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boobearymuch · 6 months ago

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Their Favorite Underwear (On You) —♡ LADS Headcanons

—♡Summary: They certainly have interesting preferences, that's for sure. —♡Tags: NSFW, suggestive, sex implied, afab!reader, no pronouns used, fingering, panty sniffing/licking —♡A/N: done staring at this I'm throwing it out into the wild —♡ masterlist

—♡ Caleb

Caleb’s favorite pair of underwear on you is somewhat an innocent pick. A worn out pair of cotton panties you’ve had since high school.

They have some kind of pattern—either horizontal stripes, flowers, a repeating print of the cookie monster—doesn’t matter, he loves it all.

They remind him of simpler times—laundry day when you were younger—and how they’d get caught up in his own load by accident. You’d flush bright red when he stopped by your door to drop them off, but he’d just throw his head back with a laugh and tell you it's fine.

He’s never told you how close he came to pocketing them instead.

In the present, he’s found himself on laundry duty again. The colonel is dumping your basket of dirty clothes into the washer when a familiar pair of cotton panties fall in.

He doesn’t even bother looking around; Caleb reaches for them, breath hitching when he realizes they’re the same pair from before. He can’t believe you still have them. You really ought to buy some new clothes…

Something dark—hot—coils in his belly when he turns the gusset inside out and lifts the fabric to his trembling lips.

It smells divine—a little on the tangy side, but he’ll make sure you drink more water from here on out.

Then his tongue finally laps at the inner lining, and Caleb’s eyes practically roll into the back of his head.

His hips jerk against the washing machine just thinking about sinking his tongue into your actual—

Your voice abruptly floats down the hall, some question he can barely hear, and Caleb tells you he’ll be right there.

Perhaps he will pocket these for later, after all…

—♡ Xavier

Xavier’s favorite pair of underwear on you…is actually his own.

His boxer briefs are basically yours at this point.

When you sleep over and need a change of clothes, he just lets you borrow his; which is how you end up in an oversized shirt and boxer briefs in the first place.

Seeing you in his clothes is a thrill of its own, but seeing you in his underwear?

It’s an entirely new level of intimacy that has his ears burning red and his slow heart skipping a beat.

You wouldn’t wear just anyone’s underwear to bed, you’re wearing his.

He gets oddly clingy when you do, sliding in behind you in bed and nuzzling your shoulder as you scroll through your phone.

You make some comment about a post you saw, but he’s hardly listening. Instead, his hand is sliding down your hip, stroking the fabric of his underwear and the heat of your skin. It brings a soft smile to his lips.

Xavier can’t help but think the slit of his boxer briefs is silly on you, sliding his fingers inside to gently stroke your pubes. It’s usually innocent, he just likes the texture.

But the hitch of your breath darkens his gaze, and Xavier gently coaxes you to continue scrolling as his hand sinks lower…

He hums in response to your little moan, fingers curling up into your slick heat. His other hand reaches around to take the phone out of your faltering grip and slams it against the nightstand.

Xavier’s selfish, he admits—he doesn’t want you distracted by anything else while you’re wearing his clothes, his underwear…

You need to borrow another pair of boxer briefs by the time he’s done with you.

—♡ Zayne

Zayne’s favorite pair of underwear on you is not one you expected—thongs. He’s secretly crazy for them. Well, that might be an overstatement—but he enjoys the sight of you in them very much.

You’re surprised to learn about Zayne’s preference, though he doesn’t readily disclose it at first. You have to feign trouble picking between two sets of underwear first, and shove your phone into his face for an opinion.

“...The one on the right.” The cool response is only betrayed by a fervent blush on his cheeks.

He likes slipping his fingers under the thin string, teasing and tugging. It leaves very little to the imagination; straight to the point.

Your order comes in, and Zayne secretly watches you slide them up your legs as you both get ready for a banquet. It’s all his mind keeps wandering back to throughout the night.

Not only are you wearing underwear he picked out, but you’re wearing them to mingle with his colleagues. A rather distracting thought, isn’t it?

At one point during the night, you bend over to grab something, and the lack of a panty line reminds Zayne all over again what you’re sporting underneath.

He approaches calmly, interrupting a conversation with his colleagues by wrapping an arm around your waist.

His excuse to leave early is well thought out—you suspect he’s had it in mind since arriving—but you’re barely listening when his hand wanders low.

It slides down your backside, and he absently thumbs the string of your thong through the fabric of your dress.

…The car ride home is a short one, to say the least.

—♡ Sylus

If you asked Sylus, he’d say he prefers you in no underwear at all.

But, if he had to choose, he’s rather fond of a simple red lace. Comfortable, practical, sexy.

Not to mention, red is absolutely your color. The fact that it’s his too is merely a…happy coincidence.

When he’s stocking up your closet in the N109 zone, Sylus makes sure to order only the best luxury brands exclusively in various shades of red.

The idea of you sauntering around base in his color is enough to make him purr at the sight of you, even when your underwear isn’t visible.

He makes a game out of guessing what pair you have on; is it the scarlet one with bows? Or perhaps the strappy maroon?

Sylus finds out at dinner; you’re laughing at some ridiculous story when you uncross your legs, and there’s a flash of vermilion underneath your skirt.

The one with heart cutouts? My my, you only wear that one when you want something…

His eyes roam you up and down as you continue your story, but you stumble over your words when a swirling red mist drags your chair closer to his.

You were quite bold for wearing such a bright color in public, and if anyone other than him was to catch sight of it…

Well, we can’t have that, can we?

Your breath hitches when his hand roams your thigh, smug eyes never leaving yours. His calloused fingers ghost the hem of your skirt, and your words trail off in anticipation of what’s to come next.

Sylus grips the fabric and tugs your skirt…down.

Your face burns as he leans back with a chuckle, “You were saying?

—♡ Rafayel

Rafayel’s favorite pair of underwear? Brazilian panties, next question.

They sit high above your hip bones while accentuating the curve of your tummy; absolutely divine.

Of course, you look divine in everything; hell, you’d look perfect in only a seashell to cover your modesty. But something about the aesthetic of these panties, specifically, gets him insanely hot and bothered.

He brings you back gifts from his trip overseas, but he flushes and fervently denies having anything to do with the three pairs of panties tucked behind the body lotions and skincare.

Rafayel quickly changes his tune when you suggest modelling them for him, though.

That’s how you end up changing into them right then and there, a minty lace pair with a little satin rose sewn to the front. You rejoin Rafayel, who’s been waiting patiently on his bed.

Rafayel can’t speak, only tugs the back of your thigh closer as he swallows thickly.

Your pubes peek out the sides due to the nature of the design, and you make an offhand comment about shaving the next time you wear them. Rafayel immediately shakes his head—as if offended—and grips the sides of your hips, thumbs hiking the side wings further up.

He flushes, and his nostrils flare right before he lowers his head to lick a stripe up your lace front.

His tongue burns through the fabric, and the Lemurian lets out a shuddering breath against your stomach. You barely register the chill down your spine when he licks you again, this time his teeth catching on the waistband.

You never get to try the other two pairs on for him…

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unearthlyeclipse · 22 days ago

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THE HANKS FROM DATE EVERYTHING PLEASE I BEG OF THEE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASEEEEE

THE HANKS P!LINKS + HEADCANONS // NSFW/SMUT/FLUFF

A/N: Just for you twinnn <3 I feel like it would be difficult to do links for all 5 of them, I've decided to write some small headcannons and such, but I'm adding a visualizer for each one :) I ALSO HAD ANOTHER PERSON REQUEST THESE BEAUTIES!!! THIS IS FOR YOU TOO!!!

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, smut, fluff, mixtures of headcannons and visualizers/links, p in v, riding, teasing, dirtytalk, cunnilingus, fingering, handjobs, blowjobs, breeding kink(?), gangbang/six-some/6some, spitroasting(?), LOTS of cuddling, both sex/general hcs, bottom reader, AFAB reader. (Let me know if I miss anything!!)

HANK #1 + Loves watching you full of himself, couldn't help but groan once you showed off your tits, showing off his strength, he loves the ride. + Although he always downplays #2's anxious antics of the adventures the group goes on, he secretly admits his own concerns to you. - You'll be caressing the back of his head and rubbing his back as he cuddles into your body, practically being the little spoon as he talks to you about whatever you're comfortable with. + Always trying to impress himself in front of you ever since you first met. When you first appeared in front of the hanks, he literally asked them to tidy themselves up, so he's definitely a pleaser, similar to the rest of them. + During sex, he loves cuddling in any form. He gropes your chest while he's pressed close against you in missionary, kneading your thighs, and any chub/curves you have to your skin are a must. He loves expressing his admiration for your body. - DEFINITELY gives the sweetest massages to you and the others. He can pop muscles with ease, especially your shoulders.

HANK #2 + He loves your pretty moans, he's getting very vocal beneath you, loves being sensual, going on a sweet ride. + ALWAYS asks if something is okay while being together, during sex, or not. He never wants to go against any of your wishes. + Detailed plans if you were to go on a date alone. Would get help from Mitchell for the best tasting restaurants to please you the best. + Caressing you is a must; pleasing you with just simple holding will be more than satisfactory for him.

HANK #3 + Showing off his stamina, inspiring you to ride with dirty talk, going to town, finally got in your pants. + I feel like he has a lower sex drive for someone whose dirty talk comes from the deepest part of his heart, but his drive is still just a tad bit higher than the other Hanks. - EVERY word from him is something he means, even promises, especially if it’s dirty talk. He doesn't just say things for nothing. - He can probably last two to three rounds, but only if you are willing. + When touching you, he loves a more sensual touch than rough. Although he speaks dirty, caressing your face and thighs is something he loves to do. + Although he shows his soft side more with you, even with dirty talk, he does have a freakier side, of course. Some kinks, such as light bondage and edging, really spurs him on, but he will always be sure to discuss those with you. + The only Hank who wouldn’t mind quickies. Blowjobs, handjobs, getting the chance to eat you out briefly are all on the table. The others prefer to take their time with you, as does three, but he wouldn’t mind a quick sesh to get some steam off.

HANK #4 + Fucking up into you, loves watching you squirm, can't get over how pretty you are, cant help but stare. + He has come up to you before asking to toy with his hair, to which you happily complied. He’d let you do anything to his semi-long locks, small braids, sweet massages to his scalp, or just allow his head to rest between your thighs as you both snoozed off during the day. + He and #3 aren't on the same level of horniness, but #4 still has his kinks. If you were to pull his hair, he would let out the filthiest groan in response; he'd probably tug your's if you'd beg him to. + He's only a little timid during intercourse, usually burying his head in the crook of your neck while he groans softly, kissing your skin. If you were to pull his hair to force him to look at you, it would be the icing on the cake.

HANK #5 + Earning the prettiest cries out of him, filling you with all he can, dumping inside of you, hand holding melts his heart. + Hank's underlying baby fever was already on his mind before you two had properly met face to face, but it immediately worsened the moment you spoke to him. + To see how sweet of a person you were, energetic, kind, thoughtful, gave him hope for a child of his own, even more than what the other Hanks have given him. + DEFINITELY was afraid of telling you about his dream of having a child. He would never keep it a secret intentionally, but had delayed his hopeful plan to try with you. He wanted the time to be special too, him and the rest of the Hanks working to please you while he paints your inner walls white. + Absolutely loves when you leg lock him during sex. The feeling of your legs reeling him in closer to you is something that easily makes his eyes roll back in bliss.

ALL THE HANKS!! (Bonus) + Some of the Hanks grow a bit tired after a round so they just sit and watch the show, group bonding sesh!! + They're all loving on you even in the smallest expressions. Hand holding, the biggest hugs and cuddles whenever you please, they all rush to you if you ever need anything they can help you with. This is the first time they've actually grown intimate with another, so being able to be in your presence and touch you after many years is something they wouldn't want to let go of. + They all use pet names. “Sweet-thing, hun, babe, doll,” they’re all in the book if they sound charming enough. + They all want to make sure everything is smooth between you all, making sure you're okay with certain stunts they may do, having intercourse with more than one of them, and so on. - Your comfort is their top priority, as they prioritize it while they were partnered with Red Bowl and even after. + All hanks are simply energetic, golden retrievers just running around you 24/7 that find comfort with you at the end of the day, someone they all love to collectively cuddle with. +They’re all very light during sex, jokes, and their slang being used left and right, but they do know when to keep things on a more serious level if they get the hint. - Silly things such as “dibs/shotgun picks” are some sweet competition they’ll play with, getting to make you cum first, but obviously prioritizing your comfort and pleasure without getting too deep into the fighting. - THEY ALWAYS SHARE. You all love eachother and their bond is strong, they would never have the ill intent to "hog" you whatsoever. + They’ll do silly things to get your attention, even stunts that may be even more harmful than the last (of course, they know their own limits). You’ll bandage all of them up like a mother would to her child with a paper cut as they look at you with pouting eyes. + Always keeping an eye out for each other. You can all practically sense SOME issues from miles away. Dehydration? Water will be left on your bedside for when you wake up from naps. Any of you feeling tired or in the dumps? Group movie with grub, cuddles, and fluffy blankets will be quick to be scheduled. Also, stuff such as important dates, your menstrual cycle, and more are jotted down mentally, but they have to remind each other of things. They tend to be forgetful…

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yey56 · 6 months ago

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HARLEY SAWYER X PSYCHOLOGIST READER

You have been working at Playtime CO for some years now, you worked as the head department of psychology but most of your work consisted on providing profiles of the children in the lower levels or as your coworker called them, experiments.

Over the years of working with them and knowing what they are being turned into, you've learned to work with them pre and post experimentation. Another thing you've learned through time was to deal with the partner you were assigned for the project. Harley sawyer.

