#and that coming into work every day was always a risk factor

[its-your-mind]

JUST FOR THE RECORD.

the way Madam E talks is in fact Incredibly Extra (alex said somewhere that yeah duh that was the point) but also.

as a person who sits in a pretty diverse classroom of 12-14 year olds all day.

some of the Kids These Days do in fact talk like that. All the time. To everyone. No matter what. Front-facing camera not required.

The other day one of the individual-units-of-chaos-for-whom-I-am-responsible-for-8-hours-each-weekday asked if I had done anything fun over the weekend and I said "oh I just went for a short hike in the national park" and he straight up did this:

like. LIKE. madam E's tone. her inflection. her little trill on the end of words... some of the slang was a tad dated (though that does sort of make sense, if Madam E is ~5-10 years older than my gremlins-disguised-as-preteens) but I literally got whiplash every three minutes because all I could visualize for Madam E was a rotating cast of the like. Seven of my kiddos who talk EXACTLY like that.

which I WILL SAY. did make the horror hit home Just A Bit More Than Usual.

[ohbo-ohno]

Kinktober Day 15 - Noncon

Ghost x Reader - 4.6k (on ao3)

summary: You find yourself cornered in a Maze of Mirrors. (Reader POV)

cw: noncon everything, face fucking, pussy slapping, degradation, kinda a wedgie? like a front wedgie? is that a thing?, orgasm denial

note: if you like this (or hate it but like the concept) read Halloween Haunt by Harley Laroux <3 her erotica is top tier

You’ve always loved Halloween - always been the kid with the scariest costume in class, always had the house decorated with uncomfortably realistic decorations. When your sorority sisters dressed up as black cats and sexy witches, you spent hours painting the most realistic zombie makeup you could. (Your sisters complained for months that you ruined the pictures, but the frat boys had all thought your makeup was far more interesting than theirs. God, you do not miss college.)

Regardless, you’ve always been known to love any and everything scary. There’s something about the thrill of a scare - the creeping horror as you start to realize what’s coming, the ultimate reveal - that always gets you a little squirmy in your seat. Your first crush was Skeet Ulrich in Scream - specifically the scene where he’s covered in blood, licking his fingers. 

You get all those ooey-gooey good scared feelings as your friend drags you through the decently crowded fairgrounds. The actual fair - the one that comes yearly, that no one ever calls anything but the fair - had left only two weeks ago, so this travelling fair had set things up in mostly the same arrangement and, you suspect, to trick certain people into thinking they were the same company.

You’ve already forgotten what your friend said the event was called. She hadn’t needed to give many details to convince you - you heard travelling circus, horror themed, interactive workers, and you were in. The branding isn’t very strong anyways, the only place the name was displayed was the entrance booth, and none of the workers seem to wear any sort of logo, so you don’t feel too forgetful for letting it slip your memory so easily.

You’re not very impressed with the fear factor so far. You hadn’t done too much makeup (hadn’t wanted to risk being mistaken for a cast member) but since it’s the night before Halloween you’ve got a half-done costume on - a clown. Just some white face paint, black lips, and overdrawn triangles around the eyes, a little smudged to make it look like you’ve been chasing someone down and working up a sweat. Your hoodie and tennis skirt look a bit out of place, but you’d wanted to be comfortable since you hoped you’d be spending your night running from actors.

But even a face full of makeup feels like it might’ve been too much effort for this place. Most of the costumes look like they’re from Party City at best - some of them even look very lazily hand-made - and none of the workers seem particularly interested in scaring people. Still, the crowd is easily amused and even a wave or a feint towards a customer has shrieks ringing in the air every few minutes.

You sigh a little disapointedly as you and your friend linger on the edge of the fairgrounds, off to the side and in the dark so you don’t have to deal with the crowd. She pulls out a cigarette and offers you her light.

“I’m sorry,” she says, lighting the stick between your teeth when you lean forward. “I really thought it would be scarier than this. Some of the posters…” she exagetates a shiver. “I thought they’d at least have better costumes.”

You eye a man in a werewolf mask across the pathway, pissing into the dirt. He’s got a flannel and jeans on, and the mask is a little bit crumpled like he pulled it out of a Walmart bin this morning. You’d bet money the flannel was just a happy coincidence he noticed when he showed up for work.

“Yeah,” you sigh, blowing out a lungful of smoke and watching the actor try not to get his dick stuck in his zipper. “Not really your fault, though, these things always look scarier in the ads. Wanna get out of here soon?”

You pass the cigarette to her. “In a bit,” she replies. “I want to try and find some food first. You hungry?”

You shake your head with a grunt. “I wouldn’t trust anything cooked here, honestly. Might just pick up something on the way back.”

She passes you the cigarette for one last breath. “Well I’m too hungry for that. You good on your own for a bit?”

You crouch down a moment to stub out the cigarette, leaving the butt in the gravel. “Yeah, sure. Might see if these fun houses have anything worth seeing in them.”

“You should!” She smiles over her shoulder at you as she starts off to a more well-lit section of the fair. “You never know, maybe they stick the real scares in there!”

You give her a final wave and shout, “Here’s hoping!” at her back as she leaves. 

You linger outside for a little longer, scanning the few structures nearby to decide which one you want to waste a few tickets on.

There’s a Freak Show, but you already know you’d be horribly disappointed if you went in there, something labeled a “House of Horrors” that you’re sure is as much a scam as the freak show, and a few games that have cheap prizes lined up above them.

Across from you, with no lights around it and just one attendant - slumped over, hopefully sleeping - at the front, is a House of Mirrors. Figuring it’s the least likely to be a waste of time (and knowing the kid won’t wake up to charge you), you head over to the building.

The closer you get the more you worry about if he’s asleep or dead, but his snores rattle the little tickets resting on his desk so you figure he’s just a slacker. It’s almost too easy to get by him with all your tickets safe in your pocket. There’s no one else around the darkened corner of the fairgrounds, but you’re quite sure no one would bother snitching on you this late at night. All the parents with little kids left hours ago, leaving mostly teenagers and adults of varying ages left to wander the park.

There’s music playing from speakers that you can’t see, an old clown-themed song that sounds like it’s playing on a scratched up DVD. You’re pleasantly surprised as you make your way through the dusty lobby and into the main section of the building, creatively labeled MAZE OF MIRRORS.

Their branding could definitely use some work, but you’ll give them points for ambience - the lights are turned so low that it’s nearly too dark to see, making all of the mirrors even more difficult to spot. You find yourself a little spooked as you start to make your way through the maze, grinning to yourself.

It’s a shockingly difficult maze, you quickly discover. The music is so loud in some spots that you can hardly hear your thoughts, and so faint in others that you think it might be turned off. The maze itself is a series of either tight, tiny hallways or large open rooms. Whoever designed it clearly knew how to take advantage of the space they were given, the maze feels ten times bigger than it looked on the outside as you wander through.

You know the trick to mazes - keep one hand on the right wall and eventually you’ll find your way out - but it’s fun to just wander around the place, so you let yourself get stuck wandering in circles. You’re glad your friend isn’t here to see how many times you manage to walk into a mirror fully confident that it’s not there, only to whack yourself in the face. For how low maintenance the rest of the fair is, you’re surprised that the hall of mirrors is what they focus their upkeep on.

You’ve been in the maze for about five minutes when you see him.

He scares the shit out of you at first. You spot him behind you in a mirror - one you’d just walked into, which is the only reason you can see well enough to notice him - standing at the entrance to the hallway you’d turned down. He’s clad in all black, except for the skull mask over his face. You think he’s just something taped onto the wall with the way that he blends in, but then that mask titls to the side and you’re struck with the bone-deep knowledge that you’re being watched.

“Shit!” You shout when it first registers that he’s not a piece of paper, one hand coming up to clasp at your erratically beating heart while the other steadies you against the mirror. He doesn’t move past tilting his head a bit further, and after a moment you relax.

You don’t turn around, but you study him a bit in the mirror. It’s too dark to see much more than the outline of his body, but he’s big. He looks like he’s wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans with the mask, and he must be wearing gloves to cover his hands since you can’t see them.

You huff out a laugh as you let both of your hands fall to your sides.

“You got me good,” you call, glancing over your shoulder. You almost jump again - he’s closer than you’d realized, but too far away for you to touch. “I didn’t even see you follow me in here.”

He doens’t say anything. You turn around more fully, leaning back against the mirror and crossing your arms across your chest.

“You gonna start chasin’ me now?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow. You’re playing up the sass, but it’s always fun to mess with theme park employees.

The man takes a few steps forward, heavy boots thudding against the cheap wood flooring. He really is an intimidating bastard, far scarier than any of the other actors you’d seen so far.

“Well?” You call out, standing up from your spot. “Do I get a head start?”

Still no answer. He rolls his head on his neck, then steps to the side and walks into one of the connecting hallways without sparing you a glance. When you step closer to see which direction he’s chosen, he’s already gone.

You huff another laugh to yourself, shaking out your limbs and bouncing a few times on your toes.

Now that you know there’s someone in here with you, the thrill of a scare is starting to get you worked up. You hope they don’t have any rules against physical contact between actors and customers, just imagining the skeleton man tackling you has shivers running up your spine.

You don’t bother to be any quieter as you keep wandering through the maze. You bump into just as many mirrors, continue to question the speaker placement, and keep an eye out for any skeleton masks lingering behind you.

You see him a few more times, always behind you, always just out of reach. He gets progressively closer everytime you spot him. You're reminded of the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who - every time you look away, he gets closer.

It’s fun. More fun than you’ve had all night.

He finally catches up to you what you guess is about half an hour later. Youre just turning another corner, thinking about how it’s been a bit since you’ve seen your shadow, when a hand plants itself firmly between your shoulder blades and shoves.

You’re sent to the ground with a cry, palms scraping against the floor. There’s a gloved hand collaring your throat before you can think to do much more than catch your breath, hauling you up and holding you in the air.

Your eyes fly to the mirror less than a foot away, staring wide-eyed at the image reflected.

There’s you, in your messy clown makeup and hoodie, being held up by a giant swath of black behind you. He’s not ducking down at all, his feet planted on either side of your splayed legs as he towers above you. The way you’re being held up, your head doesn’t even reach his belt buckle. The contrast of your shock and discomfort to his plastic mask has your thighs clenching, just a bit.

He doesn’t duck lower, just tilts his head in that now-familiar way of his and pulls you a little further up. His hand is absolutely massive, thumb resting beneath one ear and his fingers resting below the other. You choke a bit as you’re lifted, knees scrambling beneath you.

This close to the mirror you can see his eyes - bright blue, surrounded by black paint, and staring back into yours.

He lowers his head, his free hand tugging your hair until you lean back and look straight up. The hand on your neck shifts to hold you in that position, his other hand lifting to pull the black part of his mask up.

He’s white, with thin lips and a broad jaw. You pant as you stare up at him, incapable of processing what’s going on.

His jaw works for a moment, lips twitching, and before you realize what he’s about to do you feel something wet splatter against your cheek.

He spit on you. Who the fuck does that? Being tackled and manhandled is one thing but spitting? You recoil reflixivley, lips curling as you reach up to try and wipe disgusting liquid off.

“What the fuck-” You start, but before you can even finish your sentence you’re yanked forward by your neck.

You yelp as you’re thrown from between his thighs, hips twisted awkwardly and head slamming back against the mirror. You cry out at the sharp pain at the back of your skull, but before you can think of doing anything there’s a hand around your neck again, a body crouched in front of you - over you - keeping you from doing anything.

You gape up at the actor, panting and surprised. None of the other employees even got close to touching customers - half of them didn’t even look like they wanted to be there - what the hell is this guy’s problem? Does he just take his job way too seriously

He’s far too close to you now, your nose nearly brushing where his shoulder be, his boots on either side of your thighs, his chest pressed so close that you can’t do anything with your hands.

The hand not around your neck comes up to your cheeks, grabbing them both in one hand and pinching until your lips pucker up. You squirm, letting out a noise of surprise and pain when his thumb and pointer finger dig in between your teeth to force your mouth open. One eye squeezes shut at the ache, but there’s nowhere for you to go with him caging you in.

This time when he spits, it lands right in the little hole he’s made for himself. With how close he is, you see the way his lips twitch up in the corners.

You try your best to get out from under him, hands pushing at his shoulders and legs desperately kicking. But he’s like a statute above you, hard as stone and immoveable. 

He leans so close that his lips nearly brush yours, meeting your glare with a spark of amusement. 

“Like how it tastes?” He purrs, chest rumbling against yours.

You make a noise somewhere between offended and annoyed, trying to throw yourself every which way for even an inch of freedom. All you manage is a tighter grip on your jaw and neck, leaving you wincing.

“Lots more where that came from,” he promises.

It’s insultingly easy for him to manhandle you, and you curse all the times you swore to yourself you’d finally start taking self-defense classes. You can barely manage a single blow, and when your hands or feet do make contact he doesn’t even flinch.

There’s absolutely nothing you can do as you’re wrestled to the floor. He gets you flat on your back then kneels over your head, his knees so close that you worry he’ll squeeze them together and pop your head like a berry.

He doesn’t give you a chance to sit up, planting one heavy hand in the center of your chest and leaning his weight forward, knocking the air out of you. You finally regain the ability to speak when his other hand moves to his belt, undoing it right above your face.

“What are you-? No, no, get the hell off me!” You shout, desperately pushing at his arm and trying to get enough leverage with your feet to squirm away. “Don’t you fucking dare- help! Somebody help!”

Your screams go ignored, blending right in with that stupid clown music and bouncing off the mirrors just to come straight back to your ears. Your noise doesn’t deter him at all, and he’s got his belt off and jeans yanked down despite your resistance. 

“No, no, no, don’t- stop, please, you can’t-” you gasp, eyes flying wide as you find yourself staring up at his cock above you. 

He doesn’t give you any warning, just grabs your jaw, holds it open, and sheathes himself down your throat.

