puppy-t337h

[puppy-t337h]

Ok, first things first:

THANKS FOR FEEDING MY SOUL WITH YOUR FANFIC "Do Me No Good" (the playlist is a banger btw)

Anyway, thank you for making this masterpiece; but you really got my heart and then dropped it? Like, you left me speechless AND on a cliffhanger.

So, just coming here to say I loved reading the entire 80 page you already released and I'm definitely coming back!

Also, have you listened to this one?

It kinda got me the vibes of your fic.

Have a wonderful day/week and see you on the next chapters!😊✨️💕💕💕💕

AWWW THIS IS SO SUPER SWEET THANK YKU SO MUCH 😭😭😭 I'll update it I promise!!! Life has been crazy with the holidays & everything but I'll get back on the grind soon 🫡 (also tysm for telling me about my username in the notes I'll fix it asap!)

[puppy-t337h]

EXULANSIS - II

GHOST X READER X SOAP

AO3 LINK - OTHER CHAPTERS

TAGS: drunk one night stand, reader has a military ex, johnny is a switch u can't convince me otherwise, mostly foreplay, smut obv, teasing, brief head (f! recieving)

A/N: gonna release chronological parts of each chapter here as I write, complete chapters will go up on ao3 as I finish them. also this chapter is all Johnny but Si will be in the next one, promise

~~~

You only remember fragments of the rest of the night.

There's a missing gap between leaving the frat and staggering up the steps to your shared apartment building. Then, a misplaced memory of a happy dog—a German Shepherd, maybe—that Soap trips over and curses at whenever he stops into his apartment. Something about an arm brace and some medication he forgot to take…you don't really care. Then, after that, the memories get clearer; more streamlined. Soap is sitting on your bed. You're biting the shoulder of his neck, whispering sweet, filthy things against his ear. You're lost in a haze, of course—it had been far too long since you had been this intimate with another human. Months, if you remember correctly, before you moved out of the house you shared with your last partner.

And even then, it had been a while since it felt so good. So new.

Soap is experienced. He knows what he wants, how to get it, how to ask for it—and how to know what you want. He playfully pushes you off of him so that you fall back against your pillows with a laugh. There's a glint in his dark eyes as he climbs over you, effectively pinning your wrists to the headboard with one careful hand. Something you said must've struck something in him, because he's already panting.

"Call me that again."

Confused and dazed, you chuckle, "what?"

"You know what," he rasps, lips near your ear. His breath smells of faint mint and shitty beer, mixed with the bourbon and wood of his cologne that fills your senses. "Say that again."

You wrack your memory. Your stomach dips in horror, for a moment, realizing you've slipped up somewhere along the line; called him the wrong name—but jesus, his face is flushed and his soft eyes are hooded as he looks down at you. A silver chain hangs from his neck, the end of which caught in his shirt. If you were sober, you may have put the pieces together; what his job was and why he reminded you so much of him. You could have put a stop to it and ushered him out upon realizing who you still had in your mind—but, alas, you're only thinking about how the bulge in his jeans feels against the warmth between your legs. About how if only you could just shift a little…

You grind up against his clothed cock, whispering near his ear. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Captain."

"Jesus fucking bloody hell," he groans, voice slured just a little. His hips shift; and his hands fall on your waist—tugging you flush against him, keeping you there; and the friction sends sweet pleasure rocketing up your stomach. His lips lock on your neck as he talks between bites and kisses. "You're gonna kill me."

The rest was a blur. You remember his voice, the sounds he made mixing with your own. The sweet, hot feeling of his tongue on your cunt and his breath between your legs. All of which blur with memories of a life with another serviceman. A life you left behind.

Suddenly, what you're doing comes to you in a surge of post-orgasm clarity. Panting, sweaty, tired—Soap lays on you, his face nuzzled in your shoulder and your arms around his waist. You stare at the ceiling, blinking, mentally palming your forehead.

Jesus, what am I doing?

You thought you were doing fine. For months, you were doing fine—going through the motions, moving things back into your hometown as they were shipped from his house in Camp Hansen. Trying not to think about it even as people's words, their soft whispers behind your back, sent another arrow straight through your heart every time.

You had it all, they'd say. And you threw it away for what? You had everything you had ever dreamed of at such a young age; you should've been happy. You hated yourself every day that you weren't.

It was unfair to him for you to leave, six months of marriage down the drain.

But it was even more unfair to force yourself to stay. Away from your family, your friends, the career you wanted but couldn't get moving from base to base…forced into the life of a housewife surrounded by his friends, his family, his work; but isolated from your own. You loved him---you're sure as hell you did—but you weren't happy. The house with him you longed for as a graduate fresh out of high school quickly grew suffocating.

Like a dream---Soap is gone when you awake, and you're snuggled up in bed, alone, with a slight headache that heightens with the light that streams in through the curtains. He left after you fell asleep, and you're infinitely grateful---because you're not sure you hold the emotional capacity to wake up next to someone without falling in love just a little. You're still moving on, still grieving, and a large part of you hates yourself for the night before. For letting loose, for drinking and carrying on, for sleeping through the class that you were supposed to be at twenty minutes ago.

But goddamn did it feel good.

Not to think—not to worry.

To start over in a town where nobody knew your name. To reinvent yourself and do all the things you missed out on in your early twenties.

That small tinge of regret is still there, still real, but you find yourself fumbling for your phone on your dresser, anyway.

Your fingers are dumb and useless with the hangover that drums faintly in your temples as you squint at the screen, finding the contact you had hastily typed his phone number into at some point the night before. Half-asleep still, you send him a text you're sure you're going to regret later.

Same time Wednesday?

[puppy-t337h]

EXULANSIS - DIRECTORY

SIMON RILEY X READER X JOHN MACTAVISH

exulansis n. - "the tendacy to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it."

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE: COLLEGE NEIGHBORS

AFAB READER SHE/HER PRONOUNS

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

[puppy-t337h]

EXULANSIS - I

GHOST X READER X SOAP (COLLEGE AU)

AO3 LINK - OTHER CHAPTERS

CW: DEPPRESSION, PTSD, RECREATIONAL DRUG USE, ALCOHOL, COLLEGE PARTIES, ONE NIGHT STAND, MAKING OUT, READER USES SHE/HER PRONOUNS, JEALOUSY, (ACCIDENTAL) HOMIE HOPPING