What is there to say about that man. He is the head scientist in the project but he is absolutely horrible at dealing with them, or with anyone. That's how you were assigned to work along side him . He made the experiments and you maintained them under control.

Initially the ones who needed to be under control where you two because of your crashing personalities. While he was a serious control freak and borderline antisocial you one the contrary seemed to not take things seriously, constantly taunting him and the other stuff and with a permanent sarcastic tone in your voice voice.

Of course at first he didn't like you much, and to be fair you didn't make it easy. Everything he said refering to the experiments was refuted by your obsession to keep a mildly stable mental health in the subject.

Dr Harley sighed heavily looking your way with an annoyed look- What now?- he asked

If you keep treating the subjects like that your are going to break them.-you said in the observation room with him while you were both supervising experiment 1355, a young girl turned into a smiley unicorn.

They're toys, they can be fixed easily- he responded as if he had repeated you that phrase for the 11th time (he did)

You know what I mean Sawyer, they are of no use if their minds break-you explained with a calm smile- or have you forgotten what kind of problems an unstable subject could bring?- your asked him, your question mocking him.

It turned out well with Yarnaby or have you forgotten Dr (Y/L/N)?- he said imitating your question

You laughed slowly- ah yes the kid you isolated as your pet, great example Dr-

Harley Sawyer was well known for working alone, he didn't like others company and whenever he got an assistant or a guard, he scared them off by being authoritarian or exposing them to dangerous situation. You were the only one at the company who actually could keep up with him.

In the interviews with the children you would lead the conversation while Harley observed and took notes. In the laboratory you were more of an assistant, helping the Dr with whatever tool he needed or just preparing the chemicals.

Even though he hated to admit it, his experiments have been more controlable and causing less troubles since you started working together.

You would be unbothered by the kids, showing enough compassion for them to not recognise you as a threat, but showing not an ounce of regret in your eyes while seeing how Harley turned them into toys.

Do I have to remind you that compassion is useless in this job?- Sawyer said while closing a wound he had made on the experiment while operating

You haven't realised how much time have passed since your prior conversation have ended. It was strange for the doctor to initiate them, usually preferring silence but you weren't complaining.

Compassion can make a person go through great lengths- you said- But I understand that in this line of work it's nothing but a limit, a wall that needs to be broken in order to obtain results.-

For once in a long time both you and Harley agreed on something.

He finally stopped sewing the toys fresh wound and started reading the inform you had redacted about the psychological profile of the child before the operation- you should do another one once she wakes up (Y/L/N)- he reminded you while reading the little notes and highlights you left about her.

You always reserved a space the paper work to express your personal opinions on the experiment and Harley always read them. It's another thing he started doing, considering your opinions and advice as something worth of noticing.

-Doc...-

-Sawyer...-

-Sawyer??...-

-HARLEY!!-

He looked at you not noticing how he had spaced out of his mind for a moment while reading your report.

What is it?- he asked actually surprised that he was actually distracted enough to not hear you.

I was asking you about the experiment 1322, Doey. How are the three conscience developing? are they getting used to they're new body?-you asked. Doey was your favourite experiment so far, it was the one you have showed more interest in and your involvement with him was way bigger than with others. Sawyer didn't understood your fascination with Doey.

Since you both started developing the project, you had shown special interest in the idea of three people combined in a toy. In fact, the reason you had starting working more time with the doctor was because of your eagerness to see how the experiment would turn out.

You have become much more comfortable with one another, even after years of coexisting with each other in the lower levels of Playtime.

Sometimes he would catch himself looking at you while you were with the kids in the interviews. He observed your calm demeanor through the crystal of the observation room. He could see how the children grew more confortable with you while you were joking.

The cognitive abilities of the toys were improving each day thanks to your work so of course the bosses permitted you both to perform as many experiments as needed.

Another thing Harley noticed about the last week's was how you would spend most of your time testing and conversing with 1322. He had grown so used to your presence that it was getting harder to work without you present.

He would never admit that he missed your sarcastic comments about the designs of the toys or how he missed to call you a germ, his germ, whenever you were getting to annoying.

Sometimes when you went to the cafeteria upstairs to get some coffee or a sandwich to eat, you would get him something too.

You haven't brought anything recently and that was because of your new obsession.

He finally finished the last transformation successfully, now the only thing left was for the experiment to wake up and for you to examine them.

Harley wandered through the corridors searching for the one room he knew you would be in, this time, he was the one bringing you a coffee.

He watched you through the crystal of the observation room. You always insisted on talking face to face with Doey. The mass of doe seemed calmer with you around. The two more peaceful personalities of Doey talked to you, voicing their regrets and fears. Though the violent part of the creature always seemed reluctant to talk to you. Not responding what was asked of him or simply not responding at all.

Dr ( Y/L/N), your presence is required in the observation room number 29- Sawyer interrupted your conversation. Doey seemed afraid for a moment only to turn his expression into an angry one. With a gesture of your hand you calmed him down and signaled silently for Harley to turn on the ice so the doe wouldn't scape.

You exited the room to find your coworker handing you a cup of coffee. You looked at him with a raised brow but accepted it either way.

Well, look who it is.-you said with satisfied grin- I thought you were supervising Yarnaby?- you commented

Yes I was, are you aware of how much time you spend with that... Mass?- he said with contempt- what's so fascinating about him anyways? He's only been trouble.

You're only trouble as far as I'm aware- he rolled his eyes you sipped again- he's a time bomb and I want to be there to see it explode- you finally responded- I want to be the germ that makes him mutate.

Germ... It's a fitting name for you- he laughed with a smooth voice.-

You both stayed silent in the middle of the room, he looked at you calmly while you ended your coffee. He was looking at you trough his glasses without blinking, with his tired eyes.

You looked back at him and when you realised he had his fist raised at you, brushing with his tumb the remaining coffee right next to your upper lip.

Neither of you realised how close you where, the dim light of the room illuminated both of your bodies. Yours against the door and his right in front of you, your external layers of clothing touching lightly.

He got even closer, feeling his breath against your own. His thumb caressing your cheek

He thought about everything that had happened recently. How Pierre and the ones closer to him had started to go against you both in the semanal meeting with the executives regarding the experiments. Pierre's demands being met by your indifference, claiming that you will keep securing the experiments as much as possible.

The doctor remembered how you, just as him, were completely devoted to the project. He had became paranoic for the past months. More irritable, unwilling to socialise with someone who wasn't you or the toys

He got even closer to you, he though he heard you whisper his name. You closed the gap between the both of you. Hands on his shoulders

Lip against lip, his hand still in your face. You felt that Harley was the only human you could trust down here. No one understood you like he did. Your desperation to contribute to humanity, your desire of achieving a more lasting body. One that could endure more.

If you ever shared this with anyone else, you'll probably be in trouble.

Your closeness with Harley and his with you was out of understanding, a feeling of trust and comfortability that had just materialised thought he kiss you were sharing with each other.

He slowly pulled apart, his breathing uneven and one of his locks of hair misplaced a slight smile on his face. His forehead touched yours and he whispered just above your lips- My germ~

Only if you knew... That exact same week Harley Sawyer would be reduce no nothing more than a system, a screen, a conscience.

At the mercy of playtimes desires while you... Well ... Your whereabouts were unknown, even though they knew you didn't get out of the building.

Somewhere... hiding between wires and toy corpses...

I'm in love with the voice of the doctor AKA Harley Sawyer.

My drawing of Harley Sawyer:

#poppy playtime #poppy playtime chapter 4 #harley sawyer #the doctor #harley sawyer x reader #leith pierre #x reader #fanfic #the doctor x reader #doey the doughman #poppy playtime doey

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wordsofyore · 1 month ago

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Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem. Reader

You know this isn't really normal.

It would have been one thing if this was just a good old crush. Typical stuff, as far as crushing on someone usually goes for you--someone forever distant, forever unattainable--the perfect candidate to pin all your hopes and dreams on for a time, until you inevitably become lucid and tear down the billboard-sized image of the man in your heart. Rinse and repeat. The distance keeps you safe and comfortable.

And a part of you dares to admit the quiet part out loud--you enjoy the yearning. The sting, the bittersweet soup of emotions and what-ifs.

But now, that all-important distance is the very thing you are breaching without even deliberating on it, a compulsion akin to a moth being drawn to a flame. Perhaps it wouldn't have been a big deal if it had been any other man. Yet, it is.

Because you're crushing on Lieutenant Simon fucking Riley.

It isn't hard to miss the guy, with how he is, of course. The forever skullface-masked behemoth of a man has a habit of drawing one's eye to him the moment he enters a room, without having to utter a word. Half the time he merely grunts anyhow, but your ears pay their due attention any time he deigns to quip something in his no nonsense Mancunian accent.

And your poor little battered heart sings in delight, every single time.

Of course, as a lower ranked service member, your schedules don't really match with someone of his tier, so you make sure to linger around the gym and common areas, and certain entry points to catch sight of him, whenever you can. Observing. Noting habits and preferences. Carefully penning them down in the personal journal you like to hide under your pillow. He's a creature who's as enigmatic as it gets, and the mask makes it that much harder to get a read on him. It's only when you're 20 pages deep into your journal, recording your stream of consciousness in the dead of night, that you get the inkling that maybe, just maybe, this might be a little too much.

Stalkers were supposed to be creepy, maladjusted, sinister little characters, preying on their victims until things reached a boiling point. And while you had a low opinion of yourself in many regards, you didn't quite consider yourself to be that level of depraved. Yet isn't this what it was, really? Stalking, despite keeping a sizeable distance between yourselves (because Lord knows being observant is an essential requirement in this line of work, and you are more than aware someone of Simon's calliber would be even more so. The last thing you want is to be caught by one of his mates, or God forbid, Simon Riley himself, in this shameful act).

This rare moment of precious lucidity casts a fog on your spirits, a thick concoction of shame and desire and guilt.

You know what? Yeah.

Maybe this is a bit much. Maybe you shouldn't be leaving little gifts for the guy (fairly practical supplies, really, things like good quality tea brands you couldn't find on base), despite making sure you wouldn't be caught on surveillance. There were things at stake here, important things like your goddamn career and reputation. You might be addicted to pining and habitually putting your heart through the wringer for no discernible reason, but you knew your limits. You had to.

And no, you certainly didn't want his attention on you--you wouldn't know what to do with it, the very thought makes your palms sweat and legs jittery.

The gifts were all unsigned and without notes, at least. And generic enough that he could assume one of his mates left them out of the kindness and generosity of their golden hearts. Something like that.

Reduce the frequency with which you hover around him--another no brainer. And of course, one last, critical step, getting rid of that stupid little journal, regardless of how sad it made you feel.

It has all these cute little tidbits about him, things you like to read over when insomnia grips you in its capricious hold. Some dry joke he muttered to his Scottish sergeant, the way he drinks his tea, a little too detailed description of his lips and jawline the times he lifts his mask to eat at the mess hall. Even a few amateur sketches. And of course, generous amounts of waxing lyrical about his forearms and thighs while he's working out at the gym. Bloody embarrassing.

So the next time you find a chance to finally breathe, you reach for your pillow, flipping the sad little sack over to reveal the incriminating piece of evidence, armed with a pair of cheap scissors. Only for your heart to drop to your stomach at terminal velocity when you find nothing beneath. Your right hand helplessly clutches the scissors while your left pats the bed as if doing so would conjure up the well-loved journal out of thin air. Did you misplace it somewhere yourself? Or were your mates being little shits, snooping around like rats for a practical joke, and accidentally discovered the little paperback? If so, fuck them--you won't be living this down. If not get outright in a little hot water were a senior with a stick up their ass gets word of it. The worst outcome of course would be if Simon Riley himself was to somehow learn of this too, the cherry on top of a shit cake.

You force yourself to take a few calming breaths--if nothing, your stint in the military at least taught you this much. It's okay--you'll just have to check every spot you frequent and cross them off your list. At this hour, the juniors will at least be out of your way with their curfew. Silver lining and all that.

Except, by the time you make a whole damn lap of the base and come full circle, you're tired to your bones and miserable beyond words. Because no amount of keeping calm and carrying on is helping you when you can't see skin nor hide of your purple prosed diary.

Leaning your forehead against the door of your room, you sigh in defeat, the rattling of your heart loud in your ears in the silence of the hallway. Everyone else seems to be asleep at least, missing out on being an audience to your soap opera.

"Fucking hell..."

Just as another quiet string of expletives leaves your mouth, in what's like the blink of an eye, you feel the presence of a looming figure, causing you to whip around in defense, fists locked, ready to fight.

Except when you have to crane your neck to meet the person's gaze, you already know who it is before you, standing so close, his hulking mass invading your space with the casualness of an aloof cat. Your hands drop uselessly the moment you are pinned beneath his gaze, pressing yourself up against the door in a bid to create some breathing space.

"Lookin' for somethin', love?" Simon Riley gruffly asks with a tilt of his head, placing his hand against the wall next to your head. His very first words to you. Your head almost goes blank.

"Uh," you avert your eyes, voice hitching, "N-No? I'm not sure what you're talking about, LT-sir."

"Is that right, soldier," he more so states, leaning in ever closer, cutting off your viewpoint of anything besides himself. "Been watchin' ya."

You balk at the matter of fact statement.

"Watching... me?" you grimace.

Riley merely grunts, before adding, "Got myself a cute little stalker, ain't I?"

All you can do is impersonate a dying fish as you stare up at him in abject horror, overworking heart beating out of your chest.

"Not seen you down the gym in a bit. Or in the mess," he stops for a moment, as if remembering something, "Or the shootin' range."

"Again, I have no idea what you're implying here, sir," you quickly lick your dry lips and decide to stare at his broad chest with great interest instead, propriety be damned.

"Let's not play dumb, love. You're a smart girl," Simon huffs, almost as if holding back one of those dry laughs, "You like me?"