Your limbs spasm, every instinct in your body screamin to get away as he slips right past your gag reflex. You’re terrified that you’ll vomit and choke on his cock, the fear dousing you in icy cold and leaving you limp for a minute. All you can think about is breathing around the intrusion in your throat, finding some way not to suffocate and die on a sticky mirror maze floor.

“Finally,” you hear him grunt from above you. He grabs both of your wrists, easily ignoring your weak pulls and tying them together with his belt. “Somethin’ to shut you up.”

You try and make a sound around his cock, yanking your hands away and panicking even more when you feel how firmly tied they are. You make another sound, insitively trying to cry out even with something stuffed in your mouth.

He moans above you, lowering himself to his elbows over your body. “Yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Mouth feel’s fuckin’ heavenly.”

You go silent, determined not to give this piece of shit anything he wants. Tears pour down your temples and across the tops of your ears, and your throat burns.

His hips move slowly against your face, grinding himself as deep as he can get before pulling out just a few inches and sliding back in. He’s got an unfairly large cock, and there’s already an ache developing in your jaw from just seconds held so wide open.

His foreskin catches on your teeth when he pulls the whole way out just to fuck back in, and you’re sharply reminded of the fact that you have teeth.

When his cock bottoms out, his balls resting against your eyes, you bite down, praying it’s enough to break skin.

It’s not. Instead of blood pouring into your mouth and a screaming man falling off of you, you hear the man snarl, pulling his dick out entirely and slamming it back down your throat so harshly that it feels almost like he’s punched you in the face.

“No fucking teeth,” he snaps above you, and you feel his weight shift back onto his knees, then his hands grab at your thighs and throw them open. He flips your skirt up and before you can think to bite down again lands a stinging slap against the gusset of your underwear.

You nearly scream around his cock, hips snapping closed to try and smother the pain. He only growls another sound, using one hand to hold you open and the other to rain down a series of progressively harder smacks.

Your breath hitches as you sob, hardly able to get any air in around his thrusts as he starts them back up again. Every time he buries himself to the hilt inside of you, he lands another hit to your poor pussy. You can’t help but wail around him.

“There it is,” he moans, the sound loud and unrestrained. “God you feel good screamin’ around my cock. Good fuckin’ hole, huh?”

He punctuates the last four words with slaps, leaving his length inside your throat and going back to that horrible grinding against your face. You go silent again, using all of your willpower to keep from screaming. What little thought is left in your head is used to figure out how best to breathe through your nose without choking on snot.

He doesn’t smack you again, but you feel his fingers trace around the edges of your panties. Your hips wiggle against your will, just trying to get away from the violation. One of your legs is pinned to the floor by the thigh, but the other oscillates between going limp and trying to get leverage and force your body up.

His fingers hook around the gusset of your underwear, but before you can even worry about him touching you there, he pulls them up towards your body.

He does it with such force that you’re left squealing, hips flying off the ground to try and lessen the pressure against your clit. His hand pulls so far up that you feel it resting nearly at your belly button. You can’t help the little gasping, gagging noises as he starts to thrust in and out of your mouth again.

You hear - you feel - him laugh, swaying his hand from left to right. Your hips try to follow naturally, just desperate to alleviate any of the pressure you can.

“Like a little puppet,” he murmurs, yanking even further up, moaning when you scream.

He lets them go only a few thrusts later, big hand smoothing the fabric down over your cunt. You can feel that it’s stretched out, a little looser around the meat of your pussy, and the thought only makes you cry harder.

But you go silent again. It’s the one thing left in your control - even pinned to the floor, hands tied, legs useless, mouth stuff, you can decide how much noise you make.

He doesn’t like that. He groans a little when you go quiet again, tapping your thigh sharply.

“No, come on, make your little noises again. Feels real nice on my cock.”

This time you’re ready for the smack against your vulva, and you remain silent. You stay silent for the next three too.

His hips work with a little more force again, balls smacking against your face and leaving you to squeeze your eyes shut. After the next slap his hand doesn’t lift again, just rubs over your vulva slowly.

It’s pure luck on his part that he happens to rub over your clit. It’s a pure lack of luck on your part that you moan at the sudden and unexpected pleasure, completely taken off guard.

He stills above you, then slowly repeats the movement. You’re helpless to the little whimpers coming from your throat, and you curse the fact that you’ve always been loud during sex. He zeros in on exactly how to rub your clit unreasonably quickly, fingers sure through the fabric of your underwear.

“That what you need?” He rumbles a laugh above you. “Pain won’t make you noisy, but pleasure will? I can work with that.”

Before you can even begin to question what that means, your underwear are tucked to the side, and there’s a face buried in your pussy.

He doesn’t bother taking any time to explore or try and learn your body, just dives tongue-first to your clit. His technique of lick first, figure out what feels good later unfortunately works on you, and you’re left writhing beneath him, eyes rolled back in pleasure and moans muffled.

He groans agaisnt you, too, lips vibrating against your clit in a horrible and delicious way. “There you go.” You can barely hear him over the sounds of your own choking, especially with his own voice muffled in your folds. “That feels good, keep going.”

You don’t want to, but the magic he works against your clit leaves you no choice. You can’t help the hitched cries spilling from your lips, even if they make you cry all that much harder as you hear them.

He doesn’t take much longer to come, and you’re torn between resenting the fact that it’s your sounds that get him off and being glad that he does so he can get off of you.

He comes with a loud groan, sent right into your cunt and dragging you far too close to an edge you do not want to see, and sends thick ropes right down your throat. It’s almost a kindness that you can’t taste him, only have to swallow as quickly as possible so you don’t choke. The movements of your throat only draw out his orgasm though, and you’re locked in a terrible cycle for what feels like an eternity.

He doesn’t get you off. You’re not sure if you’re thankful or not.

You gasp when he finally pulls out of your throat, taking uninhibited breaths for the first time in far too many minutes. You can’t shut your jaw from the pain, but you also can’t kick your legs when he kneels up more fully.

He’s silent as he takes back his belt, and no matter how much you beg your arms to move, they remain still on your stomach. He shifts off of you, and you whine wordlessly when he grabs a handful of your hair, wiping his flaccid cock off in it.

Still, you don’t move.

He stands and redoes his belt silently, the jingle loud even with the clown music still playing. You stare up at him, and he holds eye contact with you. For some reason, you can’t look away.

He crouches down again before he leaves, and you can’t help but flinch away. He doesn’t touch you sexually again, though, only reaches out and pushes your jaw closed with two firm fingers.

You hate that he still has the mask pulled up, because it means you can see his smirk.

“That was fun. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.”

He’s gone before you manage to understand what he’s said, and the tears start all over again when you do.

—

It takes you a while to scrape yourself off of the floor. You only catch sight of yourself in one mirror before you stare at the ground.

Your makeup is ruined, teartracks running down your temples and both cheeks. There are smudges along your jaw where his hands grabbed. Your lips are swollen and red. It could not be more obvious what’s just happened to you.

You plant one hand on the wall to your right, and keep your eyes firmly planted on your sneakers as you leave the maze. You feel almost detached from yourself, unable to truly understand what happened, what it means.

The throbbing between your thighs is distracting. You worry you might chafe from how soaked your panties are.

It doesn’t take long to find your friend once you finally make it out. She takes one look at you and laughs, teases you about having fun without her. You can’t bring yourself to correct her, and she picks up on your tone quickly, dropping the subject.

The two of you walk silently to your car. You hate it, but you can’t help but scan every actor. Thankfully - or maybe not thankfully? You don’t know anymore - none of them are even close to as big as the masked man in the hall of mirrors was.

You tuck your hands beneath your armpits as you finally make it to the parking lot, walking as quickly as you can get away with without running. Your limbs go a little looser as you get to your car, mind relaxing as it recognizes how close you are to safety. 

You freeze when you finally make it to the driver’s side door, lungs going still and heart beating so quickly you worry it’ll pound right out of your chest.

There, sitting in the driver’s seat, is a skeleton mask sewed onto a balaclava.

[yourlocalracoon404]

Fear and Anger with a cuddly/clingy S/O HC!! (separate)

@hearts4mizu

hihi! uhh idk if requests are open, but if they are, then may i request anger and fear (separate) with a clingy/cuddly reader? ^^

Pairings: Fear/Anger x GN Reader (emotion not specified)

Warnings: None

Requested: Yes/No

A/N: Reader will be referred to as Y/n or [Emotion] due to them not being any solid emotion and so you can insert any type pf emotion yourself! ^^ (please excuse any mistakes in spelling and stuff, english is not my first language)

[not proofread and please don't translate or copy/steal my work]

Fear

Probably really jumpy when you first started hugging him without announcing yourself 😭 screamed every time you just hugged bor guy didn't see that coming

you'd have to litterly announce that you're there or he would lose his soul

but! he did get used to it, he just assumed that youre near him all the time so the shock factor went down like... 80/85% for him?

"AAHHH! [Emotion]! where did you come from?!" "I'm standing here since like an hour-"

he did also start to get less scared and anxious when you're near so win-win! ^^

very stiff while getting hugged

very, very, very easy to fluster

Anger

slightly aggitated at first because he didn't know when you were next to him and he didn't want to hurt you accidentally while he blew up, literally

got used to it after like a few days?

bro just also wants some love he just doesn't know how to recieve or give it :( (he cant always be the rage guy y'know?)

much, much, much more calmer when you're near becase your usually hugging him or leaning on top of his head and in risk of getting burned

"babyyy?" "yes?" "I Love youu~" "... I Love you too, Sunny.."

very warm and cuddly

get flustered relly fast mans not used to gentelness too much

i hope you guys like this and i hope you guys have an great day/evening/night/whatever and don't forget to eat and drink enough!! ^^ <3

[amaranthineghost]

DOUBT SEEPS INTO ME AND I CAN’T GET IT TO STOP (BUT YOU CAN) ( charles leclerc. )

charles leclerc x reader

uncertainty plagues her mind, and self-sabotage looms over her shoulder, as if its whispering in her ear to tell her it’s a bad idea. he still manages to be the voice on top of all her doubts at the end of the day.

authors note: literally wrote this because this is how i felt while i waited for the days to pass so i could ask the guy i like for his number. mf got me feeling in love and shit, listening to mitski and lana del rey, writing fucking poems. liking a guy is the best and worst thing ever. gonna work on other things soon tho!

THE THOUGHT OF LOVE twisted her stomach into knots. even the mere thought of simply asking a guy for his number made her body churn with anxiety and the looming feeling of rejection held over her head.

relationships never lasted for her because she wouldn’t let them, the idea of getting too attached and the possibility of it shattering her heart was too great to risk it. she would watch from afar, stalk his socials, but never had the guts to approach him, or even look his way.

all throughout high school, she dreamed of a relationship that others around her had, but she lacked everything they didn’t. social skills were never her things, and confidence was something she always lacked. she just wanted to be a teenage girl in love, and she wouldn’t get that. she wasn’t sure she ever would.

she felt as though she was unloveable. even though it was so easy for her to give love, it was far harder to accept it. if anything, it was impossible for her to even imagine doing so. her trust was a thin thread that always seemed to snap. no matter how many times she tried to re-tie it, it always came back undone.

it wasn’t like she never liked any guys, boy she did, but the chase factor was a part of every single one. she never had guys come to her, and she would never go to a guy. still, she chased and chased, yet she never caught up. she worried she never would.

she worried she would never experience the thrill of being in a relationship, all because that thrill was shrouded with anxiety, uncertainty and distrust, though the distrust mostly lied within herself. deeply rooted in her brain was the idea that she wasn’t capable of ever accepting she could be loved, that someone would ever be so patient, understanding, and wanting.

she wanted it so bad, yet she felt like this. it felt stupid, she felt stupid. she felt like a walking contradiction because she couldn’t make up her mind. her heart wanted one thing, and her mind shut it out. a defense mechanism that she felt could never disable, that tinkering with it would only worsen the intensity. deep breaths only temporarily stopped the nausea that plagued her stomach, but only giving the man, the one she so desperately craved to be with, up would change how she felt.

she was a hopeless romantic at heart, but at mind, she was never going to let love in. as much as she held out her accepting arms, vines adorned with thorns grew through her veins, lacing her fingertips with sharp edges to cut back anyone who would try to get close.

the week leading up to finally getting his number went by so painfully slow; she had built herself up too high in those days. she worried she would come crumbling down before she even managed the chance of getting close. from afar she watched, glances exchanged and she gushed to her friends, but she could never be so sure that they were meant for her. after all, she was just an employee for ferrari, he was an athlete in the sport.

her friends were unsure if the brunette was the right fit for the girl, if he was even attainable at all. he was known for being a red flag among fans, he literally drives for a team based around the color red. she didn’t care, she was convinced he was right for her, but still she was scared she wasn’t his type. she knew he wasn’t taken, his entire private life, which was never even private to begin with, was broadcasted across the internet. if he had found someone new, she would know, and for now he hadn’t.

oh, she desperately wanted to be a wag. who wouldn’t? her job made it complicated though, she worked under the team, she didn’t have authority anywhere, she was a nobody. she never knew how she managed to catch his striking gaze to begin with.

she thought she would’ve looked like an idiot, an awkward, nervous girl in front of the charles leclerc, prince of ferrari. she felt like one, maybe she was, but the way he looked down at the shorter girl gave her the courage she needed to mutter the words she had thought about saying everyday for the past week.

