#Google says it's rock idk

[elemmeno-p]

First person to understand gets a follow

[ashoss]

Hey dude i kno that your url is ashoss probably read as ash-ous but i just wanted to say that the first time i saw your profile i read it as asshoss and now i cant unsee it or read it in a different way

ass hoss ...... yea

[menlove]

like genuinely just google "international court of justice south africa" and you will get pages upon pages of results from big name news sites like cnn, the new york times, etc. no one is "ignoring" it. you literally just have to do about 2 seconds of googling. it is not that hard to do. i don't understand the point of just purposefully throwing around misinformation to be mad about something that just isn't happening. there's plenty to be mad about that IS happening.

[gideonisms]

I always feel like my viewpoints are so vague because there's so much information to hold in my brain at once. I really admire people who can pick one theoretical lense with which to analyze books much less live their lives. idk there is just so much to know but the more you know the more there is it's a real problem

[fingertipsmp3]

Gotta love googling a symptom you’re experiencing and the top result being like “ways of coping with endometriosis”

[hauntingblue]

Started watching shogun cause I only have two op movies left and I got scared letsgo

[squidcaster]

Photos I took mid last year Still not sure what caused the sky to look like that but I'm not going to complain because it's really cool All of my photos are completely unedited as I have no clue how to use editing software

[httpsserene]

𝐡𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐟𝟏 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥

𝘂𝗽𝗹𝗼𝗮𝗱 𝟵: 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝗹𝗲𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗿𝗰 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 | 𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗮𝘀𝗺 𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘆/𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗮𝗹

📖𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the 2023 season has had a despicable effect on charles’ self-worth. it pains you to see how he attributes ferrari’s failure to deliver to himself. you can’t stand to see him berate himself for things that are out of his control. when the emilia-romagna grand prix is understandably canceled, you start forming a plan. if charles doesn’t believe he’s as good as you say he is, you’ll make him internalize it–using any means necessary. 📖𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 18+ only. explicit. orgasm delay/denial. handjobs. no penetrative sex. dom/sub undertones. sub!charles. mild praise kink. not beta read. orgasm control. charles’ self deprecation. 📖𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 1k words. 📖𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: charles leclerc x fem!black!reader 📖𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: drabble. 📖𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸: get you daniel • caesar ft. kali uchis

𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲: not going to lie to you, after charles told xavi “let’s talk after the race” in austin, this upload automatically came to mind. in my delusional mind this whole fic convinced him to finally speak up for himself, even though it wasn’t posted before that (he hacked into my google docs or smith idk). i love when men whimper. haha, lol, who said that. a small drabble to satiate my soft!charles urge. hope y’all enjoy !!!

do you want to be added to my general taglist? send me an ask!

cross-posted on my ao3, htppsss

to see what kinktober uploads have already been completed or to see what's coming next check my f1 kinktober masterlist ! for all of my works see my general masterlist!

your hand is dripping lube on charles’ thigh as you brush a featherlight touch of a finger on his cock. he’s been rock hard since you’ve pulled his clothes off, even though he complained that this is the worst idea you’ve ever had. his head is turned to the side, buried in the pillow, already muffling his whimpers at your barely there touch. the red flush of his cheeks is already spreading down his chest and you haven’t even started touching him properly; this may be easier than you thought.

you shift forward, situating yourself comfortably between his legs, and you speak quietly but firmly, “tell me when you’re close.” charles hums, nodding his head jerkily, and bucks his hips upwards searching for more friction. you laugh at his desperation and push his hips down with your free hand, pressing him firmly into the bed—he doesn’t attempt to fight your grasp. power rushes to your head; he’s completely capable of pushing you off him with little to no effort; and he’s lying beneath you willingly. you loosely wrap your fist around him, and slowly drag your hand up and down. the amount of pressure you’re applying is incredibly light, but charles reacts as if you’re roughly squeezing. his back arches off the bed, thighs twitching sensitively, and his hand flies down to grasp at your wrist.

you pinch his thigh in warning, a sharp gasp at the fleeting pain escapes his lips, and you chastise him gently, “hey, i thought you were going to be good for me? hands off—put them by your head.” he squirms at the sound of your disappointment, and in his haste to be perfect for you, he takes your command a step further. he places his hands above his head, and tangles them together—he strives to be good for you.

you stare at him, unmoving, and watch as his eyes flutter across your face desperately trying to read your emotions. his eyes are wet with unshed tears, and his tongue flicks out to wet his dry lips anxiously. you break, it’s so hard to be mean to him when he looks so pretty. resuming the sweet stroke of your hand, you keep you motions calm and controlled—you want his orgasm to come to him calmly. however, no matter how gently you handle him, it doesn’t seem like your preferred outcome will play out. charles’ abs flutter, undulating at the effort he’s using to refrain from pushing up into the wet grasp of your fist, and his nails are digging into hands. on your next upward stroke, you twist your hand around the head of his cock, and his shocked moan echoes around the room. his face flushes a deeper red, humiliated at how easy he is, and he whimpers at the smirk that rises to your lips. you pick up the pace immediately, and wrap your other hand around him at his base. you sync the twist of both your hands, and hyperfocus on teasing the head of his cock. you lightly press your thumb across his slit randomly forcing a pitchy squeal from him, sometimes you trace the underside vein with a nail and a pained whine is muffled into the pillow.

it’s mortifying—not even three minutes after you started touching him, and he’s going to cum. you see him struggle to fight the coiling knot in his tummy, it’s useless, this is another race he always loses. charles’ chest heaves with his stuttered, rushed breaths and he whines in shame, “s’il te plaît—‘m close—sorry, i can’t help it!”

you coo at him, pouting your lips at his apology, “oh, charlie, don’t feel bad. you’re supposed to be close” you rub the palm of your hand roughly across his sensitive tip, and his body tenses at the switch in treatment, eyes rolling back under the intense pleasure, and you confidently reassure him, “thank you for telling me you’re about to cum. you’re always my good boy.” and, you pull your hands away from him, ceasing all motions.

charles crumbles. he sobs forcefully at the feeling of his release being pulled from him at the last second, tears streaming down his face, no longer having the will to hold them back. he thrashes his head against the pillow, and pistons his hips upwards into the air like it will convince you to touch him again. he flexes his cramped hands before he pulls them down to hide his face from your view. you let the monegasque cry out his emotions, knowing that his tears are from the shock of you denying his orgasm rather than pain. he unintelligibly pleads in french, brokenly whining about how close he was, his mouth running uncontrollably. when his tears slow, and his shoulders stop shaking, you tenderly pull his hands away from his eyes, and whisper at him sweetly to open his eyes.

he opens his pretty green eyes, and you lean down gently pecking his lips a few times before you speak, “there’s something you forgot to tell me. if you wanted my permission to cum, baby.” charles drops his eyes away, refusing to meet your gaze. 

“you were supposed to tell me how good you are,” you see his lips part as he rushes to do so, but you smack your teeth, silencing him before he begins, “not how you’re good for me, charles—how you’re a good driver. how you’re one of the best, most talented formula one pilots we’ve seen. how you’re ferrari’s youngest driver since 1961. how you’re capable of winning a championship,” charles scoffs disbelievingly, “how you’ll no longer blame yourself for things out of your control. how you’ll realize that the team’s mistakes aren’t your fault. how you’ll stop allowing yourself to be the scapegoat for their shortcomings. how you’ll stop accepting their excuses for constantly disappointing you.” you stare at charles with earnest eyes, letting him absorb your words.

“you’re one of the best charles. you’re loved. everyone wants to see you succeed. everyone wants to see you become confident in yourself again. everyone knows that if ferrari gave you the car you needed, you’d be racing towards your championship. you’re skilled, charles. you’re wonderful.”

charles shakes his head, doubtful, and whispers timidly, “i’m not.”

your heart shatters, and you shakily respond, “oh,” you sniff, gathering your composure, “so, you’re saying i’m lying to you? are you calling me a liar, charles?”

charles wiggles against the bed, fighting the double-edged sword he turned on himself, and whimpers in frustration. he sobs, but shakes his head furiously at your question—you’d never lie to him, you wouldn’t hurt him. you halt the vigorous shake of his head, grasping at his chin with one hand and turning him to face you, “then…i must be telling you the truth, hm?” charles swallows, and murmurs out a soft oui. 

“good,” you clear your throat and drop your hold, bringing that same hand down to wrap around his cock again. charles tenses at the moist warmth of your palm.  “since we’re on the same page, if you want me to let you cum, all you have to do is convince me that you believe the same things i just said. i have all night to make you accept the truth, charlie. don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

taglist: @lorarri @soph1644 @jaydensluv @fanboyluvr @nissaimmortal @redgonerogue @hollie911 @saintwrld@buendiabebeta@butterfly-lover@lana-d3l-rey@dylan1721 @spicybagel14 @dhhdhsiavdhaj@miahgonzalez16@jjaekin @dkbj14 @f1lover55 @f1lov3r @mindless-rock@biancathecool@barnestatic@sweetpiccolo-blog@my-ylenia @zaynzierulez@reblog-princess-blog @lovingaphroditesworld @katekipshidze @darleneslane @inloveallthetime

© httpsserene 2023

[skelly-words]

Can you do a tentacle smut with the boss and a tentacle monster but it's in her house and she fucks the main character with tentacles etc etc plsss I love your writing so much it's amazing

BruhHhHhH just read the witch one I wrote. jk i got a lil sum, idk if this is what you want, but it came to me in a vision so hopefully you like it

(Part ? of Bring Your Tentacle to Work Day)

tags- intoxication, non-con(ish) idk atp bc the mc be gettin into situations on purpose, tentacle + futa (or do i say t-girl?) boss fuck you

wc- .7k

NO Minors, NSFW, 18+

Your boss wants you to try some fancy wine. A cabernet, of which you google the name of and almost cry because of how close the price is to your salary. She says it's for all your exceptional work, superior effort, investment in the company, but you can see through all that bullshit. She looks at you differently, with hazy eyes like she's trying to remember what you look like naked.

So of course you go over to her house on Friday. She drives the two of you to her condo. It's tucked in the hills, the nicer side of town in the opposite direction of the bus route you usually take. The slender blue tentacle you'd worn to work still squirms inside you. Slick collects in your soft cotton panties until the fabric clings to your wet cunt.

You both get messy drunk off her fancy ass wine, until you're bold enough to show her the stickiness gathering between your legs. You sit on the couch with your thighs spread, gusset of your panties pulled to the side, so she can watch the creamy juices leak out of you.

"Can you use it on me?" Your boss asks. She hiccups and gives you a sleazy smile.