This time you can't restrain the soft gasp you let out as you jerk up at his frank question.

"What...?" you faintly ask, stomach churning.

"Do you like me?" He enunciates his words this time, as if that was the core of the issue. The corners of his eyes crinkle with what looks to be amusement. His brown eyes almost look welcoming. Like home. Like a warm hearth in the dead of winter.

Of course you like him.

You like him so damn much you don't know what you should do with these feelings. And you do want to be frank, just like he's encouraging you to be. But you're equally terrified of verbally confirming what you've been up to, straight to the man himself. You can't help but want that layer of plausible deniability.

"You," Simon leans down further as if that's somehow possible, with how he's hovering over you, mere centimeters away, "like your egg banjos wi' a daft amount o' raw onion. Listen to the same three songs when you're workin' out," he tilts his head, thoughtful. "Like sneakin' off to that cat shelter when you're off-duty. Even helped 'em name one of the kitties after me."

By this point, you'd qualify as a mute. You feel lightheaded even.

"Want me to carry on, love? Or shall we just sort a proper date instead?" he sniffs, looking a touch bemused. "You got a few things wrong about me in that little journal o' yours. I'll be settin' those straight, don't you worry."

#mutual stalking mwah #barely edited btw #caffeine induced insomnia at it again #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley cod #cod #cod mw ghost #cod mw2 #cod mw3

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comatosebunny09 · 1 month ago

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and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, slow burn, mild language, brief mentions of violence & torture, evols exists here, mutual pining, romantic tension, brief jealousy, alcohol, 3k wc tracklist: le carrousel - james quinn fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 4 | fig. 6

The air reeks of mildew, dust, sweat, and disinfectant.

A lone lightbulb winks tawny overhead, casting ominous shadows along the concrete floor and walls, highlighting the savagery taking place within.

Four men occupy the room.

Sylus is the only one seated on a chair like a throne, legs crossed—the paradigm of poised, twirling a folding knife between his fingers while a henchman stands in good form at his back.

The muffled screams have now dulled to wet whimpers. A grown man crying has never been a pretty sound. But Sylus has grown accustomed to it, sometimes dragging the fragmented remains of a man out himself.

He’s a good foot from the show, watching with all the interest of someone used to brutality. Lowered lids cloak vacant eyes. He sighs for the umpteenth time, leaning back, clearly bored with this game.

Lackey number two rucks up slicked sleeves, swiping the sweat from his brow before getting back to work.

The victim—a self-proclaimed freelancer discharged from a rival faction, boasting about having antimatter weapons to sell—snivels as Sylus’ henchman drags him across the floor. On his knees, ankles and wrists bound, breath shaky behind the bite of a makeshift gag, the man levels Sylus with a pleading look.

It’s fruitless. The kingpin is in no mood for mercy. He waggles his fingers, signaling for his henchman to begin another round of mind-warping torture.

Blood and viscera aren’t Sylus’ thing.

If he can help it, he prefers more neat, conventional methods for extracting information. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when the goon’s cries rise again as if he’s being electrocuted.

The lightbulb glints once more, and a moth beating its wings as it orbits it, casts a foreboding shadow below.

Sylus toys with the knife again, mind slowly detaching itself, when his phone lightly buzzes in his coat.

He catches the blade’s handle in his palm, fishes his cell from his inner pocket, and scrutinizes the screen. Arching a brow, his lips twitch, threatening to curl upward.

It’s a message from you, your name accented with a lone heart emoji.

When he draws up the text, your voice invades his mind. He envisions you all frazzled, dramatic as ever, and his heart swells from the imagery.

(You): help me!

It reads half-cryptic. He’s sitting up now, the knife returning to its home with a sharp shlink!

When he starts to feel an inkling of concern creeping in, thumb hovering over the keyboard, prepared to key in a response, another message comes through. It’s a picture of a menu, sharp print against cardstock, the restaurant's name scrawled in cursive at the top.

(You): don’t know how to read this. i’m hungry as hell and about to have a whole attitude. (You): heeeeellllp 🚨🚨🚨 (You): and don’t say escargot. i will literally fight you.

This time, he does allow his lips to pull in that Cheshire Cat sort of way. It’s endearing how you need him. How you rely on him to translate what you call “rich bastard speak.” Even if it’s for something minor, he’s grateful to be of use to you. You give him purpose in a world that bleeds grey. The shine of a lighthouse amid a tumultuous storm.

He’s been there before, the eatery you’re fretting over. They have good liquor and decent grilled scallops. He’s about to send back a personal rec, but then it strikes him—the gleam of silver in the photo’s corner, half-hidden by the menu, but glaringly obvious.

An expensive watch wrapped around a wrist that’s inherently masculine catches his eye. Bigger than yours, veins and sinew spilling from the links down to manicured nails.

Sylus’ jaw ticks.

He knows you’re on your lunch break. Has your schedule down to a science, pocketing it in case he has to do something irreversible to clear his tracks. He’s aware that you primarily work with women—you sometimes vent about the things they do and don’t, using him as a confidant whenever your day is too heavy to shoulder.

And maybe he’s done background checks on all of them, ensuring they wouldn’t pose a problem later. To you and him.

But you’ve never spoken of a man working in your small, hodgepodge department. A man too close for Sylus’ comfort. Casual familiarity that makes his eyes narrow.

He’s already chased off one deranged ex. He’d rather not come back to you missing while he’s in another city conducting business.

(Sylus): whos that sweetie? (You): ??? (Sylus): the tudor watch. (Sylus): in the corner. friend of yours? (You): oh! intern. he’s cool peeps. i’m like 6 years older than him and he keeps reminding me. 🙄🙄🙄

Sylus certainly does not release the quietest, most relieved breath. And the rigid set of his shoulders doesn’t slacken upon discovering that you’re not secretly courting someone without his knowledge.

It’s not stalking. It’s ensuring his assets are secured.

(You): anyway, can you help me? you know i don’t understand this fancy shit. (Sylus): avoid the rack of lamb. its a bit overseasoned. (You): lol (You): you forget who you’re talking to. i sprinkle seasonings on my food until my ancestors whisper, “enough, child.”

He chuckles something throaty, something endeared. And he doesn’t realize he’s let his guard down until his henchman shifts behind him, clearing his throat. Sylus cuts his eyes over his shoulder, daring the man to utter a word. He doesn’t, straightening his tie and returning his attention to the scene ahead.

(Sylus): it might be a bit overpowering even for you sweetie. (Sylus): go for the duck confit or the grilled halibut. those are more your tastes. (You): thank youuuuu! 🙏🙏🙏 (Sylus): pair it with a glass of pinot gris. (You): gesundheit. (Sylus): and be sure to introduce me to your new intern friend before he whisks you out on a date next time. (You): 😛😛😛 (You): jealous?

Sylus doesn’t do jealous. It’s never been a word in his repertoire. Possessive, maybe. A little overprotective, sure. But jealousy suggests uncertainty—belly-baring surrender. Weakness—and Sylus is everything but weak.

He keys in a response that he knows will have you tipping out of your chair.

(Sylus): jealousy would imply that youre not already mine sweetie.

He can virtually hear the cogs turning in your mind when you take a few beats to respond. The resulting surprised dog meme you send makes him stifle that rich man’s laugh behind his hand.

You’re cute. Do you know that?

Leaving you with something to think about, he concludes your playful exchange.

(Sylus): have fun.

Peeling himself from the chair, he shoves his hands into his pockets, the arms of his coat dramatically fluttering behind him when he turns to exit the warehouse.

He pays no mind to the cries of agony behind him. Just clips over his shoulder to a stationary henchman by the entrance, “Finish up quickly.”

The sooner he cuts out the middlemen, the quicker the suppliers will start sniffing around themselves.

—

It’s a little past 6 pm when the front door’s lock jiggles.

Good. Perfect timing.

“You’re home early,” you call from the fridge when that messy thatch of white appears in the doorway.

He stiffens, taking a little time to appraise you like he didn’t expect you to be home. You snort, kicking the fridge door shut, a handful of grapes clutched in your hand.

You pop one into your mouth, leaning on the countertop. Syus approaches after toeing off his loafers and dropping his coat on the rack. The particles in the air seemingly bend and shift to accommodate him.

You try not to get hung up on what he said earlier—you know, when he insisted you were his.

Maybe he’d been drinking himself. You had a little Pinot at his behest to combat your flaring nerves. To knock a little sense into yourself.

“Why do you look like someone hacked Mephisto?” you jibe, trying to lighten the mood.

Sylus’ expression morphs into something easier. Something more like him as his lips pull into that familiar smirk. Without warning, he swipes a grape from your palm, and his eyes shine with a challenge as he deposits it in his mouth.

“Why do you look like you’re up to no good?” he returns in that deep gravel, tone threaded with a tenderness you’ve never heard expressed elsewhere.

Your jaw shifts. He’s lucky he’s cute. The pinnacle of manliness. Handsome as all hell. You’ve never known someone to make something as simple as eating look hot.

Clearing your throat, you swipe some invisible dust off the counter after finishing off the last of your grapes. “Not up to anything bad. But since you’re home, you can watch a movie with me.”

The silence hangs for a moment. You glance up to see your roomie eyeing you with an intrigued brow. He reaches over the counter to flick your forehead. You let out an unflattering yelp. He’s trying to scramble your brain matter, you just know it.

“Do I have a say in the matter, or are you just going to manipulate me with those dangerous eyes of yours?”

Your heart was already rabbiting in your chest. It works double time now, and your stomach drops to your feet. You’re stricken with something cold. Something halfway pleasant.

Oh. Oh, he was flirting, wasn’t he?

Opting for coy, you tug at some frayed threads at the end of your sweatshirt, caught between a laugh and a scoff.

“Unless you’ve got some mysterious phone calls to take, you’re mine for the night. You owe me for babysitting Mephie. You know he secretly wants to murder me.” And for leaving me all by my lonesome again, you inwardly add.

If at all possible, his smirk deepens until a dimple craters his cheek. You have pins and needles in your legs. What the fuck even is breathing?

“Doubt that. He’s programmed to…appreciate pretty things.” The way his eyes slide to you as pretty things leaps off his tongue—

You typically keep the AC low for the summer. Pretty comfortable for you both. But it feels it’s reached boiling point in your quaint kitchen as your skin grows embarrassingly hot.

After a deep breath to get your head together, you move to the pantry to fish out some popcorn. Your movements are noticeably stiff as you tear through the plastic, not daring to turn around, lest he get a look at that crooked smile on your face.

“Batman it is,” you say, loud enough for him to hear above the beep of the microwave when you set the timer.

You feel him between your shoulder blades. Drilling down to the marrow with those brilliant, scarlet eyes before he huffs a laugh, tapping the counter. You peer over your shoulder as he pulls away, disappearing across the house, probably towards his room to change.

He comes back down while you powder the popcorn with seasonings. He’s over your shoulder, static growing between your bodies. And you get a whiff of his worn cologne, of the clean cotton laundry detergent woven into the fibers of his shirt.

You move to the fridge, rifling through it to give your hands purpose. Something to occupy them, to keep them from shaking as you sort through your wine stash.

“What goes best with popcorn? I’ve got red, white, pink—oh, something I bought ‘cause the label looked cute.”

Propped against the counter’s edge beside you, arms crossed over that unfairly solid chest, Sylus shakes his head. “How about a glass of Michter’s 25? Bourbon pairs best with popcorn.”

“Uh, sure?”

You’re not entirely sure how the two mix. Probably something about the dolce colliding with the saltiness. Whatever. You like surprises. Your roomie’s always had pretty good taste.

He shoulders past you to reach for something at the top of the pantry. Amber gleams in an intricately designed bottle clutched in his hand. You give him a look, haughtily throwing some popcorn into your mouth.

“Has that been up there the whole time?”

You track him with your eyes as he draws two lowball whiskey glasses from the cupboard, then fetches some ice from the freezer. His expression’s amused while he pours. He plucks the glasses from the counter, signaling you to follow him to the living room.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to find it, seeing that you’re the height of a gopher. I’d say I found a pretty good hiding spot for it.”

He laughs that bewitching, throaty sound, effortlessly avoiding your foot aimed at his ankle to trip him up.

—

The TV swaddles you in its sporadic lighting as each scene unfolds.

You turned down all the lights, save for the one above the stove, to add to the ambience. The sounds of scuffling and explosions fill your living room, with occasional quips from your roomie about the exaggerated action and how unrealistic the mobsters are.

There’s familiarity in the way you sit on the couch. In how Sylus idly smooths his thumb over your ankle, propped in his lap, beneath a throw blanket. He put up with you shoving your cold feet under his thighs to pilfer his warmth until he tickled them and allowed you to use him as a footrest.

One of his arms is draped along the backrest, clutching his half-drunk glass. He paces himself. You’re already on your third.

He turns to you with a twitch of a smile whenever he feels you staring at something other than the screen. Squeezes reassurance into your ankle before pretending like he’s consumed by the movie.

That Michter, whatever-the-hell it was called? It’s smooth. Dangerous. It crept into your bloodstream when your guard was down, and your head’s a little fuzzy. Skin warm and tingly, inhibitions slowly sloughing off.

You’re on your sixth round of Sylus-watching when the doorbell chimes. Both your gazes snap to its source.

“I’ll get it,” says Sylus, tapping your foot for you to let him up, and setting his glass onto the coffee table with a soft clack.

You shake your head, feeling like you’re swimming through molasses, eyes all low, smile goofy. “Nah. I got it.”

It’s a feat. Almost losing a fight with the blanket, you make it to the door. Sylus snorts behind you. The delivery driver is kind as he hands you your pizza and receipt.

Somehow, you make it back to the living area. You’re a mess of giggles and sluggish limbs as you fall back onto the sofa beside Sylus after dropping the pizza box onto the coffee table. So close, you could conquer the distance with an exhale.