“uh—could i get your number?” she barely managed out, she was nervous, it was evident in her tone and the way her voice was up an octave. his brunette hair and green eyes were enchanting, she had fantasized about him for that week. she even went as far as making a playlist to listen to to occupy her time, laying around when she wasn’t at her job. she had never been this lovesick for a guy in her entire life until she first laid eyes on him.

the sick feeling in her stomach became all too familiar, she hated it at first, but now she began to feel comfort in the sickness, and began to miss it over the weekend. the mopey love feeling of hopelessness while listening to lana del rey, or mitski. the fantasization of how the scenario would play out in her favor etched itself into her brain.

the moment of silence was harsh, she could feel the rejection coming. she braced herself for it, holding her breath.

he looked down at her with those damn eyes, a certain gleam in the light reflection over his pupils, part of her knew his response before he did. a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he pursed his lips to hide the smile forcing its way on his face.

he couldn’t deny the pretty girl in front of him, he could tell she dolled herself up for this, for him. he wouldn’t let her efforts go to waste, but that wasn’t the sole reason he didn’t reject her. her confidence sparked something inside of him.

he had plenty of girls who threw themselves at him, buying him drinks, or whatever they could to get their hands on him and themselves in his bed. she was different, a breath of fresh air in the fog. her awkward nervousness was endearing. he hadn’t meant to leave her hanging so long, but he admired her.

his smile brightened, looking down at the phone she clutched so tightly, her skin began turning white. “of course, darling.”

she certainly hadn’t expected to hear the words and yet she did. she was so unprepared, scrambling through her phone. should she write it in her notes app? should she go ahead and shoot him a text? what should she send? should she send a ‘hi’ text? should she send him an imessage game? the music she had listened to throughout the week hadn’t prepared her for this.

his brow raised at her, his arms crossed in front of him as he watched her panic slightly. he was so patient, waiting for her cue that she was ready to take his number and save it in her phone. he recited the string of numbers to her and she smiled internally. she was so giddy inside, yet she couldn’t show it. she couldn’t show how much this excited her, but she would talk her friend’s ear off at her actions because for once she had done something to take a step forward towards a relationship she wanted.

“thank you!” she squeaked out, mentally facepalming—she sounded a little too grateful for something as simple as his phone number. she couldn’t wait to run far away and into the corner of her work office, hiding behind her job position.

he smiled as she scurried off, looking at his phone as it lit up at the movement. he knew to expect the text from the girl later, not now though, because he could feel the nervousness radiating from her body.

later that night, he had received the very text he had been waiting to see. an unsaved number with a blank contact photo he knew was her without reading the contents of the message. his stomach fluttered at the words in the texts, and the following imessage game, 8 ball. it was oh, so endearing to him.

the text contained a simple ‘hiii’ and a simple reminder that she was the girl who asked for his number—as if he had been handing his number out to other people. he texted back, it was simple enough because he didn’t want to scare her off, but he also didn’t want her to overwhelm with worry that he just wasn’t interested in her. he was.

simple texts throughout the day, telling each other what they’re doing, company lunches whenever they had time. flying her out to watch his races, inviting her to his driver's room to watch the race from there because the possibility of their relationship becoming a reality was just a secret for now. the entire process he was just so understanding, it baffled her. he was gentle, like a dog laying their head in your lap, so blissful and light. days he would lay across a couch with his head in her lap as he let her mess with the strands of his dark, brunette hair. she commented on different, potential haircuts his mother could give him and he chuckled at the ridiculous ones she suggested.

something so simple showed her the trust he gave her, the trust he was slowly earning.

slowly, they hung out more. instead of spending his time in clubs after podiums, he spent time with her in his drivers room, or a restaurant about to close—he would leave a hefty tip for the inconvenience.

eventually, she would appear in his garage, watching with a headset on her ears, simply posing as a ferrari employee holding more importance than she really did—except to charles, she held all the importance in the world.

she never knew how he didn’t get pricked by the thorns adorning her body, how not a scratch tainted his even skin, not a drop of blood.

maybe it was because he knew that behind the thorns that laced her body, waiting was a rose. a reward so sacred and so fragile. to be shielded from the world in his very arms was her trust, her love, her mind, her thoughts, her everything.

in his arms, she felt everything she longed for; security, openness, trust, loyalty. he showed her what her heart was worth.

—

taglist (found here): @decafmickey @slut4lrh @kaa12 @taylorslovesswifties13 @sbella13 @nhlfs @beskardroids @hiireadstuff @lorenica @delululeclerc @c-losur3 @casperlikej @thearchieves @soamericn

proofread by @foreveralbon <333

[strlingsav]

Sequel to this fic, inspired by @simpforghost, asking if I'd planned on making part two. Couldn't resist after you mentioned it. Thanks for the love 🫶🏻

Drive: Two

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

You'd arrived at base- a towering, intimidating fortress surrounded by harsh metal walls and barbed-wire fences.

After your encounter with Ghost, you knew nothing between you would be the same. Not the way you saw him, talked to him, even looked at him. Now you knew how he felt, better yet how you felt. It wouldn't be easy putting on a facade, especially in front of your Captain and troop-mates.

You'd dug yourself into a hole, acting without thinking of the consequences that would come after. You'd forgotten the very real emotional factor that would follow. He'd seen the most intimate parts of you, there was no returning from that.

You weren't delusional. You knew Ghost wasn't a family man, wouldn't be getting down on one knee to propose, would never take you on a date, but the intimate interaction was there to stay. You'd never be able to rid your mind of how his hands and lips felt on your body, how he felt inside you.

You were beyond paranoid, worried you'd give it away with the wrong look or words. You could never go back to the awe-struck, helpless Sergeant you'd been before, waiting for a crumb of attention from your Lieutenant. He was pursuing you.

You climbed out of the SUV, falling in stride with your Lieutenant and the two of you wandered through the security gates, toward the doors.

You peered at Ghost through your periphery; he was stoic and cold as usual. You were a bit relieved, though somewhat disappointed. It looked all too easy for him to appear unaffected beside you, as if he hadn't had his head buried between your thighs a few hours ago. You envied him for that.

"You're starin' again," He commented, breaking the silence.

You huffed quietly, resuming your silent march to the entrance.

Once at the doors, he grabbed it for you. You strode through first, but not before he leaned in, his voice in your ear as he said, "Wasn't lyin' when I said we'd pick it up later."

You knew. You knew he didn't lie. It was another thing you'd picked up on from your months of surveying. It was fucking infuriating the way he always said exactly what he meant, and in this case, both infuriating and arousing. It bit at your spine, a lick of heat forcing a flush over your chest and cheeks. Your gaze was trapped by his eyes for a few moments, like the world only existed for the two of you, before it was pulled away by Price's voice.

"Where the hell have you two been?"

"Had to stop for a piss, Sir," Ghost answered, saving you from Price's wrath.

He hummed, "Right. Laswell's waitin', let's get on with it."

The briefing was short, though detailed. Surely, Price and Laswell would hold another before too long, one with input from General Shepherd who was chomping at the bit. Still, preparation was in the works, a long way to go before there was enough intel to follow Hassan, to infiltrate any part of his operation.

A few days passed and you'd hardly spoken to Ghost, but his gaze followed you everywhere. Watching, waiting for the opportunity to finally have you alone, to take what was his.

You filled the silence with your squadmates instead. You focused solely on the mission, trying desperately to ignore the set of eyes on your back. You could feel him around every turn. No matter the substance of conversation, even Soap's ridiculous sense of humour couldn't quite distract from the heavy weight of anticipation in your stomach.

You almost didn't want to be alone with Ghost, didn't want to put yourself in the position to give in to him. It would just be something else you'd have to hide. You knew he didn't care. He wasn't shy about watching you. A look over your shoulder, and he was there, locked in on you. He wasn't hiding his wandering eyes anymore.

You finished locking up your gear in the armoury, heading to your room to call it a night. Ghost's voice gnawed at you, the assertion that he truly wasn't done with you. It was almost a threat. You felt like a prey animal, waiting for him to finally sink his teeth in and tear out your jugular; it had you on edge.

You exhaled. The hallways were quiet, with flickering lights overhead and a dingy smell that hung in the air. Everyone had gone off to get some sleep.

You hadn't heard the man behind you, stalking you, ready to pounce at any second. Watching your figure from behind already had his fatigues tightening against his thighs.

Just as you reached your door, a strong hand wrapped around your waist, quickly tugging you back into something firm, hard. Your eyes lifted upwards, relief flooding through you at the sight of the white mask.

"L.T.," You sighed. "You scared the fuck out of me."

"Get inside, Sergeant."

In seconds, you entered the small room, large enough only for a bed, chair and table.

"Been waitin' for you, sweetheart."

You exhaled. It was a venomous statement- injected into your veins, running hot and thick with want, right through you until it finally clenched your heart and squeezed. He could see your eyes flutter shut, feel the warmth emanating off your body- he knew he'd made it into your head.

He was looming behind you, a veil of tension between you as you stood still, waiting for the right words, the right action. His hand trailed around the front of your fatigues, toying with the button of your jacket.

"Take it off for me," He said, low and breathy in your ear. "A proper show this time."

Your eyes snapped open.

He moved around you, taking a seat in front of you. He was hunched over, his elbows digging into his thighs, eyes meeting yours with a sober disposition.

This time around, you were nervous. He'd made it a point to get comfortable, to have all his attention on you. You were silently debating within yourself; it wasn't a good idea. It wasn't right. But as your gaze lifted to meet his eyes, any and all inhibitions were shattered. You wanted to please him; there was no denying it. You were willing to push past the shake in your hands if he wanted.

You did as he asked, demanded, peeling the jacket off your arms, followed by your tactical pants, thrown on the table beside you. He inhaled deeply, his eyes wandering your frame, truly absorbing the curves of your body, how fucking beautiful you looked. He'd never admit it, never tell you- but you were as close to Heaven as he'd ever get. Maybe one day, he thought.

You felt bile bubble in your throat. You were pathetic. Undressing for your superior just because he'd asked. It was humiliating, but his short nods of approval overrode your conscience, the sensible part of you that knew it was wrong.

Your bra and panties were plain, but he could've cared less with the way they hugged your body. Truthfully, he didn't even notice. He was too distracted with your hips, your navel, your breasts spilling over your bra ever-so slightly.

He could tell you were breathing heavily, waiting with burning anticipation for his next order. You'd obey, you both knew it.

"Keep goin'," He said, leaning back to unbuckle his belt and trousers.

You inhaled; long and shaky, your hands moving to the clasp of your bra. The straps slid down your arms with ease, and it joined the pile of clothes you'd already removed.

He pulled his briefs down, taking his cock in hand, running slow strokes up and down his cock. It wasn't harsh; they were tortuous, delicate strokes, teasing the pleasure to come. His cock was already painfully hard, blood rushing through every vein with brute force, demanding to be satiated. His eyes scoured every inch of you, pleased with the new sight of your breasts.

You stepped out of your panties, the last layer, standing bare in front of him. His chest rose and fell with urgency, watching you shift from one foot to the other, your hands clasping together.

"Come 'ere," He said.

You pushed your feet forward, making your way to him.

"On your knees."

You gulped, knees hitting the cool floor of the room, quiet and filled with expectations. You knew exactly what he wanted, what you wanted. You shifted upward, your hands gliding over his thighs, staring at him.

"Can I?" You asked, your heart racing in your chest, jugular pounding in your throat.

"Could never say no," He answered, leaning further back, removing his hand as you smiled softly.

Your tongue extended, a light lick over the head of his cock, listening to the strangled exhale that left his mouth. It filled you with pride, unraveling your Lieutenant with such a simple action.

His head fell back as your soft lips wrapped around him, saliva already gathering in your mouth just at the thought of him. You took him deeper in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, tightening your lips around his cock.

Up and down, you moved along the length of his cock, lubricated with your saliva, quiet slurping sounds making his hips jerk up.

His hand reached the back of your head, gentle strokes, before he gathered it from your face. Your eyes lifted to his, appreciatively, then, you felt his other hand join. He used both hands to guide your mouth down his cock, setting a painful pace as he drove his cock into your throat.

You gagged, body lurching forward as your throat tried to push him out. He buckled down, his knuckles white, gripping your hair. Your lungs screamed for air, aching pains in your chest, you sucked in a deep breath through your nostrils. You had no relief, not as he blocked your airways with his thrusts. Only the animalistic growls and grunts coming from him made it worth the burning suffocation.

He finally let up, releasing you from his iron grip, settling back to watch his cock disappear in your mouth, past the swollen wetness of your lips. You exhaled, your eyes watering, stinging, your nose running as you took him even deeper.

"Fuck me," He groaned.

You sat back, sniffling softly, wiping your eyes. He helped you to your feet.

His arms grabbed the neck of his shirt, lifting it over his head, careful not to remove the balaclava. Your eyes drifted to the impressive tone of his abdomen and chest. The dim light didn't do him justice, but you could see the scars that marked his skin, the hills and ridges of pure muscle across his body.

Pleasuring him had already created a longing in your stomach, but seeing his naked torso for the first time was exhilarating. He took his time laying down, his hands on your waist as he moved your body over his. He squished your flesh between his fingers.

"Do me a favour, sweetheart," He said, his hands moving to your breasts as he massaged lightly.

You hummed in response, your head turning as you waited for him to respond.

"Ride my face."

Your eyes widened, swallowing the lump in your throat at the daunting thought of your full weight on his face.

"I-What if you can't breathe?" You asked, furrowing your brows.

"I ain't scared of anything- remember?"

You shook your head, disbelief in your expression, but silently agreeing to the request you'd never received before- not with longterm boyfriends and certainly not with one-night stands.

As you looked at him, you realized he was still wearing his mask.

"The mask," You said. "It's in the way."

"I ain't takin' it off 'til you've soaked it," He said. "Stop stallin' and get up here."

Your pussy was aching, already desperate to feel him inside you, but he managed to make you absolutely miserable with desire.

You sighed, awkwardly shifting up his body, his hands helping to lift you over his face, settling you on the outline of his lips beneath his mask. He let out a short groan.

You inched forward, shifting uncomfortably, when the fabric of the mask over the bump of his nose hit your clit.

"Oh," You breathed, pleasantly surprised with just how good it felt.

He hummed beneath you, practically gloating, and his hands gripped your ass, pushing you forward. He held you down against his mouth, forcing your entire weight over his face, and you let out a sharp exhale.