~~~

Douche.

Would be the word you would use to describe your next door neighbor.

You aren't one to hate people—not without first being provoked, at least. In fact, you usually actively went out of your way not to…hating people for things they said and did before their brain was even fully developed was always such a strange concept to you.

You had better things to do, anyway, than to spend time out of your day thinking about other people, most importantly unpleasant ones. Avoiding conflict like the plague got you through highschool and now—mostly—university. You were very protective of your quiet.

Moving day was the day you first met one of them. You didn't live in the dorms, instead opting for an apartment complex close by inhabited by many other senior students. It was quieter, and the rooms were bigger—the only downsides to it being rent and the commute you had to make back to campus for classes. They moved in the day after you did—and you only noticed after bringing home yet another box of belongings you had neglected in your car. It was late. You had procrastinated long enough.

Of course, he was in the hallway, moving his things into his apartment exactly twenty-three minutes before the semester began.

He was a brawny guy, slightly taller with a tasteful mohawk and kind eyes. Scottish. He was polite enough face-to-face; the kind of guy who was sensible on his own but seemed to lose ten I.Q. points whenever he was under the influence of his friends—carrying on in the hallway and moving four to five boxes like it was nothing. Broad arms corded with veins and littered with little scars…not that you were looking.

“Dropped this,” were the first two words he said to you, waving—to your complete horror—the bluejay stuffed animal you’ve had since you were ten. He had the biggest grin on his face, like he had just caught wind of one of his friends’ deepest, darkest secrets—and in some ways he had. A few other people on the floor turned to look at his declaration over their boxes as they navigated through the narrow hallway, drawn by his foreign accent. You were mortified for more reasons than one.

Immediately, his energy strikes a cord within you.  Something about his smile, his face, brings back memories that sting like hell.  Maybe that's why you hate him---because he reminds you of a past you can't go back to.  A person you can't go back to.

You swiped the stuffed animal from his grasp and stuffed it back into the massive box you balanced on your knee, muttering a strangled: “thanks.”

“Sure you don’t need any help?” Mohawk continues, padding after you a few steps. The request is genuine—you think—but it has that mocking undertone to it that sets off all the alarms in your brain that said he was, in fact, a total douche.

“No, thank you,” your back hits your apartment door and you kick it open with your foot, shuffling inside. “This is the last box.”

