#butterfly in shades of grey

[columboscreens]

columbo - butterfly in shades of gray

[spockvarietyhour]

Columbo imagines his life with a cell phone.

[scottsumrners]

bill shitner's top ten homophobia moments

[handsometabbyc]

How exactly was *he* planning on getting away with this though? He's stuck in the middle of nowhere too. (And that's even if he wouldn't have been the last person seen with him or Columbo wasn't a cop)

[fishwithlegsandaheart]

we have to retire the 911 to fifty shades of grey butterfly effect bc theres one right there thats much more compelling which is the 911 to sold to one direction fanfic butterfly effect

( 911 —> mcr is formed —> fans write mychem smut of being sold to them —> the original creator of “sold to one d” seeing those fics —> they write sold to one d )

[tinyriver-neonlights]

Happy 22 anniversary to the best Butterfly Effect

Gerard Way witnessed 9/11, inspiring him to start My Chemical Romance. MCR's music inspired Stephenie Meyer to write Twilight, which inspired EL James's Fifty Shades, whose movie adaptation brought fame to Dakota Johnson who began Ellen's cancellation

[persephone411]

We all know the 9/11 to 50 Shades Butterfly effect, but what if it keeps going? What if someone writes and publishes a fifty shades of Grey fanfic?

[foone]

I visited the world where Gerard Way was visiting family in Minneapolis on 9/11 so he kept his Cartoon Network job instead of becoming a musician.

It's pretty similar to ours. He didn't go into cartoons as you might expect, but he is way more famous in the comic book world.

As for butterfly effects, MCR doesn't exist, so Twilight doesn't exist, which means 50 Shades of Grey doesn't exist. I couldn't find any references to Stephenie Meyer or E. L. James, so either they didn't go into writing or they didn't use those same pen names.

Robert Pattinson was in Harry P*tter and then mainly independent stuff from then on out.

Kristen Stewart is somehow a bigger star than in this world? She was in Red Revenge, 2012 Soviet film about WW3 happening in the 60s and then in the 80s the survivors come over to the US to find out of anything survives of the cowardly US leadership that started the war. (yes, they shoot Reagan. He's out of his mind and it's shot like Old Yeller). She's been in a lot of USSR films since then, as this greatly raised her profile.

Taylor Lautner seems to have become a writer instead of an actor. He wrote one of the later seasons of Firefly, after it went all season-long-arcs. He technically cameo'd in season 6 but it was just as a guy who ran a casino station. He had like three lines, two of which were "get off my station!" and "guards!"

I didn't see any real differences in the music world. Sometimes you take out a band or form a super-group with interdimensional exploration, and it changes the whole field. Like if you take out Nirvana the 90s look very different, or if you help the Back Road Boys form then the 2010s are all about the retro-country revival. Anyway: MCR, as good a band as they are, don't appear to be one of those "linchpin" bands that affect the whole musical landscape.

BTW, the weirdest one of those? Michael Fucking Jackson. He's a super influential musician, inspired so many others, the king of pop, right? NOPE! If his music career is skipped, then it only affects his siblings and the one hit wonder "Somebody's Watching Me" by Rockwell.

Strange, right? There's more downstream time effects on the music industry from taking out David Hasselhoff!

[starkeyisthelastname]

Rafe w plus-sized/chubby reader, pretty pleeeease??

“Them stretch marks im nuttin all over.”

You read the text message over and over again. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you sat down on the edge of your bed. The way the heat was rushing to your core in such a fast manner, had you concerned. No man had ever made you feel this way especially a man this gorgeous. His name was Rafe and you had met him on Tinder of all places.

You had been in so many failed relationships that you were done trying, but of course there was only so long you could go with just using your rose toy. And while that little thing was amazing, you did miss the feeling of sex. Signing up for Tinder, you promised yourself that you were not looking for a relationship and merely only wanted to see if you could find a potential friends with benefits. You had never had one, always falling into these too quickly.

You weren’t exactly confident, your weight always getting in the way. Something you had struggled with as long as you could remember. You had a tummy, rolls, stretch marks, your face always being too round. You hated the fact men turned you away when asking for a picture of your body.