You whine, not wanting to pull it out, but she straddles your lap and starts to grind the tentacle out of you. She isn't wearing panties, immediately sliding her half-hard cock against your pussy. Her slit is already leaking pearlescent beads of pre-cum, dribbling down the thick shaft to her balls. She moans pathetically against your neck, smearing her pre all over the inside of your thighs.

The tentacle starts to slither out of you to wrap around her dick. She helps the swollen base wriggle out of your ass as the tendril starts to stroke and squeeze at her length. Your hands float down to her butt, kneading the flesh and spreading her cheeks apart so she can stuff it full. She rocks back on the plug, trying to work it into her tight hole. Her flushed cockhead drips onto your clit as the blue appendage milks her throbbing cock. She groans when the base finally pops past her rim and slips off your lap.

The hem of her skirt is lifted by her angry erection. Her tip twitches, barely peeking out from the bottom of the fabric. You turn around and push your ass in the air. You kneel on the couch, leaning over the back. Both your holes feel too empty, so used to being stretched and used.

She guides her cock to your sloppy cunt. The tentacle slides down and tightens around her base as she pushes in. You can feel every swollen vein as her heavy dick fills you up. It's exactly what you need, taking every thrust as she starts fucking you into the couch.

The head of her dick catches when she drags out of you. You whine at the emptiness and she watches your hole flutter and tense as she forces her way back in. You can feel every ridge as she forces back inside. Your pussy squishes and leaks as her hips come flush to yours. A wet mess paints the back of your thighs as you shamelessly gush around her cock.

Your muscles clench as you cum. Her tip nudges your g-spot and she shoves into your hole, hitting that same place until you squirt. You don't care about ruining her couch, pushing your hips back to get more of her dick. Her hand ghosts your clit, barely toying with it as you spurt cum down your leg. She pinches your spent little bud before bringing both palms to rest on your hips.

One of her hands slips to your puckered hole, still slick from the tentacle, she eases a finger inside. You take it so easily and moan for another, pussy spasming with pleasure as she complies.

"Since your so determined to be the office slut, I should make it your official job title," she says between strangled breaths. Her moans are all high and stuttered, desperate to release the load in her heavy balls. You can feel how full she is. The tentacle has her all wrapped up, not letting the pressure in her cock release. She just keeps drilling into your sore pussy and playing in your ass without complaining about her aching dick.

Her brain goes numb when she finally cums. The tentacle loosens and unravels to fill up your cunny too. You whimper as your walls stretch for the writhing blue tendril. It spirals around her dick, making thick ridges of suckers brush all the sensitive spots in your cunt. Her balls tighten, slapping against your sticky clit as she rubs her tip on your bruised cervix.

You take it, drooling into the couch cushion when her thick cum starts to spill out. It feels hot in contrast to the tentacle's cool release as they both empty inside you. She buries her cock, letting the tentacle pump all the semen out of her. It's so much, flooding your pussy to join the puddle beneath you.

-

And she does make that your job title, sending out an email to let everyone in the building know. There are some attachments. Pictures of you on her couch after she pulls out. Your pussy is ruined. Her shiny cum mixes with the milky blue that the tentacle spurted inside you. Your ass gapes from being stretched open by her fingers. And now everyone has seen what two glasses of wine does to you.

A/N- does the boss need a name?

[batfleshh]

Makarov: sneering down at reader, holding a knife to his stomach while he’s fucking the shit out of him. Probably smoking too, just being a fucking dick during sex

Reader: “hot”

- 🔔

Cutting Close

Warnings: NOT PROOFREADING THIS SHIT, rough sex, THIS GUY IS A MEANIE, knife play/kink or wtv, degradation, shitty google translated Russian, smoking during sex, idk what else to add to this, I don’t put warnings on these right, nsfw under cut, this is really quick and shortish, chat im ngl i completely forgot about the cigar halfway through but fuck it we ball

шлюха - whore , свинья - pig , Может быть, мне стоит начать отсюда? - Maybe I should start from here

“Just lay still and take it, шлюха,”

Your skin felt sticky, blood coursing through your veins as you feel your face get hot. The aggressive and derogatory speech made your stomach twist with a weird feeling. You try to keep your eyes locked with Makarovs, the man forcing his cock into your hole made you feel like you were going to see stars. He had one hand up towards his face, balancing a lit cigar between two of his digits. His other hand found itself wrapped around one of your legs, moving you back and forth onto his cock as you laid on a mattress.

Your cock moves around with how much force is being put into rocking you against his dick, your hands gripping at the mattress roughly. Something about the whole situation is making your mind go haywire, your cock leaking at all the mean things he’s saying to you while he’s balls deep in you. In a way, it almost feels like a compliment.

Your hand shakily moves down, trying to get a grip on your weeping dick. You barely get a few quick strokes in before your hand is shoved away, a whine escaping your throat. You hear Makarov shush you, squeezing your eyes shut as he picks up the speed of his thrusts, the sound of his skin hitting yours echoing in the room you’re both in. You throw one of your arms over your eyes, trying to suppress whatever loud noises about to leave you by biting your lip. Then you feel something cold touch your stomach, jolting as the odd feeling in this type of environment drags along your flesh.

You lift your head up, peaking down to see a knife, the steel blade dragging along gently down your stomach. Your breath hitches, pleasure and anxiety blending together. “One move, and I could slice you open. Gut you right here on the bed, like a свинья.”

You try not to squirm as much as you were before, but the threat makes your cock twitch. You swallow down the saliva forming at your lips, trying to form proper words as you desperately shake your head, his hips never halting. You whine and moan as you feel yourself growing closer, staring intensely as the knife you don’t even notice how far down it’s traveling. You watch it reach your dick, a smirk on the Russians face as he moves it up to your tip, using the backside of the knife to drag along the vein running through it.

And God, it pains you to have done it, but that’s what helps you cum. Makarovs hips stilling as you shoot your orgasm out, some of it even landing on the knife. You begin to pant, trying to catch your breath. You look up at him with an apologetic expression.

You gasp lightly as it’s moved up to your face, whimpering as your own cum is wiped on your cheek. You watch him move it down to your throat, chuckling before opening his mouth to speak.

“Может быть, мне стоит начать отсюда?”

[maximwtf]

Hello person- I must say I love reading your lil fanfics always keeps me busy when It's in the middle of the night and I can't sleep lmao.

If I may, if you are still accepting requests- A Legolas x reader, where the reader isn't aware of a custom that elves have about braiding their hair and basically just accidentally confesses to him when they get bored one day and just start braiding his hair and only finds out when the Fellowship congratulates them for confessing or something along those lines hehehe

Legolas x reader

words: 1930

google docs pages: 3

warnings: none? fluff :D 

opening: One day while you’re bored, you begin to braid Legolas’ hair, unaware of its meaning to the elves. It’s only later, when you find out the message behind it. 

AN// Thank you so much for this request, love the idea! (this also gives me a reason to not write the other ideas I've been putting off xd) idk if this is a little ooc, but I hope it’s okay^^ It’s also lovely to hear that you enjoy my work!^^ Reader can be any gender !

         “A time for congratulations?”

It hadn’t been long since you had joined the fellowship from Rivendell, like most of the others had too. The only one you knew better than the others was Legolas. Him you had met more than a few times in the past, mostly as an accident, but you did genuinely enjoy his company. You’d never admit it to anyone in the group, but you were happy that he had been the one from Mirkwood to join. You heard it had been his father who had suggested befriending Aragorn to him, and it was when Legolas had begun to look for Aragorn that he had met you. Aragorn you had only met a few times, and back then only knew him as “strider” like most. The others you had only met when the Fellowship had been formed, but all of them had seemed okay. 

Now, trailing behind Legolas, you examined your surroundings silently. Old trees with roots going all across the forest blocked the view on your right and on the left only a few trees were growing, enjoying the sun they were able to get. The trees on the left casted dark shadows on the almost non existent road you were walking on. Gandalf had seemed to be very certain that there was a trail going here, but you weren’t so sure. But since no one else had doubted him, you had decided to just follow along. At least you weren’t going to get lost alone.

As your gaze moved from left to right, amazed by the sturdy old trees, being able to stand for such a long time, you noticed Legolas turning to look at you for a moment. It was only for a split second, but it made you humm to yourself. Perhaps he was happy to see you too. It was rarely that you could spend more time with him, mostly just short bump ins every now and then. He was a prince, and probably had a lot to do.

The group seemed to have noticed the darkened shadows of the trees, and decided to set camp for the night. The sun seemed to be setting, making the casted shadows even darker before the sky would begin to follow along. Spreading the darkness of the upcoming night all over.

You had agreed to take the first watch shift of the night before anyone could steal it from you. You’d rather stay up late and go to sleep than wake up in the middle of the night to take your turn. Boromir and Gimi seemed to have collected some bigger pieces of wood and some sticks that Aragorn had been able to set on fire to create a campfire. Legolas, you and the hobbits helped to bring some rocks and logs around the fire so everyone could sit. Sam had requested if he could make something to eat, and surprisingly enough no one had disagreed. The start of the night seemed to be going smoothly. 

As Sam had begun to cook some kind of a soup or a stew, everyone else had spread around the fire. Some were fixing up their weapons and others just talking. You swore you had seen Merry and Pippin bothering Boromir too. You on the other hand had found a spot close to the fire. Most of the ‘seats’ had been taken, but that just allowed you to sit closer to the warming flames of the campfire. Legolas had seated himself near you. You could hear him lowering his bow and the quiver against the log he was sitting on. Other than that and the quiet talking, the only noise you could hear was the mixing of the soup Sam was making. Sometimes the ladle would hit the edges of the saucepan, causing a small noise to break the silent gaps.The moon was only a half, but since there weren't a lot of clouds in the sky, it was able to shine its light all over the forest. At times it felt like time had stopped after the sun had started to go down, and was still shining some light over the fellowship. It was only the cold night air that let you know it indeed was almost time to go and rest. 

You shivered under your clothes, pulling the cloak closer to you, making sure it was properly over your shoulders. Something rustled behind you, and soon another cape was placed over you. A small ‘huh?’ left your mouth as you turned to look who it was. Legolas clipped the front clip shut so the cloack wouldn’t fall off of you. “You seemed cold.” He said, smiling slightly as he sat back down. “I- Thank you.” You said, still confused by the gesture. “Aren’t you going to be cold?” You then asked, feeling bad if he’d have to freeze because of you. The elf laughed lightly at your question and shook his head. “Elves can tolerate the cold better than humans, therefore you should keep it.” He explained to you. 

You had never really thought of how different you were to him. Sure, you were friends with him, but you had no idea that the elves could tolerate the cold better than humans. Maybe you’d find out something else about him as the fellowship continued. This had to only one from many things that made elves so different from you. 

