”

Her jaw slackened slightly. “You did all that? Before coffee?”

“Yes ma'am ,  and I make real good coffee,” he grinned , offering her a travel mug.

She smiled brightly , warmth blooming behind her ribs. “You really are a kind stranger.”

Bucky held the screen door open. “Alright , up and at em’ lets get you back on the road, darlin’.”

She changed quickly , slipping back into her little floral dress and heels , prancing back with a joyful look.

“Atta girl , lets go” He smirked following her out the door.

 The rain had stopped at around four in the morning , but the air was still cool , and her damp hair curled and mused from sleeping on the couch.

The ride into town was a short one. His truck smelled like pine and motor oil she hadn't noticed her first time inside , the leather bench seat soft and warm under her half bare legs. 

The radio played low — old country music , the kind that sounded like porch swings and sunset beers.

About halfway there , the song changed. Something catchy. A little playful.

She started humming. Then singing under her breath.

Bucky glanced over and smirked. “You know this one?”

“I love this one,” she said , volume rising full on singing along npw.

He turned the radio up at that.

Next thing she knew, they were both singing together , windows cracked , the wind tangling her wavy hair as she laughed between lyrics. 

His voice was deep and a little rough between sips of coffee , but all charming. Like everything about him.

The shop came into view too soon than they both wanted.

Clint waved them in from the garage bay , wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “She the damsel?”

Bucky leaned out the window. “Yep” he said, popping the “p” with a wink shot her way “And the reason I was late.”

“Pretty good excuse,” Clint grinned. “Tire’s trashed but I got a spare that’ll fit. Just need a little time.”

“Mind if I stick around the garage ?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Clint said, winking. “Most excitement we’ve had all week here.”

Bucky grabbed the tool next to CLint and started working alongside him , shirt sleeves rolled back again , grease smudging his fingers and knuckles.

Y/N sat on the tailgate of his truck , legs swinging back and forth as she watched them both work.

At one point , Clint went to grab a bolt , and Bucky caught her shivering slightly in the breeze tucking her arms around herself as she looked up at the fluffy white clouds.

Without a word or ask , he stood , tugged off his work jacket she hadn't seen him throw on , and draped it gently right over her shoulders.

She blinked down surprised at the action at him from where she was perched on the truck. 

The jacket smelled like cedar , coffee, and something surprisingly clean from all the wear and tear it had. 

She looked down at the name embroidered in fraying thread across the chest: BARNES.

“T-thanks,” her cheeks tinted slightly pink , tugging it tighter around her.

He met her eyes and gave a quiet knowing smile. “Looks good on ya’.”

About an hour later , the tire was fixed and halfway through realizing the wheel rim was bent that was also now fixed , and her car was ready to go.

She hopped off the truck wobbly slipping a little on some oil , jacket still wrapped around her.

Bucky was quick at her side grip on her hips as he steadied her. “Careful honey”

After a beat he leaned back on the hood , hands snug in his jean pockets.

She sighed and started to slip the jacket off her frame.

“Keep it,” he said.

She paused her movements. “What?”

He smiled—slow, easy, all charm with some mischief she saw right through.

“That way I’ve gotta excuse to see ya’ again.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She glanced down shyly, then back up meeting his eyes.

“That was pretty smooth , Barnes.”

He shrugged. “I try.”

She laughed and climbed into her car keeping the jacket tight around her , hands on the wheel , heart pounding harder than it had any right to.

As she slowly pulled away , she glanced back in the mirror.

He was still standing there watching.

Watching her go—with a look that said this wasn’t the end.

Not even close.

Five years later

The bell over the adjoining office door to the garage jingled , followed by the faint click-clack of little shoes on concrete.

“Sweetheart?” Y/N called out , her voice warm but slightly exasperated. “You forgot your jacket. Again.”

Bucky’s head popped up from under the hood of a battered old blue Chevy. His hair was tied back in a lazy low bun , a smudge of grease streaked right across his perfect  jaw , and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled halfway up his now tattooed forearms. 

The radio he had sat beside as he worked crackled something old and bluesy in the background.

He blinked up. Then grinned.

There she stood in the doorway of the garage , framed by soft greyish blue morning light. 

Her hair was pinned up in a loose bun with pieces falling out here and there , cheeks flushed from the walk over from the bakery , an all too familiar jacket slung over her arm—the same one he’d draped over her shoulders that rainy night years ago. 

She was holding their wiggly toddler daughter in the same arm the jacket lay on , the other carefully balancing on her belly , now just starting to round with baby number two.