Rafe was muscular with light tan skin and gorgeous blue eyes. His profile read that he was 6’2, he worked at his dad’s business and he was looking for something causal. You thought you had nothing to lose and swiped right on his profile, not thinking anything of it. You were sure he wouldn’t give you the time of day.

You had just gotten out of the shower when you saw the notification.

You matched with Rafe!

Rafe sent you a message

Matched? You were in shock as you opened up the message hoping it wouldn’t scare him off that you were messaging him back so quickly. The two of you started off casual, making small conversation to learn a little about one another even exchanging numbers. It then led to being flirtatious, him causing your pussy to feel butterflies. He asked what you liked in bed, your turn ons, what made you feel good. When he asked for a picture of your body, you immediately got anxious. Normally you’d block the guy no matter how hot they were.

Sending him a full body picture of you and explaining that you had stretch marks, and cellulite and weren’t skinny by any means. You sat on the edge of your bed nervously. It took him a minute to reply, making you wonder if he got grossed out. But as soon as that text message came in, your eyes widened. Reading it over and over, you didn’t know how to reply.

Your phone dinged again, this time with an address. Was this really going to happen? As nervous as you were, you found yourself typing back a response.

“You want me to come over?” You bit your lip, waiting for a response. The typing bubbles appeared, only to disappear a few seconds after. Your phone buzzed in your hand, a video now having been sent from his end. You took a deep breath, clicking the play button where it turned to full screen. Your eyes widened as the camera focused on his grey sweatpants, the clear outline of a huge dick now in the frame. You instantly felt the ache run straight to your core, wanting to see more of it.

“What do you think? Let me put this in you, pretty girl.” The message below the video said.

You rang the doorbell, nervously rocking on your heels as you waited. This wasn't the best idea you had ever had. He could be a crazy person for all you knew. The house was rather dark and you didn't see much movement. You pulled out your phone to start to text him when you heard the sound of a door being opened.

You looked up to see him standing there. He was tall, his profile height being right. His eyes were the bluest shade you had ever seen, staring at you with the sexiest smirk. He was shirtless, toned abs making your mouth water as you couldn't help but glance at him.

“Hi.” You squeaked nervously.

“Hey.” His voice deep, making you want to cum right then and there. You swallowed the lump in your throat, stepping in the house as he opened the door wider. You looked around, the house neat with neutral colors. He cleared his throat, walking past you towards the living room. “Let me turn this off real quick and we will go upstairs.” He said, grabbing the remote and turning the tv off.

He led you up the stairs and down the hall to what you presumed to be his bedroom. It was surprisingly clean, and smelled of cedar and his cologne. He shut the door, walking past you to sit on the edge of the bed. You sat your purse down on the end of the dresser, hands folding in front of you in nerves.

“Come here.” He rasped out, eyes raking over you as you stepped closer to him. He roughly grabbed your hips to pull you between his legs, hand running down to grip your ass. “Don’t be shy with me. Alright? You’re fucking beautiful.” He said.

You had never felt or seen a dick so big. Your head hung down, flushed cheek pressed into the mattress as Rafe pounded you from behind. This position was almost too much for you, making you grab the sheets to almost pull away.

“Where you going, huh? Don’t start fucking runnin from me.” His voice about the sexiest thing you had ever heard. You felt his large hand come to your head, yanking your hair back in a tight fist. You let out a loud moan, eyes rolling back as he forced you to look up at him.

“Open your fucking mouth.” Rafe spat, gripping your jaw to force apart. You did exactly as you were told, not having much of a choice as he spit directly onto your tongue. You felt completely degraded, exactly one of your kinks you told him you had. He was not playing around with you, and the chokehold this man had you on was crazy.

He chuckled, leaning down to capture your tongue with his in a messy kiss, your poor cunt being drilled by his massive length at a constant pace. You whined against his mouth, pussy clenching around his cock as you already began to squirt against him and the sheets below.