He stares after you for a moment, then shrugs and waves you off—opening the door across from you. He has something in his hand—a dog bowl, maybe—but not once does he shed that smug smile.

“Suit yourself, Birdie.” He says.

Birdie. The audacity of this guy.

For the first week or so, nights were peaceful. Or…close enough to it. School starts up as usual and, just like normal, you find yourself holed up in your apartment catching up on assignments you neglected to do until the last minute. The first month or so of school gets to you in that regard---too used to hearing voices of anothers in your space; a facet running, laptop typing, voices speaking. The lonliness is the worst part, you think, but the easiest to adjust to. Whatever angry God above must have heard your anxious thoughts about the quiet because, low and behold, that peace doesn't last long.

Your neighbors like to blast music. Loud. Why nobody else on the floor seems to complain about it is beyond you, but you can hear it loud and clear through the thin walls of your enclosure—shitty metal ringing muffled through the drywall.

Annoying, but not particularly malicious.

Since then, you've only caught glimpses of Mohawk and his roommate after the incident in the hallway; across the dining hall, carrying on at welcome week parties, and only occasionally in classes. Exchange students from Europe, some people say. Others say they're narcs of some kind. More say they don't even attend classes here at all and just show up for the frat scene every now and again which—honestly, would be believable. They’ve managed to wrack up quite the reputation across campus despite it only being a few weeks into the semester. Or, at least, Mohawk has...with blurry fights recorded on Snapchat and tales of hook-ups, flirting, and hilarious drunken rants from your more outgoing friends.

You’d pass Mohawk—or, more commonly known as Soap, for some reason—in the hallways sometimes or catch him in the elevator—occasionally with his roommate, who was an enigma. He stood a little taller than his Scottish friend with sandy hair, a stubble, and dark, concealing clothes. A hood was pulled over his head as he scrolled through his phone—a stark constrast to Soap who stuck to his usual t-shirt and shorts combo. You didn't realize the stranger caught you staring until your gaze raked up to meet his cold eyes already looking at you; piercing straight through your heart like a particularly sharp piece of ice. You immediately avert your gaze.

Fucking weirdo.

Halloween was the next time you had a substantial conversation with either of them—not that that day in the hallway or in the elevator could be considered substantial at all. You didn't initially plan on going out, but after a long-winded argument with a couple of your friends insisting that you take a break and live a little, finally, you cave. You need to let loose, anyway—feeling far too confined within your small apartment and seemingly endless statistics assignments. Maybe social interaction would help you get out of your funk.

Iota-omega-gamma something or other, the three symbols atop the giant house you're dragged to stare back at you as you clamber to the entrance. The inside is bustling with energy, Halloween costumes from niche internet references to the classic witch, vampire, and zombie catching your sight everywhere you look. You've gone a bit over the top—you will admit—with intricate skeleton makeup painted across your face and a tight black dress to boot.

You're a few drinks in whenever your friend group starts mingling with others, laughing and disappearing into the lights and the music and the people. The air stinks of today's beer and tomorrow's regret mixed with a tinge of marijuana that has long since made its home in the drywall; and you're tipsy and staggering to the backdoor. It's exaggerated, of course, all elbows and hands as you bump into your friends, laughing and talking over the noise as you look for somewhere quiet to regroup.

That's when you bump into him—quite literally. Chest to chest, your head hits the bottom of his chin, sending you reeling before his large, gloved hand grabs your wrist; steadying you. His drink spills, watered-down beer splashing against the floor.

"Sorry, sorry," you pull your hand free. Your gaze meets a shitty skull, painted over a balaclava. Grinning, you point to your own face. "Skeleton, right?"

He blinks—eyes piercing, familiar. His hand slides from your arm, noticeably shaky as he shoves it back into his pocket. His face is hidden, but the rest of him is ripped; in a tight black T-shirt and dark jeans, one arm blackened with a faded sleeve of tattoos.

"Ghost, actually," he corrects.

"But that's a skull."

"What about it?"

"Damn, sensitive," you huff, tilting your head at him as if that would help you see him better. Fidgeting, brow furrowed, eyes averting–-he's tense, for some reason, and with your latest psych assignment still fresh on your mind you recognize small signs of distress immediately. "You good?"

"Peachy," he mutters. His voice is gravelly and foreign—almost a growl—sticking out like a sore thumb against the music and the dancing and the laughing of your peers. He goes to shrug past with some lame excuse of: "just here for some friends."