You didn't waste another second, jerking your hips over his mouth. Your hands settled on the headboard, wrought iron that squeaked with every thrust of your hips, and his eyes watched you from below. He couldn't get enough of the sight, your breasts recoiling with every roll of your hips, your bottom lip tucked under your top incisors, your eyes squeezed shut to focus solely on your pleasure.

You could feel the harsh indents of his fingers on your ass, daring you to stop, to hesitate, and he'd unleash hell.

The texture of his mask on your clit was a bitter-sweet feeling; harsh, but just enough to leave you chasing your high. The curves of his features fit between your thighs just right, like he was made to stay there, live there- and he wanted to.

He could taste you through the mask, smell the pheromones washing over him, making his cock even harder. He shut his eyes for a moment, when he thought you weren't watching, savouring the feeling of you, your presence, lucky enough to have you grinding yourself against his face.

It didn't take long; left to your own devices you could get yourself off in minutes. The overwhelming knowledge that you were riding your Lieutenant's face only made it easier. Maybe there was something wrong with you, twisted or disconnected in the dark parts of your brain, that made you so willing to risk it- to risk your career. But if you really were fucked up, he was right there with you.

You breathed heavily, your abdomen tense as you felt the undeniable force of your orgasm. It ripped through you, shooting sparks of pleasure up your spine. You arched your back, your hands gripping the fabric of his mask, your lips parted as you moaned.

You nearly collapsed, your body weak now that you'd drenched his mask.

He helped you off his face, lifting the mask over his nose.

"Bloody hell," He breathed.

"That was interesting," You nodded, slow, lazy blinks, in a post-climax stupor.

"Could taste you through my fuckin' mask," He was ravaged with desire, disbelief, unbridled lust.

There was a wild look in his eyes, pupils blown, stillness as he caught his breath, not sure how to proceed without breaking you in half.

You, on the other hand, were a bit embarrassed- he'd said before that he liked your taste, but you couldn't help feeling overly aware.

"Be smellin' you for days," He whispered, shifting to climb over you.

"Sorry," You breathed, looking up at him with a fragile expression.

He nearly chuckled, a slight upturn of his lips. "Can't get enough of it, sweetheart."

The small bout of reassurance was comforting, but not nearly enough. However, you didn't care much once he lined his cock up with your entrance. He rubbed it teasingly along your still-sensitive clit, soft breaths across your face as he restrained himself, remembering you weren't nearly as resilient as himself.

His lips met yours, an unexpected surprise, and your hands jumped to wrap around his neck. He used his free hand to wrap your thighs around his waist, encouraging you to squeeze, to hold him there, between your legs.

His tongue slid in your mouth, and you welcomed it with yours, gliding softly, moaning at the taste of yourself on his lips. It was obvious, the crazed desire coursing through him, the driving force behind the hungry kiss, the rough use of his lips and tongue on yours.

You didn't mind; especially not when he slid inside you- filling you. You gasped into his mouth, your fingernails digging into the flesh of his neck, pulling him closer. He stayed still for a moment, relishing in just how fucking soaked you were, how soft the walls of your pussy were. A low groan left his throat, his head falling against your shoulder as he rounded his hips. It was a lazy thrust, and like a gut reaction, your chin tilted back.

The closeness, the intimacy, it was just enough to satisfy the insatiable woman he'd made you into. His head lifted to watch you from his view beside you. He could see the space between your lips, feel your pussy clench every time he dove back in, deep. Your breasts pushing against his bare chest- it drove him insane.

It also terrified him; he couldn't get enough. He was addicted, fallen into a rabbit hole he'd never find his way out of. A part of him didn't mind, not with your delicate hands clawing at his back, leaving long, red scratches over his muscles, or when your thighs clenched his sides. The other part was horrified; he'd been reduced to a pile of feelings, and knew he constantly be chasing the feeling you gave him since first time he met you.

He'd resigned himself to silence since then, not allowing your conversations to get past simple greetings or commands. You'd cornered him, in the car. He had nowhere to flee, nowhere to hide away the part of him that craved you like a fucking drug. You'd hit his soft spot, unintentionally, but you had. Taken him down in one fell swoop, crushed any plans he had to stay away from you. To stay away from the sound of your voice, your laugh, your freshly-showered smell, even your ass in the stupidly-tight combat pants you wore.

Now, he'd seen every part of you. Maybe it would be over, the constant longing, staring, restraint. He couldn't count how many times he dreamed of being buried in your pussy, listening to you call out his name over and over again. He knew exactly how you'd feel, though he didn't expect you to be so damn soft. So soft he could barely keep his hands off you, even while plunging his cock inside you, his palm was on your thigh.

To say he was addicted wouldn't be an exaggeration. He truly couldn't wait until his next fix- he couldn't even hold himself back until you'd gotten in your room. He'd have a hell of a time hiding it from his C.O.

You gasped when his cock grazed your cervix, shifting your hips upward to allow him even deeper. His cock hit your clit, a sensation that caused you to jump against his body.

"God-" You choked out, burying your face in his neck. "God, Ghost."

He grunted in your ear, panting softly with every harsh thrust, his arms encasing you in a possessive hold.

"Simon," He said. "Want you to say my real name," He breathed.

It was just another layer he'd peeled back for you. Maybe another mistake, something else for him to regret. But as you whispered it in his ear, whimpering quietly about how good he felt inside you, he knew he wouldn't. He couldn't. Not when it sounded like that.

"Just like that, please, Simon," You whispered again, thighs shaking with exhaustion, pleasure.

"That right, sweetheart? God," Another deep breath, "You drive me fuckin' mad."

His hips met yours roughly, and he pulled back to watch you, to really examine your face as he stroked his cock inside you.

"Shit baby," Your eyes closed. "More, please, I can take it- just- fuck me harder."

That was all he needed to hear, his stamina increasing tenfold with the way you pleaded for more.

He did as you asked, now driving into you relentlessly, so hard your arm reached up to grab the headboard, stabilizing yourself. You choked out a sob.

"Fuck this cunt is tight," He grumbled, shifting an arm underneath you to hold you closer. "Tell me it's mine- you're mine."

You recognized the beginning of your orgasm, his words driving you over the edge into a blissful asphyxia. There was a steep incline as he kept his pace, even as your pussy squeezed him so tight he thought he'd burst.

"It's yours," You repeated, open-mouth gasps for air through your rigid body. "I'm all yours."

He didn't need anything else, not a guarantee, not a promise. Just the words, the knowledge that you knew. You knew you'd never find anything close to him.

"That's it," He nodded, so close to his orgasm he could feel his testes tighten. "That's my girl," He grunted.

"Cum in me, Simon," You looked up at him, glowing with a layer of sweat and endorphins. "Please."

He couldn't hold out, couldn't deny your request, and released inside you. His thrusts shortened and slowed after that, dragging out his orgasm as his cock drove his cum ever further inside you. He'd think about it days later, remnants of him still inside you.

He pulled out slowly, a harsh exhale over your chest, then an unexpectedly soft kiss on your lips.

He was in shit- mile high shit. But as he pulled back, watching your eyes open, the innocent, satisfied smile on your face, he knew he'd risk it. He'd kill for you, if you just asked.

Once your pulse had settled, and you'd regained consciousness, you stretched. He stood up from your bed, dragging his pants back up, finding his T-shirt on the floor.

"Are you going back to your room?" You asked. You tried to keep your expectations down, tried not to appear too eager.

"Y'want me to stay?" He replied, seeming almost confused.

"You're warm," You lied. Of course it was a lie. The real reason was too humiliating to say out loud.

He shook his head. "Should get back to mine," He said, watching your face fall. Even as much as you tried to hide it, he could see it. He could see right through you.

He liked toying with you, watching the disappointment before he kissed it all better. Only he could do that to you, and you both knew it well.

But, he couldn't resist, never could. The idea of wrapping an arm around you as you slept, feeling your body against his; he craved it. He'd never planned to sleep next to you, but Christ did he ever want to. "Lieutenant's bed is bigger. Come on."

You pursed your lips, once again trying to hide a small smile, but he saw. He always saw. And it made his heart swell.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

But won't the presence of a threat affect the decision? Security is not provided because there is no threat. Giving security even though there is no threat is such a waste… Well, how can I not remember the chase in NY, hahaha

I think there’s some confusion about what it is RAVEC’s decision actually is.

Yes, RAVEC determines whether Harry gets RPOs when he travels to the UK based on his threat profile. But it’s not a blanket decision - eg they didn’t decide once two years ago “no he doesn’t get security” and that’s final for the rest of Harry’s life.

RAVEC’s decision was that Harry isn’t a big enough target to need 24/7 RPO security. Their assessment of Harry’s security/risk/threat profile categorized him as a “Tier 3” (or something like that) which means that his security is determined on a case-by-case basis each time he comes to the UK. Because his security requests are now being assessed on a case-by-case basis, Harry is required to give 35 days advanced notice (or something like that) before he travels to the UK so RAVEC can do a proper security assessment to determine if he needs RPOs or not.

Harry hates this decision and that’s why he’s suing them (or appealing? I forget where he is in the process) to force reconsideration - because Harry is saying “but I am the son of the king and I killed 35 Taliban soldiers so my life is in danger, always has been and always will be” and he doesn’t think RAVEC considered that when they categorized him as “Tier 3.” So he wants them to reevaluate and determine that he (and his heirs too, probably) is eligible for permanent publicly-funded security in perpetuity.

I don’t see this changing under a Labour government. After all, they’d really only have three choices:

Option 1: stick to the status quo, requiring Harry to request RPOs on a case-by-case basis each time he comes to (or wants to come to) the UK and RAVEC doing a new security assessment each and every time to determine whether he should have RPOs.

Option 2: downgrade the RAVEC assessment to remove all of Harry’s eligibility to be considered for RPO security, citing factors like he doesn’t live here; he doesn’t work here; and obviously he has the means to provide for his own security since he’s constantly traveling with them. This would be a blanket “no” decision disqualifying him from any kind of publicly-funded security.

Option 3: upgrade the RAVEC assessment and make Harry a 1 (which I imagine is 24/7 security like William gets) or a 2 (which is probably what Anne and the Edinburghs have, security only when they’re officially representing the King), which allows Harry (and/or his family) to have RPO security any time he’s in the UK, probably without a significant advanced notice period, and probably without a specific need other than “I’m here!”

Option 2 is a no-go because as the son of the king, Harry does actually hold some risk and threat against him and no one wants to be responsible for a preventable situation in which Harry loses his life due to a credible, serious, and preventable security threat. (A made-up paparazzi chase in a city where you can get to own side of the block to the other faster by limping on a twisted ankle than driving is not credible, serious, or preventable.)

Option 3 is a no-go because like I said earlier, what are the taxpayers getting in return for funding Harry’s security? He doesn’t work for the crown. He doesn’t represent the King. He isn’t even in the direct line of succession anymore.

Which leaves Option 1; the way RAVEC handles Harry now. It’s already the compromise, so how can they compromise the compromise? You can’t, you can only go back to the two sides and unfortunately, Harry is too important to be cut off from potential security but he’s also not important enough to have RPO/publicly-funded security in perpetuity on immediate demand.

So the compromise solution it is. Labour is likely to uphold it.

Edit: a word

[dameronology]

love in an elevator (natasha romanoff)

summary: nothing will make you confront your ex like being trapped in a lift with her

warnings: language

eugh two natasha fics in a night?? no regrets. i love my wife. enjoy.

jazz xx

The key to a break up, you had come to learn, was distance.

Distance and space and time apart and whatever other bullshit it was that Vogue recommended every week. Maybe a glass of wine or two here and there, and a night out with your closest friends. You'd cycled through that process ten times over but getting distance from Natasha Romanoff felt near enough fucking impossible when she was quite literally everywhere. At work, in the office, at the Avengers HQ, in the streets. New York had become a thousand times smaller after your break-up.

Seeing her at work was unavoidable. After all, that was how you'd met. Natasha was easy enough to get on with back then; she was blunt and straight to the point but it was clear she cared deeply about the people she loved. You never imagined being one of them yourself, but when she'd asked you out after a few weeks of casual flirting and longing glances, it was hard to remember a time when you weren't. And not only were you somebody she loved, you were the person she loved most. The person she wanted to come home to everyday; the one she laid herself bare too and would have stopped at nothing to make you happy.

It had been a good year and a half. All smiles and a few rocky days here and there, but you never wanted to leave Natasha's side. She'd never pictured buying herself a ring for anyone, or even considering the idea of marriage, but the day she proposed had been the best of your life. Multiple promises had been made that day. I'll love you forever and I'm never taking this ring off.

Promises, as it was, were made to be broken.

Work got hard for both of you. Missions and long trips apart and your relationship basically becoming long distance. Each factor a tiny nail in your coffin but Natasha Romanoff would have been lying if she said she wasn't the one building said coffin and holding the fucking hammer. Because for every day she spent away from you was a day that she took a step back to her old ways. She became a closed off woman all over again, shutting you out and refusing to talk.

You'd have been a fool to let her treat you that way. Leaving was hard but like hell were you going to let her drag you down with her. She'd lost herself and now she'd lost you too.

Your break-up had been a wake up call. She'd gotten better - gone to therapy, started talking to people again, come back into herself. At that point she could have begged you to take her back, but what use was it? There was no promise that she wouldn't do the same again. The risk of hurting you was too high.

So, Natasha kept her distance and so did you - where you could, at least. Getting into an elevator with her wasn't ideal but you were running late for your meeting and hell, you couldn't wait any longer. That had been your main worry right then -standing next to your ex, wondering if you'd make it in on time- but as soon as the elevator shuddered to a halt and the lights went out, those worries seemed like a fucking vacation.

"Are you kidding me?" you huffed. "Tony Stark spends millions on this building but he cheaps out on the elevators?"

"Hey, it's fine," Natasha said - stoic as ever, but just as jittery as you. Not so much at the situation - it was hard to be worried about being stuck in a lift when you'd fought aliens - but rather at who she was with. "You just gotta press the emergency button-"

She stopped, watching as you began to punch the bright red button multiple times.