His thigh’s warm beside yours. Devastating. You contemplate grabbing it, letting your fingers test the rigidness of his quad under the pretense of being tipsy.

He closes the distance for you as if parsing through your nebulous thoughts.

There’s no preamble. No remarkable setup when his arm slips from the backrest to snake around your shoulders. It’s a loose hang. Not tight, giving you room to wiggle free if you’re uncomfortable. You peer up into his face, and his eyes crease with something you mistake for affection beneath the glinting light of a chase scene.

The movie’s no longer interesting. It hasn’t been for a while. You’re warm inside, unsure if it’s a consequence of the alcohol or his proximity. Regardless, you toy with his fingers near your shoulder, smooth over his knuckles, testing the waters.

He makes no move to deter you, instead sinking deeper into the couch, legs spreading a little wider, hold on you a little more confident. He tugs you into his side without really thinking, fingers burning through the layers of skin on your arm.

Your hands drop to his tapered waist to ground yourself through the slurry haze of inebriation and infatuation. His heart is steady in his chest, whereas yours bangs like a war call. You’re close enough to bury your face into the hollow of his shoulder. That warm scent he carries is enough to soften your knees, to loosen your jaw.

Moving on autopilot—or maybe you’re fully aware of what you’re up to—you pitch yourself closer. So close, you’re halfway across his lap, watching his Adam’s apple bob beneath the blue wash of light. Your eyes flit to those full lips, slightly parted, quivering. Those pretty lashes sweeping his cheeks, those scarlet eyes jumping like cinders in a hearth fire beneath.

Your head tilts up. He meets you halfway. Draws you closer at the waist, and you roost your hands on his chest as your lids droop, as his lips pan in.

But the union never comes.

He hesitates for a beat. Hovers, a breath left between your mouths. Shaky, ragged, hot. He drops his forehead to yours, his grip on your hip tight, and he forces out an anguished sigh.

“You’ve been drinking, sweetie,” he says, hoarse, barely restrained, almost like he’s reminding himself instead of you.

You giggle, trying to tamp down your nerves. The disappointment flaring like plasma ejections across the sun’s surface beneath your skin. “So have you.”

He huffs through his nose, lips pulling into a tired smile. “Yes. But I’m also better at holding my liquor.”

“Says who?”

His gaze consumes you. Like liquid spilled over smoldering coals. He gathers your cheek into his palm, so tender as he thumbs over your chin, your bottom lip. He watches it when he tugs down, how it snaps back into place, its texture, and you can sense the edges of his resolve eroding like a rock face worn down by the surf.

“You’re warm. You can barely keep your eyes open.” His voice drags pleasantly along with his fingers along the skirt of your jaw. “You can hardly sit upright, sweetheart. If I do this now, I won’t be able to stop.”

Quivering fingers close around his wrist. You adjust on the couch until your knees meet the side of his thigh, nuzzling your molten cheek into his palm, head reeling. “Who says you have to?” you counter, voice crackling. Pleading.

He presses your foreheads together again. Your eyes slip shut as he slides his fingers into the space between yours, guiding your hand to his mouth instead for a kiss. He’s warring with himself. Berating himself for even letting things get this far. For getting too close.

He draws back slothfully, like it stings, like he’s leaving a bit of himself with you. And maybe he is, his defenses halfway buried beneath the floor. The moment hangs between you, stretched like the fragile spindles of a spider’s web. He doesn’t want to break the spell. You don’t want him to, either.

“Not yet,” he rasps, settling against the cushions once more and drawing you back into his side. “Not like this. You’ll thank me in the morning, sweetheart.”

Somehow, you have a hard time believing that, a wobbly pout taking hold of your lips.

It annoys you to no end.

Sylus is a man who doesn’t take what he isn’t given freely. Coherently. He’s such a fucking gentleman, you want to punch him sometimes. This emotional warfare is maddening.

Still, you curl into his side, burying your face into the nook of his neck to chase that heady scent. His pulse quickens, a sharp intake of breath when your lips graze his carotid, before he rests his chin on the crown of your head. He smooths over the goosebumps flaring over your arm as the credits roll, offering a quiet apology, both for getting your hopes up and shattering them like rock candy against the concrete.

Another almost. Another could-have-been. Another bout of shitty timing.

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#sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus fluff #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #sylus #sylus qin #qin che #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #love and deepspace #roomie!sylus au #and they were roommates

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why-animals-do-the-thing · 1 year ago

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Folk were really into the post I made about Tandie, the zoo lion with a (then) undergrown mane due a period of time on testosterone blockers. He's having quite the glow up this summer.

But!

Did you know that manes are hormone dependent in both sexes of lion?

Let's talk about maned lionesses!

To recap the previous post quickly: the existence of a mane, and it's color, appear to be pretty heavily androgen-dependent. Neutered males or males put on testosterone blockers, like Tandie was, will drop their manes - but like Tandie, if taken off the meds, it will generally grow it back. Darker manes are indicative of higher testosterone levels, and long/lush manes are generally a good signal of a male's fitness and mate quality. Females seem to show a preference for males with longer, darker manes and other males will preferentially avoid scuffles with them. (Yes, as many comments have pointed out, that means Scar was actually a hunk. Do with that as you will.)

The fascinating thing about androgens being linked to manes in lions is that it goes both ways - females with higher levels will also grow manes!

Mane growth in females lions is most commonly seen with elderly animals who have stopped cycling and are basically in lion menopause. And they have to get pretty old for it to happen - captive lions generally only live into their late teens and early second decade, and most of the maned ladies I know about started growing manes around like, seventeen.

Not all old female lions grow manes, but some of the career cat people I've talked to said it happened to about a quarter of the females they've worked with over the years. Which... is an interesting contrast to the news articles about Zuri, who we'll meet in a bit, that breathlessly reported in 2022 that her mane growth "left scientists baffled."

Old lady lion manes are just... precious. They grow in first at the chest and then around the sides or on the back of the head, but they don’t normally get the length, density, and connectivity seen in the mane of an adult male. It leaves the lionesses manes kind of awkward, in the way I associate with very young males, and they're absolutely adorable. Prepare yourself for the photo spam.

I have to start with Daisy, because she's the only maned lioness I've had the privilege to meet in person.

I don't know exactly when she started growing her mane, but she was over 20 years old when she passed in 2019 with these luscious locks.

Here's another female at the same facility, named Adeena. On the left is a photo of her from 2021, on the right is from this spring (I think she's mid-sneeze in the photo). She turns 20 in October.

If you've heard about maned lionesses before, it’s probably because of Zuri, at Topeka. She’s the most recent one to get media coverage and she went a little viral.

(Just a side note here, but I have some strong feelings about knowledge loss in the exotic animal management world due to political/philosophical schisms. This is one of those topics where it's clear: Topeka told a reporter that the zoo had “never" heard of this happening before, but it's common enough to be well known as a thing in other sectors of the exotic cat world. There's so much expertise and knowledge being lost due to infighting between accrediting groups, and it drives me up a wall).

Anyway. Zuri had one of the best manes I've seen on an elderly lioness. It grew long and lush and she totally could have done shampoo commercials. I mean, look at this.

Zuri lived with her sister, who didn't grow a mane in her old age. Here's the two of them together, Zuri on the left, Asante on the right.

We don't completely know what's going on with these golden girls to cause them to grow manes. It's theorized to be related to the end of estrus and higher levels of androgenic hormones, although it's not clear if that's just due to lower levels of other hormones during "meownopause" or if there's something else also going on.

There was some speculation with Zuri's mane growth that it was caused by the death of the male she lived with, in some biological need to "take over the role." The zoo dismissed that idea pretty quickly, and it makes sense, although there is one other instance where I've heard of that happening before.

The cat people I've talked to say that older lionesses who grow manes don't tend to act differently - they're not taking over new social roles in their prides or anything. Sometimes they can be less active, or be a little more nervous around males, and want to be left alone more, but it was emphasized to me that those behaviors could also just be associated with the fact that manes tends to develop in elderly lionesses.

The mane growth can happen pretty quickly, as we saw in the photos I've posted of Tandie over the last year. Here's Bridget, from the Oklahoma Zoo. The left photo was taken in March of 2017 and the right in November - look how much hair she gained over six months!

The zoo did some research into what might have cause Bridget's mane growth, and found that she had elevated levels of androstenedione, which is a hormone that can be converted by the body into either testosterone or estrogen, depending. In AFAB people, it's known to have a masculinizing effect. The zoo theorized that this was the cause of her mane growth, and that the elevated levels might have been caused by a benign tumor. Fascinatingly, though, blood draws revealed that her testosterone levels were the same as her mane-less sister, Tia.

Tia is on the left in the photo below, Bridget and the beginnings of her mane are on the right. Bridget was 17 when her mane started growing in.

I don't think there's any formal hypothesis that there might be a genetic component to lionesses growing manes in old age, but it's interesting to note that one of Tia's daughters, Zari, also grew a mane. (And she grew it young! It started around age 13, interestingly, also right after their male died). She's on the left in the photo below.

And to circle back around to where we began: Tandie is related to a number of maned ladies! His father, Xerxes, was Bridget's son; Zari was Xerxes' half-sister.

Here's a few more beautiful maned ladies to leave you with. In order, Ngala, Pepper, Skye, and Dandy Lion.

Next up, and last in this lion mane series, is the story of five younger lionesses in Botswana who not only have manes but also express a range of masculine behaviors.

A huge thanks to all the folk who shared photos of and stories about their golden girls for this post: M. Townsen, S.W. Simpson, E. Day, S. Cook, M. Stinner, M. Paul, K. Vanaman, D. O'Halloran, R. Simpson, D. Souffrant.

#lions #lion #big cats #the mane event #maned lionesses #science #zoo animals #golden girls

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skywwwalker · 2 months ago

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Simon with a bird who is on her period.

Who would think the man behind the Ghost mask would be hot on your heels as you beeline to the bathroom so he could hold your hair from your hair and rub his big hands soothingly over your back? Who would think such an imposing-looking man would sit- hunched over his ailing bird- on the cold bathroom floor because ‘it hurts less in here’? Who would think such a gruff person would have your preferred food and warm tea on standby for when you can get some food in your belly when you’re feeling better?

I do! I 1000000% think Simon wouldn’t think twice (once, even) about letting you curl into a rigid, shaking ball on the ground with your hand clasping his tightly!!! I also think Simon would be some attentive to know that talking about the randomest subject can take your mind off of the vomit-inducing cramps plaguing your body. I ALSO think Simon would let you tuck his abnormally large hand on your lower stomach as a heating pad.

Something about it makes Simon feel a way he can’t quite put a finger on.

Because what do you mean such a pretty thing like YOU finds this level of comfort with a man like HIM? Like, Simon is NOT bringinf it up to you because he doesn’t want you rethinking choosing HIM as your person, but… seriously?!

He is not complaining tho. Dont get it twisted.

If you cant tell im bleeding painfully and I just really need a Simon to wrap up in because I just know that big ol fucker is a HEATER. Ugh. #needthat

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mostly-imagines · 10 months ago

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answering a question nobody asked: what are jason's love languages ranked?

giving:

5 ) gift giving is bottom tier for him. i just dont see how he could value that more than any of the above because of the way he grew up. like material things and money seem like something he’d reject more than anything to me. but he does still give you presents, of course. he’ll buy you flowers randomly and jewelry and little things he’d noticed you admiring. but i dont think he really does it as a method of expressing his love for you so much as just like a little nice thing to do for you. its not his preferred method of communication, at least.

4 ) a little lower on the list comes words of affirmation because i don’t think it comes as naturally to him. he’s a man of few words and those chosen are caked in sarcasm and dry in a way that attempts to push people away, even if he doesn’t mean to. i just think his words can be rough around the edges even if his meaning isn’t. when he can work through it though, his words are very gentle and genuine. not one for hyperbole but really truly means what he says. he hears that you’re insecure about how a dress looks on you and he’s telling you to ‘shut up, you look good.’ or you’re nervous and he’ll say “you’re fine, don’t worry about it.” to someone else’s ears it might sound dismissive but you know that not how he means it. there’s a lot of unsaid words with him that are more significant than whats coming out of his mouth. like i said though, only like level 10 acquaintances and you will ever know him well enough to decipher those secret meanings.

3 ) he tends to treat himself like a loner, pulling away from people like second nature, but after he met you he found himself wanting to be around you all the time. he’s not the best with words or romantic gestures so quality time is an easier way of reminding you he loves you. he likes just sitting with you and letting you ramble about your day—listening to your voice is a big part of his calming down process every night. but sitting in comfortable silence with you is probably his favorite. he doesn’t get that with a lot of people. silence—sure; comfortable—not so much. he loves the implied intimacy and trust of quietly cooking, napping together, or doing your own things in the same space.

2 ) physical touch is another big one for him. only unlockable after entering a relationship with him. he does it for a lot of reasons, common ones include: as a reminder that he’s there, to ease anxiety (yours or his own), as a sort of fidget, or if he’s feeling a little possessive. its honestly going to shock his family how much he initiates touch with you. he’ll shove them off of him when they try to hug him and is likely to throw hands if they get too touchy. so when they meet you for the first time and he’s squeezing your hand in his the whole night, shoulder to shoulder with you—they’re surprised, to say the least. as time goes on they start to notice that he looks borderline uncomfortable when he’s not touching you—like he doesn’t know what to do with his body. his favorite ways to touch you (non sexually) include: keeping you pressed back to his chest, having your leg hooked atop his when you’re sitting hanging out, hand on the back of your neck, and hands on your hips are a must.