You raise an eyebrow. "Some friends you got…ditching you at a party."

He sighs long and heavy, simply nodding before going to walk off towards the front door of the frat.

You don't know why, but you stop him.

"Wait," you grab his arm. "Let me buy you a drink."

He blinks, eyes narrowing.

"Why?" He draws out the word, his tone almost sounding suspicious of you—like he suspects you have ulterior motives.

"'Cause I spilled yours and bumped into you and I'll feel like shit if I don't replace it," you ramble, tugging him along before he has the chance to say otherwise. "C'mon. We'll find your friends."

Easily two-hundred pounds of muscle, he could pull free and you almost expect to lose him in the crowd—but he doesn't, letting you tug him along through the lights and the people for reasons unknown to you. He seems hesitant at first, resisting a little at before stumbling behind you; sticking out like a fish out of water in the sea of college students that surrounded you. The kitchen, thank God, is devoid of people other than the occasional student drifting in for another drink. For now, it's quiet, the sound of music and people slightly muffled from around the corner—and you swear your new acquaintance visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping and breath slowing, proving your theory right.

"Not a party person, Ghost?" You observe, plucking his cup from his hands again and turning to the counter. "People don't generally come to frats just to linger in corners."

He scoffs, "'Just got somewhere I'd rather be."

You hum, nodding. "Homework?"

He shrugs and crosses his arms indifferently as he leans back against the door. You feel his gaze on you as you turn away, and you don't think it's left once since you’ve met. You don’t think he realizes you can see his eyes through the skull mask and eyeblack. "Something like that."

You hum in acknowledgement, handing him his drink. "I was dragged here, too, if it's any consultation."

He hesitates, but takes it. "You don't seem too upset about that."

"I'm not. I needed a break," now it's your turn to shrug. You look away. "But, y'know, school comes first."

He huffs, loosening up more little by little as he lifts his mask up past his nose to take a long drink. You smile as he loosens up a bit.

"School comes first," he repeats, without an ounce of genuinity. It has you chuckling a little and, friends forgotten—you take to talking to the strange, gruff man you've encountered.

You learn a little about him. Like how he hates beer, and hates parties; but he believes they make eachother bearable. He’s from England; Manchester, to be more specific. An exchange student who needed a “change in scenery” and decided to travel abroad with a few buddies.

“So you came here?” You chuckle, “the middle of nowhere?”

“Wanted to be somewhere quiet.”

“Well, sure, but I highly doubt this school is on any program in fucking England of all places. Nobody goes here.”

He chuckles at that, for some reason; a low, rumbling sound that makes his broad shoulders bounce. He reaches over to grab his drink from the other end of the table and his sleeve rides up past the muscle in his arm. His pale skin is scarred to hell; with a few different kinds of scars dotting his thick arms.

Weird.

Everything about him is strange—contradictory. He hates parties and drinking, but he’s here anyway. He’s built like a brick wall but seems to tense every time he hears any sort of loud noise or anytime anything brushes his skin. His hands are calloused to hell. You couldn’t quite figure him out, but you think maybe that’s what draws you to him—the psych student in you absolutely fascinated.

Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Ghost doesn't seem happy you've latched onto him, but he allows you to drag him around just the same; returning your banter in a way that makes you grin. You think, maybe, he's doing it for the bit—you are matching, after all—but he makes no effort to shoo you away when you cling to his arm, and he stays close in the crowd; asshole friends forgotten. A few drinks in and you have him chuckling louder, steadying you when you lose your balance doing something dumb, talking, and joking like you've known each other for years—despite it only being an hour or two.

Finally, you’ve gotten him to loosen up.

Before long, you're both tired and you find yourself mingled into his group after he finally finds them again: a strange but charming combination of students including but not limited to another, friendlier Brit and—...oh, for fuck’s sake.

Your neighbor.

He's dressed as a zombie, you think. Honestly, he could be anything—shitty fake blood splattered across the front of a torn, white t-shirt and old jeans; quick and just as low-effort as his friend. The mohawk is messy and it looks as if Ghost took some of his eyeblack and smacked him with it; long lines drawn messily across his face.

"There he is!" The Scottsman slurs, nearly spilling his drink on his taller friend as he clumsily lays his arm across Ghost's shoulders. "'Thought you finally got tired of us."