"Only once, though," Nat continued. "You don't want to break it."

"Jeez thanks, Natasha," you muttered. "Wisdomful, as always."

"I'm just trying to help."

"Well, you're not!" you snapped. "I'm running late for a meeting and I do not need this right now."

"This being stuck in a lift or this being stuck in a lift with me?"

You huffed. "Does it matter? I don't have time for this."

"We're literally stuck in an elevator," she shot back. "I'd argue you have all the time in the world."

"Fine," you muttered. "I don't like being stuck in elevators at the best of times but being stuck in one with my ex-girlfriend -my ex-fiance, even - is a little less desirable."

She gave you a smile. "There we go."

Natasha gracefully placed her bag down and took a seat on the floor of the elevator. She pulled a book out the front pocket and began to read, clearly not phased by the situation. You let out another loud sigh and threw your own briefcase to the ground, clumsily taking a seat beside her. Her green eyes flickered up from the pages, giving you another smile. This was so you. Making a scene, being over-dramatic at the slightest inconvenience. She'd been the reasonable one in your relationship.

Pulling out your phone, you began to violently type something.

"Who are you messaging?" she asked.

"Why do you care?"

"Because you're about to crack your phone screen with how hard you're typing."

You rolled your eyes. "I'm messaging Tony to let him know what a dickhead he is."

"I don't think Tony's to blame-"

"- look, Natasha. My morning is ruined and I'm going to get so much shit from Fury for missing this meeting that I need to let it out, okay?" you cut her off. "Sometimes, it's just easier to have someone to blame."

"Do you blame me for our break-up?"

Your brows shot up, eyes widening. Okay, you hadn't expected that question. There hadn't been much conversation about your break-up. You'd just told Nat you were leaving and she hadn't argued. Even when you wanted her to - even when you were ready to beg and implore and beseech for her to want you to stay - you'd stayed quiet.

"W-what?" you stuttered. "No, of course not."

"Are you sure?"

"There are a lot of things in that situation that I'm not sure of but that isn't one of them," you insisted. "I don't blame you or me or anyone. I mean...yeah, you coulda tried harder but - why are we even talking about this?"

Natasha shrugged. "Like I said, we're stuck in a lift. Seems like a sign from the universe to ask this stuff."

"Right," you replied. "No, I don't blame you and no, I don't hate you and yes, I forgive you for anything you think I might be holding against you. Any more questions?"

"Do you miss me?" she quietly asked. "I miss you."

"All the time, Nat," you said. "Sorry I iced you out."

"You did what you had to," Natasha reasoned. "And quite honestly, I iced you out first, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did."

'I think...I think that losing you was the wake-up call I needed," she admitted. "For what it's worth, you're the reason I got better. The reason I am better."

You shrugged. "It's just what I do."

"Yeah, okay," Natasha laughed. "One more question -do you hate me for not calling you?"

"Yeah, a little," you said. "I guess some part of me always hoped that there was still a chance for us."

"Maybe there is."

You glanced over at her, eyebrows raised. "You think so?"

"I know so."

"Okay," you replied. "Dinner tomorrow night then?"

Natasha nodded, glancing back down at her book. "Yeah, sounds good."

[thana-topsy]

Ok I gotta come out and say it. I envy you. Like, to a painful extent. The amount of people you get interested in your characters, how you're incredibly skilled in both visual art AND writing, how readers your fics have. I absolutely adore your work, but seeing it fills me with so much envy it's honestly ridiculous.

Did you deal with similar feelings towards other creators when you started writing fic by any chance? If so, how did you deal with those feelings? I feel genuinely stuck feeling worthless about my fics. I'm not as verbose with my language despite over 10 years of writing under my belt and it seems as though my plots don't interest people as much either. So I feel like there's just nothing of worth about any of my work.

I know that this is a lot to dump on you, but I felt like I would burst keeping this all in. Much love to you and I hope you have a wonderful New Year!

Hey there my friend, I've been sitting with this all day trying to decide how I want to answer you. I genuinely appreciate your honesty, because I know this is a familiar feeling for a lot of people, myself included.

I remember when I first rejoined Tumblr in early 2019, desperately trying to find anyone to talk to about TES, I would look at all these blogs gettings asks about their OCs like they were little celebrities and feel envy and longing. Now, when these feelings start to bubble up, I force myself to take a break from sharing my work, be it art or writing, if only to remind myself why I'm creating it and who I'm creating it for: myself. I know it sounds cheesy, and I probably sound like a broken record, but genuinely I just do this because it's bursting out of my skull. But I won't lie and say the engagement and the support doesn't have a big impact on my motivation. I love sharing with people and getting an enthusiastic response.

I think something people might not realize, or maybe they just forget, is that I used to write a lot of smut. Like...a lot of smut. (I still do). Hahaha and it doesn't get a lot of comments or engagement, but it does draw a lot of eyes. Once my smut stories started taking on heavier plotlines, a comment I'd get a lot was "came for the porn, stayed for the plot." And I wasn't writing smut because I thought it would get me an audience, I was just horny LMAO. But it encouraged me to branch out and experiment with the types of stories I was telling.

Anyways, art is another big part of it, yes. But that also didn't get a lot of engagement in the beginning, and my skills were rusty as hell. I was getting maybe 15 notes on here, 30 likes on instagram. But that didn't really matter to me, I was just insane with inspiration. I'd reach out to people and ask to do art trades, got ghosted a lot, made some good friends, (some people who are still my good friends to this day!). But it took a lot of risks, and I made a lot of accidental enemies and learned a lot of hard lessons. But having visuals to go with the stories I'm writing is like advertisement in its own way. I'm just lucky enough to hyperfixate on this shit like it's my lifeblood. I've always obsessively drawn my favorite characters, ever since I was a wee bab. Long before social media was a factor or the words "content creator" even existed.

And I think that's what it all comes back to. Above all else, do what you do with unbridled joy. If someone else finds joy alongside you, all the better! Even if it's just one person. Take risks, make friends, make enemies, draw that blorbo unapologetically and with wild abandon. Love what you create, even when it's bad. Even when it makes you cringe years later, don't delete it. Even when people try to find every reason to hate what you do and who you are. Don't stop.

Every act of creation is bringing something into the world that didn't exist before you made it. And that alone gives it worth.

Happy New Year!

[108garys]

Workaholic

For Hector's birthday I am again returning to "the perfect shot" au, in which Hector remains with the FBI long enough to be given a new task, watching Charlie in the aftermath of his involvement in hoa after his move to America. File this under me writing Hector in a way that makes me want to hit him with a news paper, Charlie too but he has a better excuse so yeah, Heclie but Hector literally trips over the finish line, straight up "it's not stalking if I get paid for it" and a lot of poor Charlie, I forgive your life choices because the way you are in this polished up wip is certainly not as bad as you are in writings I've done while this was on a shelf

Hope y'all enjoy 💕

May 31st, 2004

Special Agent Hector Munday had always been a bit of a workaholic. Diligently he examines every seemingly insignificant detail of a given case. His therapist claimed it was obsessive but how can it be a flaw when doing so took dangerous criminals off the street? Hector's work was very important and it deserved nothing less than his full attention…

In mid 03' he was assigned a very different task, something a little more low stress than he was used to but the stakes were no less important… He would not be tracking down a dangerous criminal and bringing them to justice, in fact the tracking was less seeking and more stalking for he'd know the man's location since day one- Not that Hector was stalking him! …it was his job to keep tabs on the aspiring director, lest he reveal classified information.

Charlie Lonnit, 30, was his assignment, the London born documentarian had been in the states for just under a year now, pursuing his dreams of make a name for himself in the industry but struggling to make necessary connections in a new place… The Brit was a workaholic too, Hector observed. It was the anniversary of Lonnit's highly classified time in Iraq. He had been coming to this bar more frequently in the lead up and Munday couldn't risk a drunken error changing the nature of his task. Charlie wasn't a dangerous man by any means but he carried dangerous secrets that must stay buried…Even if he must also be put in the ground in the process…

Hector found himself slowly sipping what had now become a regular order in his quiet corner of an unremarkable bar as he discreetly kept an eye on Charlie, not Charles, he hated being called that, over at the bar… Some may argue that his research went beyond what was strictly necessary but as far as Agent Munday was concerned the more he knew the easier it would be to catch subtle changes in behavior.

Hector was on edge watching some random sleeze getting a little too invasive for his liking, usually he wouldn't think Charlie was the type to go for that but these are unusual times… he'd be lying if he denied a level of possessiveness over the idea of him going home with the guy but for all he knows the combined factors could prompt Lonnit into committing a serious crime. Special Agent Munday was a professional after all.

So when the man's unwelcome touch travels a little too far his liking, Hector did something very stupid… He found himself approaching, "Is this guy bothering you?" He said with the casual air of an uninformed bystander, having convinced himself of the other man's threat, "What the fuck do you want?" The other man looked up, in disbelief at his audacity until Hector, against his better judgement, handed off just enough cash to turn the man's head. "I'm sure you have better places to be." he confidently asserts and the man complies with an air of confusion. Hector takes the now empty seat and Charlie stares at him having seen this stranger pay off the other guy. Taking a moment to consider his next move…

Hector had heard Charlie's voice uncountable times… on tapes, audio of secret things where he's trying to maintain his composure, trying to explain himself near tears as he's given an ultimatum… warmth as he calls his mother at a specific time that works for the difference in timezone, at least twice a week, his current tone was somewhere in the middle, a certain level of polite caution. "You're a regular here aren't you?" as far as Charlie knew, Hector had been in here everytime he's visited the less than stellar establishment. "It's a stone's throw from my place, it's as good as any." it wasn't an out right lie but Hector wouldn't come here willingly without a reason.

Charlie adjusted his glasses looking him over and Hector's skin felt like static under the unexpected attention, suddenly regretful now that he was no longer fixated on the possibility of the other man… he should excuse himself and continue doing his job at the appropriate distance, but… Hector was diligent about his work and looking into his eyes… The way his own face looked reflected across the younger man's glasses.

He had Charlie's full attention.

He not so reluctantly stayed put, he couldn't help it… listening to him speak like he had for the past year. He tried to listen more than he spoke, the more he speaks the more he'd risk mentioning something he shouldn't… Eventually Charlie got onto the subject of his documentarian dreams and his fascination with serial killers and what makes them tic, he said he wasn't sure why he felt drawn to true crime. It was a coping mechanism after what he faced in Iraq, he needed to rationalize the darker parts of the world to feel safe, it made sense to Hector even if Charlie didn't do it consciously…

He couldn't turn his brain off, trying to analyse every little detail, Charlie leaned closer to him, Hector's dark eyes looked predatory reflected in Charlie's soft blue ones… His focus so singular that he'd barely noticed that he'd allowed his hand to wonder, far past the boundaries of what a complete stranger should dare. he quickly withdrew it not wanting to make Charlie uncomfortable but-

Charlie grabbed his hand, Hector felt like the young man just didn't want to be alone, everyone else who knew what he'd been through was far away… Everyone he could confide in was involved in a conspiracy to keep that hurt buried… They sat in silence for beat, before Charlie kissed him. Hector pulled back in surprise before he could process the sudden contact, Charlie's face flushed bright with embarrassment. His eyes wide, likely wondering how he had misread the previous touch. "I- I'm so-" sorry? Hector opened his mouth to explain but Charlie rushed out before he could. What was he thinking!? Hector payed for both their drinks before following, his stupidity is getting expensive.

He found him out front, trying to light a smoke, becoming visibly upset as his lighter refused to cooperate. Charlie turned with the cigarette between his lips, the redness in his face betraying him. Hector fishes his lighter out of his pocket stepping closer, he lit up his own before sharing the flame with the younger man. Charlie looked away, relaxing slightly as smoke escaped into the night…

Hector ignored that it was entirely inappropriate to know that although it wasn't when he started smoking, his trauma related to his time as a military journalist had solidified his habit into something he depended on…

The silence stretches awkwardly, it begins to rain…

He felt like he should explain but his own reaction was much more of a mystery than Charlie's, all neat and categorized through careful observation. He felt words would fail him, that even if Charlie really did just want a distraction he could do that… He approaches again, much more deliberately, with clarity of purpose…

He was passionate about his work.

-- June 1st, 2004

Hector's therapist had advised against taking his work home, it was unhealthy she said, but as Charlie's form rose and fell in soft sleep he knew she was wrong… Charlie had slept with a light on every night since his trip to hell, as had all the survivors, Hector left his bedside lamp on hoping Charlie wouldn't think too much about it.

This was uncharted territory, learning so much that had previously been beyond his reach… The way Charlie's skin felt, how he clung to him like he's the only thing between him and that place Hector only knew through reports… Very many other things… New information, mentally filed away. It was… educational.

Hector's hand ran over long inhuman claw marks that scarred Charlie's hip, imaging what it must have been like, how terrifying those creatures must have been… He refrains from sliding any further as Charlie began to stir, slowly rolling over to look at him. He smiles sleepily, accepting as Hector offers to make him coffee.

A shortly after Hector is again in his head, wondering if things will go back the way they were now that his… Now that Lonnit had gotten through the anniversary, they should. It could never work. He distracted himself with the task at hand, listening to the sound of the shower down the hall, he turns on the radio to the classical station to distract himself. He wouldn't bring it up first, that would make him look like an ass… What the hell is wrong with him!?-

"I hope you don't mind, my stuffs still in the dryer." Hector turns to Charlie, wearing one of his shirts… He absentmindedly handed over a cup of coffee… It was far too large, hanging off him in a way that- Hector looked away, grabbing his own mug and drinking, before he turned back with a smile. "No no, it's fine, it was my fault you got wet in the first place." Charlie smirks, Hector clears his throat, trying not to blow his cover… Or look like an actual idiot. "So, what's with the scar?" he sees Charlie's expression fall, clearly blindsighted despite the obvious likelihood that it would come up, Hector quickly spoke up again. "I understand if it's too sensitive a subject." Charlie nods, relived, looking away. "Yeah." he says drinking his coffee, still greatly affected by what he'd been through.