“Shit.. you like ruining my sheets and shit?” His voice hoarse, reaching down to slap your thick ass cheek roughly.

All you could do was nod, head pounding from the still tight grip on your hair. You had completely came undone in just a short amount of time. The insecurities you had felt before had disappeared for the time being, Rafe worshipping your curves by fucking you exactly how you had wanted.

[siriuslovebot]

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪ 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒇 ➸ 𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒖𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 ˖ ࣪⭑ ˖ ࣪

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: smut (18+, minors dni!), oral (f!receiving), shy!reader, unprotected sex, praise kink (kinda), some teasing, dirty talk, etc.

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: sirius really likes it when the reader wears his clothes.

𝑨/𝑵: hi everyone! i’m very excited for my first post on this blog. please go easy on me as i’m a bit rusty when it comes to writing (also this is completely unedited, so apologies in advance for any mistakes). i’m still deciding how i want to format these posts, so forgive me if it’s a bit of an eyesore. i also accidentally posted this on my main at first, so if you saw that... no you didn’t ;) as always, lowercase is intended. feel free to send me a request if you like. feedback is always appreciated!

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻: 3.1k 𓂃♡₊⭑

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺

       “is that my shirt, dove?”

       the low, silken gravel of his tired voice startles you as you sit perched in the little window seat of your shared bedroom, the window thrust open to let the night breeze in.

       “hmmm?” you muse, distracted as you slowly paint a top coat on your toenails. you fan them with one hand as you glance behind you. sirius stands in the doorway, lithe figure leaned against the frame as he watches you. his shirtsleeves are rolled up over his forearms, hair skirting his shoulders messily, eyes foggy from a long day at work. a soft smile plays over his lips, quieter than his usual wide, wolfish grin.

       he nods towards his shirt draped over your frame, the fabric pooling around your hips to expose the fabric of your panties. “been looking for that all over,” he says simply.

       you make a sheepish face, twisting the cap onto the bottle of nail polish. “‘m sorry,” you mutter, smiling apologetically. you turn towards him, bare legs dangling over the edge of the seat. you are a sight for sore eyes; his gaze trails over your exposed skin, eyes darkening as they trace your figure draped in his shirt. a warmth blooms in your stomach as you watch him watch you. the look is familiar–though it never fails to send your chest aflutter.

       “want me to take it off?” you ask, mostly because you’re at the point where it’s getting hard not to squirm beneath his hungry gaze. the silence is deafening, unspoken words bubbling to the surface. you have the sudden feeling that sirius may not be as tired from work as you thought.

       “not at all.” there’s that mischievous glint behind his eyes, darkening the clear grey to a stormy shade. you sit another second, skin burning as his eyes rake over you, and then you stand and pad over to your vanity.

        sirius should be getting undressed, preparing for bed. he’s too busy watching you. his eyes skirt over the curve of one bare shoulder as you return the little bottle of polish to its rightful place. you swipe a hand through your mussed hair, trying to ignore his attention. he always knows how to get you squirming, the easiest ways to set your cheeks alight with embarrassment. he lives for it, watching his shy girl crumble between his fingers.

       it seems he can’t contain himself any longer as he approaches you, fingers sidling up beneath the hem of the shirt. his lips are on you in an instant, pressing gently against that irresistible patch of exposed skin on your shoulder. a sigh falls from your lips and you melt into his touch. you close your eyes. his calloused palms knead over the flesh of your hips, earning a soft groan from you.

        he smirks against your skin. “quiet tonight, hmm?” his breath fans along your neck as he kisses up towards your ear. goosebumps rise on your skin, a shiver threatening to snake down your spine.

        “it’s late,” you mutter. there’s a knowing second of quiet, both of you knowing you’ve fooled around much, much later. you’re flustered, trying to deflect his teasing words. the butterflies fluttering in your stomach have long since morphed into flames, burning like your skin as you wait for his next move.

       “you want me to stop?” his whisper is soft, the undertone of huskiness becoming feather light. you shift, eyes meeting his in the reflection of the vanity. his eyes are clear, curious. you know he’d stop at the word, no questions asked. but he knows you better than that, knows the way your legs twist together at the feeling of his hands holding you firmly means you don’t want him to stop. sirius wagers you would beg him not to stop, if he wanted you to.