"I did," Ghost grumbles. "But considering Gaz looks like someone fucking pepper sprayed 'em it looks like I'm on baby-sittin' duty instead."

Soap's eyes flicker to you as Ghost shrugs away your hold on his arm. The Scottsman grins, and suddenly it's you he's slouched against, and your heart jumps into your throat from the physical contact.

"See you've finally met Birdie, huh? Told ya' you'd enjoy it here if you gave it a chance."

"You!” you snap, shoving him away. "You’re the dick who keeps blasting music!"

"Aye! That isn't me! That's your fuckin' grim reaper friend over there---Jesus."

Ignoring his friend's jab, Ghost raises an eyebrow and turns to you as you wrestle with your opponent. "Birdie?"

"She's the lass I told you about," Soup juts a finger in your direction. "The neighbor with the bird stuffie."

Your face goes red. "Okay, douchebag, why don't you just announce it to the whole school since you're so fucking fascinated by it?"

Soap laughs, because of course he does. Loud, clear, and unapologetic---it strikes a nerve in you, lighting a familiar fire in your gut that makes anger coil in your chest, through no fault of his own. "Well…feisty. 'Gonna introduce me, Ghost?"

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Ghost seems to shut down again—any ounce of playfulness you've forced out of him vanishes. He grunts, ducks away, grabs another shitty beer from a nearby cooler and flicks it open. He throws himself across the couch lazily before gesturing to Soap. "This pain in the arse is Johnny; Soap."

Then, he juts his thumb beside him where a rather confused-looking man with a baseball cap finally gets wind of the new person in the room, "Gaz."

Then himself;

"Ghost."

"Soap?" You repeat. "Fuck kind of a nickname is that?"

Gaz is the one who speaks up then. "It's 'cause he can clean out a room of armed hostiles faster than—"

"Thaaat's 'nough," Soap lays his hands steadily on your shoulders and you freeze up, slightly, as he guides you to sit with him and the others. He's inviting you to stay. Maybe it's the alcohol, but your cheeks feel warm and you hate how your stomach twists. “Ignore him. Video game talk.”

Grumbling, you stick with who you trust yourself with—sitting yourself next to Ghost who wordlessly passes you his beer to sip from.

If Ghost is tipsy and you’re drunk; Soap is wasted, stumbling over words, swearing, and giggling. You hate to admit it, but he’s a fun drunk—ditzy and crazy without being too out of control. Good looking, too, with a nice smile and a laugh that lights up the room. A smile that looks like his. Meanwhile, Gaz is perfectly content to linger, laughing at all the dumbassery the others pull with you—taking hits from a pen that sits on the side table every now and again and explaining a few inside jokes to you here and there.

Maybe they aren’t as insufferable as you thought.

The night continues on in a blur of lights and music. Your friends have left at this point, and you’re sure your makeup is smeared and your hair tousled—but you carry on anyway. You’re drunk. Wasted, even…irresponsible for the first time since being a teenager and the feeling is fantastic. You should probably take it up with your therapist—your habit of working yourself to death just to crash land into the ground in a flurry of lights and chaos, suddenly unable to do anything but chase that feeling of euphoria that comes with not caring.

You're too distracted to notice how late it is.

Too distracted to care about homework. Or class the next day.

Too distracted to notice how Ghost disappears. Too distracted to notice how the lines between past and present are blurring---and you're leaning a little too close to the Scottsman that reminds you of your late lover. Too distracted to realize that Soap has an arm around your waist, whispering to you, holding your drink, holding you—lifting you so easily up onto the back of a couch. Just as he always did. Soap smiles so bright up at you, and all your mind can see is his face; bright and happy and carefree---and you have to smile back.

You're too distracted to fully realize you never hated him---and that the cord of coiled self-hatred in your gut snaps as your resolve crumbles through your fingers.  You'll feel like shit for indulging in this later---in reliving memories where you were actually happy---but for now it felt like you were seventeen again, before you had to worry about a thing.

You realize how close you both are—giggling near a corner as he teases you with yet another beer. Your head spins with the static of the same alcohol you taste on Soap’s breath as he makes the same realization that you do; that all you had to do was lean in a little closer to kiss his lips. It’s almost like he can read your mind, because a smirk suddenly twitches onto those pretty lips of his as he stares up at you through his lashes. His strong arms tighten around the small of your waist. Warm. Secure. Just like he used to.

Suddenly, you see why he's the talk of the school.