He was supposed to say he'd had a close call on a hiking trail a few years back… That was the 'official' story given to him but this was the first time he's actually been in a situation where it'd come up.

Hector retroactively decided this was a test… He couldn't have Charlie floundering and potentially slipping up with other men, it was a matter of confidentiality… He looks at him, at the way the morning sun hits his face just right, his glasses framing his features perfectly… He wanted to see him wearing more of his clothes, wanted to be in on the secret irony that the man who had survived vampires loved the feeling of his teeth… Wanted to feel his warmth and leave more marks on him…

He moved to grab things from his pantry, barely thinking about it as he begins to make breakfast to prolong the time Charlie stayed in his presence, thinking of the right words to convince him to do this again. It would be much more efficient to keep tabs on him this way…

After all, Hector Munday was a workaholic and Charlie Lonnit was his job.

__

@kassiekole22 @delurkr @ctrvpani @tinynightmarewoman

@eframschweigersskincells @aydeenchan @mybrainrotforreal @unhingedlesbear

@kindheartedgummybears @blubary

I thought it was fun to cross out Information hector definitely shouldn't know, like its a denial of his actual behaviour, I hope it's as fun to read lol

[psychologeek]

Epilogue

So. This happened.

The day I feared and longed for has come.

I posted the last chapter of "Some of Them (want you)"

Feel free to comment, ask, or make any "based on" fanwork (just send me a link, and link back to my fic.)

Thank you to all those who've been there through the journey, or just stopped by. For everyone who left a comment.

Special thanks to @byrambles for the original fanfic that inspired me. You are a great writer, friend, and I'm always exited to see a note about any of your new works :)

In case you haven't seen my pinned post, This Whumptober I'm opening my Ask box for requests and prompts! What do that mean? Well, have you ever wanted to read more about something? This might be your lucky day.

Here's part of the endnotes:

My main thoughts, as I started writing this fic, were "I need to talk about Dami's suicide". I refused to let it be, or mistaken as actual death. It's been a a draft in my docs since August 2023, as I wrote "Sweet Dreams". Eventually, the things I wrote - the things I NEEDED to (hear) tell - are in chapter 14. (you aren't a failure. You succeeded to survive.

It's not a bad thing.) ~ I didn't think I'll get so deep into trauma and suicidality in this fic. Especially not child suicidality.

In fact, I rewrote chapter 15 several times, to keep out the harder topics. But then I realised that, actually- (No one ever talks about it. ) We should talk about it. (Because it's there, and it's hard, and it's consuming). And so the whole situation with young!Damian. As I realised that, despite all differences, Dami and Damian do share some experience and major characteristics: their sense of honour, responsibility, violent upbringing. They both care deeply, but only those they consider "mine". They are very different, yes, but they both lacked stability and had lost their main caretaker more then once. They both had to grow up too fast. Taking more then they can handle.) They both experienced things no child should. (And I know it. I know how it feels. Sure, "they had worse". But suffering is subjective. Suffering doesn't care about others. You can't banish pain by telling someone "others have it worse! How dare you complain?"). And I thought - Dami had first tried to kill himself when he was 10, because he felt like there's no hope. That this was the only escape. Damian is 10/11. And he feels like a burden. (Suicide is one of the 3 leading causes of death in ages 7-24). Sure, it's different. But being a child is HARD. Adults usually don't think about it. When I was a teen, so many told me "this is the best time of my life" (If this is the best," I thought, "I don't want to see the rest of it". They lied, dear reader. My 20s are better, and so will be my 30s and 40s. I have silver hairs growing, and they reflect the lights when I look in the mirror. I have a crack by my lip and the start of crow legs by my eyes, that reminds me that I do laugh. I do smile. That things DO get better.)   The world is hard and chaotic, and trying to make sense out of it is demanding, frustrating, consuming job. We do it, slowly. It just takes time. ~ Dami had Alfred. Damian.... Doesn't even have Richard now. (And feeling lonely or isolated is a risk factor. Major life changes is a risk factor. Death of a loved one is a risk factor. Feeling like a burden is a risk factor. Damian had been screaming for help for a long time, in the only way he knows. He deserves to be heard.) ~ On a personal note: This fic (and series) had been a big part of my life in the last year. This brought me some stability and escapism in the hard times we've gone through (that are still happening). The writing process had been complicated and funny, hard and delightful, torture and pleasure. Thank you, reader, for taking the time to read it. Thank you for those who stayed here, who waited every week for a chapter (and waited patiently during The Big Crisis). Thank you for those who just found it, and might have read it in a single day. (Now go get some water!) Thank you, reader, for being here. I hope you enjoyed. (And good night, Dreamers. Good night.)

[scarletv0id]

No matter the base, Medic always has a tendency to over work himself. With enough persuasion and sleep deprivation, however, he is likely to be dragged to bed by Sniper. Though, he is surprised by how intimate Sniper chooses to be once he gets there.

These character belong to the blog @blood-feathers on here. Medic: Gabriel (Eurasian Collared Dove) Sniper: Ray (Clouded Leopard)

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

No matter the universe, no Medic is ever prepared to admit when they're tired. That’s just a simple fact of working for Mann Co. If you fall into either the medical or engineering side of the team then it’s just statistically known that you are going to be more willing to engage in self destructive tendencies.  Long nights spent toiling over projects and even later days spent trying to stay awake. A normal sleep schedule wasn’t expected by most Mann Co employees to be sure, but it was still remarkable how quickly things could go sideways when it came to how work and sleep would come into conflict. 

Though, it was especially tenuous for the medic at the colloquially known ‘Team Beast’ base. The tenuousness of his choices were less related to concern from others, and more the complicated relationship to them that he’d created. 

Guilt was certainly a driving factor behind what he tended to work on now. His passion was, as any good medic for Mann Co would pursue, to overcome mortality. That had been, and still somewhat was, the end all be all of everything he could work on. It was a goal that had seemed obtainable a few years before. He’d taken his risk, he’d played a game with chance, and it had blown up in his face far greater than he ever could have expected. 

He wanted to fix the biggest proverbial flaw within the human body. That’s all. Just because he stole a book from a wizard didn’t mean his teammates needed to be punished too. It didn’t matter much now, of course. That wizard was long gone, and the attempts that had been made to find him had all turned up nothing. 

So they were stuck. 

Every single one of his teammates were damned, by him, to living the rest of their days as animal people. They were all people who were already on the fringes of society because of their professions, and then they suddenly just couldn’t exist within it. There was no amount of explanation or begging that could make it better for any of them. They were stuck together, and there was no clear way out either. 

There could be no way to dispute that his work had led to this outcome, there was no around the kind of guilt he had to forever sit with following his mistake, and there was no way for him to look any of his teammates in the eye and not be able to see his fallacies within. 

He fucked up. 

In plain and simple terminology that's what had happened. That was what the Soldier certainly kept reminding him of. That was what had led Soldier to his breaking point. The blame was on him for being the cause of the tragedy, but that didn’t justify the actions that came after it. His colleagues had assured him of that time and time again, even after they all realized there was no way his wings could ever come back intact. 

They were stuck together, scars and all. 

No one blamed Medic for still being jumpy whenever Soldier walked into a room though. They couldn’t fathom the feeling of having teeth sunk into your flesh and knowing your bones were being broken and skin split all in one motion. Soldier may have still, technically, been a human in that moment, but all other indicators showed he was nothing but a rabid dog. 

He took something from Medic then. He lashed out and took the one thing that he didn’t need to survive, but could still do the most unequivocal amount of damage to him. The very wings that he’d already experienced the horrors of having split through his skin and burst from his back, and just as quickly as they were there only blood could be found. 

They weren’t coming back. None of it was coming back. There was no wizard to fix his mistake and there was no way the respawn machine could mend what had been torn. 

So it was easier to just seclude himself from everyone then suck it up and put on a brave face on the daily. Especially with Soldier still roaming the halls. He got used to it too. He was fine with being by himself in his lab. Even if he extended himself past any sensible point, at least he was doing something with his time. 

Though, he wasn’t always alone in his lab. 

“Angel,” Sniper asked as he poked his head in, “How long have you been awake for?” 

“You know you don’t want me to answer that question for you, Catling.” He responded, he let his shoulders sink down toward the table in front of him while his head did the same. The outer layers of his outfit had come off at some point, though he couldn’t remember for the life of him when. He just knew that he was down to a button up that was already sliding down his shoulders. He felt pathetic knowing that Sniper had to see him like this, but he knew that he’d seen him worse. He could feel the bags under his eyes aching but he still couldn’t justify going to sleep. There was still so much that needed to be done. 

When two paws wrapped themselves around his waist he didn’t bother to pull away. Rather he let himself lean into the touch and allowed his body to rely on Sniper’s for support. 

“Is there any way I can tempt you to go there then?”

That got a chuckle out of him, “You can tempt me to do a lot, I'm sure you already know that, Ray.”  “You’re right,” He leaned his head down so that he could rest his head against the back of Medic’s neck. “Normally it wouldn’t be for something so mundane, though.” 

His feather’s prickled with the added sensation of the leopard’s breath at the back of his neck and, he couldn't deny, that he could feel himself melting into his partner’s body. He was too tired for his own good, and there was really no excuse for him not to accept whatever he might have planned.

“Am I actually going to go to sleep or are you planning anything else?” 

He could feel Sniper smile against his neck as his fangs pressed themself into his skin. “Maybe, you’ll have to join me to find out.” 

Medic let out a loud groan before he let Sniper start to drag him out of the room. Night had long since set in so there wasn’t any concern about anyone seeing the strange display of a partially limp Medic and Sniper half carrying half dragging him through the halls. With no energy left in him it made sense in the moment, but he already knew that he wouldn’t be able to live it down when he’d wake up. 

Once they reached Sniper’s room, it took one swift motion for Medic to find himself on the bed. His face was straight down against the shitty comforter. As the bed bounced slightly he knew that he’d been joined up there, but he prickled when he felt paws gliding up under his shirt. 

He opened his beak to ask what was happening but he instead sucked in a breath as the paws reached their destination. The scar tissue where his wings once connected to his body. They were rough and still had an off putting texture to them, but having someone else’s hands, paws, against them was something else entirely. 

“Can I see them, Gabriel?” Sniper, coyly, asked, his voice easily showing 

With a sigh, he lifted himself up by his elbows just enough to get the buttons undone and let Sniper slide it downwards. He expected to feel his partner’s paws on his back again, but instead his breath shuddered as he felt soft, fluffy, kisses being placed along the same area. 

“It’s okay, it's going to be okay, my Angel.” He whispered against the torn flesh. His teeth ran their way along the messy scar tissue just as much as his fluffy lips did. 

His paws were placed at Medic’s side as well. They slowly ran up and down his waist as he continued to do the same to the scars. 

He continued to whisper, “You’re okay. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” While Medic felt himself sinking into the bed more and more. The feeling of being comforted by his partner led him closer and closer to sleep than he could have realized. 

Eventually, Sniper made his way up to Medic’s neck and left one last kiss right there. “I’m here for you, Angel.” His paws finally made their way back to the scars and he spread his fingers as though they were his wings. 

They’d return to him, just not how he expected. 

“I know you are, Catling. I know.” The words came out soft, slightly slurred, and it was the last thing he remembered before the world sank away. 

He woke up a few hours later and found himself with Sniper enveloping him. He could feel his fur against his feathers as his arms were wrapped around him, and his face was right up against his chest. 

He felt briefly compelled to laugh at the sight, but instead he leaned his head down and let their foreheads touch, “I’m here for you too, Ray. I’m here for you too.” 

He knew he couldn't hear him but he still needed to say it. Even if he’d have to repeat again, eventually.

[bullet-prooflove]

Shibari: Nero Padilla x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @babaohhhriley @lexondeck @redpoodlern @littleone65 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @yourwinchesterbros @oureternalbond @beccabarba @poppyrose33

I did so much research for this fic which is why it has taken so long. A massive thanks to @the-hinky-panda who has read multiple versions of this fic and listened to my character insights.

You’ve been working with Diosa for a couple of months when you approach Nero for a favour. He’s seated on the couch in his apartment, surveying the latest set of procurement requests when you rap your knuckles on the door and peek your head around it.

“I wanted to make sure I wasn’t interrupting anything.” You tell him when he gestures for you to enter the room with a smile that tells you he’s more than happy to see you.

His gaze lowers to the non-descript shopping bag in your hand and he wonders if you’ve been doing a little procurement of your own. He doesn’t know what you use in your shows, he just knows he gets a good cut of it each and every month so whatever you’re doing it’s lucrative. He’s caught a flash of you in between sets, that midnight blue silk robe with a hint of lingerie underneath. From what he’s seen you play to your assets because those breasts in wine coloured lace… It’s unprofessional to think about it.

“Inventory.” He explains, setting the paperwork down on the surface of the coffee table. You sit down alongside side of him, your floral scent flooding his nostrils. It’s subtle and inviting, it makes him want to bury his face into the curve of your throat as he drinks you in.

“That is a lot of lube.” You tell him, raising your eyebrows as your eyes skim over the inventory list.

“We run eight rooms excluding yours, seven days a week.” He informs you, as he picks up his pen. “If you want, I could add you to the procurement list, we get a good discount.”

You shake your head, your hand coming to rest upon his. Your thumb ghosts over the hollow of his wrist and it feels intimate. That’s the problem with you, everything feels intimate. From the light graze of your fingertips to the sultry sound of your voice.

Nero knows he’s falling; he’s known for a few weeks.

He knows he seeks out your company, that he lives for those small breaks in between your shows where the two of you share a coffee and laugh about something ridiculous a client has requested. There’s a warmth in you that filters into his psyche, it feels like sunshine caressing his skin. He’s never felt anything quite like it and it resonates with something deep down inside of him.