        “no,” you shake your head. there’s that grin again, and his lips are back on you. a sharp breath slices the air as he nips at your skin with his teeth. “sirius–”

        his grasp tightens at the gasp of his name. he chuckles quietly, snaking a hand up over your stomach. the rough pad of his hand finds your breast, kneading it in his palm whilst his other hand holds you firm against him. he’s hardening behind you, bulge pressed against your scantily clad frame. his gaze is still trained on you in the mirror, dragging over the lush sight of your flushed face, your lips parted in small pants, the dark look in your eyes. he loves watching you fall apart at his smallest ministrations. more than half of his pleasure comes just from working you up like this, pushing you to the brink without even trying.

       “please,” you manage, voice constricted as you writhe against him. the ache between your legs is incessant, throbbing as you watch his salacious expression in the mirror.

       “please what, my lovely girl?” he sucks a dark mark into the soft patch of skin behind your ear, earning a cry from you. he rolls your nipple between his fingers. you chew on your bottom lip, hips rocking as best they can despite his hold.

       “sirius–”

       there it is again, his favorite sound in the world. but he doesn’t give in so easily. you know better.

       “words, please, darling,” he mutters. the arm caged around your stomach loosens for a second, his flat-palm tracing down your stomach. he’s approaching the place where you need him most, but he’s not going to give in until he gets what he wants.

        you whimper at his teasing, head falling back to rest on his shoulder. “please,” you rasp desperately, “just touch me.”

        “ah,” he tuts at you, “but i am touching you…” the jest in his voice goes unnoticed by you, your head swimming as he inches closer and closer to your center. you wonder, in the back of your foggy mind, if he’ll give up without those magic words, if he’ll send you off to bed with soaked panties and a fluttering stomach. surely not…

        you contemplate being a brat, refusing to tell him what you want just to see how far you can push it. but you know he’s tired, and the need growing in your center is becoming almost unbearable. you let your pride crumble and you force yourself to meet his eyes in the mirror. “your fingers–your mouth, merlin–” your voice is choked as he smirks and gives in, his middle finger delving into your slick to circle around your engorged clit.

       “there’s my obedient girl,” he says approvingly, the praise in his voice like music to your ears. you cry out, voice cracking as he applies pressure to the bundle of nerves with expertise. he knows your body like the back of his hand, knows exactly what drives you crazy. the pad of his finger dips further down, swirling through the mess of juices shining on your lips.

       mewling moans tear from your lips as he works you towards the edge. his lips are attached to your neck, abusing your skin to the point of saccharine tenderness. rosy marks bloom over your skin. his hand falls away from your breast to toy with the hem of the shirt, lifting it up in the front just enough so that he can watch himself pleasuring you.

       “fuck, take it off, please,” you plead, hips bucking against his hand.

       he shakes his head, releasing another patch of bruised skin with a hearty pop. “can’t,” he says, “wanna fuck you in it…” he mutters, voice low. he drags his teeth over your shoulder again, and then his fingers are slipping out of your panties. you whine at the loss of contact, your thighs clenching together automatically at the lack of stimulation.

       he pats your bum gently, head nodding in the direction of your bed. “go on, dove,” he says, “lay down f’me…”

        you do as he says, your heart thumping in anticipation. your legs are already quivering, weakened from his skilled fingers. he’s taking his time, watching as you sprawl back over the mussed blankets, frame draped in his clothes. he’s never been so enamoured, the sight of you wearing something of his just furthering his claim that you’re his sweet little angel. only, it makes him want to fuck you like you’re his little slut, makes him want to split you open on his cock and make you cry for hours and hours.

        you get comfortable, spreading your legs to reveal the soaked-through fabric of your panties. he groans, running a hand through his dark hair before he begins unbuttoning his shirt. the dark fabric is discarded quickly, though he doesn’t bother removing his trousers as he kneels on the bed between your legs.