1 ) jason's prime method of communication is through acts of service. he fully believes it’s his responsibility to take care of you and doing things for you comes very naturally to him anyways. he’s known to refuse to let you carry things, let you have the comfortable chair, give you the last of his snack, that kind of thing. he also wants to make your life easier as much as possible—he’ll insist on you telling him about things you need, especially things you aren’t able to do yourself. you never ever have to hire a guy to come look at anything broken in your apartment, jason’s got that shit under wraps. he’d honestly be a little hurt if you did. he’s got a wide array of skills under his belt, he can fix leaky pipes, install locks, build furniture, repair cars, you name it.

receiving:

5 ) he always appreciates getting gifts from you but it’s not necessarily his preferred way of receiving your love. gift giving and acts of service are bottom tier because they’re the only ones that he feels like are taking away from you. costing you money or energy, wasting it on him—he doesn’t want you to do that. he can’t feel loved by the gesture when he’s busy concerning himself with the idea that he’s putting you out for it. when you do give him gifts he likes it most when they’re little things, especially things that you made. make him a friendship bracelet, a simple painting, a fucking paper crane—he’ll love it. with things like that, it makes him really happy to see how excited you are to show him and that’s when he feels the love from you.

4 ) it’s always a little hit or miss with acts of service. he has a hard time accepting help, especially from you. he tends to feel like its his job to take care of you and if you have to help him, he’s doing something wrong. the best way to perform acts of service for him is through littler things. cooking his favorite dinner, checking up on how his stitches are healing, covering him up when its cold and he’s too busy/stubborn to go get a blanket. don’t make a whole thing about it, just do it and he’ll notice and he’ll be thinking about it for a while.

3 ) for the same reasons as mentioned earlier, he loves quality time with you. he prefers being on the receiving end of it though because he is a little insecure and absolutely loves when you go out of your way to spend time with him. tell him you want to be around him, tell him you miss him, tell him you’re happy he’s here. warning: he might cry.

2 ) you’ll notice this one because his breath will literally hitch. physical touch is one of the most prominent methods of affection in your relationship and he never gets used to it. the presence of just your head on his shoulder or your hand in his provides such a noticeable release of tension for him. he’s a huge huge fan of you tracing patterns anywhere on his skin, playing with his hair, and wrapping your arms around his middle so you can hold him close. climb on his lap unexpectedly and his heart will skip a few beats.

1 ) he won't ever admit it, but words of affirmation are his absolute biggest weakness. your boy has a praise kink, but i also think it's difficult for him to accept that so you have to be subtle about it and work up. it gets him really blushy and if you can manage to get him talking, he’s stammering. he can’t hold eye contact for shit when you call him pretty and it’s very amusing to you to see such a quick and drastic shift in his disposition. things that have straight up put him out of commission include: calling him “my pretty boy,” or “sweet boy,” “you always take such good care of me,” “you’re so strong,” “you’re the love of my life.” “i’m proud of you” will literally put him on his knees.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd thoughts™#jason todd loves his gf

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always-just-red · 1 year ago

Note

I've been lookin for a writer who takes reqs for lnds 😭 Can i req sfw hcs/one-shot (choose which one u prefer more) for sylus & fem/gn reader?

I remember there was one call for zayne x mc where mc called zayne accidentally because mc was drunk & mc called zayne (accidentally) instead of booking a cab (mc did book a cab but w/ a wrong destination).

Can i maybe req what if the scenario is like that but it's w/ sylus instead? Feel free to tell me if this req is too much or if u wanna decline it, thanks a lot!

My first Sylus fic! Yay! (Don't look at me Rafayel 🥰) Anon your mind is so powerful! This prompt was so much fun to write, so thank you, hope you enjoy!

Wrong Number

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You're having a bit of trouble getting hold of that taxi you booked, but more trouble help is on the way...

Genre: fluff, kinda ends on an angsty note (sorry 😇)

Warnings/Additional tags: drunk reader, some swearing, humour, uses of 'sweetie' and 'kitten', threat of violence/death at the start, a slight bit of suggestion (it's Sylus, ok? He's having ✨fun✨)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Mr. Sylus, please! It was an honest mistake— almost indistinguishable from a genuine protocore, I swear!”

Sylus is lounging back in a plush leather armchair, feeling thoroughly short-changed as he turns about a fake protocore with his fingers. He’s been listening to this noise for almost a full minute, growing awfully impatient, though he did like the last excuse.

“Say that again,” he drawls with a sinister smile.

“It was an honest mistake,” the black-market dealer stutters, tripping over his words. “It was almost indistinguishable from a—”

“Almost indistinguishable…” Sylus confirms. “Almost. Almost.” He’s savouring each syllable— tasting them like wine.

“It would have fooled almost anyone!”

“Almost anyone?” Sylus laughs, and it’s a wicked, dangerous thing. “Well yes, I rather think that’s the point. But it didn’t fool just anyone, did it? It fooled you.”

His smile is gone in an instant, his hand closing around the fake protocore, splintering it with a crack. He drops bloodied, sapphire fragments from his palm, red and blue, red and blue, and they skitter across the hardwood floor like rain.

“Please, Mr. Sylus!” the dealer pleads, desperate. “I’ll do anything! I will! I’ll make it up to you!”

“No, thanks.” Sylus studies his palm as it heals. “I’ve had my fill of fake protocores.”

“Sylus!”

The leader of Onychinus stands, drawing his gun with a customary apathy. Dark energy manifests, twisting around the dealer’s limbs, holding him still, while a lone tendril crawls around his mouth, holding him silent. He’s struggling, but he should know better. He should have known better from the very beginning. With a wistful smile, Sylus levels the gun with his head, and—

Something rings.

His red gaze shoots up, instinctively seeking Luke and Kieran, but they shrug from their station at the other side of the room. The sound is closer than that, anyway. Glaringly more familiar. Sylus’s spare hand goes to his pocket, and he draws out his phone.

“Mmm?” he greets, thumb sliding across the screen as he puts it to his ear.

There’s only one person who calls him at this time of night.

“Where are you?” your voice echoes from the other side of the line.

“That’s a question I prefer not to answer without knowing what motivates it.”

“Wha— Sylus?”

“Yes, sweetie,” he drones.

There’s a moment of silence. “Shit.”

It’s not the reaction he aspires to, but you sound agitated, so he’s going to let it slide. There’s a loud crackle from the speaker, followed by a few, harsher sounds, and he pulls the phone away from his ear, wincing slightly. His eyes are trained on the man at his feet, but he lowers his gun, distracted.

“What are you—” he begins, but then he identifies the sound. It’s a finger— your finger— jabbing away at a screen. “If I didn’t know any better, Miss Hunter, I’d say you were trying to get rid of me.”

“No…” you deny too quickly. It’s still there: the tapping. Like Mephisto, pecking furiously at a locked window from outside. A few more jabs, and then…

The call cuts out.

Sylus scoffs, looking down at his now silent phone in disbelief. He flops back into his chair, tossing his gun onto a side table before hitting the button to call you back. You know he’s not a patient man, but you don’t pick up the first time, and so he has to try again. He can be patient for you— he tells himself— as he thinks up some creative ways for you to return the charity. Speaking of charity…

His gaze drops to the dealer. “Get out,” he sneers.

The man doesn’t have to be told twice. He scrambles to his feet as his blood-dark bindings retract, practically throwing himself towards the room’s exit. Luke pushes open the door, the intense music of the nightclub beating through the gap, but Kieran’s being less helpful. He steps into the doorway, blocking any escape. He feints right. Then left. Behind the masks, both men are laughing.

Eventually Kieran steps aside. He shoves the dealer the rest of the way through the door as Luke kicks it shut, and they exchange a high-five.

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. His call connects.

“Hello?” You’re back. “Finally! Where are you? I don’t see you.”

“Still me, sweetie.”

“Sylus?” you actually whine. It’s adorable. “Why is it you? Go away.”

“No,” he lilts tunefully, and then he’s coaxing: “I want to help you, kitten. Won’t you let me help you? Tell me, who are you trying to call?”

Frustration spills from you— fake, exaggerated sobs tearing themselves from your throat. “The taxi, Sy,” you whine again. “The stupid taxi, okay? It’s not here. It’s meant to be here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Ha!” you exclaim like you’ve evaded a masterplan, and not a casually asked, run-of-the-mill question. “No. Nice try, but no. You wanna help me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then leave me alone!”

With— he can imagine— some sort of theatrical flourish, you deliver your phone a final, decisive tap. It beckons a fateful silence. Sylus brings his phone in front of his face, unmoved by the moment’s gravitas. There’s a pop-up on the screen. Kitten: requesting video chat.

He smiles to himself. Then accepts. “Hi sweetie.”

Your face is lighting up his screen, your cheeks flushed, your brow furrowed, and your eyes sharp with determination. “Why can I— wait, why can I see you? Get out of my phone, Sy!”

“My, my,” he tuts, but he’s smiling still, “look at you— the illustrious Miss Hunter. It is a relief to know the fate of Linkon rests in such… reliable hands.”

“What d’you mean?” you mumble.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk!”

He chuckles. “And there’s that infamous wit.”

You bite your lip as you ignore him, still fixated on trying to end the call. It occurs to him that you will eventually succeed; even a broken clock is right twice a day. “Listen to me, sweetie. Are you alone?”

His tone is sober enough for the two of you, and your exasperated eyes meet his. “Yeah.”

“Then be a good girl and send me your location. You remember how to do that, right?” He carefully enunciates each word of his plan. “I’ll come and get you, but I need to know where you are. Don’t go with anyone else. Wait for me, okay?”

You’re nodding away, the odd ‘mmhmm’ escaping your lips, but you’re not at all listening. He catches on after a minute. Trails off— realises your gaze is too vacant, and your focus? Wandering. You’re cradling your phone with both hands. His view is interrupted as your thumb passes over the camera; you’re… stroking the screen?

“You’re so pretty, Sy,” you murmur breathlessly.

His gaze softens. He sighs, “You’re pretty too.”

Then you make a sound he’s never heard before: you squeak, the phone’s audio almost cutting out. A blush is spreading through your cheeks, so much darker than the alcohol’s afterglow, and gods he wishes your face was in his hands. The vision is short-lived, however, because suddenly you’re gone.

There’s a circling view of a dark street, split by streaks of white light, as your phone careens through the air. It strikes concrete a moment later, stuttering to a stop, and Sylus’s grimace deepens with each jarring crack. Your screen has gone black, but he doesn’t think it’s broken. He’s face down, apparently— subjected to an unexciting view of the pavement.

“Oh, shit!” He hears you gasp.

Though your voice is far away, your phone is in your grasp again in no time. You’re turning it over, peering down at him, tracing the outline of his face with worry. “Sorry, Sy. Are you okay?”

“I’ll survive.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, if you wanted to throw me around, you only needed to ask.”

His voice has dropped, and he loves watching you notice. You stand from your crouch with a smirk, bringing him with you— a dark idea in your eyes. “Wanna go again?”

Before he can protest, he’s looking at the back of your head. Your arm is stretched behind you, gearing up to send him on another short flight.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupts, panicking briefly, but you’d never detect it with all your wits about you, let alone none. He’s brought in front of your face again, and you’re frowning oh so sweetly. “I asked you to do something, remember?”

“You told me to do something.”

So pedantic. “What did I tell you to do, sweetie?”

You don’t say anything. There’s a short huff as you blow hair from your face, and then you’re concentrating. You have that look he likes: the one you get when you’re whittling away at your paperwork like a good little hunter. The same stubborn resolve, too, that makes you lean over it when he or Mephisto are conveniently behind your shoulder.

Your location comes through with a ping and his smile widens. He’s up in a heartbeat, telling you he’s on his way— that you did such a good job— and that you need to stay on the phone with him, okay? He spins his fingers as he passes between Luke and Kieran, a gesture they’ve long grown accustomed to and can easily translate.

I'm leaving. Clean this up.

…

“So then Xavier, like— well, you know Xavier— he was all, ‘I’ll tell you later,’ but he never did, Sy! Off he went, leaving Nero and I to do all the paperwork, and I asked Nero, and Nero was like, ‘ask Xavier yourself’, and I was like, ‘I literally just did!’, and he just shrugged, and it’s… driving me crazy, you know? Because where does he even go? Tara and I have this bet going, she thinks it’s because he—”

Your anecdote comes to a sudden stop.

“What does Tara think, sweetie?”

“Shh shh shh! Wait a second…”

You clutch your phone to your chest like it’ll somehow suppress Sylus’s voice. You’re sat, leaning back against a chain-link fence, but you rise as a black car pulls up in front of you. The windows are tinted. You squint, leaning forward to try to look through them anyway.

“I don’t like this, Sy,” you frown as you plant a hand on your hip. “There’s a car here.”

“Oh?”

“Shh!” you hiss again. It’s not the only car parked on the street, but it is the only one alive. The engine purrs and its lights are glowing like angry embers, refusing to be snuffed out by the dark. You take a step closer, then the engine cuts out. You take a bigger step back.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Sylus asks, his tone so thick it’s practically bleeding through your phone. “Is a big, bad man trying to get you?”

“Well I don’t know what they look like, Sy. The windows are tinted, and I— AH!” you gasp.

A strong pair of arms wrap around you from behind, lifting you from the ground. “Got you, sweetie,” Sylus chuckles in your ear as tell-tale crow feathers settle around you. His breath is hot on your neck and it tickles, turning your panicked shrieks to laughter.

“Sylus!” you squeal as you attempt to wriggle free. You don’t think you’re trying very hard.

The man lowers you back to your feet, but his arms stay around you and he dips his head, resting his chin on the curve of your shoulder. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi.” For a little word, there’s so much fondness.

“Let’s get you home to bed, okay?”

You nod compliantly with a yawn, swaying a little as his arms retract and you’re having to stand on your own again. He chuckles as he steadies you— placing a hand on the top of your head— and you pivot, drawn by the sound. His crimson eyes find yours and they’re dark with something that stirs you, even with your mind swimming and nothing really making sense. You’re not sure of anything at all, except—

No-one has ever looked at you like that before.