You noticed that the faint light of the moon made his almost white hair look magical. The usually well braided strands of hair had opened up from the fighting the group had gone through with a few orcs earlier that day. You had noticed that the prince usually kept his hair well done, but maybe he hadn’t noticed yet. 

Not being sure if you’d embarrass him if you pointed it out, you got up and sat next to him. You weren’t an elf but you had gotten your hair done before and over the years learned how to braid hair in different styles. So without another word, you took a hold of one of the half opened braids and began to undo it completely. Legolas seemed to have tensed up for a moment and you felt his eyes on you, but to your surprise he soon turned his gaze away and let you continue. 

You braided the first strand of hair, pulling it behind his ear the way you’d seen him usually have them. After starting to fix the other one, you felt another pair of eyes on the two of you. With a quick look you found out who it was. Aragorn was sitting on the other side of the campfire with an amused look on his face. Not understanding what he had found amusing, you kept on working on Legolas’ hair. The prince’s hair was smooth and easy to work with. Humming to yourself, “you have lovely hair.” You said quietly, seeing the man shiver, but saying nothing about it. You were enjoying the moment, getting to feel closer to your friend for once. The warmth of Legolas’ cloak and the fire kept you warm and protected from the gusts of wind. The smell of the soup Sam had made was good, and it felt great to know you were going to be eating something that not only would taste good but also would be warm. You felt like you had only been eating bread and apples for such a long time. 

You finished the other braid and mixed it in with the unbraided parts of his hair. “Both are fixed again.” You hummed mostly to yourself but out loud so Legolas could hear it too. You felt his eyes on you for a moment before they moved to Sam, when he handed the both of you a bowl with some steaming soup in it. You thanked the hobbit with a nod, and began to eat. From the corner of your eye, you caught Aragorn telling Gimli something and them both silently laughing. Trying not to pay no mind to the conversation, you couldn't help but to wonder if it was about what Aragorn had found so amusing earlier?

After that night, many more passed. Some worse and some just as good, but what kept everyone going was the mission and the people in the fellowship. Legolas never mentioned anything about you braiding his hair, and he even let you do it once or twice after. But after every time, it felt like more eyes were on the two of you. It was first only Aragorn, then Gimli joined and soon even Gandalf was in on it. At times it felt like even Legolas knew what was going on. 

After some time of you being oblivious of what had been going on, you decided to bring it up. You had so many theories of what they could have been up to, that you just had to find out. Making your way from the back of the group to where Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli were, you prepared yourself. “What are you hiding from me?” This got the attention of the three, all of them slowing down their walking speed a little. “Whatever do you mean?” Legolas asked, giving Aragorn a quick look, almost as if he was trying to tell the man something. “You all clearly have been sharing a rumor or something along the lines of that.” You replied, but didn’t get an answer from anyone for a moment. “You should tell them.” Gandalf’s voice rang from the front of the group, clearly also aware of what you were talking about. “It isn’t a rumor per say.” Gimli started, looking at Aragorn for a moment, hoping he’d take it from there. You saw Legolas look away, not taking part in the conversation. “We wished to congratulate you on confessing to Legolas.” Your eyes widened for a moment, and without even wanting to, a “what?” Left your mouth. “They weren’t aware, Aragorn.” Legolas finally joined in, looking at his friend. “What is this all about?” You tilted your head. “When you braid his hair. See, to elves it has a significant meaning behind it.” Aragorn tried to explain. Your hand traveled over your mouth, clearly shocked. “And you didn't think to tell me?” You blushed slightly, smacking Legolas’ arm lightly. He stopped, taking a light hold of your hand to pause you as well. “I wanted to explain it to you but I found that..” He tried to look for words for a moment, and you let him. “I found that I cared for you that way, and I wasn’t certain if you had found the meaning yourself...” His eyes met yours again, after traveling for a moment. You stayed silent, not even noticing that the rest of the fellowship had also stopped near the two of you. “But I am aware that I should have told-” Legolas broke the silence but you stopped him before he could finish. “It’s all okay. I feel similar.” You admitted, looking away for a second. “Is this a better time for congratulations?” Gimli’s voice asked from behind you as Aragorn walked closer as well. “Yes, yes it is.” You smiled and turned back to Legolas. His eyes looked at you with admiration in them. “Gi Melin.” (I love you)

[greenunoreversecard]

Kai general and Romantic headcanons

A/N:sorry if I got any of the characters wrong, I was using a combo of wiki/Google translate as I don't speak any of the languages mentioned. Pls let me know if I got any info wrong, i will gladly go in and change it to make it right.

General:

Half Indian and half Chinese.

His and nya's last name is 鄭 (Zheng), but he says it's Smith bc when they where younger he got in the habit of lying about his name so he Didnt have to deal with CPS.

His ma is from Visakhapatnam in Andhra Pradesh, and was a practicing Hindu. Ray is from the 云南 (yunnan) province, and was a practicing theravida Buddhist. Ray is ethnically from the 傣族 (dai people, also spelt Tai in english)

Before his parents dissapearances, they both brought him to their hometowns, and actively taught him both cultures and religions, which he continued to learn about and even teach Nya about after their dissapearances.

When he was 14 he bought a small boat and him and Nya rode it across the costal line, and he promised Nya one day when he was older he'd bring the both of them to their parents hometowns.

He's a Buddhist.

He speaks so many languages.

Like so many

He's fluent in Thai, mandarin and cantonese chinese, telugu, urdu, hindi, Punjabi, arabic and ninjago-ian(idk whatever language ninjago speaks)

Also trying to learn Indonesian.

He also knows yunnan dialect bc his dad would speak in it more often than not

Absorbes info like a sponge

He likes to quilt

He always wears a golden bracelet He got from his moms jewelry box after she left.

Likes to draw but is bad at it, so he colors coloring books

Introvert

He may act all confident, but he really isn't. super insecure

Soooo good with hair

Like, has all the stops. 10 step hair care routine

rivals Zanes cooking skills.

When working out focuses on building rather than lean muscle.

Mother friend

has dragged all of his friends into the water splashing festival.

Fatal flaw is loyalty and kind of hubris (it's conflicting, ik with the insecure and extreme pride, but like- it makes sense in my head. Inferiority/maybe superiority complex.)(it makes sense bc this is such me behavior. Imagine hating yourself but thinking ur the baddest bitch alive)

Likes to stare at fire

If he can't sleep he'll make a small bonfire to stare at and think

insomnia

Chronic cigarette smoker

Romantic:

Hes more show than tell

Def acts of service (me frfr)

Although, he is very cuddly.

Not in public, though. Maybe infront of the other ninja if it was a rough day

Loves to rock you gently from side to side when yall are hug

loves to give you temple kisses

He's very gentle with you, treats you like glass

You wil prolly say ily first, and he'll go;"🧍‍♂️...cool?"

He has mommy and daddy issues, but HEAVY on the mommy issues. Have fun with this hyper-independant fuck who can't accept help without feeling like a failure even though they need it (I'm not projecting you are)

Goes all out for holidays and anniversaries.

Doberman/German Shepard vibes tbh

When it's just you two he doesn't feel the need to fill the air with meaningless chatter, so if he feels safe enough to just share air without talking feel honoured and cherish it bc that means he actually trusts you.

A little rough around the edges, but will remember that thing you said 5years ago on ur first date

Most dates are chill inside and take a nap

But sometimes if he can he takes you on the town or someplace fancy

Also likes to show you his favorite childhood spots

[oreosmama]

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Gaz wants you, but the hotel bar you work at has rules; when a bartender calls dibs, all others have to back off. It's how the peace is kept, and as the new girl just trying to rack up some savings, you're not willing to rock the boat.

But Gaz doesn't take kindly to you avoiding him, and he's never been one to beat around the bush. From confessing his love on the first night you met to shouting your name seven times from across the bar, he's not letting you off the hook that easy. Not when he's seen the proof that you've fallen just as hard for him.

A/N: idk man i accidentally googled who ghost was like a week ago and fell so deep into the hot cod men rabbit hole so here we are. Enjoy!

Word count: 8261

Gaz is pretty sure he’s in love with you. 

It’s a surprising discovery at 11 pm in an American hotel bar drinking the worst scotch he’s ever had. It’s even more surprising because he just discovered you existed all of thirty minutes ago. 

He’s got his glass swirling between two nimble fingers, trying to find that line between hating his drink and actually putting it down. And he’s watching you. 

You’re the same bartender who’d asked him (in a horrible imitation of his accent) if he’d wanted his neat scotch “shaken, not stirred.” You’d flushed after you said it and promised to leave him joke-free for the rest of the night. He’d laughed, a bit hollow from his circumstances, and told you it was all right. That he liked it, and that made you flush a little more. 

Now, you scuttle like an ant past the other worker, a blonde who’s been making eyes at him all night. Your face is split into this unabashed grin, grippable hips bouncing off the counter as you sweep by and reach below for a bottle, giving him a view of the enviable dip between your breasts. 

At first, he thinks it’s just that. Too much American booze, not enough inhibitions; both sending him into that post-mission spiral that makes him touchy and want to touch all at the same time. And he finds it’s nice to watch you rattling glasses and wiping up spills; it’s soothing, the way your eyes are alight with life in this ritzy place, seemingly unbothered by the high level of customers. He especially likes the way you mock the spoiled sods when you can get away with it. 

The hotel must be experiencing the perfect storm of weddings, proms, and business meetings—not to mention one very unfortunate layover for one very unlucky special forces sergeant. 

He watches as teens keep stumbling back to the counter with pink cheeks, flashing their IDs every time they ask for a new drink. Despite their prom getups and obvious ages, they swear they’re just guests from Mr. and Mrs. Weddington’s ceremony. 

The girl you’re with now, stumbling from her heels but selling it as though she’s tipsy, begs and begs for another lemon drop before she “goes back to work on Monday.”

You nod either way, and he watches as you make a display of pouring alcohol into one shaker and juice into another, swapping them out when the teen looks back towards her friends. 

You send her on her merry way with a sugared rim and a lemon rind, saying something like “Go easy” as she wanders back to her table. You smile to yourself, amused at this little game you’re playing with half the customers here. 

You must feel the heat of his gaze, because you glance at him then. He hopes it’s burning you up as much as it looks, that nervous pinkening of your face as you give him a shrug like what else was there to do?

And Gaz, again, thinks it’s just that. Lust. He thinks about wiping that small smile off your face with his lips, stumbling with you into his hotel room, frantic fingers peeling off clothes. He thinks about how it would be—giggly, probably, despite his surprising coordination when he’s plastered. It’d be you and him swapping words back and forth, back and forth the whole time, silence only filling the room when you’re kissing him and when you feel so fucking new it steals your and his words away. 