“Careful, Birdie,” he whispers, suddenly stone sober as he smirks at you and God, do you want to wipe the grin off his stupid, douchey face.

You scoff and despite yourself---you're shamelessly looking at his lips. "Or what?"

"Or I might start thinkin' you want to kiss me."

“Do I?” You're still staring at his lips, tilting your head to feign cluelessness. "How do you know you don't just have something in your teeth?"

He chuckles, smiling. His fingers ghost your cheek and the other grazes against the bare skin of your thigh at his side—calloused, scarred hands gentle and feathery; but practically setting fire to everywhere they touch.

"I'll take my chances," he breathes against your lips—teasing, as he looks up at you, hazey and distant. His hand traces up the curve of your hip. "If you'll have me?"

Something in your stomach dips, and before you realize it fully, you’ve guided his face up to catch his lips in yours. It's soft, at first—gentle and hesitant, even—but your hands slide up his thick shoulders and the side of his neck and he seems to melt a little into the gesture.

The rumors are true, because he's good. His hand gropes your bare thigh, teasing at the edge of your dress as his breath gets heavier, pulling you off the back of the couch and out of the view of the public. He's rough, but attentive—breath fluttering across your face as he presses himself flush against your front. The button of his jeans catches the edge of your dress and his breath stutters with your own.

"Been thinking about this since the day ye' moved in, fuck…" He breathes near your ear, his accent and the alcohol making him damn near indecipherable as he presses kisses on that space behind your ear. You lean your head back against the wall with a sigh as his lips migrate down, past your jaw and down your neck.

"Since moving day?" You stammer dumbly.

"Since moving day," he confirms in a whisper.

God. So have you.

"If I do this…" You breathe, reaching up to grasp at the top of his mohawk as he nips your neck—earning a small grunt from him. "You stop blasting music at three in the damn morning."

"Deal," he doesn't hesitate, planting lazy kisses across your neck.

"My apartment or your's?"

"Mm…your's," he slurs. "Something tells me the roommate wouldn't be thrilled 'bout this. Only if you're sure, though, 'Cause if you're too drunk—"

"Jesus Christ, stop talking," you say, pulling him flush against you. Soap hisses at the contact, pressing his hips to meet yours as you kiss him once again—making him forget about the lights. The music. His friends…and whoever might be watching.

Across the room, Ghost's fist tightens around a can of shitty beer.

He watches his friend's hands grasp your waist, tight and sure of himself; hands calloused and rough from years of work and tan from the sun. He watches you smile into the kiss and he watches Soap bite your lip, your lipstick smeared on his face. The same lipstick still stuck to the edge of Ghost's can—gripped by pale hands littered with ugly scars and nailbeds raw from biting; hands a little too big to hold comfortably. He thinks about how soft the skin of your arm felt against the pads of his fingers, how you smiled at him the same way earlier…and God, does he miss being sure of himself. Being confident. He could take another man's life like it was nothing, but one smile and a kind gesture from a stranger and suddenly he's crushing a beer can in his fist—clumsy and unsure of himself.

Jealous.

Simon, for a long time, didn't think he was capable of the feeling. Not until recently. Not until the shift into civilian life had left his mind reeling and confused while his friends seemed to fit back into it like like an old glove. Simon didn't know people---didn't like them. He had never known peace before this, and it doesn't sit right with him.

He likes you because, he thinks, somehow…you carry that same feeling of restlessness with you—that feeling of displacement. A flicker of empathy in your gaze that tells him almost telepathically that you're not like the others. Clumsily navigating through life…running from something. Trying and failing time and time again to feel better—though nothing feels right.

How else could you have known he didn't want pity, just understanding?

He likes to think that's why you stuck by his side. He likes to think maybe you felt that same connection he did, that same solidarity. But, clearly, he was wrong—another thing that didn't used to happen before, but now has become the new normal.

Simon drops his can in the trash, shakes the foul liquid from his shaky hand, and leaves the party through the back door just as you and Soap leave through the front—giggling and stumbling your way back to the apartment complex.

[puppy-t337h]

Guys

We won

[puppy-t337h]

new chapter out!!!!

[puppy-t337h]

say syke rn

[puppy-t337h]

New chapter for Do Me No Good out soon!!!