“I use a different brand.” You tell him, disrupting Nero from his thoughts. “My skin’s a little sensitive so I need something a bit gentler.”

“Noted.” He says setting down his pen. “What do you need Mami?”

“I have a favour to ask you.” You tell him, withdrawing your phone from your purse, your fingertip scrolling over the screen. It takes you a second to find what you’re looking for, before you hand the phone over to him. He frowns for a second as he studies the request made through your website.

“Shibari is becoming more popular these days.” He remarks with the shrug of his shoulders as he returns your phone. “And for that price, he could tie me up anyway he wants me.”

You laugh and it’s a rich, lively noise that he finds absolutely captivating. He thinks he could spend the rest of his life just listening to that sound.

“My question is will you help me?”

He should have seen it coming. He doesn’t know why he didn’t

“I’m not a boy scout.” He says frankly. Health and Safety is a huge concern in the sex industry and something as specific as this has it’s own caveats, there’s additional shit to think about. He tries to go over what he knows about Shibari, the risk factors he has to look out for. Nerve compression is always an issue when you work with bondage, he makes sure his girls knows what their doing with ropes and ties, the last thing he wants is to get sued by one of his johns. He thinks he has that covered because he also undertook the training from a domantrix in San Bernardino.

“We’d have to practice.” He tells you, his palm rubbing over the back of his neck as he speaks. “I don’t want to do anything that hurts you or causes any damage. If we do do it, it needs to be safely with open communication and EMT scissors nearby just in case.”

“This is why I’m asking you to do it.” You inform him softly. “You’re the only one I trust when it comes to something like that.”

It feels like a confession. There’s vulnerability to what you’re asking him to do, you’ll be at his mercy after he’s bound you and he knows you don’t take that lightly. It’s an exchange of power even if he isn’t actually participating in the act.  

“O.K.” He agrees, clasping his hands together. “When do want to start?”

You tip out the contents of the shopping bag onto the coffee table. A jumble of items tumble out, two lengths of high quality silk rope, EMT scissors, that specialist brand of lube you must have been talking about earlier…

“I have everything we need right here.”

***

It takes hours of practice. Nero uses Youtube to learn the knots as you research the intricacies of the act, the risk factors, the shit you need to look out for so that there’s no temporary or permanent damage caused. It isn’t until Nero has successfully trussed up his pillow for the eighteenth time in a row that he deems himself ready to try it out on the real thing.

He’s careful as he restrains you. You start with your clothes on at first, testing out the restriction of the rope before you eventually strip down to your underwear. A black sports bra and matching black panties. You want to test how it makes you feel, the relentlessness of the binds on your skin, you want to see if it’s something to endure or something you may enjoy.

When Nero steps back to survey his handiwork, he knows he’s done a good job. You look pretty as picture, seated in the centre of his bed, bound. The rope curls around each one of your thighs, securing your calves to them, your legs splayed open. Your wrists are cinched behind your back with a double column knot, thrusting your breasts forward and keeping you locked in place. There’s no way that you can move in this position, it’s completely submissive.

“How does it feel?” He asks you curiously, his hand coming to rest on the EMT scissors, just in case you need a quick release.

“Like I’m at your mercy.” You tell him, telling the strength of the restraints. Every movement is hindered by the restriction of the rope, your client knew exactly what he was doing when he selected this position.

“That’s what he wants.” Nero says with an understanding he isn’t sure he likes, because he knows there’s another step to the request, one that you won’t be practicing with him. “The beautiful girl bound up, under his complete control, no say in her pleasure.”

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, not because of the fantasy itself but because of the way it was phrased, the words he used.

Control – not submission.

It isn’t about a distribution of power; it’s about owning you.

Nero’s surprised he didn’t ask for a fucking collar.

“Do you know why I cam?” You ask him as kneels on the bed behind you and begins to undo the ropes that bind your wrists. “Why I don’t do porn or escort?”

“I’ve wondered.” He admits as he tugs gently at the binds, unthreading them.

He knows you would make fucking bank in the niche areas, especially if you were doing shit like this.

“The distance,” You tell him, flexing your wrists as the rope falls away, there are no markings in your skin, just the imprint of the rope pattern upon your forearms. “I like the distance. I like knowing that I’m in control, that I am doing what I want to do. They may pay me, but they don’t own me. It’s one of the reasons I don’t come for them, not really. They don’t get to have that.”

You’re not the only one that fakes it. Most of his girls do too. It’s the nature of the job. He thinks the reality of a woman actually enjoying themselves is too much for some men. He thinks it’s too much for the asshole that sent this request in.

“I think that’s a healthy view to have.” He agrees as he unties the binding on your thighs. His gaze slips up to your face because he wants you to see the honesty in his expression when he tells you. “Pleasure should be given, not taken.”

Something passes between the who of you, it feels like a current underneath the surface of his skin.

“Think you can do this for real later on?” You ask him, breaking the spell. His looks at the silken rope in his hands, feeling the weight of it across his palms.

“Yea.” He tells you. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

***

The underwear that was sent to you via you PO box is a bra and panties selection in cornflower blue silk. It’s a specification of the scene that you wear it. Everything about the video has been dictated to you, even the type of toy you should use. The only thing the viewer has no control over is the length of time. Five minutes is what you tell everyone. If they want you to make a video, it’s five minutes long and after that the price hikes astronomically. With Shibari the timing is even more crucial.

When you strip off the dusky pink robe Nero can’t help but think you look like a vision. He understands how easy it is for a man to want you, to need to claim you for himself. It’s not just your beauty, it’s something that simmers just underneath the surface. He knows that you’re emotionally intelligent, you wouldn’t have gotten this far without it but at the core of your being, you know who you are and you’re unapologetic about it. He thinks this is why your subscribers fall in love with you, he thinks that’s why he’s fallen in love with you.

He treats the scene the way he would with any of his girls, with a cool professionalism because after all this isn’t you and him exploring a new kink together in bed, this is work. He doesn’t need to remind himself of that, not when there’s a camera set up over his shoulder attached to a laptop.

He starts the same way he did last time, with your thighs. His palms are gentle as loops the rope around your calf, pulling it taut. His fingers trace along the indentation of the silken bind, testing the security of the bind before he moves onto your other leg.

“OK?” He asks you, his dark eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

“Perfect.” You tell him, your lips accentuating the syllables before you gesture to the purple vibrator with the remote lying on the sheets next to you. “I just need to…”

“Oh yea, of course.” He turns his back, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his eyes to the ceiling. He hears the rustle of silk, and he tries to think of anything else other than you lubing up that dildo before you slip it inside you, the base flush against those panties when you slip them back on.

“Done.” You tell him and he turns back around to see you holding out the remote to him. “Well, someone has to turn it on, and I can’t do it if my hands are tied.”

Fuck, you are going to wreck him with this shit, he just knows it. If he ever doubted how much trust you have him, it’s eradicated the moment you put that tiny device into his hand. You are literally giving him control of your pleasure.

“Yea.” He says, his voice a little rough. “Of course.”

You put your hands behind your back dutifully and he kneels behind you on the bed before he wraps the rope around your wrists and begins to tie a double column. He’s well practised by now, oddly he enjoys the thoroughness of the task, the fact he has to concentrate on what he’s doing so his attention doesn’t wander to thoughts such as how did you get that scar just under the hinge of your jaw? Or how graceful the slope of your shoulders look in this position. When he’s finished he studies his handiwork, the binding is neat and precise, cinching your wrists just above your silk clad ass of yours. He’s starting to get good at this he realises.

“Remember.” He says as he climbs off the bed and comes to stand in front of you, making a snipping motion with his fingers. “You just say the word and I am there with the scissors.”

“The next thing you’re going to tell me is that we need a safe word.” You remark as you tug at your restraints, testing them.

“That’s not a bad idea.” He considers, his palm rubbing over his jawline. “Pick one.”

You’re silent for a moment, he sees something flicker across your features, something he doesn’t understand before you say softly “Roses.”

“O.K.” He agrees. “We’ll use roses. Now are you sure about this?”

He holds up the remote once more. You give him a look and he throws up his hands with a good natured smile.

“I’ve never been part of a cam show before!”

You smile back and he senses what ever happened just a minute ago has passed.

“Now you can cross it off you’re bucket list.”

He rolls his eyes before hovering alongside the camera, adjusting the angle just slightly so that you are entirely in focus. This is how you’ll look to your client, erotically exposed. Legs bound open so that he can see that sliver of silk, Nero thinks you must have smeared lube across the material already because he can see that moistness already clinging to the silk. Your breasts are thrust forward, your cleavage almost spilling out of the push up bra. It’s tantalising, he thinks, this image alone would make your subscribership increase tenfold.

“Ready?” He asks, his finger hovering over the button.

You nod and he presses the record button before retreating to the seat you’ve set up for him in the corner, the remote in one hand and the EMT scissors in the other. He holds up the remote to indicate he’s about to start the vibrator before he hits the rubber button once.

The moment he does the whole scene comes to life.

Its sensual, the way you move. You tug at the restrains as your hips push downwards, like you’re trying to fuck the thing inside of you even harder. He sees how people can get off on this, there’s a neediness in the act, a desperation in the way you choreograph your movements. You’re good at putting on a show, he understands why people pay you so much money. Fuck if this was private thing between the two of you, he would have gotten off already. That damp patch between your legs grows, the fabric soaking, and he feels himself beginning to stir. It’s a normal response to what he’s seeing, he knows that but he still crosses one leg over the other in an attempt to hide it. His eyes stray to the clock you’ve set on the end table alongside of him. Not long to go now.

There’s a flush creeping across your cheeks, it stains your skin with an apricot hue. Your movements become more erratic, muscles straining against the bindings as you whimper. Your head tips back as you arch, hips thrusting down as if you’re truly desperate for cock. It’s like you can’t control yourself. The pitch of your cries builds. The scent of your arousal is in the air, he can taste it on his tongue as your eyes meet his. He sees the heat there, the desire, the sheer desperation to get fucked and he realises you can’t actually control yourself. His thumb fumbles with the button but it’s too late. That brief moment of intimacy between the two of you sends you hurtling over the edge.

It’s beautiful, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You ruined amongst those sheets, eyes closed, chest straining. You whine in the aftermath, the vibrations drawing out your ecstasy before he shuts the damn thing off. He’s already on his feet, stopping the recording before he’s kneeling on the bed by your side.

“I’m going to untie you.” He says softly, waiting for your nod before he reaches out to touch you.

You tilt your face away from him as he undoes the knots as quickly as he can. You’re uncharacteristically silent and Nero wonders if he has just taken something from you. He remembers the conversation you had regarding your own pleasure, about owning it and he curses himself for not seeing the signs earlier.

He backs off once you’ve been released from the bindings, he steps away from the bed to retrieve your robe whilst you remove the vibrator. He waits for you to wrap it around yourself before he asks.

“Do you need space?”

He isn’t sure of the protocol for this, and he feels unequipped to deal with it. He decides he’s going to take your lead because in the aftermath of something like that it’s about fulfilling your needs.

“I didn’t expect to come.” You tell him, running your hands through your hair. “I was nowhere near close and then I looked at you and…”

“Oh.” He says before he sits down on the edge of the bed.

It puts the two of you on a level playing field. There’s no power dynamics here, just honesty.

“Having you in the room, it excited me. I didn’t realise…” You trail off because honestly you don’t need to say it.

There’s a chemistry between the two of you, one that extends beyond the realms of physicality. You know he feels it, it’s in the way he looks at you, the way he smiles. You think the both of you could have something great together but at the end of the day you’re a cam girl, who ‘gets off’ on camera for money. There’s not a lot of people who can handle that shit.

“It excited me too. You’re an attractive woman and this...” He says as his fingertips trail across the silken rope. “…may have tapped into something that even I wasn’t aware of.”

“Is this your way of telling me you like your women tied up and helpless?” You ask him with a teasing lilt and he sees those walls of yours have gone back up, that the moment of vulnerability you have just exhibited has passed. He concedes to it. You need to process what just happened.

“Only when there’s a safe word involved.” He responds light heartedly before he raises to his feet. “I’m gonna give you some time, when you’re ready come find me and I’ll drop you off home.”

Love Nero? Get added to his tag list!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[mysecretlittlelibrary]

Battle Of The Knights Alt Ending 4: There Are No Winners

Pairing: Moonknight trio x Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: eh no one's vibing here lol

Genre: this one is angst

Summary: "So let me get this straight, you all like me, so you each want to take me on a date and let me decide what to do after?" You can't believe the words you're hearing even as you repeat them back.

What happens when the relationships you've built with Marc and his two alters are turned on their heads by a proposition that is anything but simple? How can they expect you to risk blowing up the carefully crafted dynamic you've worked so hard to create? And why do you agree to such an insane suggestion?

***

There is no good choice. You've been thinking it over and over every day now and you can't see any decision going well. You can't possibly be expected to pick a favorite. That's what this is basically, picking a favorite person. At least that's what it feels like and you do not want to do that. How could you? No, there were too many unpredictable factors to try and choose one.

Hey guys, I made a choice. We should meet up when you all have a chance.

Their response comes quicker than you were expecting. Barely a few minutes pass before your phone dings with a message.

Sure, why don't we grab lunch tomorrow? We can go to our usual spot. -Marc

Good. Somewhere neutral. It'll make things easier. At least a little bit.

Works for me. Is 2 okay for time?

That's usually what time you guys would grab lunch there on the days you go so you can't imagine it'd be a problem but between the three of them- scheduling can be madness.

Two is perfect. See you then. -Marc

Great.

The next day you have to actively stop yourself from leaving extremely early to meet them. You're so anxious to get through this conversation that you were ready way before you needed to be and that left you with nothing to do but mull over how much you're dreading it until it's a reasonable time to leave. When you get to the cafe you're meeting at, they're already sitting at a table. You walk over and when they spot you they stand.

"Y/n, you made it." It's Marc that greets you with a smile and you hug him as you reply.

"Yeah! Hey, good to see you." You say taking a seat in the chair he wasn't in before you entered.