He doesn’t know why he latches more onto the idea of the moments afterward, the biggest thing being that you decide to stay. Then it’s more back and forth, hobbies and pet peeves and every little thing that’s been on your minds since the 2000s. He gets to know you inside and out, inside again a few more times even as your conversation runs on. 

It’s no longer lust at that point. He knows that. 

He’s ruthlessly torn from the fantasy by the blonde bartender who, judging by the looks you’re swapping with her, has gotten the entirely wrong idea about the direction of his stare. 

He swears to God he was being obvious about it. It was you—it was fucking you that whole time. 

But he’s noticed a couple things about you.

The first is that you’re quiet when your customers aren’t overwhelmingly sloshed; awkwardly so, for a bartender. You’re something of a mirror when they are, far more relaxed, laughing easy and cracking jokes, like you preferred your real self be forgotten the next morning. 

The second is that you’re soft. Around the edges, all pillowy at the hips and thighs, a sloping curve down each side. And you were soft with your words, no yelling, no arguing with customers, just easy little jabs that no drunk mind would ever cotton onto. 

You were only snappy with him the second his head started growing fuzzy. 

He wants more of it, even as the pretty bartender makes friendly conversation. 

She asks about his day, then his job, then his adventures. Three of the last things he wanted to think about tonight, let alone discuss with a stranger who wants in his pants. However, because she “loves a man with a British accent” and he’s too damn polite to give her the boot, he reveals a little. 

Yes, his job is hard. Yes, he’s jumped from an airplane. Yes, he’s killed someone. Of course they were bad.

Until they weren’t. But he won’t tell her that. 

However, above all things, Gaz is a planner. And though he’s caught the wrong fish with his bait, his plan B is working excellently. 

Gaz glances at you, brushing your hair behind your ear in the increasingly crowded room. The wide array of customers spread out among the limited seating are starting to flood the bar. You can’t pass out beers and shake cosmopolitans at the same time, and a wonderful warmth blossoms in his chest the second you glance at him too, growing desperate. 

There’s something like an apology in your eyes. You’re sad you have to ruin your friend’s chances; meanwhile, he thinks it may just be the best part of his night.

The third thing he discovers about you: you’re trying to be the wingwoman for your pretty friend here, and Gaz won’t have it. 

You’re going to have to come over here. Beg for help from your friend.

Ruin this little flirtation she’s got going on—what a shame. 

You’re too damn polite, just like him. The second he talks to you when you make your way over, you’ll think you have to stay. Humor him for a bit. He’ll ask you for a drink, forcing you to come back a second time around, when the bustle has slowed. He’ll rope you in for the rest of the night by then, and the wait’ll be over. 

He feels like a damn schoolboy when you take that first step toward him, and he’s practically vibrating when you get close enough that he can hear your voice for the second time today. It’s far less grating than your friend’s, he’s certain of it—he wouldn’t mind if it was you badgering him, is what he means.

After all, Gaz was on leave, and when Gaz was on leave, he liked things slow. Fresh off a mission, he liked to roll through the motions, order drinks and let the memories turn into static from the corner of the bar. He’d planned on calling Price and damning him for saying it was a blessing to get trapped in the US, set up at a posh hotel on the task force’s budget. 

But you stop before him, contrite eyes softening, and he’s getting better at seeing the upside of it all. 

“Hate to interrupt—I know you two are trying to get all cozy in the dark over here, but I could use your help, Jeanne. ‘Hugh Janus’ is asking for another beer and our non-alcoholic tap just ran dry.” You look off into the distance, frowning slightly. “I fear we may have genuinely drunk teens on our hands soon.”

Jesus, was her name Jeanne? Gaz hadn’t caught that. 

On the bright side, he’s able to confirm one of his sneaking suspicions. Your eyes really are fucking gorgeous up close, and they’re so expressive that he can read you like a book. 

But he hates the way you say “you two.” It’s so nonchalant. 

Was it too much to ask for a little envy? Just a hint of spite, to prove that some part of what he’s feeling, even a little speck of it, isn’t one-sided?

Your friend— Jeanne , apparently—gives him a disappointed sigh, looks at him like he and her are two conspirators planning on eloping any second. “Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”

He nods, trying to find that balance between polite understanding and absolute relief, but his head grows foggier by the minute and all he can manage is a “sounds good.”

You dive into an explanation when the pair of you are far enough away to inspect the taps, gesturing at a couple of them, and then discreetly at a group in the crowd. 

From here, he can see it a little more clearly. You’re younger than the blonde, probably just by a couple years, which means you’re newer here. Younger than him, too, since he pegs Jeanne at around his own age. 

The blonde disappears into a storage door wedged between two shelves loaded with glass bottles and illuminated white-blue. A manager, maybe.

Only thing he knows for certain from observing this quick interaction is that you’re finally alone. 

He flags you down, and his chest floods with that warm, fuzzy feeling all over again when you hustle over, genuine smile on your lips—because you’re so damn easy to read.

“Know you’re busy, ’nd I hate to bother you, darling, but can you get me another scotch? Shaken, this time, if you please.”

The pet name lands perfectly. Even through all the chatter and music, he can hear the quick stutter in your breath. Then you laugh at his joke, like you think he deserves it. 

It’s cheap of him to force that laugh out of you with a shitty joke like that, but he’s feeling a little needy. Wants a preview of what the real thing would sound like. 

Fucking music, surely. 

“I’ll go get it—”

Not yet. I need more time.

“Not right now. I’ll finish this one off while you work through that fresh hell–” he nods toward the anxious crowd “–then you can come back to me. You’ll find I’m pretty patient.”

A little less so, when it comes to you, but you don’t need to know that yet. 

The slight slur to his words must be comforting, because you give him that small smirk you’ve been conservative with all night. “I’ll hold you to that. I’ve heard Brits are perfect gentlemen; be a shame if you proved me wrong.”

“I’m all that and more, darling.” He winks. “You’ll see.”

He could be the bloody worst man on the planet, too, if you wanted. 

And he could come out and say that to you, all the things he could be for you tonight, if he wasn’t so keen on the instant change in you. 

Because here’s what he expected: a few more little flirtations back and forth, everything kept light and easy. He’d keep you smiling and smirking like that, comfortable in your own skin for just a little bit longer before you have to go back to the other customers and slither back into your shell. He’d get to see that breathtaking blush of yours, pink splotches that tell him he’s on the right track. And then he’d get your rapt attention for the remainder of your and his night, quite like he’s given you his. 

But that’s not what happens. 

Instead, you’re instantly sheepish, finding yourself leaning a little closer, so close he could reach out and run a finger along the back of your hand (a small touch, but it would certainly floor him). 

And then guilt. Pure, heart-wrenching guilt, like you’re taking every word of his to heart in the worst possible way.

Gaz panics. 

But you’re not wearing a ring, so no husband, no fiance. He guesses boyfriend or some long-standing crush he can’t—shouldn’t—burrow his way in front of. It’s a disappointing discovery, something he’ll be stewing on for the rest of the night or maybe week, depending on how long he’s stranded here. 

He’s not a fan of infidelity, and he sure as hell isn’t changing his opinion on that anytime soon. So he settles himself for a night at the bar cut short. Maybe he’ll order drinks up to his room from now on, praying the task force won’t try and shift the bill onto him. He can’t imagine coming down to the bar and seeing you will be nearly as satisfying anymore. 

“I shouldn—I mean, Jeanne really likes y—I mean, we kinda have this rule where we, um,” you fumble with the rag on the counter, suddenly invested in a stain he’s been avoiding all night. You swallow. “I’ll just, uh, bring you your drink later. As promised. I should go help her.”

And you dash off as fast as you can between the counter and the precarious wall decor, almost running into the storage door the other bartender whips open while dragging out a new keg for the tap. 

Meanwhile, Gaz… 

He has a question. 

Were you feeling all that guilt over some “dibs” rule at your bar?

He wants to laugh. The whole first-come, first-served thing makes you look as guilty as if you clubbed a baby seal. So what if Jeanne wants to ask him out? If he says no, does that mean he gets you?

Then he actually laughs a little, because it’s so ridiculous that it’s honestly cute. You care about and respect your coworkers, and support them when they’re hitting on guys at bars. So cute. You’re like the ultimate wingwoman, he’s sure, but that’s not going to change the fact that he wants you. 

But the night drags on, and this half hour of patience Gaz promised you becomes paper-slim when you pass off his drink to Jeanne and avoid his end of the bar for far longer than is acceptable. 

But you’re still giving her reassuring smiles and manning the bar as she lays her interest on thick, asking how long he’ll be staying and telling him when she gets off. 

Gaz isn’t laughing anymore. And that little thing you do where you back off and play wingwoman? Definitely not as sweet as he’d thought it was. 

Fuck, it might be the one thing he hates about you. 

Because you avoid him for the rest of the night, and he still can’t take his eyes off you. 

Not to worry, though. Gaz is a patient man. More importantly, he’s a planner. 

He’ll find a way. 