And you won’t remember it tomorrow.

“Come on,” he prompts, nudging you towards the car, and you start to walk, though you’re dragging your feet. “I want to hear all of the association’s dirtiest secrets while I still can.”

“Tara has a crush on the new weapon specialist, you know.”

Sylus blinks, then laughs— a tender, comfortable thing. Completely enthralled. “You don’t say,” he beams.

No, you won’t remember it tomorrow.

#🖋rach is actually writing #sylus x reader #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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writerslittlelibrary · 3 months ago

Text

I will be your family

masterlist ao3 profile

summary: growing up on the streets had never been easy, but when you steal the wrong person’s wallet, your life changes forever…

pairing: Mob!Natasha x child reader

warnings: none, just pure fluff

genre: fluff, angst

words: 1763

a/n: something abnormal is going on cause I’ve written three fics this week and I am planning on writing more. the apocalypse is near…

this one is posted on ao3 at the same time, so if you prefer to read on ao3 click this link

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

|——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

When your parents died, you were only six, and it didn’t take long before you realised you would have to resort to stealing to survive. Foster care never came to pick you up, with how over full they have been since a virus three years ago.

Many adults succumbed to the virus, and with that many children were left an orphan.

The government took in who they could, but a large percentage of the orphans were left on the street, you included.

You started stealing two years ago. You were against it at first, but when you got so sick from being hungry, you stole a cinnamon bun from a bakery. It was the best piece of food you had ever eaten.

Soon, you moved up from stealing food. You learned swiping wallets wasn’t that difficult with people being distracted by their smartphones.

Stealing was easy, and while you still slept under a bridge, you did so with a full tummy.

Now you were eight, and you spotted your best target yet.

You were sitting at a table in the mall, munching on a sandwich while scouting the best potential targets. So far, a red-headed woman caught your eye. She was on her own, and when she pulled out her wallet she was absolutely loaded.

Seriously, who carries around that much cash? She was basically asking to get robbed.

To make it easier for you, she literally put her wallet in her back pocket. Like, be for real lady, you’re about to get robbed by an eight year old and it’s your own fault.

You finish your sandwich quickly, abandoning the wrapper at the table while starting to follow the red haired lady around. She doesn’t stop at any of the other stores, just the one jewelry store you spotted her in. Maybe she was picking up a nice pair of earrings.

Had you been older, or perhaps been able to follow the news, you’d known who you were following, and you’d known about the bodyguards she always had with her.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t, and when you swipe her wallet, all you can do is yelp at the strong hand that encircles your entire upper arm.

“Hands off,” a gruff voice commands.

Startled, you drop the wallet, staring up at the man with tears in your eyes. You’ve never been caught before. What the fuck do you do now?

You turn your head to look at the red haired lady, seeing her now staring down at you with intrigue, rather than anger.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?!” the man asks meanly, his voice rough and commanding. It makes you quiver. You don’t think you’ve ever been this scared.

“James, be gentle,” the red haired woman commands, and immediately the man loosens his grip on your arm. He doesn’t let go, however.

The woman crouches down, now just a little lower than your eye level. You were never a tall child.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

You shake, tears now falling from your eyes and staining your cheeks. The woman reaches out her hand, gently running her hand along your cheek before using her thumb to wipe your tears away.

“It’s quite alright, darling, there there. Why did you try to steal, hm?”

You can’t find it in yourself to respond, scared of what the consequences might be. Will she call the police? Will you go to prison for all the stealing you have done so far?

The man holding you gives you a light shake. “Answer.”

“James,” the red haired lady immediately scolds.

The man, ‘James’, lets go of your arm completely now, grunting some response to the lady who has now gently taken your hand. She’s started stroking the back of your hand with her thumb.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” the lady says. “Why don’t you tell me where your parents are?”

You sniffle, stuttering slightly when you try to speak.

“Dead…”

The expression of the woman turns glum. Then, she pushes that expression away, putting a pleasant smile on her face.

“Well, we can’t have you returning to the children under the bridge now, can we? How about you come with me, and I will make sure you have a nice warm bed for tonight?”

You look at her confused. “You’re not going to call the police?”

The woman laughs.

“Oh, no, darling. Let’s just say I’m a bit more important than the police around these parts. I can personally decide over your punishment for trying to steal, and right now that ‘punishment’ consists of a warm meal and a warm bed.”

“Why?” you ask her, voice shaky and confused as to why this woman whom you tried to steal from would want to help you.

“Because you are quite a clever child. Had James here not caught you, I wouldn’t have noticed.” The woman reaches her hand towards your face again, gently pushing some hair behind your ear.

“Not many people manage to sneak up on me, and an even smaller percentage manages to steal from me without me noticing. You are a very special child, my darling.”

The stand from her crouching position, gently taking a hold of your hand and guiding you out of the mall, towards the parking lot. It’s only now you notice that large group of guys in suits that follow her.

She leads you towards an expensive looking, black suv, opening the door for you and helping you step in.

She climbs in after you, sitting next to you while James takes the passenger's seat. Another man in a suit takes the driver's seat.

“Are you famous?” you then ask.

The woman looks amused, a small chuckle escaping her mouth.

“You could say so, yes, although I am not famous in the sense you’re thinking of. I’m not a movie star, nor a famous singer.”

“What are you then?”

“I am a business woman,” the lady says, straightening her jacket.

“A business woman? Are business women considered famous?” you ask. The woman nods.

“Oh yes, I do so much important business, I’ve grown quite the name for myself,” she says, before she smiles kindly.

“But those are not the things you should be concerning yourself with. How about you tell me your name now?”

You nod, telling her your name to which she responds with her own.

Natasha.

After about an hour, you arrive at a very large, high building. The car drives into a garage under the building, and when it comes to a stop one of the men in suits opens the door for you and Natasha.

Natasha helps you step out of the car, and she leads you towards the elevator.

You stare at the buttons hopefully, not wanting to ask yet also not wanting to let this opportunity pass you by.

You don’t know if Natasha is a psychic, but after the day you’ve had you might argue that she is. She doesn’t even need for you to utter a single word before she’s motioning her head towards the buttons.

“PH,” she says, and you’re quick to press the button that reads ‘PH’.

What it stands for you don’t know.

Once upstairs, Natasha leads you into what you assume is her kitchen, where an old lady is already cooking.

“Do you have any allergies?” Natasha asks, to which you shake your head.

Natasha pulls out a chair for you, helping you climb onto the high stool before sitting in the one opposite from you.

“Do you live here alone?” you ask after a moment of silence.

Natasha nods. “It’s quite big to be living alone, I agree. Perhaps you could help me fill up the space.”

“How?” you ask. Natasha smiles.

“Well, what do you like to play with? Do you have any favourite toys?”

You look down at your hands, picking your skin while you fidget anxiously.

“I don’t have any toys…”

Natasha smiles again, and when you look at her, you feel… safe…

“We’ll fill it up with all the toys you want. Perhaps we’ll start with a nice drawing set. What do you think about that? Perhaps some nice crayons?”

At the mention of crayons, your head perks up. You’ve always liked drawing.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Natasha promises.

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

You’ve been with Natasha for a few weeks, and you’ve never been happier. Settling into a routine with her was rather easy. Natasha was very clear and direct, which you thrived on. The structure she provided you was something you never knew you needed.

She did get you those crayons she promised, and you were currently laying on the carpet in the living room, drawing a beautiful picture for Natasha.

You were drawing the two of you, holding hands, and you even added a big red heart in between the two of you.

Granted, they were only stick figures, but you hadn’t had a lot of practice in your life. You’d improve, Natasha promised.

After debating it for a few minutes, you grabbed the yellow crayon and added a crown to Natasha’s stick figure. You very quickly learned Natasha was basically the queen of the underworld, and funnily enough, that didn’t bother you.

She provided you safety when no one else did.

She gave you a warm bed, hot meals every night, and most importantly, love.

You finished your drawing, standing up from your spot on the floor in favour of going to Natasha’s office. She’s probably busy, like she always is, but she’s assured you that she doesn’t mind when you interrupt her.

You knock on her door anyway, and when you hear her call out you push the door open.

Natasha immediately closes her laptop, smiling while she pushes her chair back, patting her lap in invitation.

You’re quick to rush over, scrambling to sit in her lap and enjoying the kisses you receive on your head. Natasha holds you tightly, the warm, strong embrace of a mother.

“What do you have there?” she asks when she spots the paper in your hand.

Shyly, you hand her the drawing, studying her face while she observes it.

“Oh Malyshka,” she sighs happily, “this is wonderful. Truly an outstanding job you’ve done. Is this me?”

You nod, laying your head on her shoulder.

“You have a crown because you’re a queen,” you explain.

Natasha smiles, kissing you cheeks and forehead a million times.

“I love it, you’ve done a wonderful job. I will make sure to hang it somewhere where it can be admired every single day.”

You smile, kissing her cheek.

“Thank you mama.”

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @papimapileon @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @l1kepeps1cvla @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight

#black widow #marvel #mcu #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #avengers #marvel reader insert #reader insert #natasha romanov #avengers x reader #mob!natasha #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff x reader #dark natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you #dark fic

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mrspiastri · 4 months ago

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✩ bruised and bandaged 🩹

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

cw: mentions of blood, violence, etc.

wc: 3.2k words

an: wrote this like 2 weeks ago, and yes this is completely indulgent i wrote this for me and coincidentally you all get to read it <3

When Oscar told Y/N he was going out, she didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t often he got to meet up with his friends, and they had been eager to take him out for a couple of drinks.

As soon as he left, she changed into her favorite pyjamas; the soft, oversized ones covered in little Snoopy heads, slathered on her salicylic acid face mask, and tied her hair into two loose braids. Nothing was going to stop her from having the ultimate night of relaxation.

To be fair, Oscar had asked if she wanted to come along, but she had absolutely no interest. Going bar hopping on a weekend did nothing for her, and she much preferred spending her evening curled up on the couch, binge-watching Sex and the City while their cat, Sylvia, snoozed in her lap.

She was halfway through her third episode of season four, having just paused the TV to reheat some leftover pizza from lunch, when the doorbell rang.

She groaned, taking a bite. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Dragging herself to the door, she peeked through the eyehole. The figure on the other side was shadowed, but she could tell it was a man. Immediately, every nerve in her body went on high alert.

“Who is it?” she called through the intercom, her voice cautious.

“It’s me, you goose.”

She frowned. “Who’s me?”

A heavy sigh. “It’s Oscar. Your boyfriend.”

Oh right. Her boyfriend. The very boyfriend who was supposed to be out right now, doing whatever it was that boys did for fun. Instead, he was here, rudely disrupting her peaceful evening.

He was so lucky she liked him.

She unlocked the door, swinging it open. “Why didn’t you just use your keys, disturbing—OH MY GOD!”

The sight in front of her nearly made her fall down.

🪻🪻🪻

Oscar looked like he had been through it.

His right arm was bleeding, a deep gash cutting through the skin. His jeans were ripped, his knees scraped raw. A small cut sat just below his left eye, on the apple of his cheek. His hair was a mess, tousled in a way that wasn’t even remotely cute, and his usually composed expression was replaced with something between exhaustion and pain.

“WHAT HAPPENED?” Y/N shrieked, yanking him inside as she noticed the way he hobbled through the doorway.

Oscar sighed as he lowered himself onto the couch, wincing slightly. “Had a bit of a tussle with this one bloke,” he muttered, waving his good hand dismissively. “No big deal.”

"NO BIG DEAL?!" she repeated, eyes practically bulging out of her head. "YOU LOOK LIKE YOU FELL OFF A MOVING TRAIN!”

She scrambled to find the first aid kit, muttering to herself as she dug through the cabinets.

Sylvia, now wide awake from all the noise, flicked her tail in irritation before giving Oscar a pointed glare. With the level of disdain only a cat could manage, she stretched, harrumphed, and strutted off to find a quieter place to sleep.

Oscar watched her go, sighing dramatically. “Once again, my own cat betrays me.”

He immediately regretted the action, his body protesting the movement with a sharp pang of pain.

Y/N rushed back into the room, first aid kit in hand, her face set in determination.

“Alright,” she huffed, setting the kit down on the coffee table. “Off with the shirt.”

Oscar groaned as he leaned back against the couch, his head tipping against the cushion. “At least buy me dinner first,” he quipped, shooting Y/N a tired smirk despite looking like he had just crawled out of a bar fight.

Y/N glared at him, yanking open the first aid kit with a little too much force. “Oscar, shut up,” she snapped, pressing a hand to his chest to keep him still as she assessed the damage. “You’re literally bleeding all over our couch.”

Oscar winced, glancing down at himself like he was only just realizing how much of a mess he was. His right arm had the worst of it, a deep gash trailing down his forearm, but his ribs were bruised, his jeans torn at the knees, and there was a cut sitting just under his left eye. He looked wrecked.

Y/N grabbed the antiseptic, soaking a cotton pad. Oscar groaned as she pressed the antiseptic-soaked cotton pad firmly against his wound, his jaw clenching as a sharp sting shot through his arm.

“Bloody hell babe, go easy, would ya?” he hissed, shifting uncomfortably on the couch.

Y/N, entirely unimpressed, pressed harder. “Go easy? Go easy?” she repeated, eyes narrowing. “You show up at our door looking like this, bleeding, bruised, barely able to walk, and you want me to go easy?”

Oscar winced, his good hand coming up in surrender. “Alright, alright, message received.”

She exhaled sharply, clearly holding back from launching into a full-blown rant as she carefully cleaned the cut on his cheek. He tilted his head slightly, making it easier for her, but after a moment, she sighed in frustration.