Got some life stuff happening so it might be a few more days yet but!! it's almost done and it's my favorite chapter yet

MINORS DNI 🔞🔞

here's a snippet to apologize for the wait :)

CW: head (female receiving), car sex, sex with feelings, Miguel being a sweetheart, reader as a sex worker

"God, ffucking…ah…"

You panted heavily as you let the back of your head fall back against your car window. Words were hard to formulate in your brain nevermind in your throat, and Miguel's hold on your legs tightened as you squeezed his head between your thighs.

"Mm," he hummed at the pressure at his temples, removing his mouth from your throbbing cunt for a moment to speak. "Your daughter…?" He prompted, reminding you where you had left off speaking.

"Oh, yes…yeah…" You breathed as he attacked your clit once again with his tongue, fangs grazing gently against the sensitive flesh there. Your eyes blinked away the tears that pricked the corners of your eyes and you raised a shaky hand to run it back through your messy hair. "She has, um…f-fuck…chemo…then she'll be back at th–mmm…the apartment…"

"Mhm."

"And we can't k-keep meeting here like this."

"Why not?" He murmured, voice muffled. Your hands, tangled in his pretty, dark hair, clenched the wavy stands tight. Every time you got close, he would back away to speak again, and he smirked at how each time it left you sputtering and dazed.

"Because—" you stuttered. "B-because…"

"You got it, amor. Because…?"

You bucked your hips to shut him up and the feeling of his face against your cunt made you gasp through your teeth.

"Because we'll get caught," you hissed through a moan. "You s-saw how my boss looked at you earlier. He's onto you. Everyone's suspecting something. Coworkers know your name, regulars get mad at you…fuck…"

"Hmm. Don't care."

"You s-should care," You argued. "People notice. You don't exactly…blend in…"

He lifted his head to glance up at you, breathless as he wiped his mouth on the back of his palm. His red eyes shined in the low light of the night, his sunglasses tossed somewhere in the car. He shifted to palm himself through his jeans and there was a crunch to his left as he shifted his weight.

Oh. Found them.

"You worry too much," he replied with an unbothered shrug, hot breath fanning out across your sensitive skin.

Miguel had been hovering lately; he spent more time at the club during your shifts just…sitting. Sometimes with his arms crossed, sometimes with a drink, sometimes he stood off to the side and ignored all the looks sent his way. Like a dog, he'd linger—eyes peeled for any sign of danger.

You were annoyed—but you can't deny that the days felt less draining knowing he'd be there if things went awry.

"It's bad for business," you grunt back.

"Then quit."

"No."

"Then this is the compromise, hermosa," he responded—lazy, red eyes flickering back up to you with an expression that said there was no changing his mind. "Someone's gotta have your back."

Like always, your heart fluttered. Mad at yourself, you tugged his hair in response, pulling him back down to pick up where he left off. Your head fell back against the window again as you let out a strangled, needy moan. "God…quit fucking talking."

He chuckled and gripped your thighs again. Within minutes you were gone—head spinning as you climaxed right there on Miguel's face, your back arched awkwardly across the back seat of your ancient car.

"You do enough for me," Miguel breathed as he crawled in and over you, and his hair brushed against the roof of the car. The top few buttons of his white dress shirt are undone: revealing glossy, sweaty tan skin underneath dotted with your smeared lipstick and faded hickies. Gently—oh, so gently—he shifted your arm away from your face and wiped the tears from your eyes as you blinked dumbly up at him. "Let me return the favor."

Miguel didn't miss how you swallowed hard against his hand as you stared up at him. You made a mess out of him, you always did, but he looked less tired these days. His cheeks were a little less sunken and his eyes brighter. He felt better now that it had been a week since that night at your apartment---since seeing you had become a consistent part of his routine. Now, he was eating again. He was sleeping well. He was less irritable. You made him feel better—and he was set on the idea of taking the implications behind that statement to his grave. You were just the distraction he needed whenever his thoughts got the best of him, that's all, and he wanted to do the same for you. He wanted to bring you the same amount of peace of mind the only other way he knew how.

"I'm fine," you said, again, for the umpteenth time that week before you reached over to grab your leather shorts from the car floor. "Now move, I gotta get up early tomorrow."

[puppy-t337h]

I MISSED HIS BIRTHDAY he is 1 years old

[puppy-t337h]

new pet peeve unlocked: finding a better name for a fic I pretty much ALREADY WROTE. Jesus christ

anyway might rename DMNG eventually

[puppy-t337h]

I FORGOT TO POST THIS HERE GRRR new chapter out 👍

[puppy-t337h]

Gn.