Their squirmy , bright-blue eyed girl let out a squeal and smacked her tiny palm against Y/N’s cheek with gleeful force.

“Baby, gentle hands,” Y/N said , trying not to laugh as she adjusted the toddler on her hip. “We use our hands for love , not smacking mama.”

“DAH-DEE!” the little girl shouted , squirming harder trying to get to her father.

Bucky was already striding across the shop , wiping his hands on a semi clean rag. “Hey , princess,” he said, voice gone soft as cotton.

He leaned down and kissed Y/N first—slow , warm, unrushed and needed.

“You’re really bad at remembering jackets,” she murmured against his lips, stealing another kiss.

“That’s why I married a smart woman,” he said with a wink, “to keep my forgetful ass alive.”

She snorted and handed over their daughter , who immediately snuggled into Bucky’s chest like she’d been waiting all day just for him , even having just seen him that morning.

“You’re early,” he said , pressing a kiss to their daughter’s soft brown messy curls , smoothing them out of her face. “Everything okay?”

Y/N nodded, rubbing a hand over her belly. “Fine. I just… we wanted to see you. You didn’t get much sleep last night and just wanted to check on you before the rain starts up heavy again” 

Bucky glanced out the open garage doors. Soft droplets were tapping against the pavement. The kind of lazy storm that just lingered and barely was rolling in.

Y/N smiled and held up the jacket. “And you left your lucky jacket at home.”

He set their daughter down on a stool beside his workbench—she immediately reached for a wrench with curious little fingers trawling it around.

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Hey now , no tools unless Mama says so shes the boss.”

Y/N laughed then slowly grimaced a little , walked over , setting the jacket down on her lap as she took a seat , then pressed a hand to her lower back and exhaled.

Bucky noticed immediately scooping up the toddler and setting her on his knee, bouncing as she lay a hand rubbing Y/N’s shoulders with concern.

“Hey,” Worry flickered in his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah , just a little sore. The baby’s been doing somersaults and cartwheels since breakfast.”

He rested a hand gently on her waist, then slowly slid it around to her rounding stomach.

“You’re sure it’s not twins darlin’?” he teased , his palm spreading across the curve of her bump.

“If it is, I’m suing you Barnes.”

He chuckled, then leaned in and kissed her temple. “How’s baby doing today besides given’ ya hell?”

She softened immediately , resting her own hand over his.

“Active,” she said. “Keeps kicking only the left side of my belly like it’s mad at it or something.”

Bucky grinned and crouched slightly, leaning just enough to speak directly to her belly but not enough to jostle the wiggly toddler still perched on his thigh. “Hey, now, you gotta be nice to mama. You’ll meet her soon enough i promise , no need to bruise her tummy.”

Y/N rolled her eyes affectionately. “You talk to all your engine parts like that too?”

“Only the tricky ones.”

She laughed , brushing a smudge of grease off his cheek and jaw with the pad of her thumb. “You’re good at this , you know. All of this.”

Bucky sat up again and wrapped an arm around her back pressing a kiss to the crown of their daughter's head. “I wasn’t, at first , was fu-... freaking clueless.”

“No,” she said softly , “but you chose to be there for us. Every single day.”

Their daughter let out a sudden squeal , frustrated she couldn’t reach the shiny socket wrench just out of reach of her fathers hold.

“I got her,” Y/N said going to stand.

“No,” Bucky grinned, already swooping in. “This one’s all mine.”

He scooped the girl up again and spun her gently blowing a raspberry on her cheek, both of them giggling loudly. She buried her face in his chest catching her breath , clutching his shirt like he was the whole world , he was , her whole world.

Y/N watched them , hand drifting back to her belly.

There was a time—back in that cold , lonely spring—when she couldn’t imagine a future like this. Now she couldn’t imagine anything more perfect than this right now.

Bucky caught her staring and raised an eyebrow tossing the tot to his hip.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Just thinking.”

“Oof , that's dangerous,” he teased , a full smile covering ninety percent of his face.

“Do you remember the first time I stepped into this shop?”

He glanced around—the cluttered counters , the wall of tools , the ancient coffee machine and looked back at her.

“You mean you in that little dress?” he said, grinning. “Yeah, darlin’. Like it was yesterday.”

“You looked so serious.”

“I was tryin’ not to stare.”

She smirked. “You stared.”

“Can you blame me , honey?”

Their daughter let out a big yawn and nuzzled into Buckys neck. 