He always does. 

~~~~~~

Gaz barely sleep that night. Too busy thinking about the mission, the lives that were lost, all that blood that had coated his hands just three days ago. 

The way it bothers him comes and goes in phases. Some missions slip off him like rain water over a slick road, rivulets down drives, and he sleeps just fine. 

Others soak into him, further than skin deep, where his body becomes a subcutaneous cache of nightmares and gunpowder, and he wakes up choking, smoke filling his lungs, tearing at the tissue of his throat enough that water can’t soothe the burn. 

Mornings like this is where he fights fire with fire. 

The hotel bar is unsurprisingly destitute but still oddly open at 11 am on a Thursday morning, and he takes a seat more daringly center-staged than he had last night. He glances around, letting thoughts of you, a bartender whose biggest issue was a dibs rule on men, swathe around him. 

Admittedly, a lot of it is foggy. He remembers wanting you—a lot , actually. Too much, he might even say, but after all he drank he’s surprised he even found his way back to his room. But the place, a little more aglow with the open windows (that make his head fucking spin, by the way), looks the same as last night, which means he can still envision you wandering over every inch of it. 

And he thinks no, you probably weren’t that attractive. Maybe your snipes weren’t that funny, and he’d had no reason to get so upset with you over a rejection. And every little wish he’d had that you were the woman who could warm his bed while he was out on missions and greet him when he came home was a bit over the top, even for drunk Gaz. 

Sober Gaz knows better. Sober Gaz knows that no other human being can have that much of an effect on him anymore, because he’s had to rebuild himself after joining the military, after seeing the most honorable and dishonorable things humans can do, and he’s just not fit for something unconditional. 

Drunk Gaz, though….

Hammered and horny. That’s all it was. A terrible mixture, and he’s damn ashamed that an innocent girl like you became the target of it. God, did he even tell you his name? Or was it just instant come-on and creepy watching from the corner of the bar? 

Gaz notices he’s not alone as he lets his eyes wander; there’s a group of three elderly women jabbering in the corner, waving too-friendly when he spots them. He tosses them a dashing smile, the one that makes his grandmother’s friends burst into titters and giggles. 

It has the same effect. 

“Who knew you’d be just as charming sober?” a familiar voice rings out. 

Gaz’s heart thump-thump s forcefully.

“In all fairness, you do have a shot with them too, if you really wanted to take it.” You lean a little bit closer over the counter, one-ended smile pulling at your lips, and when he catches a trace of that same perfume, his chest twinges. 

Fuckin’ hell. 

“She’s newly widowed,” you nod to the gaggle again, demeanor conspiratorial, “and happy to be, apparently. Why am I not surprised you’re popular to all ages?”

He’s got no clue what you’re talking about. Damn, he’s not even listening. Your lips look too soft to him right now, and it’s downright unfair how domestic you look in morning light, placid and playful, like the last thing you were made for was exacerbating nightlife. 

“All ages?” he mumbles, because he can’t quite think straight, and the best thing he can do is repeat the last few words he’d heard you say before his train of thought had caught fire, derailed, and crashed explosively against brick wall. 

He’s struck still, is what he means. He can’t quite think past the idea of you, coming a little closer to him, letting him trap you against his chest. Letting him breathe in the scent of your hair as you tell him about your day—boring, maybe, if it wasn’t you who was telling the story. 

But your voice and tone, that playful edge that sounds like the sweetness of cotton candy and would taste like fucking everything to him, it draws him in. 

Gaz comes to the conclusion that not everything was a drunken haze last night. 

And he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite the fisherman he thought he was, trying to catch you. If anything, he was the fish snapping after your line, bait or no, wanting to be yanked out of the water and gutted until everything he ever was was bare for those pretty eyes. 

And he’s that very same fish this morning, gaping and blinking wide-eyed. 

Fuckin’. Hell. 

“My God, those teenagers last night? And then Jeanne, and the bridesmaids? And, okay, I shit you not, even the bride. You’re a menace in this bar, you know that?”

“Are you included in all that?”

If he remembers anything from the night before, it was the way you clammed up after he made his first move. You’re the spitting image of it now, pursed lips and antsy fingers, even after all that big talk. 

It’s an absent thought that flies past him in that moment, but he recalls that you were only loose enough to joke around with people already tipsy. He lets a small consideration tag along, a half-thought, really, that maybe you felt as comfortable around him as he did around you.

That, or he still looked smashed from last night.

You dodge his question completely.

“So what can I get you this morning…?” You let the tail end of the question drag on a bit, and he decides it’s because you can’t remember his name. He tries to stave off the gross pinch in his stomach by recalling there’s an all too real chance he never even told you. 

“Kyle.”

You shake your head quickly, mumbling, “No, I—I remember.”

Gaz, though he can’t help but feel like an asshole for it, grins at your stutter. 

“Surprise me, then.” He sits back, not remembering when he made the decision to lean a bit closer. “YN,” he tags on, smiling a bit more at your nervous laugh. 

You look him over, some short glance that stuffs his head full of cotton, and start working on a concoction with a small grin. 

He’s patient, minds his own business and fiddles with his phone as you shake and pour. 

No messages from Price, and Gaz shoves down any distant panic that he might have sent an aggravated text or two in his state last night. 

But no messages means no updates, which means it’s safe to assume he’ll be marooned at this hotel for another two weeks. 

Not as bad as he thought it would be, so far. 

You step away with a tray of drinks and return empty handed. Then you slip a glass in front of him, frosty and golden, slowly seeping red by a single maraschino cherry. 

He guffaws. “Mai Tai? What, no umbrella?”

You slip a mini umbrella into his drink. “You underestimate me.”

His headache is killing him. The sun’s too bright, and he’s thanking God that the music in here isn’t nearly as pounding as it was yesterday. The memories still haunt him, horizoning his mind. Every drop of blood, every plea, every blank-eyed stare. 

And then there’s you. Just you. You read like a sheet of paper, and you’re soft around the edges, and you couldn’t even comprehend half the things he’s seen. 

You spoon another maraschino cherry out of the cooling jar and pop it into your mouth, laving your tongue over it before biting down, the juices dying your tongue red. 

Fuck. 

Gaz wants to kiss you. 

He wants you to taste the Mai Tai on his tongue and sigh happily, eyes rolling the exact same way. He might die if you don’t.

“It’s on the house, only because you were true to your word.”

He gets peeks of that red tongue of yours and shifts in his seat. “What d’you mean?”

“You were patient, as promised, and I’m afraid I’ll need a little more of that today.”

Any of it. All of it, for you. Fuck, he could be so patient for you. 

Gaz furrows his brow anyway. “Didn’t know you were so greedy. Why d’you ask, love?”

“I guess you couldn’t tell from last night, but I’m a pretty shitty bartender. That’s why they got me working mornings.”

He glances at the Mai Tai. “So you’re sayin’ I’m shit outta luck.”

“I’m saying that if you’re going to let me pick your drink, you’re going to keep getting whatever’s left in the mixer from formerly Mrs. Jones’ group of three. I should warn you, they party hard.”

Gaz sighs. “What’s next on the menu?”

“More mimosas. That was their warm-up. You wanna catch up?” You frame a carton of orange juice in your hands enticingly. 

Fruity drinks from here on out. Gaz doesn’t exactly mind the idea, though he’d come down to the bar for something with more of a kick. But he’s wondering how long your shift runs if you’d worked the night before and the morning after. 

He’s got a chance here; without your friend present, your guilty conscience must feel balmed.

Gaz shakes his head, tearing a finger at the mini umbrella’s ridges. “I’ll stick to their schedule. Have a feeling I should be pacing myself with that crew.”

“Good feeling,” you nod. 

The air of silence that settles is comfortable. There’s the rattle of ice and champagne, the slow slosh of orange pooling in three going on four glasses, and Gaz watches you through it all. But he can see the way his gaze makes you nervous. Your movements are all rickety, and you can’t quite find that rhythm between shaking the mixer and making eye contact. 

Gaz wasn’t lying. Most if not all the women he’s met (sans a few of his targets) agree: he’s a kind man. Chivalrous, soothing, amiable. 

So he’s not sure why seeing your nerves gets a lovely thrill rattling its way down his spine. Sure, he wished you felt a smidge less timid, a lot more loose and sunny in his company. But, he guesses, it’s because with you, he’s willing to settle. Take what he can get; it’s not unlike a stakeout, really. He’s parked here, waiting for you to come out of your shell on your own time. 

Can’t really help that he’s greedy when it counts, though, and when you set the mimosa in front of him, he reaches before you can pull away, getting that warm slide of your fingers against his. 

“So what are you doin’ here, in a place like this, if you’re not a good bartender?”

He has to salvage your courage before you slip into the backroom for space to think. He can’t let that happen, overthinker that you are, and you’re too nice to abandon him mid-conversation. 

He’s okay with manipulating you that much. 

“Gap year. Several actually, but I don’t like to think about that.” You’re fidgeting with a rag, twisting it until the damp cotton creases under your fingers. 

“What are you gappin’ to?”

You huff out a laugh. “Med school, hopefully. Grad school, possibly. Just want to do something more, you know? Since apparently a bachelor’s gets you nowhere nowadays, and I’m just thirty grand in hole for nothing.”

“It’ll work itself out. For you, I’m certain of it.”

And he thinks he’s nailed it. 

Look. Look at all he can say and do to make you feel comfortable. And look! He can make you laugh and smile. And his touch was nice, right? Warm, gentle, everything you’d want. He’s got it right here. Waiting for you.

And then you blink, long and slow, eyes on the counter. Then…

“You know, I’m really jealous of Jeanne. I mean, she has it all figured out.”

Gaz fights the urge to grind his teeth, but he drops his elbows to the counter and cups at the mimosa. Not good enough, doesn’t burn enough. Too easy on the champagne, and he distantly wonders if you pull what you did last night all the time. 

That thing where you go easy on drinks by coming around less, or neutering them completely before you pass them out. 

That thing where you’re trying to do better for everyone , where you think you know better. He can only guess that it’s come so often with a cost to you that it’s all you know how to do anymore—giving, no taking. Helping always; never, ever hurting, no matter what you want. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, but you’re reaching for another red cherry. Chewing on it as it dyes your teeth pink. 

“She’s one of the managers here, did she tell you that? And she’s only a couple years older than me, and she’s just… she knows what she wants. And goes for it, too.”

Is that what it was? You weren’t willing to go for it? 

He’ll build that bridge for you, dammit. He’d hold you hand across the whole fucking way if you’d just let him. 

“She’s the only person in the whole area willing to give me a chance, even though I’d never bartended before.”

He lets you ramble, lets the sound of your voice sink into him, gives encouraging responses when he has to. 

Jeanne likes to go hiking. 

Jeanne likes to swim. 

Jeanne loves nights out. 

Sure, yeah, okay. But do you like any of that?

You don’t. You hate it all, actually. You even have a fear of drowning, heights, the whole works. You’re very much a homebody, curled up on your couch reading, drinking tea—not a huge fan of wine, or alcohol, actually, but don’t laugh! It was the highest paying job you could find, and yes, you do see the irony. Yes, you make a good cup of tea. Why?

Trying to find out even that much about you was like playing a damn tennis match. You won’t stop shoving the topic away, getting all insecure when he asks what you like. What you want. 

He plans to change that. 

But for now? Fine. You won’t talk about you. But he’s not going to let you talk about Jeanne. 

So you’re talking about him. 

“We don’t get much of your type around here.”

“Special forces?”

“British.” You give up on wiping the counter, instead leaning on two hands and watching him sip at the piña colada you’ve just made. He’d offered you the pineapple slice. After you’d said no, he watched you watch him bite in, wiping off the juice off his lips with his thumb. 

He had to remind himself that it was patience you were looking for, even with your lips parted in a daze like that. 

“Special forces, though, huh?” You glance around with faux wariness. “Should I be worried?” 

“Depends. How many people round here are up to no good?”

“I mean, there’s the occasional bad tipper but, between you and me,” you lean in, give a small shrug, “I deal with them in my own way.”

Gaz raises a brow, smile growing. “Maybe I’m the one who should be worried.”

“Depends. Are you going to be rifling around for a five or a twenty-five dollar tip in that wallet of yours?”

Gaz sighs, “The best company always comes with the highest price, don’t it?”

“Not as high as you think,” you laugh. 

If there was ever a groove to find between you and him, he’s finally located it. 

Five minutes too late, it seems. 

You’re glancing at the clock when you hear rustling in the storage room, and the blonde bartender that’s bloody haunting him now pushes through the swinging door. 

 “Jeanne.” You voice is a wonderful mixture of fake enthusiasm and slight disappointment. “Look who’s here.”

Trapped. That’s what he is.

And you leave without a goodbye or a glance in his direction, too. 

He tells himself you’re shy, insecure, delicate little thing that he keeps pushing the boundaries of, trying to find the edge of having you and scaring you off completely. 

Like taming a wild animal. 

Fucking patience. For all his years, all his adventures, he never knew he’d run out of it in the most civilian of circumstances. 

He sticks around a while longer, humors Jeanne’s interest. Amazingly enough, they have so much in common, who would have thought?

And who would have thought that after last night, that was the last thing he’d ever want.