[puppy-t337h]

Yay :'D. Well have more of him!!

Dunno if you've seen this recently? ❤️✨

[puppy-t337h]

New chapter posted my lovelies

[puppy-t337h]

New chapter of One Bad Day will be out within the next few days :)

[puppy-t337h]

New Chapter Out!!

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here's a drabble/sneakpeak/whatever just because

🔞🔞🔞🔞

WARNINGS(?): foreplay, hickies, fangs, not that explicit but enough so that I'm gonna tag it anyway, needy Miguel, insecure Miguel, reader is a sex worker for context

His kisses were needy and his breaths came in short puffs as he pressed you back against the wall of the club’s empty backroom, caged between his arms as he leaned down to feverishly explore your mouth with his tongue. He had led you to the back the second your shift ended and wasted no time. You could almost hear his heartbeat pounding in his chest as he pressed up against you and you ran your hands through his dark locks.

“Mm, ” he hummed between kisses that migrated from your lips to your jaw and down your neck. “ Fuck—.... no podía dejar de pensar en ti …”

A shiver crawled up your spine at how his fangs gazed against your jaw whenever he spoke into your skin. But no, he’d never hurt you. Not in a million years. He wanted to touch you, to feel you, to pull you ever closer, but his claws dug firmly into the brick beside your head instead—terrified of cutting flesh if he wasn’t careful. “Miguel…”

“I’m sorry,” he muttered breathlessly into your neck. “I’m sorry, just—god, hermosa… I had to come back.”

"Miguel—" You muttered again, but the name fell on deaf ears.

"Just one more time, alright? Just one more…then I'll leave…" He muttered, "Entonces me iré para siempre … promise.”

It would seem the magnetic pull towards the other wasn't one-sided. Miguel had been thinking about it all of the past three days. At first, he thought it would pass—the flutter in his chest whenever your name arose in his head. He had locked everyone out for so long, denied any and all human connection that delved even just barely below the surface—but you were different. You were a beautiful stranger he didn’t have to hide anything from when it came to his… condition. He couldn’t stop thinking about what you had said to him and for a day or two, it brought back the determination he felt towards his work. It made the weight on his shoulders feel light—having a face to do it all for. He pictured you and your daughter that initial day you had met, hugging each other tight every time he apprehended an Anomaly, every time he captured yet another villain. Your words kept him going and kept his head clearer than any drugs could manage. He had kept himself busier than usual easily, trying to shrug your name from his mind…but to no avail.

The second he had nothing to do, the second his lab was quiet— he found his feet carried him back to the club to see you again. He hated himself for it, he truly did. He hated himself for appearing again, for requesting your services, for the way his body reacted every time his name left your mouth—craving human closeness in the only way he would allow himself. The only way that didn't show his shortcomings.

“Miguel,” your voice was stern now, successfully prying him from his daze for a few moments as you grabbed his face and steered it up to meet your tired eyes. “Stop apologizing. I want this. It's okay."

He looked at you, red eyes hooded and blinking as he breathed for a moment, studying you. He searched your gaze for any hint of disingenuity and found none. Just a beautiful, flushed face and smeared makeup sparkling in the low light. You weren't disgusted, he didn't scare you, you didn't feel like you needed to---you just...wanted to do this. You wanted to do this because you liked him.

Or at least, that's what you were trying to get through his thick skull. Whether or not the words hit him deep was another story—but it made the guilt of indulging himself feel less like a burden, knowing you wanted it just as he did.

So, he huffed a small, tired laugh as his lips brushed against yours, the beginnings of a smile pulling at his face as his heart ached in his chest.

"Okay…" he said softly, before his lips latched back on your neck again. "Okay."

[puppy-t337h]

Life has been absolutely cray cray but I'm still not dead and still majorly hyperfixated on ATSV

Working on a couple projects at once atm, I have a lot of the next chapter for Do Me No Good written, but I might end up posting the 1st chapter here before I release that

Next chapter for OBD is taking a minute, it's a longer one and I've been struggling with art block on it but it'll be very very fluffy, the wait will 100% be worth it I promise

Also might write something for Simon Petrikov from Fionna and Cake???? There's not a lot of stuff for him on ao3 and it's mostly just porn lmao,, once I get a cool idea for it I'll start on planning it