“This isn’t working,” she muttered.

Before Oscar could ask what she meant, she grabbed his shoulders and shifted, settling onto his lap so she could get a better angle.

His hands instinctively came up to steady her, fingers gripping her thighs as she adjusted herself, straddling him without a second thought.

Well. She didn’t give it a second thought.

Oscar, on the other hand, definitely did.

Y/N pretended not to notice. Pretended not to feel the way his grip tightened slightly. Pretended not to hear the way his breath hitched for just a fraction of a second before he exhaled through his nose.

Instead, she kept her focus on his face, tilting it gently with her free hand before dabbing at the cut again.

“How the hell did this even happen?” she demanded.

Oscar blinked, his brain still catching up with the fact that his very attractive and very angry girlfriend was now seated firmly on his lap, her thighs warm beneath his hands.

He cleared his throat. “Saw some dickhead hassling a girl outside the pub.”

Y/N’s hand paused for a split second before continuing.

Oscar felt her tense slightly, but she didn’t say anything, just pressed the antiseptic a little more firmly than necessary.

“Shit!” he jerked, sucking in a sharp breath. “Warn me next time, Jesus—”

Y/N was completely unimpressed. “Keep talking.”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, trying to focus. “So, yeah, this guy was a proper maggot, I’m talking absolutely off his face and he was getting real weird with this girl. Like, full-on grabbing her when she was trying to walk away. So I told him to rack off.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, pressing the pad against another cut with no warning.

Oscar hissed. “Babe—!”

“Go on,” she said, her voice deceptively calm.

Oscar sighed. “And then he gets all stroppy, the fucking cunt.”

Y/N blinked. “All what?”

“Stroppy.”

She stared. “Oscar, I can’t understand you when you speak full Aussie.”

Oscar huffed. “Stroppy, babe. Like annoyed, pissed. Anyway, he tries to swing at me, and obviously, I wasn’t just gonna stand there, so I dodged it, but then his mates jumped in too, and then—”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “His mates jumped in?”

“Yeah.” Oscar scratched the back of his head sheepishly, his grip on her thighs tightening slightly. “I mean, it wasn’t, like, a full-on punch-on, but there were a few swings, and—”

“A few swings?” Y/N repeated, horrified.

Oscar gave her a look, lips twitching. “You’re just repeating everything I’m saying now.”

“Because I literally don’t understand half of it!” she threw her hands up. “I swear, you need subtitles when you get like this.”

Oscar smirked, his thumbs rubbing absentminded circles into her thighs. “You love it.”

She did not react. Would not react.

“No,” she deadpanned, grabbing a fresh bandage. “What I love is my boyfriend not getting into fights with drunk idiots outside pubs.”

Oscar hummed, watching her work. “You also love me in a bloodied-up t-shirt.”

Y/N shot him a glare before taping the bandage down with a little too much force.

Oscar winced, then had the audacity to smirk. “Ow, babe. I know you love me all shirtless, but come on.

Y/N swore she saw red. She out a long, slow breath through her nose as she soaked another cotton pad in antiseptic.

“I cannot believe you,” she muttered, shaking her head as she dabbed at the cut on Oscar’s cheek.

Oscar sucked in a sharp breath, scrunching his nose. “Babe, warning—”

She ignored him, pressing the pad firmly to his skin. “You really thought it was a good idea to go up against a bunch of drunk guys outside a pub? What, were you just itching for a fight?”

Oscar tilted his head, watching her carefully. “What was I supposed to do? Just walk away?”

“Yes!” Y/N snapped, reaching for a fresh bandage. “That’s exactly what you were supposed to do!”

Oscar scoffed. “Not a chance.”

She let out a groan, rolling her eyes as she gently smoothed the bandage over his cheek. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

Oscar smirked. “You should’ve seen the other guys.”

Y/N froze, staring at him in disbelief. “Are you proud of yourself?”

Oscar shrugged, wincing when the movement tugged at his bruised ribs. “Not proud, per se—but, I mean, I held my own.”

Y/N sat back, gripping the first aid kit like she was two seconds away from throwing it at his thick head. “You got jumped, Oscar! Jumped! How exactly is that holding your own?”

“Okay, technically—” he started, and Y/N immediately cut him off.

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”

Oscar sighed, running a hand through his messy curls. “I just, I couldn’t walk away, babe. That guy was being a prick. I wasn’t about to let him get away with that. Who knows. if I hadn’t stepped in the girl could’ve been in real trouble.”

Y/N stayed silent at that, thinking the situation through. Being a woman herself, she knew how scared that girl might’ve felt in that moment.

“I’d have done that for anyone getting harassed, but in that moment it felt like I’d be even more of an ass if I didn’t help that poor girl.” Oscar firmly said, finally getting serious for the first time that night.

“Could you imagine being in a similar position? And people walking by but nobody helping you? It’s probably how she felt before I stepped in. So I won’t be made to feel guilty about it.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty for it, love, you did a noble thing. But you can’t just fight people! They already managed to nick you!”

She swallowed, her frustration shifting into something else entirely, something that felt a lot like fear. Her hands trembled as she reached for his arm, carefully inspecting the gash running down his forearm.

He could’ve been seriously hurt.

He was seriously hurt.

And it hit her all at once, just how much she hated seeing him like this, all bruised and bloodied, because he felt the need to stand up for someone else.

“Jesus, Os,” she whispered, her voice small now. “What if they’d had a gun? What if—”

Oscar softened instantly, his teasing demeanor fading. “Hey,” he murmured, reaching for her wrist with his good hand. “I’m okay, Goose. Just a couple scrapes. Nothing I haven’t had before.”

Y/N clenched her jaw, trying to hold back the lump forming in her throat. “That’s not the point.”

Oscar’s thumb traced soothing circles against her skin. “I know.”

She huffed, blinking rapidly as she focused on cleaning the gash on his arm. “You can’t just throw yourself into fights, Oscar. What if someone recorded it? It’d be in the headlines tomorrow, “Formula 1 Star Oscar Piastri Caught Beating Up Group Of Drunk Men!”

Oscar tried to interrupt, but she was on a rampage.

“This is completely reckless. Not to mention you tried taking all of them on your own! I swear, one day—“

Oscar lifted his hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “One day what?”

Y/N swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she finished bandaging his arm. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer.

Oscar exhaled, tilting his head as he studied her. “You were worried about me.”

Y/N scoffed, sitting back. “Obviously.”

His lips quirked. “Like, really worried.”

“Shut up.”

Oscar grinned, but it was softer now, warmer. “I mean, I like it,” he admitted, tugging her closer. “It’s cute.”

Y/N let out a long breath, glaring at him even as she allowed herself to lean into his touch. “Next time, just call the cops instead of getting yourself beat up.”

Oscar smirked, squeezing her hand. “Deal.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “I mean it, Oscar.”

“I know, babe.” He lifted her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. “I know.”

🪻🪻🪻

Oscar had been quiet for a few minutes, curled up against her, his breathing even and steady. Y/N had assumed he was dozing off, until he shifted slightly, nuzzling into her neck with a soft sigh.

“Baaaabe,” he murmured, voice dripping with exhaustion and something dangerously close to a whine.

Y/N smirked, running her fingers through his curls. “Yes, love?”

“I’m sore.”

She snorted. “Oh, really? I never would have guessed.”

Oscar groaned dramatically, lifting his head just enough to pout at her. “I think you need to take care of me more.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I just patched you up.”

“Yeah, but now I need, like… comfort care,” he said, blinking at her like an actual baby.

Y/N sighed, already feeling herself softening against her will. “You are so needy.”

Oscar hummed, leaning fully into her again. “Luckily, I only need you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she carefully maneuvered herself out of his hold.

“Alright, fine,” she muttered, standing up. “If you want to be babied, I’ll baby you.”

Oscar perked up immediately, watching her as she walked towards their bedroom. “Wait, seriously?”

She didn’t answer, already in their shared bathroom.

Oscar watched her with big, expectant eyes, his bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout as she rummaged through the cabinets. His fingers twitched where they rested on the couch, itching to pull her back down beside him.

She came back out, in one hand a pair of comfy pyjamas, and one of her favourite face masks she never let him use. But today was a rare moment.

He hummed in satisfaction as she tore open the face mask and started smoothing it over his skin, his eyes fluttering shut as he all but melted into her touch.

“This is nice,” he admitted sleepily.

“I told you.” She grinned, rubbing the last bit of serum into his jawline. “Now, let’s do something about this.” She tugged lightly at his soft curls.

Oscar barely reacted, just letting out another lazy hum. “Whatever you want, babe.”

She worked carefully, combing through his hair with her fingers, smoothing down the wild strands until he looked a little less like someone who had just survived a street fight. By the time she was done, he was completely boneless against her.

Y/N grabbed his pajamas off the coffee table, holding them out. “Alright, clothes.”

Oscar pouted but reached for them anyway, hesitating. “Too tired.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Do you need me to help you?”

He grinned, entirely unashamed. “Obviously.”

She rolled her eyes, but she still helped him, carefully maneuvering his arms through his pajama top, making sure not to irritate his bruises or bandages.

As soon as she was done, he collapsed against her again, arms wrapping around her waist as he all but melted into her.

“Better,” he murmured against her neck.

Y/N snorted. “You are so spoiled.”

Oscar smirked against her skin. “Yeah, but you love spoiling me.”

His contentment only lasted a couple of seconds, before he made another demand.

“C’mere.”

She huffed a laugh, placing a plate on the coffee table. “I am here.”

“No, like—” He pawed at her waist, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her legs, and practically her entire lower half, onto his lap.

“Here here.”

“Oscar,” she scolded, but her voice held no real bite. “You’re injured, you cannot be pulling me around like this.”

“Don’t care,” he mumbled, face buried in the crook of her neck. “Need you close.”

Y/N sighed, pretending to be put out, even as her heart melted. “You are so dramatic when you’re hurt.”

“You love me,” he countered, voice muffled against her skin.

She did. God, she really did.

Y/N pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Now, can we eat our pizza and watch my show?”

“Only if I get to be the little spoon.”

“You are always the little spoon.”

Oscar grinned against her skin. “Yeah, but I like hearing you say it.”

Y/N groaned, but she couldn’t stop the fond smile tugging at her lips.

“Fine, you big baby.”

Oscar hummed, squeezing her just a little tighter. “That’s more like it.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached for the remote, pulling the blanket over both of them as she restarted Sex and the City.

Just as the episode started playing, Sylvia, who had been observing from a distance; finally stretched out of her spot on the armchair and padded over.

Y/N froze, watching in shock as their usually standoffish cat sniffed at Oscar before hopping up onto the couch beside him.

Oscar blinked, looking just as stunned as she was. “No way.”

“No way,” Y/N whispered, watching as Sylvia curled up against Oscar’s side.

Sylvia let out a soft huff, pressing herself into his ribs as if she actually cared about his well-being.

Y/N let out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my God.”

Oscar grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. “I knew she loved me.”

“She feels bad for you,” Y/N cooed, reaching over to stroke Sylvia’s fur. “She pities you.”

Oscar scoffed. “Or maybe she recognizes that I’m the superior owner.”

“Please,” Y/N snorted. “I’m the one who feeds her. You just exist near her and hope she’ll acknowledge you.”

“Well, clearly it worked.”

Y/N pouted as Sylvia burrowed deeper against him. “I can’t believe this. All it took was you nearly getting beat up for her to show some love?”

Oscar smirked. “Guess she knows I’m a fighter.”

Y/N’s face dropped.

“Oh, absolutely not,” she muttered, turning to face him fully.

Oscar blinked at her. “What?”

Y/N placed a hand on her hip. “You are never fighting someone again unless I explicitly allow it.”

Oscar looked amused. “You’re giving me a permission system now?”

“Yes.” She folded her arms. “I will be your fight manager. You do not throw a punch unless I say so.”

Oscar huffed out a laugh, clearly trying not to smile. “And what if I see some bloke being a melt again?”

“Then you call me and ask for permission,” she said sternly. “I will assess the situation and then decide if you’re allowed to get involved.”

Oscar chuckled, tightening his arms around her waist and pulling her back into his chest. “You really don’t want me fighting, huh?”

Y/N sighed, her hands resting against his chest. “Of course I don’t, Oscar. Look at you.” Her voice softened slightly. “You came home all bruised and bleeding, and I—” She swallowed. “I hated it.”

Oscar’s smirk faded instantly. His fingers traced slow, soothing circles against her back as he murmured, “I’m okay, love.”

“You better be.” Y/N sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “Because if you ever come home looking like this again, I might actually fight you too.”

Oscar grinned, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Yes ma’am. No more fights unless I have official clearance from my very strict, very beautiful manager.”

Y/N smiled despite herself. “That’s more like it.”

Oscar sighed happily, settling into the couch. “Love you, Goose.”

She hummed, curling into him. “Love you too, idiot.”

what can i say, i love a sappy plot. again i have no shame in saying i giggled maniacally writing this, so hopefully u lot feel the same while reading this ;D! and i am open for requests so pls send as many as u would like :p

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x y/n #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri f1 #oscar piastri fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fluff #oscar piastri fluff #f1 x reader #op81 #op81 x reader #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you

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peaktora · 26 days ago

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—ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 * ˚ ✦ : the ( weirdly comforting ) aftermath of arguments with sae itoshi

arguments. they’re the inevitable part of any bond—any relationship, since no two people are exactly the same. however, the word "arguement" isn't the right word to describe what you and sae do. you prefer to call them disagreements.

sure, you've had your share of back and forth nonsense. but they were never anything that ended in yelling or insults. you both make it a habit of keeping your tone nice and leveled when “arguing”. on the rare times when your tone does slip up? raises a pitch or two higher? sae makes it a rule not to match it. you’ve never once allowed a difference in opinions or perspectives turn into something uglier than they needed to be.

and for that, you’re thankful.

because just over an hour ago, you and sae had a disagreement revolving around an approach his marketing team was taking. you wanted him to consider a different approach than what his team recommended—something that (as it turned out), he wasn’t willing to budge on.

but now, instead of sitting in your frustration, you’re peacefully curled up on the couch. your knees are bent and angled sideways, feet tucked up underneath you, and a blanket is pulled up to your chin as you aimlessly scroll through your phone.

it’s only been an hour, and yet, the details of the disagreement are already starting to blur in your mind.

a sudden—click—is what makes you stop scrolling.

the tv flickers on.

you slowly blink away from your phone, turning your head just enough to look at the presence in front of you.