"Well duh we're like this." Marc crosses two fingers to indicate your closeness and you chuckle.

"Yeah, I guess we are pretty close." You hum.

"I went ahead and ordered for us since we got here early, courtesy of Steven, they should be calling it out soon so I wanna wait that way we're not like interrupted." Marc tells you.

"Oh yeah no problem we can wait. Thanks for ordering." You smile although you literally do not have the appetite for this lunch despite it being one of your favorites. It only takes a minute or two for them to call Marc's name and he jogs up to the counter to retrieve your meals and bring them back.

"And the food has arrived." He announces as he sets down your bag in front of you and sits down again.

"Indeed it has." You smile popping open the bag to pick at your fries. You don't want to open the sandwich you always get just yet because if this conversation goes as horribly as you're worried it will you'll want to be able to grab your lunch and leave.

"Alright, decision day, right?" Marc prompts as he pulls out his food and starts unwrapping things.

"Right." You nod.

"You know I have to admit I didn't think you'd really use the whole three weeks when you said it at the end of our date." Marc says before taking a bite of his sandwich.

"Yeah, well- you guys gave me a lot to think about. I had to make sure I made the right decision. But I'm sure the waiting was killer. Especially with how y'all can be." You muse.

"How we can be?! Rude!" He protests.

"Maybe but it's not incorrect." You shrug.

"I resent that." His eyes narrow at you.

"Oh I'm sure you do." You scoff. Marc chuckles and you allow his laughter to die down while you settle your nerves before speaking again. "I love you guys, you know that, right?"

"Of course. And we love you." Marc says without missing a beat.

"Then... I hope you'll understand when I say I won't- pick one of you." You say shakily. Marc freezes in the middle of putting down his sandwich at your words.

"What?"

"I had- a lot of fun with you, each of you, but I can't date any of you. I love you, really but this just- we work well as we are and I don't want to change that." You say. There's a long pause where Marc is frowning at- nothing in particular, he's not looking at you and after over a minute passes you stand up, assuming he needs space to process things.

"If you weren't going to choose to be with one of us why go through the trouble of doing any of this?" It's Jake's voice that stops you from standing all the way.

"What?"

"If you weren't going to choose any of us what was the point of doing all of this at all?"

"It's what you asked me to do. I did exactly what you asked. Go on a date with each of you and make a decision after that. You don't like my decision and I can understand that. You don't have to like it but it's my choice and you will respect it, Jake. I expect at least that much from you."

"So all of this was just to appease us- because we asked?" Jake looks at you, practically glares at you.

"Of course it was. Look I had a lot of fun with you all really I did- but you all are a unit that I have no desire to split up in any way and you all plus me work really well- the way we are now. I don't want to mess that up either. I like the way things are." You say meeting his stare head on. As worried as you were about all of this you refuse to let Jake intimidate you.

"It sounds like you're scared. We put ourselves out there to you and you can't be bothered to risk doing the same?!"

"It's not about that Jake. I care about all of you and I have no interest in seeing things shift. If- this decision is what destroys our friendship if you- can't speak to me anymore because I refuse to choose between you, I can live with it. I'd rather lose all of you at once now than lose you one at a time." You say calmly.

"Why is that the only outcome you see?"

"I've spent the past 3 weeks going over every possible way this ends- there are too many not good possibilities. I don't like the odds. I understand that you're upset and I will give you space to deal with that." You shake your head.

"And what if we don't want to see you again?" Jake asks harshly. You don't allow that flash of hurt you feel to simmer as you answer him.

"I will respect that choice." You say, slowly, because as much as you try to mask it the idea does hurt you to think about.

"Y/n- wait. Jake- he's upset, we all are- but he doesn't mean that. We'd never-"

"Don't speak in absolutes. And don't speak for him. He might not get over this and he doesn't have to. It's okay if he- never wants to talk to me again." You cut off Steven's frantic attempts at defusing the situation.

"He'll come around. You know he will- he's never been able to stay mad at you." Steven says.

"This is different Steven. I think he feels particularly betrayed. He doesn't- feelings aren't something he allows himself and the one time he did- it backfired. The door is always open for him but- he may not want to speak to me again and that's okay too, but I'll always be around if he does."

"Y/n-"

"I- I should go but I'll see you around. I love you by the way. All of you. I'm sorry things didn't go the way you hoped." You say grabbing your lunch and darting out of the place before Steven can try more placating. This played out about as well as you expected but you feel you made the best choice for you and that's all that should matter. Right?

***

Taglist: @queerponcho @avengersinitiative2012 @stressed-cherry

[emyluwinter]

Question in replace yuu I sometimes cry but does this mean Malleus, Grim, Kalim, Jack and Epel replace yuu too because there good people if they did I will cry

Hello, honey! Always glad to see questions!!

So, for a little explanation. "Replacing AU" are separate ideas that I write based on an idea that belongs to - @mymainwastoocluttered

I'm just writing for fun.

And yes * Holds out a box of napkins * I understand you Anon, it's also terrible for me to even admit the very idea that Yuu was so easily thrown out of life by these good boys.

In addition, I'm pretty bad at such difficult moments, because I'm a very empathic and hypersensitive person. Imagine what a nightmare it is for me to write angst every time.I feel physically and psychologically bad every time from this.

Ahahaha.

Sorry, I got distracted.

Hmm!

Let's assume the idea that "Replacement" was the factor that greatly distorted the relationship of Yuu and the others. They could have done it for their own benefit. Or so circumstances have developed that it is unlikely.

Perhaps they really were better at everything than Yuu, which seemed at first glance. Whether it was envy on the part of the "Replacement" or direct intentions, I cannot yet determine exactly for the plot. Also about their appearance or circumstances important for the plot.

Yuu in this AU gave the boys time to get things right because of the coordinate changes with the appearance of the "Replacement" Not a week or a couple of days, but a month.

A month in which they were convinced that they were no longer needed by others.

Objectively speaking, the Boys coped with everything without Yuu. They didn't have much influence on the plot or any actions.

Kalim could arrange feasts and holidays for "Replacement", which Yuu only pushes away even more because of the reminder that someone is better than them. (used from one of the answers of the AU author)

Jack and Epel spend a lot of time with the "Replacement" because of common interests in which Yuu cannot participate. Magift, study, training. Something where Yuu, as if they did not climb out of their skin, could not catch up with how easily all this was demonstrated by the "Replacement"

It's easy to bribe a Grimm with flattery, or tuna. Why would he need Yuu when the "Replacement" finally appreciated how great a magician he was compared to the others?

And when Yuu most wanted to talk to Tsunotaro, he didn't come. Because he was spending time with the "Replacement"

Yuu was constantly forgotten or remembered when the "Replacement" did their perfect job faster than they did.

Then the Director subtly hinted to them about their very precarious position and that he was removing the Prefect from his post and appointing a "Replacement" in their place of a student. And that now Yu will have to "work even harder for shelter and food"

And this was the last straw for Yuu's exhausted nerves.

If they are no longer a Prefect….and don't have any value to others. Then there was no need for them to stay in this place anymore...?

To risk their lives for the sake of people who use them for their own benefit. They neglect them, criticize them, no matter how they squeeze everything out of themselves. Or even worse, they will not be punished for their actions.

[heybaetae]

There were a few parasocial relationship discussions in the past week on reddit and someone brought up Jungkook almost every time as someone who leans more into the parasocial relationship with his fans - or enables it, I'm not sure how to word it properly. And it made me a little confused because to me, it doesn't seem like he does it? Or maybe I'm not that delulu to think that what he's doing Is indeed parasocial sometimes, or I don't fully understand what counts as parasocial with an idol. So I wanted to ask: do you think that he's leaning a bit into it?

If I remember correctly they brought up him calling the fans as his girlfriend(s) - I honestly just took that as a joke but Idk? - and him folding his underwear on camera - again very confusing to me because why is that parasocial? - and him sleeping on camera - well okay I can see why This counts as parasocial, but the others?

Sure, compared to idols who only do the necessary fanservice and rarely interact with fans he really does a lot more, like he had a million lives this year alone and he shared his recipes with us and gifted songs and etc. but I still don't know. Is it really more parasocial than it should be and I'm just simply not noticing it? 😅

i think his dynamic with the fandom is appropriately parasocial enough without it becoming overly codependent even though some would probably argue that it might feel that way from time to time. he's expressed that the fandom can't be excluded from his life and i believe he really feels that way since ARMY have been a constant in his life for a decade from such a young age and that's a big factor into why it's so strongly important to him.

i think he leaned into it way more than ever this year on purpose because he knew there'd be a temporary pause eventually and he wanted to make the most of his spare time with us in a less stress-inducing way while being in full control of it. consider how rare that's been in his long career, everything from your fanmeets/concerts to your scheduled livestreams at the company building being orchestrated and planned out for you. him deciding to say "fuck it i wanna chat with fans whenever i feel like it" and kickstarting the habit of going live from home without telling anyone at work first and letting it become a regular thing was a conscious decision he likely put thought into after he got away with it the first couple times. i'm not implying he didn't have control of that before, but there was always an obvious protocol to follow for safety reasons, which is understandable, but he wanted to take the risk and so he did. other members would later follow that example too.

i think sometimes people misunderstood him or purposely misconstrued his words on those lives, especially his jokes or his way of expressing his thoughts/feelings to fit their own narrative or image of him. people want him to fit the mold they've created in their heads of him, so no matter how often he came live and was vulnerable and honest with us, people still looked for ways and reasons to dictate what he did, how he felt, how he meant something differently from what he said when he couldn't have been more clear, etc.

i can't make you see something differently from how you already do. i don't love the term "delulu" in this sort of context because like you said, a lot of the normal things he let us see on his lives were normal every-day chores and not everyone is going to consider it very parasocial to have seen it, but how often do you hear of idols letting their fans in that much? hardly ever. it was fun for both parties because it was unexpected and sometimes spontaneous (like sleeping/cooking/exercising) and he felt comfortable enough to do certain things with an audience. we're talking about someone who'd been mostly ghost online for like two years. someone who has a history of being very shy. it meant a lot to fans to see him come out of his shell and grow even more comfortable with us, even if it sometimes put him in some unsafe situations because unfortunately, there are some really scary people out there. idk where the parasocial quota is, so i can't say what it "should be" but i can tell you i've never seen any famous person engage with their fans in as pure of a way as he did this year.

[reborn-from-your-ashes]

Ada Hegerberg on the future of women’s football - The Guardian

I don’t want to come out all firing, it’s too early into 2024 for that and I’ve got a job to do on the pitch, but it is always important to start a new year properly and raise some concerns that I, and other players, have about the women’s game and where it is going.

Sometimes this world of football still manages to shock me. I was shocked when I saw the 2024 international match calendar – and I was not the only one. Many of us have had to compete in back-to-back summer tournaments in with the postponed Tokyo Olympics in 2021, the Euros in 2022 and then the World Cup in 2023. This year it’s the Olympics again for some teams, so to see a Fifa window for games in the middle of July was frustrating to say the least.

Obviously, some teams will be competing at the Olympics but not all of us. Many were looking at this summer as a summer of liberation – for our bodies and our minds. But no.

A lot has been made about the intensity of our match calendars and the impact on players who are not given a proper environment for the demands of so many matches, yet here we are, ready to play anywhere between 50 to 60 matches, with games to be played in every month of the year. The decision-making is worrying to say the least. I will be told there was no other month for it, but I do firmly believe a good problem solver can find a way around any matter.

I feel these issues so keenly because I’ve been impacted by them. There are many different causes of injuries, but if we are overworking players, not giving them the appropriate amount of rest and recovery time, and not providing them with the set-up that can match the level of the demands being placed on them physically and mentally, then the risk to player health is increasing exponentially.

I had been injury free in my whole career, year-in and year-out, winning trophies and playing to my best abilities. But in recent years I’ve been unlucky with a stress fracture impacting my body. Very few people knew or understood the extent of this injury, what caused it and whether it would impact me long-term, yet despite that I have lazily been labelled “injury prone”.

Any of us could pick up another injury, but any of us could also have a fantastic year ahead of us. This is the goal I work towards every day, and I feel this is something that we, as Lyon, have done collectively and individually for the past few months. This injury period is behind me. I’m tired of being put in a box. There will always be a “it won’t last” caveat to recognition of my form but I’ve stopped putting energy into answering these questions and so should all players.

We know who we are, where we are now, and where we came from. Injuries are an important part of the game whether we want it or not, but not the decisive factor as to who we are. Female players deserve to have the competence and quality around them to help them to keep delivering on the pitch.

At the moment, there are too many variables from environment to environment to blame the players or their bodies for the injuries they pick up. Playing any sport is an injury risk but we are not defined by our injuries. We are defined by what we are able to bring to the pitch and the sport.

Giving players better environments with more competence around them is key. There is a lot of talk about the need for research, and rightly so, but not enough about how the research, when done, is then filtered into the women’s football ecosystem for the benefit of all players. If you really want to see the women’s game grow you must keep players available. Right now, that’s a hell of a challenge. I had to dig deep to lift me out of the injury hell I was in for a short period, getting the right expertise and knowledge, and I was lucky because I had the people around me to help me do that. Not everybody gets that.

On a global level, players need help. We need a better communication between players and governing bodies. We need better communications between clubs and federations. We can’t keep having contradictions in the way things are done. Having a health expert panel put in place is a great thing, but how good is it for when you’re told you have international games to play mid-summer? The stress that is put on players physically and mentally makes no sense. The demands on players and their bodies are growing and while this is something we’ve all been asking for, the tools are not yet here to deal with those demands.

Will it change? I hope so. We are so damn lucky to be professional footballers. To me it is one of the best jobs in the world. But being lucky doesn’t prevent all of us from being smart. There are, and there will always be, bigger issues to solve in the world, but taking care of one another in our area is a start, and that gives a foundation for us to help greater causes. Football, and other sports, can serve so many bigger purposes.