~~~~~~

You’re doing that thing again, where you ignore him. 

He’d think it’s cute, how shy you were, if you only didn’t sic your friend on him each time you did it. He’s fairly certain his interest is clear. 

He’s been going to the bar for the last few days. Sometimes he sees you, sometimes he doesn’t. He prefers the former, and when it’s the latter, he’s reminded of just how shitty the alcohol is in the US, and that he’s trapped here, and how it’s starting to become hell. 

But he won’t tell you that. That your home and this hotel are the last places he wants to be on the whole planet, present company excluded. 

Despite the fact that present company feels like she has to include her friend in every conversation. He loves how selfless you are, no man left behind and whatnot, but he wishes you could see the failing attraction right before your eyes. 

You try to slip off, leave the pair of them alone, but Gaz won’t have it. If you wander too close, he’ll drag you in, call your damn name across the bar if he has to, wrench on that ever-guilty, ever-pleasing heart of yours to go and answer him, talk to him, pay him the attention he needs nightly, apparently. 

As of late, you’ve started playing this game. Gaz’ll bring up a topic, anything from the horrors of war to butterflies. 

And you think there might be some upsides to the horrors of war, maybe. And butterflies are ugly and gross, always. 

Gaz loves how beautiful the mountains are up north; you despise them. They look cold. 

But he thought you loved cold weather?

Well, you don’t like cold weather when it’s… on mountains. You guess. 

 An interesting play, he quite thinks. Such odd tactics you have running in your mind. But you’re trying so hard to be this good, loyal friend. You want so badly to find the middle ground here, please Jeanne and Gaz, let them both be happy. 

But when push comes to shove, Jeanne had dibs. And Gaz has to bear the brunt of it. 

Two weeks have gone by before Price contacts Gaz again. Tells him the 141 had lain low long enough that he can come back home and get some well deserved leave. The news makes him fucking ecstatic when he first hears it. Thank fuck he’ll never have to use the launderettes here again, never have to listen to the damned click-click-click of the aircon or the mini fridge. 

He misses so many things from home. 

Shepherd’s pie. Good cigarettes and tea. A whiskey sour from that bar just three blocks down from his flat. 

And his flat. His bed. His sofa, the kitchen he barely uses, the door that whines because he can’t bring himself to oil it; gone too long, too often for it to really matter most days. The toaster he doesn’t plug in ever because it damn well almost burned down his flat last time he was out for two months. 

All of it empty. Cold and bare. Too unused to really miss. 

Gaz slows while packing his things. He stops, grabs his phone, then lowers to the bed. He stares at the recent calls list, Captain still at the top, call ended twenty minutes ago. 

Home has a different taste in his mouth than it used to. Not horribly bad, but different enough to notice. 

It’ll be quiet. Gaz used to love quiet. 

Being here has changed something in him. 

Nothing big—all small things, in fact. 

A pondering floats down on him, comes to his mind and makes the rest of his body tighten, a coiled spring waiting, wondering. It’s such a small question, too, but things with you always seemed so small and insignificant, until he got a moment of quiet to consider it. 

Do they sell your perfume in the UK?

It’s not a huge thing if they don't. 

Really, it’s not life-changing. He’s just trying to consider never having it again, never having it flood his senses when you get too close, lean a bit closer to slide him his drink. 

Then it’s you not leaning in close ever again. Then no you, ever again. 

Gaz can’t quite make it make sense. 

Home is good. Hell, he misses it. 

But home is no set place anymore. Home could be two poles repelling each other but attracting him, pulling at each half of him, waiting to tear him down the middle while he tries to decide. 

Two fucking weeks? Gaz has to check his phone to make sure. Has that really all it’s been?

Bullshit. 

Tell him why it feels like it’s been years. Tell him why he can’t imagine going home as anything other than a misstep, one bad fucking decision away from sealing his fate. 

A slice of shepherd’s pie and a nice cup of Earl Grey—it can wait. 

A little longer, at least. He needs some time to make certain on some things. A month, maybe. On his own dime now. After all, what’s four thousand dollars compared to a missed opportunity for something better?

…He’ll see if they have deals on extended stays. 

~~~~~~

“YN.”

Nothing.

“YN.”

Still nothing.

“YN!”

You’re avoiding eye contact and maintaining a six-foot radius at all times, like he’s got the damn plague. 

It’s been the same setting for the past four weeks; corner of the bar, closer to the same dark shit that swirls in his glass now, aiming for privacy and good company. 

He used to think he was a good shot, but his accuracy’s been bloody terrible as of late. 

Twelve times. He’s tried asking you out twelve times. 

After the most recent attempt crash-landed with you interrupting to tell him about your sister’s obsession with popping zits, he considered it. Oh boy, did he consider giving up, asking himself why the hell he ever got so desperate in the first place. 

Tonight was supposed to be some last hurrah of sorts. His flight leaves tomorrow morning, and his patience with you has become so thin it could snap with a single breath. 

But he gets here, sees you. 

Sees you bustling around the bar—which, in his mind’s eye, is his flat. And you look right at home, by the way. Wandering in and out of his room, his kitchen, the living room. Curled up on the settee, your soft thighs winking at him from beneath his own sweatshirt. Then you’re dancing in the same way, hips swaying to the obnoxious beat, leaning in closer instead of pulling away when he grabs onto you like he ought to. 

For all that’s good and pure, you never distance yourself like you do now.

There’s no easily spooking the you in his head that wants him just as badly as he does you.

Your name falls from his lips an unavoidable number of times from the corner of the bar, and you finally fold.

See—wasn’t so hard, was it?

Not so painful if you’d just give in and go on a date with him now, too. 

You saunter over, a world-weary sigh falling from your lips. “My God, Kyle, you sound like a damn cockatoo over here. Or my mom, which was a bit unsettling. Need I remind you I regret telling you my middle name.” 

“Then you won’t be surprised to know you’re getting a good scolding, with the way you’ve been avoiding me.”

That same look takes up your features, pouty lips and wrinkled brow, like he’s barking up the wrong tree all over again. Might be his favorite expression of yours, second only to that little grin when you see him each day. 

The same one that keeps him barking. 

“You know it’s for a good reason, Kyle. I’ve told you this.”

“Remind me again, darling. Is it a boyfriend?”

You huff a sigh. “No.”

“Husband?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Lesbian?”

“What?” You stare at him wide-eyed, and he shrugs. 

“Just makin’ sure my bases are covered. So what is it, then?”

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m also dead fuckin’ serious,” his voice raises when you try to walk away. He can barely refrain from swatting out at your wrist, spinning you back around to look at him. Over the weeks, he’s discovered your biggest weakness is his eyes, and he puppy-dogs them now. “Out with it. Please.”

His white-knuckled hands ache from where they grip under the bar’s ledge, and he’s trying blessedly hard to keep still as you look him over. Every scar, every bag under his eyes, every premature wrinkle. You can see it all and more, probably even see the nightmare he had three days ago, where it was you tied up, enemy’s gun pointed at the pliable skin of your temple, your cries echoing in the empty warehouse.

Where, a building over, in sniper-position, Gaz’s frozen. His fucking trigger finger won’t twitch, and he can’t breathe, can’t move even as the gunshot lit up your skin, and he rolled out of the same hotel bed, coughing on the floor, wheezing. 

He tops off his eyes with a dashing smile, pleasant like his mind hadn’t painted the picture of you bloody and dying, still haunting him. 

Gaz isn’t as easy to read as you are. You wouldn’t be able to tell. 

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Like I’m whipped?” As if he could look like anything else.

“No, like…” You bite your tongue, and Gaz would give anything to know what you’d planned on doing with the hand you’d raised toward him just then, only to let it drop down at your side. “Never mind.”

“C’mon.” God , his hands ache. “Just tell me. Thought we were friends?”

“We are friends, Kyle.” You ignore how smug he gets, fixing him with a look. “But that’s all we are.”

Gaz scoffs, “I don’t get it. Just because your friend has, what, a li’l crush on me, and she doesn’t even know me, this can’t happen?”

You know what this is. He knows you know what this is. And he knows you want it, too. 

“It’s…” you bite the inside of your cheek while avoiding his gaze, and he knows it’s because you can’t think when he looks at you like that. Pleading. Desperate. And so damn breathless at the sigh of you that it makes it that much harder for you to say you don’t want him. “It’s a whole big thing we agreed on when I started working here. It’s how the peace is kept, not just between Jeanne and me—but for everyone. That’s just how we do it.”

“YN…”

You ignore him. “And I like this job, Kyle. I do. I don’t care that I’m horrible at mixing drinks, and that I can’t handle drunk people to save my life. It feels good to have something to do when I don’t know what else to do with myself, and I can’t have some little lover’s quarrel ruin that.

“And Jeanne is a great person. And I know you don’t like it when I bring it up, but it’s true. She saw you first and called it. So I’m stepping back, not getting in the middle of it because I owe it to her, and I don’t get why you won’t just do me that solid and give her a chance. You two are a much better fit than you and I would ever be—”

“You hate camping.”

You fall silent, staring at him in confusion. “What?”

“You hate camping. And the woods. The outside, really. You told me that. Then you told me your daily circuit is the bar, then your home, sometimes to the café down the street from here, but that’s rare. And that you like books, but I know s’not the cute, adventure-y ones you pretend to like. I googled a few of yours, ones I caught you sneakin’ on your breaks—dirty little bird, you are, by the way. But I like that about you. All of it. Everything you think you have to keep under wraps.”

“Kyle…”

“I like the way you say my name, too. And how soft your skin looks, and those thighs—fuck me. Is your perfume cherries, by the way?”

“Peaches,” you mumble. He nods.

“That too. I mean, every little thing, darling. I swear, I want it. Don’t care that we’re complete opposites, that you’re scared of what I do, what I’m built for. I need you to know that I want you because of that, not in spite of. I don’t need you all the time, I promise. But I don’t think I could handle it if I didn’t have you at all.”

You want him. He can see it. You’re melting into a goddamn puddle before him, wandering nearer and nearer like you can’t help it. 

What else can he say? What the hell else does he have to do to prove that he wants you so bad it’s driving him up the walls? Gaz is wrenched so tight in his seat that he could snap and hurdle the counter, drag you out of here and show you everything he’s willing to give. 

He needs a promise before he leaves. Something. 

“God, Kyle, I didn’t…” your breath stutters, but you won’t pull your gaze from his. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were so serious about this.”

You didn’t know? You couldn’t fucking tell? After a month of him puttering around here, begging for your attention, doing anything he could to get you to look at him—

“I thought you were just…”

Fuck. 

Gaz shakes his head.

Fuck. 

Messing with you? Teasing you? That’s all you thought it was?

He tips his head back, locking onto the ceiling. 

What could he have said during the past five weeks that would make you think that?

He runs through every conversation, every interaction, every whipped, needy look he couldn’t hold back because he couldn’t stop them around you.

And then he thinks about Jeanne. How you’ve been pushing her on him. And how he’s a perfect fucking gentleman and entertained her interest with polite conversation. 

Then there’s you, his shy little rabbit watching from the other end of the bar, so damn skittish that he can only draw you back in after she’s long left him alone. Not even surveying or passively watching, but crafting wildly inaccurate conclusions in your little overthinking head.

No. 

No, no, no, because, fickle as you are, you’re a giver. 

And Gaz’s been stealing that role from you this whole time. 

He hasn’t let you show your worth. He doesn’t need to see it, no, but you think you have to prove it. You like your trials by fire. You don’t like winning by default. 

You don’t think you could be wanted for wanting’s sake. 

In all fairness, Gaz didn’t think he functioned like that either—unconditional terms and all that. So he thought he’d had to give back. Give back so much that it frightened you, and you couldn’t hold up what you thought was your end. 

A bloody fool. That’s what he is. 

His little American rabbit plays by different rules. In the UK, women in bars are so straightforward, so honest. 

What a fuckin’ sod he is. 

His flight leaves in nine hours, and he hasn’t packed, hasn’t slept. 

Too busy thinking about you. How much of a wrench you’ve been in his plans.

He didn’t think wanting you would be like asking the world to spin the other way. 

And, hell, what’s he supposed to do when he does leave, gone off on the mission Price’s hinted to him, the one that’s halfway across the globe, and you’re back here, trying and probably succeeding at forgetting he exists. 

Fuck.

You not knowing he exists. 

Him having never met you.

The ideas make him sick. 

But Gaz…

Gaz is a planner. Above all else. 

And if you want an opportunity to show what you can give him, he’ll give you just that. While he’s on a mission, mind on worse, far more horrible things, he’ll give you that chance you’ve been itching so hard for. 

“Your phone.”

You’ve been watching him go through phases, even refilled his glass while he was out. Scotch on the rocks, this time. Like you thought he had to start taking it easy from here on out, like you think he deserves it.  

“What?”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Kyle… that’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t care, love.”

To your credit, you have a healthy amount of wariness. In several jerky movements, you pull your phone from your pocket, open it to a new contact, and pass it to him, eyeing up every little thing he types. 

Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick. 

His phone number. 

Then he texts himself quickly, saves your number too, and holds your phone out. 

When you grab at it, he holds tight, tugging for your attention. 

Like he hasn’t, in a most wonderfully heady way, already got it. 

“No funny business with this, love.” His features turn grim. “No giving it to your friend so she can woo me—”

“Woo you?”

He gives you a stern look. “A phone call. A text. A fuckin’ pocket dial, I don’t care. But I want it from you, or no one, yeah?”

Only after you nod, slow and unsure, does he push himself out of the barstool for the last time, nodding to you. Eyes soft as he whispers, “Have a good night, darling.”

Your eyes don’t leave him as he walks away, phone still gripped tightly in your hand.