“oh, hey,” you murmur, slipping your hand out from beneath the blanket and giving him a small wave with your fingers.

sae doesn’t answer right away. he sighs before anything else, running a hand through his hair.

“move,” he mumbles, nudging your foot with his knee. “you’re on my side of the couch.”

you don’t move, you frown, “you’ve got the whole bedroom to yourself. let me have this.”

he sighs again—this one a little more amused than annoyed—and goes to lower himself onto the couch anyway. but with the way you’re curled so comfortably into the corner, there’s not much space leftover. so, he wedges himself beside you, thigh pressed flush against yours. all as if the couch is somehow smaller than it actually is.

and clearly, he’s uncomfortable.

you don’t say anything about the sight. you simply lift up the edge of your blanket.

a minute or two passes. by now, your arm is starting to ache from holding up the blanket. but just as you’re about to drop it and take back the silent invitation, he finally moves. without a word, he ducks underneath the blanket and instinctively settles at your side.

thank you so so much angel { @bestboileeknow } for requesting ! i had a lot of fun writing this

#(っˆ ³(ˊ ᵕ ˋก ) ⇢ ˗ˏˋ 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 ࿐ྂ #writing for the itoshi brothers is my passion ugh they’re both so fun to write for #itoshi sae #sae itoshi #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae x reader #bllk itoshi sae #bllk fluff #bllk sae #bllk x reader #blue lock sae itoshi #blue lock fluff #blue lock #bllk imagines #bllk #sae itoshi fluff #sae fluff #sae x reader #sae x you

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mamiobesssionfics · 3 months ago

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Wife for Hire

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Summary: When Rhea Ripley offers you a fake marriage in exchange for cold, hard cash, you agree out of desperation. But what starts as a business arrangement quickly becomes something else.

You were halfway through your shift and ready to bite the head off the next table that asked for water “with no ice and two lemon slices.”

Your apron had a stain you couldn’t explain, your shoes were killing you, and your rent was due in three days.

So naturally, when she walked in you didn’t expect her to sit in your section. She was tall, terrifying, and suited like she owned the planet.

But she did it with purpose.

Rhea Ripley.

You’d heard her name before.

Some kind of corporate powerhouse. CEO of something cold and ruthless. Rich enough to make your entire life disappear with the tap of a black card.

She sat down alone, removed her sunglasses, and levelled you with a stare that nearly knocked you off your feet.

“Hi,” you managed. “Welcome-”

“I’m not here to eat.”

You blinked. “Okay. Then…?”

She tilted her head slightly. “I’m here for you.”

You stared, blinked once. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet.” She slid a black envelope across the table. “But I’ve read your file.”

“…I have a file?”

“You work here. You’re barely making rent. You have a tendency to speak before thinking, and you don’t take shit from anyone. That’s exactly what I need.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you offering me a job or a hit?”

Rhea smirked. “I need a wife.”

You laughed. Out loud.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She didn’t laugh back. “Fake wife. Temporary. One week. I’m finalizing a merger with a family-owned company. They’re very… traditional. They like a clean image, loyal partners, and no scandals. I need someone to play the role. Smile, attend dinners, stay on my arm, keep their mouth shut unless I ask them to speak.”

You crossed your arms. “You’ve clearly never met me.”

“I have. I’ve watched you for two weeks.”

“Well… that’s not creepy at all.”

“I prefer the term ‘thorough.’” She leaned in, voice lower. “It’s a lot of money. More than you’ve made in years. You’ll live in my penthouse for the week. We’ll fly to Santorini for the meetings. You’ll wear what I tell you, say what I need, and act like you love me.”

You arched a brow. “What if I say no?”

Rhea smiled. “You won’t.”

You said yes. Of course you did.

The penthouse was bigger than your entire childhood apartment. The clothes she laid out were designer. Custom fit. One of the dresses cost more than your car.

“You don’t have to buy me things,” you muttered as she handed you a box with Louboutins inside.

“I don’t buy. I invest,” she said simply. “And you’re worth every cent.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

She zipped up the back of your dress like she’d done it a thousand times before. Her fingers brushed your spine, lingering for a moment too long.

You caught her watching you in the mirror.

“What?” you asked.

“You clean up well,” she said, voice soft now. “Maybe too well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she said, stepping closer, “if I’m going to pretend to be madly in love with you… I’m going to have to try a little harder not to make it real.”

The week was a blur.

Photoshoots. Champagne toasts. Elegant dinners where her hand found your thigh under the table.

Paparazzi flashing outside hotels.

Her lips brushed your ear as she whispered, “Smile, baby. You’re my world now.”

But behind closed doors, things started to shift.

She kissed your cheek goodnight.

Pulled you into her lap by the fire.

Teased you in silk robes, tugging the belt slowly, just to see you squirm.

“You like being spoiled,” she murmured one night, brushing diamonds against your collarbone. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I’m not used to it,” you whispered back.

“Get used to me,” she said. “I don’t do halfway.”

On the sixth night, she kissed you. Really kissed you.

No cameras. No crowd. Just her lips on yours, soft and slow, hands framing your face like you were breakable.

You whimpered against her mouth, fingers fisting her shirt. She pulled back just enough to speak.

“Tell me the truth,” Rhea said. “Do you still hate me?”

You stared up at her, breathless. “I think I might be in love with you.”

Her smile was soft, almost shy. “Took you long enough.”

By the end of the week, the deal was sealed. The merger was done. The last press conference ended, and you were in her hotel suite packing your bags when she said:

“Don’t go.”

You looked up. “The job’s over.”

“I don’t care.” She crossed the room in three strides. “Let me make it real.”

You swallowed. “Are you serious?”

She cupped your face, kissed you gently.

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

#rhea ripley fanfiction #rhea ripley imagine #rhea ripley imagines #rhea ripley x reader #wwe fic #wwe fanfiction #wwe imagine #wwe raw #rhea ripley #rhea ripley fanfic

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haunt3dh3art · 7 months ago

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Born In Blood | Yandere Dexter Morgan x reader

i’ve been watching almost a season of Dexter a day now i’m on winter break!! i know you guys lurking in the Dexter community have been waiting for some more work, so this is for you <33 i'm also posting this on my ao3 page if you prefer that formatting - type in "haunt3dh3art" and you'll find me.

TW: Blood, slight gore, slight torture, mention of blades and rope, canon-typical violence, slight obsession hinting

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Chapter 1 - Silence

Miami is full of gorgeous, witty women, and plenty of them would love a piece of Dexter.

But, none of them have ever held his attention for more than a few months. He tries not to let his lack of emotions get in the way of relationships, but its like everybody he meets eventually gets the feeling that something is very, very wrong.

A sixth sense, like when a dog growls at the darkness. You can't see what they can, but go back the way you came anyway.

So, eventually, everyone leaves, as is the next logical step for their survival.

When Dexter first sees you, whether you are an "almost victim" of the Miami Metro's latest killer or someone he sees on the street, it’s like he forgets to breathe. His eyes squint, a darkness glazing them over and something changes. His Dark Passenger appears behind him, but Dexter pays no attention to the ramblings of his damaged subconscious.

For argument's sake, here, you present to him as a victim. Or you would have been, had Dexter not figured out the location of the killer's lair in time.

He's led to a decrepit church, stone bricks falling off the walls, thick ivy covering almost every surface he can see. He makes no sound as he creeps towards the entrance. Slowly, he pushes the door open - it makes a lowly creak and Dexter slips into the darkness.

There is no light here, no ceremonious candles for the next killing, no flashy weapons to be seen on many of the stone slabs Dexter passes. Then, he sees a soft glow in the back corner of the vast church.

A cellar. The trapdoor won't quite close, and a whisper of light is allowed to seep through the thin crack against the floor. Dexter lifts it with deft fingers, careful to not make a sound. His steps make no sound as he glides down the stone stairs down, down into the basement. It's cold down here, and the air is thick with moisture. His silence, although usually an upper hand on an opponent, was not necessary here.

Your guttering screams rang out through the entire lower level; as loud as they were, Dexter was left wondering how they couldn't be heard until down here. You sounded animalistic, clearly fighting for your life and barely hanging on. As he got closer to the awful sounds of clanging metal and splitting screams, a chill rose up on Dexter's skin.

Then, he heard the killer's voice for the first time.

"How stupid can you be? You're nothing but a sacrifice to me." A low voice cut your screams into nothing but whimpers.

The slow dragging of a metal blade rang out into Dexter's ears and he was glad he came more than adequately prepared for a fight.

The killer was one Joseph Butler, serial womaniser and priest. Clearly, God had abandoned this disciple. The victims were most often strippers caught in his charming web, or occasionally single women looking for human connection. They must have thought they had struck gold.

His call card had been arranging his victims' hands into a prayer stance, nailing nails through the palms to keep the pose in place, and deftly placing a barbed wire "crown" on the person's head. They were always sat upright, bound with rope to a chair and lathered in blood.

The blade was new - Joseph was on the cusp to evolve his method, but he would never get the chance.

Candles lit the basement with a warm light, contrasting the suffocating atmosphere. Dexter suspected Butler had been torturing you with hot wax, or something similar, perhaps flames and the heated blade?

There was only a cloth curtain separating you, the killer and Dexter now.

"These are your final moments on this demented Earth. I suggest you use them to say a prayer." The killer spoke.

Dexter pulled back the curtain with one finger and saw he had his back to him.

This was the moment.

Moving as a snake slithers, Dexter stepped towards your torturer, and injected him with a tranquilizer. He instantly collapsed to the floor, making a satisfying thud.

Dexter stepped over him, and reached for his pocketknife to cut you free of your binds. You began to scream again and writhed in petrifying fear in your seat.

It was now that Dexter, crouched to your level, could finally see your face. Butler had obscured his view of you before, but with him out cold on the floor, Dexter could take the time to look.

You, caked in dirt and filth.

You, a look of horror beyond comprehension etched on to your face.

You, born in blood, just as he had been.

The moment Dexter was to undertake his duty once again as the necessary evil of Miami, he paused. Each time he had a killer strapped to a table, he paused for a moment to collect himself and appreciate the serenity of the moment. Perpetually holding the blade above his subject's heart, the point positioned perfectly, quivering in the air for a second of peace.

It was this moment, as he looked at you, that the constant roaring and wailing inside his head fell silent.

His eyes were fixed on yours, searching for an avenue of the same peace. He saw oceans reflected in your eyes, deep and dangerous.

"Shh, shh, shh. I'm not going to hurt you, I'm getting you out." He pleads, leaning forward on his knees.

He places the cool blade of his pocketknife on the rope next to your skin, making a quick, efficient cut of each loop around your wrists. It's a welcome sensation, despite the distant threat of pain.

Your screaming subsides, replaced by hyperventilating. Dexter's eyebrows pull together as he quickens his pace cutting the ropes around your feet.

Butler was only beginning his spree, killing 3 women in only 6 weeks. You would have been his fourth, had Dexter not been 10 steps ahead of his own department.

'Clearly an amateur,' Dexter thinks. The rope was too weak to hold a victim who had fight left to give, but that's easier said than done.

Finally, you were free, and instantly pushed the chair back. It crashed on the floor with a loud bang, but Dexter paid no attention to it. His eyes were stuck to you, mesmerised by you, even in your condition.

"What are you going to do to me?" You whispered, rubbing your fingers over your aching wounds.

Some of the blood on your skin was still fresh, glowing a crimson red against the candlelight. Dexter shook his head.

"Nothing," He said. "But, you need to stay with me, here. I can protect you, keep you safe, but you have to stay."

Dexter never imagined this happening to him. He knew the chances of you trusting him were beyond slim, but he hoped that by seeing your torturer on the floor, knocked out by his hand, that you wouldn't see him as a threat.

Dexter watched you with bated breath, his hands tightly clenched into fists.

You didn't move, weighing your choices. Would you really survive if you ran? How would you know there weren't more of these psychopaths waiting outside, ready to pounce the second you walked out into the night?

You shook your head, pacing around the room.

The curtain was pulled in a circle around the chair and it waved in the air as you walked past it.

"What's your name?" You asked.

"Dexter."

Saying his real name out loud felt like a violation, a curse. Only people in his life knew his name. Were you going to be a part of that now?

You nodded and stopped pacing. Pointing at the killer, you asked another question. "What are you going to do with him?"

Dexter let his gaze break from you to the man on the floor.

He would be out cold for the next 7 hours at least, unless Dexter chose to wake him up sooner. However, on this occasion, he didn't have a plan. He had all the supplies needed for a killing in the boot of his car outside, but he hadn't anticipated for you to be here tonight. The timing of the killing wasn't quite right, and a sign that Butler was becoming a bigger problem than the Miami Metro could handle. The FBI would soon step in, and Butler would be out of Dexter's grasp.

"I'm going to make it look like you were never here, which is why you have to stay with me. I have to.. dispose of him, but it won't take more than a few hours." Dexter said, choosing his words carefully to not scare you even more.

He checked his watch. 10:47pm. If he was to kill Butler and get to the marina in time, the process would have to be quick.

The sun was beginning to rise earlier in Miami.

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