        “sirius…” you breathe, aching for him by now. he’s observing, hands gently massaging the skin of your legs starting at your ankles. you squirm, following his gaze to the fabric plastered to your core. a second passes, and he dips his head between your legs, hands splayed over your thighs to keep your legs apart. a shrill cry comes from you as he licks a long stripe up your center, tongue gently flicking around your clit through your underwear. “please!”

       he smiles, against you. “so sweet,” his voice comes as a whisper. you tremble as his eyes meet yours, the stormy grey churning with lust for you. teasing you, he places tiny kitten licks against your center, just enough friction to have your hips rolling up into his mouth. but he’s stronger than you, and he’s got you right where he wants you. he has a knack for turning you into a whining, wriggling mess, drunk on his touch.

        “i– fuck, i can’t take it,” you hiss through clenched teeth at his teasing. you watch him through hooded eyes, biting on your bottom lip so hard that it hurts. he catches your eye, swirling the flat of his tongue over your clit. your back arches off of the bed, earning a raised eyebrow from him.

        “poor baby,” he says, tongue swiping over his swollen lips. he sits back on his knees, using one hand to flick open the clasp of his belt. “shall i send you off to bed, then? let you get your beauty sleep, hmm?” his eyes flicker with amusement. his other hand rubs soft circles into the silken skin of your inner thigh. you breathe sharply at the needing ache between your legs. you need him inside of you, badly enough you feel as if you could burst into tears.

       “no, why would i–” you start, shaking your head. he narrows his gaze at you, a warning. you know what he’ll do if you act like a brat, and although you’d enjoy it you don’t think you have the energy tonight. he pats your thigh softly, then finally, painstakingly drags the zipper of his trousers down.

       “be m’good girl then, yeah?” he prompts, moving closer as he palms his bulge through his boxers, then drags the waistband down just enough to let his length spring free. you hum at the sight, licking your lips as he swipes a thumb over the angry red tip, spreading a bead of precum over it. he spits into his hand, pumping the moisture over his cock before positioning himself above you. two of his fingers push the fabric of your panties out of the way, and he drags the cockhead through your folds, coating it in your arousal.

        a high-pitched, breathy noise graces his ears as his length drags over your clit. you bring your hand to your face, pushing your sweat-slicked hair off of your forehead. he breathes sharply above you, brows screwing together as he nudges your entrance with his length.

        “need you, siri,” you say, pleading. “need you inside me so bad…”

         “i know, dove,” his voice is soft as he leans down, peppering kisses over your face. “been dying to stretch you open since i got home.” he pushes into you, a chorus of pleasured sounds destroying the quiet in your bedroom.

        you cry out, the feeling of him pushing into you driving you mad. it’s been ages since you last had him inside of you, and there’s a sliver of pain as he bottoms out inside of your dripping cunt. waves of pleasure accompany the sting of the stretch, and your eyes flutter as he rocks slowly into you. he’s watching the way his cock splits you open, low grunts coming from deep in his chest. he shifts, one hand pressing on your lower stomach, thumb swirling over your clit. you cry out, head falling back onto the pillows. the other hand lifts one of your legs, pushing it towards your chest.

        “oh my fuck–” you cry out, hands reaching for him, fingertips finding his as they dig into your fleshy thigh. he holds your leg there still, hooking one finger with your own without even thinking. his pace is steady, and his cock is dragging deep against your walls. you’re fluttering around him, doing your best to keep your eyes open and drink in his blissed expression.

        “look at you,” he grunts, brows pulled together as he snaps his hips into yours with particular force. “makin’ a mess everywhere, dove…” the fabric of his trousers and exposed patch of pubic hair are both shining with your juices, and you’re sure there’s a damp spot pooled on the sheets beneath you. he’s eyeing your swollen cunt, his thumb massaging a steady pattern into the bundle of nerves. you clench around him involuntarily, your insides so swollen and tender that you imagine you can feel the ridges of his veins pulsing against your walls.

        your orgasm approaches unrelentingly. he leans back onto his heels, the angle causing the head of his cock to prod at the spongy flesh of your sweet spot. stars bloom at the edges of your vision, and his name breaks from your lips in a hoarse cry.