“C’mon i'm done for the day lets go on home” He whispered rubbing her back then reaching out his hand for Y/N to take.

She walked over to them slowly , picked up his jacket from her lap , and pulled it around her.

He watched as she rolled the sleeves up her arms , belly just rounding and peeking through under it.

“You keep wearin’ that around with my- now your name on it ,” he said, “I’m gonna have to marry you all over again.”

“Maybe I’ll let you,” she winked , grinning as she turned to leave grabbing his hand in hers.

He followed her out the shop door after fetching his keys , their daughter stirring sleepily in his arms , her curls damp from the drops that made it past Bucky's hand trying to block the rain from her.

Y/N glanced at the sky , then back at him , at them. “Need anything else?”

He looked at her —the ring on her finger , the toddler on his hip , the baby growing in her belly , the jacket she clutched and wore like a second skin.

And shook his head.

“Nope,” he said quietly. “I’ve got everything.”

She smiled , kissed his scruffy cheek , and started walking toward the truck with him beside her.

When he opened her door he leaned down and kissed her–quick and soft—then rested his forehead against hers.

“We built a hell of a life , didn’t we?” he murmured.

She smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “And it all started with some rain , huh?”

Thunder rumbled low and louder getting closer across the hills and valleys.

And then—soft and steady—rain fell harder into a pour.

It ended with rain.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[batsandbirdbrains]

I want a fic where, when Dick first comes to live with Bruce, it’s Alfred he’s closest to. Alfred speaks fluent French and that makes Dick feel so much safer talking to him. Dick knows English, but he’s not as confident speaking it as he is with French.

Alfred let’s Dick help him with cooking, shows Dick how to set a table when there’s more than one fork or spoon, and they sit together every afternoon and drink tea together while talking about their day.

Dick helps Alfred with little chores around the manor, like dusting the shelves, and fluffing the couch pillows in the lounge, and putting the dishes away. Dick likes feeling helpful, and Alfred is happy to have a little helper. He also shows Dick how to make his bed so the sheets are perfectly crisp, and Dick looks so proud of himself every morning when he shows Alfred how well he made his bed.

But then one day after Dick has started going to Gotham Academy, Alfred picks Dick up from school, and Dick climbs into the car trying so hard not to cry. He’s sniffly and his eyes are red and he lasts all of ten seconds before he bursts into tears and tells Alfred through gasping breaths that some kids in his class were being mean to him. They were making fun of his slight accent and how he’s started using some British terms (like bin and rubbish, things that Alfred says) and how he lives with a billionaire who probably doesn’t even love him and how he should’ve fallen with his parents.

And Alfred sees red. He parks the car, takes Dick’s hand, and marches right into the school. He’s going to get to the bottom of this. Now.

Because Dick may as well be his grandson now, and no one messes with his grandson and gets away with it.

Dick switches classrooms the very next day (the other teacher is nicer anyway, and the one Dick did have before had let all of the bullying slide). The principal at Gotham Academy was horrified to hear about what had been happening to Dick while at school, because it comes out during the meeting with him that the bullying had been going on since the start of the school year and his teacher never did anything about it. Dick hadn’t told anyone because he didn’t know what to do about it.

Then a few years later after Dick has joined the team with Aqualad, Kid Flash, Superboy, and the others, it comes out that a few of them have been giving Dick a hard time as Robin because he wasn’t allowed to share his secret identity. It gets to the point that Dick comes home to the Batcave one evening and he’s so upset because they tried to take his mask off.

Alfred comforts him until Bruce comes and can take over for him. Then Alfred puts on a domino mask of his own and zetas to Mount Justice. He has several shithead teenagers to rip into and intimidate the hell out of. Because now they’ve fucked with his grandson, and they’re about to find out what happens when you truly piss off Agent A.

Idk I want Alfred being a protective dad/grandpa to Dick, someone pls send fic recs if you have any lol

[softjeekies]

Waiting After The Rain - 9

Pairing: ot8!stray kids x pregnant omega!reader

Synopsis: An omega pregnant and alone after being kicked out by their alpha stumbles upon a pack willing to take them in and care for both the omega and their pup as if they were their own, because now they are.

Genre: strangers to lovers, angsty but lots of fluff to even it out.