~~~~~~

Part 2

[luvfy0dor]

Henlo

You know who it is, we all know, henlo

I feel like I’ve been here a lot recently

Just starting off with saying I loved the Dazai piece. It was really cute. Dad Dazai trying his best, made my heart melty

But I think you know why I’m here today

On this day

Honestly the day doesn’t entirely matter but I’m here on THIS one

With the dad Fyodor thought I promised

Cuz here I was thinking to myself. I feel like Fyodor definitely wants his child or children having some connection to Russian culture, since that’s a part of them too, regardless of their other parent’s nationality or background, he definitely wants his included. (Tho his partner could totally do the same)

So I was wondering, would you like a piece of him either teaching his children Russian or making Russian food for them? Or really sharing any Russian cultural thing with them at all. Honestly whatever one is easier for you to write or go into detail with, they’re all equally cute.

Cuz if his child or children develop a connection to that, I feel like that would make him a lot happier than maybe he would fully show.

I hope this ask sparks the creative brain juices in a fun way

Also considering sending a Halloween themed request at some point idk… oh but who knows!We’re here rn and having fun with this, that’s all we need at the moment

Also real glad you enjoy my messages lol. I will absolutely keep sending. Take as long as you need

-the person here attempting to give everyone baby fever because it’s funny

This blog’s Dad Fyodor anon

"da!" - Dad!Fyodor x GN!Reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

Warnings; Google translate Russian, not much reader involvement, very minimal proofreading happened

Description; Dad!Fyodor teaching his child about Russian culture! It incorporates ideas from the first dad!Fyodor part.

A/n; YESYESYES I one hundred percent agree, I think about this on the regular OMG I hope I depicted this well bc my knowledge on Russia isn't all that extensive lol, if you have any corrections, do tell me!! : ) Also I'm gonna be so fr I had NO idea what to name this so we're rolling with da I guess.............

Headcannons !! ༊*·˚

★ He teaches his child/children classical Russian music when they're old enough to play more difficult pieces. Until then, he'll settle for twinkle twinkle little star.

★ Introduces his children to ballet.

★ His children have a variety of Russian-originating toys, such as Matryoshka/Russian nesting dolls, rocking horses etc.

★ Brings his children to Russia at least once, specifically to Moscow (irl Dostoevsky was raised in Moscow, so we're gonna assume BSD Dostoevsky was too) to experience the culture first hand.

★ Teaches his children the foundations of the Russian language. He would like them to fluently speak it one day, though.

★ Cooks Russian food for them like I mentioned and included in the first part.

★ They learn about Russian history from their father, anywhere from Peter the Great to fur trade and all that jazz

Scenario !! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

(as always, p/t is parental title, d/n is daughters name)

Your head leaned against your fist while you watched your husband and daughter focus on their current activity. D/n carefully picked the colors and pigments she would use to color in the white spaces on her paper, and Fyodor just tried to keep things inside the lines. You could see the little girls tongue slightly sticking out from between her lips in concentration, making you smile.

Your daughter went to pick her next color, chosing a pink crayon to fill in the nose of the cat. "Papa, what'd you say your hat was called again? The one you always wear." She clarifies, even though there was really only one hat that Fyodor would wear at all. His eyes don't leave his thin paper as he replies, "A ushanka, and it's from Russia, malyshka." He answered, pushing some of his hair out of his face and behind his ear. "Russia." She says, the sound not unfamiliar, but not common to her either. "Where's that?" She tilts her head upwards, putting her crayon down to signify her attention on her papa. He puts his down too and rests his arms on top of one another.

"Quite far, but it is in both Asia and Europe. That's how big it is, it stretches over two continents." He says, a smile on his face. Her eyes widen a little. "That is really big. Have you been there before?" Her head tilts and she shifts a bit in her seat. "I grew up there, in the city of Moscow." He says, happy with her clear interest in his motherland.

"We should go there for a vacation one day!" She says, a grin on her face. He laughs a little bit and nods. "I agree, we definetly should." He agrees, fantasizing about it in his head. "Is that why you talk like that?" She questions her fathers accent, skittering around the table and climbing onto his lap. He smiles gently and nods. "Yes, it's called an accent, malyshka. I learned English, but Russian is my mother tongue. There are a lot of different pronunciations for certain sounds in Russian." He tells her, his hands fidgeting with the young girls hair. He parts it into three sections and starts to braid it.

"Is everything different there?" Fyodor hums, thinking as he weaves her hair into a gorgeous French braid. "Well, it definitely very different, but I don't think I would say everything." He says. "There are more historical differences than anything, if I do say so myself." She hums in understanding. "Papa, can you teach me some Russian?" She asks, turning her head to look at him with puppy dog eyes, even though she really didn't need them. He smiled and nodded.

"What should I teach you?" He softly questions, looking into the young girls eyes. She thinks for a moment, tapping her pointer finger on her chin. "I don't know! Whatever you want." She says, just excited to hear another language. He chuckles softly. "я не знаю, что тебе сказать" (I don't know what to tell you) he responds, a small grin on his face. Her eyes widen, almost as if she never believed he could speak a different language. You giggle a bit at her reaction.

"What does that mean?!" She excitedly asks, her mind seemingly blown over this. "It simply means I don't know what to tell you." He speaks. "But I can tell you the simple stuff. Like 'да' means yes and 'нет' means no. Hello is 'привет' and goodbye is 'до свидания'."

The young girl takes a mental note of these words. "привет, papa! I think I said that right." She says. You proudly watch the scene go down. Fyodor gives you a similarly prideful smile. "Yes, you did wonderful, malyshka." He praises her, patting her shoulder. "I'll have to teach you more one day." She nods vigorously, very obviously wanting him to. "Yes! And then we can have secret conversations, no one else will know what we're saying!" She snickers, making him smile.

A/n; I hope this is alright!! I loved this request a whole lot. Oh, also, feel free to send in that Halloween request even though it's November now lol

"Oh, ofcourse. That will probably be rather far in the future, though." He says, removing her from his lap and gently patting her back. "That's okay. If I learn more I'll know more words." She states the obvious. "And I'm gonna learn from the best russian ever." She beams, making Fyodor grin. "That's right, sweetheart."

[spacedoutcowgirl]

the miraculous ladybug online masterpost!

(long time in the making)

mlb online! where your favorite miraculous characters are all unhinged on the cesspool known as twitter dot com (i refuse to call it X thats stupid) 

++ reposts are OKAY, just please link them back to my account or give me (spacedoutcowgirl on tumblr) credit for making them. please don’t claim these as your own.

accounts: the main squad, the villains + significant others, undercover(?) lesbians

part 1 , part 2 , part 3 , part 4 , part 5 , part 6 , part 7 , part 8 , part 9 , part 10 , 

part 11 , part 12 , part 13 , part 14 , part 15 , part 16 , part 17 , part 18 , part 19, part 20 , part 21 , part 22 , part 23 , part 24, part 25

bonus posts: halloween episode

link to the fic: dancing once again

FAQ (pls pls pls read these before you send an ask!) 