        “siri, i’m close,” you sob, your voice shaking. you feel his hips snap against yours, skin slapping in the quiet night as he drills you into the mattress. you bunch his shirt up in your free hand, wringing the fabric desperately as you hold onto him with your other hand. the fabric smells of him, like cigarettes and cologne and something woody, and it drives you even closer to the edge. he’s taking over your senses; the sight of him hovering over you, muscles in his abdomen clenching and rippling as he fucks into you is enough to make you scream on its own.

        “oh, is m’good girl gonna come for me? gonna make a mess of my cock, are you?” that silken voice drowns out everything else in the world. sirius is the only thing on your mind, his ministrations setting your body aflame. pleasure courses through your veins, spreading through your whole body until it’s all you can do to keep yourself from screaming until your throat goes hoarse.

       you cry for him as you come, your entire body seizing and shivering as he guides you through your release. “that’s it,” he says throatily, “oh, you’re doing so good f’me… look at this sweet little cunt pulling me in…” he’s groaning at the feeling of you tightening around him, closer to his own orgasm by the second. you’re still shaking, riding the waves of one of the longest orgasms of your life, and you’re sure a second one is piggybacking on this one, not far from sending your body into violent tremors.

       “siri, it– ah, it’s so sensitive,” you breathe, voice weak. he’s continued his pace both inside of you and on your clit. he’s determined to drain ever ounce of pleasure from your body that he can, his eyes watching your cunt weep around him with pride.

       “you can take it, dove,” he soothes, voice soft. “just one more f’me, can you do that? make me happy, love, just one more…”

        “one–one more?” you breathe, jerking as he slows his hips, allowing you to feel him inside of you more intensely. your mouth falls open involuntarily, your features crumbling into pure bliss as he nods. his movements grow more erratic as his release approaches now.

        “one more,” he repeats, leaning down over you to place a gentle kiss on your lips. his tongue drags over your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth. the kiss is messy, teeth gnashing and tongues swirling as he fucks you with renewed vigor. the coil in your stomach tightens again, and his movements quicken.

        you’re both drenched in sweat, shaking, as his pubic bone drags over your clit. both of his hands are now pinned to the mattress, caging you in on either side of your head. your hands slide over his ribs, up his back, nails biting into the skin as your second orgasm washes over you.

       he’s not far behind, hips meeting yours with a force that is almost painful, though you’re far too distracted by the fireworks blooming behind your eyelids. you feel him spill into you, hot seed pouring into your soaked cunt and making your thighs shake. his groans are hoarse, a couple grunted curses and growls of your name joining your chorus of moans in the room. he sits up once you’ve both ridden out your high, heads swimming as he watches his cum spill from between your legs when he pulls out.

        “my lovely girl,” he mutters, swiping a finger through the mess between your legs. the mix of your arousal glistens on his finger, the sight making your head spin as he brings his digit to your lips. you open your mouth, tongue darting out to swirl around the pad of his finger. you moan at the tang of your mixed release spreading over your tongue. he chuckles, leaning over to swirl his tongue against yours in a heated kiss. you’re panting when he finally pulls away, nipping at your jawline before he sits up, stretching his arms above his head. the sight of him, shimmering with sweat, scratches adorning his ribs and shoulders, hair curled up around his hairline and ears from the humidity, makes your stomach do flips. you shift, leaning up on your elbows as he pads away from the bed.

       “where are you going?” you wonder, frowning at his departure. he’s in the bathroom, the sound of the shower quickly following his footsteps. a second later, he returns to the bedroom.

       “gotta get cleaned up, darling,” he says. he tugs on one of your ankles as you lay there, and you oblige despite the fatigue in your limbs. “c’mon, let’s get this off.” he tugs at the hem of the shirt as he directs you into the bathroom.

        “can you wash my hair?” you ask, yawning as he pulls the shirt over your head.

        “‘course i can, dove. now, in we go...”