Warnings: a/b/o, past abuse physical and verbal, past sexual abuse(mentions of past non-con), mentions of past violence, trauma, self esteem issues, pregnancy, aftermath of abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, pack dynamics, angst but it will be okay, polyamory

A/N: I got a little stumped with this chapter but I hope it’s still enjoyable, I’ve got a few ideas for the coming chapters so we should be good :)

previous chapter // next chapter

When you woke up this morning the events of the day before hit you like a train, It didn’t help that after bringing you breakfast in bed Hyunjin had to leave for the day, to do some work at his art studio. You let him go with no pleas or cries but as you sit alone in his bed, your heart aches. Most of your life was spent pushing down your needs, especially the need for comfort and love. Now that you’d found this pack and your walls had started to crack it was hard, a sense of yearning sat deep in your chest. Hyunjin had let you know Seungmin would be home today so you could easily seek him out if you needed anything, and that’s exactly what you would do. It took a minute to find his scent but when the strong smell of freshly cleaned laundry hit your nose you knew you did it. The beta is sitting on the living room couch curled up looking a bit disassociated but once you enter the room he immediately perks up, his full attention on you while you take a seat next to him.

“Y/N! Are you okay? Do you need something?”

“I’ll be okay. Are you okay? You look, I don’t know, not Seungmin-like.” The beta lets out a lazy chuckle at your observation and you can’t help but laugh as well.

“I’m fine. I just get a little thrown off when my packmates are down. It hurts.” He looks away from you, embarrassed to be showing this kind of vulnerability.

“Oh! God, I’m sorry I’m causing you pain. Here lie down.” You pat your lap for him to lie his head down. He happily obliges, choosing to lie facing your bump as you run a hesitant hand through his hair. Seungmin feels a strong instinct to fix things, he wants his pack happy, and he wants you happy.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“Hmm, that’s probably a good idea… It’s hard to explain though. I grew up very sheltered and in a more conservative household, raised to believe that alphas were gods amongst men who could use me however they pleased. Seeing my old alpha and hearing him talk about me like that made me feel like I was back at our first meeting, and he got in my head. Seeing him again, it made me feel like maybe things can’t be good for me, so coming home and seeing everyone here I got scared. It sounds horrible but you and Hyunjin are fine because all I know about betas is what I’ve learned from school and the K-dramas I would sneakily watch when I was younger. I feel safer with you.” You don’t realize how shaky your voice is until Seungmin pushes out his calming scent.

“I can’t explain how amazing it is to hear you feel safe with me. I hope that you can feel safe with the whole pack soon. I’m sorry your life so far has been so horrible but you’re here now, right? We’re here for you.”

“It sucks because I do feel drastically safer with you guys, I have never felt this safe in my life. But it’s just like my head won’t let me settle, I’m so on edge, I’m stuck in a permanent fight or flight it’s exhausting.” Your hands run over your face in frustration. All you want to do is give in and accept this good thing but it’s like you can’t be sure it’s a good thing at all.

“We’re not going to give up on you. We want you, all of you.” Silence falls over the living room, there’s no tension or fear, just calm between two almost pack mates. Seungmin stares at your belly intently with a soft smile before he speaks up again.

“Can you feel him?”

“Him?”

“I don’t really care either way, but I think he’s a boy.”

“Hmm, I guess I haven’t thought about what I think they are. But yes I can feel them. You won’t be able to for probably the next month but soon.”

“Can I touch him?” You nod and Seungmin takes a gentle hand and rubs it across your bump, but his hand doesn’t linger.

“Hi puppy.” He speaks mere inches away from your bump, his voice is soft but projected.

“Yeah they’re moving, I guess they are saying hi back.” You let out a giggle and the beta continues to mumble nonsense to your belly, that was until another presence entered the room causing Seungmin to growl at the doorway. When you look up your eyes meet Chan’s and you immediately tense, which only makes the beta growl more at his alpha. Chan raises his hands in surrender and doesn’t make any move towards the couch.

“Hey, you know me, I won't hurt anybody. I just got home early and smelled Y/N down here and wanted to talk.” It takes a moment but you force yourself to relax, a mantra replays in your head reminding you how much Chan has done for you this past month, he’s not a threat.

“It’s okay Seungmin, we should probably talk.” Seungmin is immediately satisfied by your words and stands down, placing his head back in your lap waiting for more pets. Subconsciously you return to running your hand through the beta’s hair, more for your own comfort than his. Chan makes his way towards the couch and sits on the floor in front of you, Your mind short-circuits for a moment at the realization, he’s showing submission to you. By sitting below you making himself a literal sitting duck he is making sure you know he’s not a threat.