1. Who knows who’s identities?

→ Luka and Kagami know Marinette’s/Ladybug’s identity. If you’re wondering if Alya knows, thats up to you dear reader. 

2. What are the character’s relationships?

→  sabrina & chloe: dating. on the rocks? on the low? definitely more than friends. i think? 

→  rose & juleka: she was a punk. she did ballet. what more can i say?

→ amelie & nathalie: call amelie miss steal ya girlllllll

3. what app/program do you use for the tweets and where do you get your pictures?

→ i use twinote! it can be found on the app store (idk if on google app store too)

→ for the majority(!) of pictures, i mainly just use pinterest. now, for the ladyblog banner + edits, i make those myself. the banners of nathalie, adrien, and gabriel are also all made by me. thats why they match :)

[whyse7vn]

FUCK MARRY KILL -

[ot7 x reader]

GOLDEN OUT SOON

8 participants - 8 online

———————————

jin: just googled what champagne confetti means and wtf????

jimin: the fact that you had to google that 💀

namjoon: it’s been how long since the song came out?

y/n: wow jin ur really old as hell

💀💀💀💀💀

jin: IM NOT

hobi: bro had to google champagne confetti 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

jin: A LOT of people don’t know what that means

tae: a lot of old people 💀💀💀

jin: can you stop with the skulls

jimin: 💀💀💀💀

jin: i bet jungkook doesn’t even know what that means

jk: i do

why would i say it if i didn’t know it stupid

hobi: jungkook just called u stupid 💀

jin: bye

y/n: i’m turning evil

hobi: yesss feminism 💞💞

jin: how?

y/n: i just am

stay out of women’s business

jk: no guys it’s true she didn’t make me breakfast today 😰😰😰😰😰

yoongi: are you 5? why does she make u breakfast

jk: love

you wouldn’t get it

tae: i love an evil woman

they get me going

if you know what i mean

wink wink

y/n tell them what me you and namjoon did yesterday lol

namjoon: shut up

y/n: if you keep talking i’m going to block

you

tae: baby 💔

she doesn’t mean that guys

jimin: what did you guys do?

y/n: nothing important

hobi: i’ve decided that enhypen are my biggest enemies in life

I HATE THEM

jk: i love jikjin ❤️

namjoon: that was treasure

jk: no

namjoon: ok

jimin: what did enhypen do to you

hobi: exist

i’m not fucking with them

the vibes are off

and there are too many australians

y/n: isn’t it jake the only australian one?

yoongi: why do you know his name

y/n: because i’m nice and remember people’s names

hobi: i’ll literally kill jake like wdym oh naur??? like only i can say that

fucking bitch

UGH

i hate him

jimin: wow ok

namjoon: hoseok be the bigger person here they are kids

hobi: i’m skinny

bigger person?? absolutely not!

jimin: he kinda real for that idk

y/n: LMAO

jin: i’m saying fuck enhypen AND newjeans

hobi: literally

y/n: haters

jimin: NO FUCK NEWJEANS FOR REAL HAD ME DANCING TO ETA

LIKE I’M A MAN

jin: ha

jimin: what’s funny?

jin: 😚

jimin: i literally agreed with you idk why ur trying to fight me rn

jin: i didn’t even say anything

jimin: you didn’t have to

namjoon: ok both of you stop

jk: what if i was a giant meatball

yoongi: that’s nasty

tae: no cuz i get it

are you the meatball or is the meatball you

if you know what i mean

jk: i know

tae: no bro

we know

yoongi: ur sick

both of you are extremely sick

hobi: wish enhypen was sick

with the plague or something

y/n: that’s not nice :(

hobi: i would say i’m sorry

but i’m not

and i don’t lie

i just don’t

jk: guys can we cook rocks

y/n: no

jk: why not

y/n: they are rocks

jk: ok but have you tried

y/n: shut up

jk: yes

hobi: i could so play alexander hamilton

jimin: isn’t that the guy who drives the fast car?

jk: the fast and furious man?

tae: vin diesel????

yoongi: lewis hamilton you fucking idiots

hobi: i’m talking about the founding father

jk: what did ur father find???

namjoon: isn’t that an american thing?

jimin: finding fathers?

y/n: i can find mine

jin: so can i

and last time i’m checked i’m not american

tae: does america think koreans are fatherless?

yoongi: you act like u are don’t blame them tbh

hobi: no guys don’t you know the musical??

jin: about fatherless koreans?

jk: or the car man?

i thought that was a normal movie

did i miss the singing part???

y/n: omg didn’t jimin do a song for fast and furious??

jimin: OMG I DID

namjoon: wait i’m confused

hobi: lin-manuel miranda???

tae: wtf is that

jin: a sauce?

y/n: is that not the lip bite guy

hobi: YES

yoongi: give up hoseok

hobi: i have faith in them

yoongi: don’t

hobi: ur right…

jimin: anyways

tae: thinking hard rn

namjoon: i’m impressed

tae: thank you its the first time i’ve ever done this

i’m fucking with it lowkey

yoongi: go away

tae: can someone ask me what i’m thinking about

jimin: no

tae: since you asked i’ve got a really important question

jk: i’ll answer

tae: no you won’t

hobi: y/n do you want cookies?

y/n: PLEASE

jin: can i have some

hobi: no

jin: :/

tae: y/n

y/n: what

jk: 😍

tae: fuck marry kill

like out of us

rn

this shouldn’t be hard

y/n: ur right it’s not

fuck jin marry hobi kill jimin

tae: just fell to my knees

jimin: kinkyyyy

hobi: 🥺

jin: real!!!!!!!

jk: wait what

yoongi: lol

tae: clutching my chest

namjoon: would you all get a grip

tae: i have a grip on my heart

i’m having a heart attack

ohmygod

it’s fading to black

help me

beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeppp

(i’m dead)

yoongi: thank god

jk: y/n you can kill me yk?

won’t even be mad i swear

like fr

as long as ur thinking of me ha

idm!!!

y/n: but i picked jimin to kill

jk: oh lmao yeah!

you picked jimin

silly me lol

yeah

ur right lol

ha

jimin

yeah

jin: you wanna fuck rn lol?

yoongi: shut up

jin: ur mad

yoongi: i’m not

it’s just a stupid game 😂

jin: EWWW YOONGI JUST USED “😂”

i could throw up

someone kick him

jimin: when you kill me can you do it by strangling me

i feel like that would be the best way to go

namjoon: gross?

hobi: i think we should have a spring wedding that would be SAURRRR cute

y/n: NAURRRR ur so right

jk: ha ha

hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

jimin: wow he’s insane

jk: i could die better than you

i would die instantly

i wouldn’t fight back

i wouldn’t struggle

i would just die

jimin: the struggling is the best part

namjoon: stop

yoongi: fucking freaks

tae: she’s in love with me i know it

y/n: did you not just have a heart attack?

tae: can you kiss me like yesterday

y/n: absolutely not!

tae: wow u want me so fucking bad

jin: yesterday?

jimin: let’s a have threesome

hobi: bro can’t count

jimin: no

i just don’t vibe with jin fr

jin: ur such a hater it’s crazy this is why she’s killing you

and fucking ME

jk: LOL

LOOOOOOOOOOLLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLLLLLLLLLLL

y/n: guys can we talk about rn gojo pls I’m feeling sentimental

namjoon: who is that?

y/n: sighs looks out window

yoongi: don’t let her start

y/n: gojo was a hero to many a enemy to some a teacher to a few but to me

to me gojo was everything

jin: already don’t care can you come over lol

y/n: you want an in person gojo explanation???

jin: if that is what people are calling head now absolutely!!!!!!!!!!!!

y/n: jin i could cry

i’ll be there 😭🙏🏽

tae: me and joon are here

well like more me than joon but he can come if you want

i’m here babe

pls

don’t go to jin

jimin: wtf are you talking about 💀

jk: she didn’t even kill me guys

wow

like

wow

she didn’t even kill me….

hobi: she married me

jimin: ur clearly not on her mind bro

jk: no ur right

why would i even be on her mind anyways

i’m just a stupid idiot that no one loves

or wants to kill

y/n: get a grip

jk: grip gotten

yoongi: ur all dumb as hell

y/n: don’t be mad i didn’t pick you

yoongi: i’m not

jimin: iM nOt

yoongi: she literally killed you stfu

jimin: so?? at least i was on her mind

jk: WHY DIDNT YOU PICK ME OHMYGODDDDDIDJDJJDJJz nxbsjsh

tae: ok but be fr did you forget how to spell my name y/n be honest

tae: my name is tae

y/n: i know!

jk: i thought it was taehyung?

tae: CAN YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP RN WE HAVE BIGGER ISSUES

jk: i’m sorry ur right

no one loves me

hit me in the head with a shovel

tae: ok LOOOOLLL but out of the remaining people who would you fuck?

y/n: joonie 🙏🏽

yoongi: u think ur so funny

y/n: ?

sorry for speaking my truth

jin: literally

tae: NAMJOON FR????

AFTER ALL I DID

and you pick the man that basically sat behind you the whole time

jin: wait

namjoon: taehyung

tae: WHATEVER

jin: waittttttttttttttttttttt

y/n: let’s not wait actually

jk: y/n are you sure you don’t want to kill me

jimin: shut the hell up

tae: AHHHHHHHZHSHSHSUDUDH

UGHHHHSYSZHSSBDBDN

YOU WANT ME

i hate life

you want me so bad

i know it

FUCK YOU

tae left “GOLDEN OUT SOON”

yoongi: wtf

jimin: wow

hobi: didn’t know it was that srs

jin: i have a theory

namjoon: you don’t

jin: no i definitely do

y/n: shut the fuck up

jin: wow u guys are nasty

yoongi: ????

jk: y/n did you change ur mind?

jimin kicked jk from “ GOLDEN OUT SOON”

—

tags: @piw6n @jvmisvu @birdie-vhs @kooksmilitarywife @hob3loveofmylife @jujubiism @bloopkook @ratchetpizza1 @myntalks @arloo00 @watamotee33 @y2kcy3brz @taiwan0618 @indigobsessed @freyadanvers @gguksbeloved @raetf @bbsantc @winuvs @medicinemybish @bxnnyhime @leleluvsbts @baetukki @zyaaaszn @thelilbutifulthings @yojaschill @k4ngelz @junghoseokshusband