“Is Changbin okay?” Your mind lingers on the image of that punch. The cracking sound replays in your head on loop. You know alphas are incredibly resilient and as wolves, you’ll always heal well if you do get hurt but the shock of someone hurting and getting hurt for you rattles your brain.

“He’s in great shape, Minho looked over his hand and everything looks good, he’s a little bruised but he said it doesn’t even hurt.”

“That’s good.” You trail off, unsure how to start this conversation. Luckily the alpha does that for you.

“Y/N I never want yesterday to happen again. We were all so on edge, wanting nothing more than to comfort and protect you. When Changbin called me and told me what happened my instincts went insane, I called everyone and made sure we all got home to you. You shut us out and I felt like the worst alpha in the world. Your feelings are totally valid though, This is all still new and I know you don’t trust us yet but we want to be there for you.” There’s no posturing, there’s no overwhelming pheromones meant to manipulate you, all you saw was a big puppy sitting on the floor in front of you nervously playing with his fingers.

“I know. And that’s the part of this that scares me the most, deep down I want to give in I want to let myself have this and be your omega. This past month has been the best month of my life, but I can’t shake the life I had before all of this.”

“So we work through it together, we’ll help you work out your new normal and we’ll show you so much love and comfort along the way. We do want to court you, and as far as we’re concerned you are already part of the pack, we just have to get you acclimated.” A stray tear rolls down your face, a happy tear. Seungmin sits up and playfully rolls his eyes.

“Alright you sappy alpha, come hug your pack mates and make it all better.” He scoots away from you, giving ample room for Chan to make himself comfortable between you two. He takes a seat and immediately pulls Seungmin into his side but hesitates touching you so you take the initiative and curl into the alpha’s side, he absolutely melts at your touch. He would make it all better, if it’s the last thing he does.

The rest of the pack came home as normal throughout the day, no questions or awkwardness, they were just so happy you were feeling better and willing to let them exist in your bubble again. The last person to come home is Jeongin who you find sitting outside your door, you assume similar to how he was last night. The alpha looks up at you shocked as you exit the bathroom.

“Y/N? I thought you were still in your room.” You can’t help but let out a giggle.

“If you had talked to the pack before coming to sit at my door you’d know we worked things out, I talked to Chan and we’re going to be as okay as we can be for now. Now get off the floor.” A smile graces Jeongin’s face, and he looks at you as if you’ve hung the stars for him. He obeys and stands up, and he tries to approach you before you stop him.

“Nuh-uh, you have outside smells on you, go change.” You scrunch up your nose at the smell of other wolves all over Jeongin but he doesn’t fight back; he simply nods eagerly and heads to his room.

You lie in your nest with a protective hand over your bump when a knock steals your attention.

“Hey, I showered and changed. Is it okay if I join you now? You know, in your nest?” Jeongin’s scent is stormy, it’s clear that he’s nervous about what you might say.

“Yeah, you can join us.” Jeongin smiles at the use of the word us. He doesn’t know if he’s thinking too much into it but it makes him feel you’re reminding him the pup is there too and he can include the pup in the love he’s ready to give. The alpha climbs into the nest gently taking you in his arms.

“May I touch?” The request catches you off guard, you understand why Seungmin asked, he’s never touched your bump before. But Jeongin had done it twice now, so why would he feel the need to ask?

“Of course you can.” As he rubs gentle circles on your bump you stall for a moment thinking of how you want to word your thoughts.

“You know, I didn’t know people were supposed to ask to enter my nest, Jisung had to tell me that. People asking me for consent is really foreign to me, but I really appreciate how you guys always ask.” Jeongin smiles.

“I know firsthand how good it can feel to have people respect your boundaries, I’m not obsessed with skinship-“ You don’t mean to but you cut him off.

“But the pack? And you? You touch me though?”

“This pack has shown me how beautiful touch can be. I learned I was never against touch, I was against my boundaries being broken. I’m still no Felix but I feel safe with you guys.” You felt uncharacteristically warm, the more you learned about these guys the more you felt the knot in your chest settle.

“I was a really clingy kid, I know omegas are meant to be clingy and that was probably my instincts forming from a young age but it was so bad. All i wanted to do was cuddle with my parents all the time, they hated it though. When they began to hurt me as punishments, I learned to fear touch. It only got worse from there.” You let out a sigh, a pit forming in your stomach out of fear that you ruined the mood.

“It’s a good thing there will be no lack of cuddles for you in this house. The only touch you’ll ever receive from us will be out of pure love for you.”

You think you believe him. Nobody had ever shown you this much kindness or said these things to you, so maybe this really was different.