[themotherofhorses]

‘22!simon riley x fem!reader x ‘09!simon riley

warnings: smut. threesome. fingering. allusions to an age gap relationship/relationship between a superior and subordinate. ending open to more future smut.

As I was discussing with @cloudofbutterflies92:

Imagine being sandwiched between ‘09!Ghost and ‘22!Ghost.

Somehow— to be fair, you still don’t know all the details —Ghost’s variant appeared on base; just randomly one October evening, when the 141 was hunkered down in a break room, piled around a TV replaying a previous football match (“Soccer. It’s called soccer, fucking heathens.”).

Well, at least, you assumed him to be his variant; he bore a striking resemblance to your Simon—only years younger, and a tiny bit shorter in height. Yet, the skull-patterned balaclava, shades, and grey-hooded, zipped sweatshirt with the Union Jack patch and insane amount of pockets were the exact same. The sight gave you butterflies in your tummy. 

For the most part, though, you maintained a respectful distance from him—that Ghost, that Simon Riley. 

“Can I refer to him as Poltergeist?”  “Eh, love. Do whatever the hell you want.”

You were Simon Riley’s girl, but he was not your Simon; far from it, in fact. Your Simon was years older, rougher around the edges, with a foul mouth, dry humor, and scars that littered his temple and left cheek. 

Would it still count as cheating? 

Whatever. You refused to think more of it, instead choosing to stow that thought away in the far corner of your mind as you continued on with your main duties and day-to-day routines. By all means, such thinking teetered into dangerous waters — it could be seen as infidelity, which meant a likelihood of losing Simon. You couldn’t survive without him, not without your Simon; he was your soulmate, the same way you were his. 

Which, by extension, meant you were that Simon’s soulmate as well. 

Not that it registered to you, of course. Simon says you’re a bit clueless when it comes to recognizing those little signs; it makes sense — prior to your relationship, you had no idea how obsessed your Lieutenant was with you, and that those lingering touches, soft glances, and praises were not normal between a superior and his subordinate. He calls it endearing (“You’re so clueless, baby. God, what would I do without ya?”). 

Simon— your Simon —knows that his variant wants you. 

It was easy for him to see. Simon Riley loves you so much; he is so unbelievably obsessed with your pretty self, so it made perfect sense for his variant to be equally obsessed with you, too. How could he not be? From the delicious curve of your hipbones, twinkling eyes, and soft hands (so much smaller than his) to the way your plush lips pout, everything about you is utter perfection to him. 

(There is probably no universe out there where he isn’t so fucking deeply in love with you, he tells himself.)

So when his variant’s own blue eyes start following you around anytime you’re in the same room as him (Simon knows he’s licking his lips beneath the balaclava, dirty bloke), instead of feeling jealous, Simon feels— 

—something else. 

Pride. Satisfaction. A bit devilish.

Simon won’t ever share you with anyone else. You’re his. Only he is allowed to see you breathless and whining beneath him, cheeks flushed, soaking the bedsheet as your body ruts against his, soft voice begging for his cock. Other men can dream, but only he lives out those wet dreams. 

But that Simon is still Simon. 

His eyes are almost the same; the bright blueness carries the exact trauma, hardness, and wariness, made from years of childhood abuse and depression. He has the hands once used in the butcher shop, and the long, thin scar on the back of his neck, where his bastard of a father slammed a beer bottle down during a drunken frenzy. The only difference, however, is that his variant still hasn’t found his main reason to live: 

You.

You’re the medicine to Simon’s soul. The first time he gazed into your eyes, he knew he found his reason to continue living in this shitty world; and the first time he stuffed you full of his cock, molding your previously untouched cunt to the shape of him, he told himself there was no way for him to live without you. How he survived this far without you, he’ll never know.

Therefore, he’ll call it a dosage.

You’d call it a threesome. 

He has you seated on the living room couch, legs spread apart wide as both Simons have their hands buried deep in your pretty cunt—stretching you out more than what you’re used to. You take turns sloppily making out with both men, their massive cocks held in your hands as your tongue entangles with theirs.

“Oh…oh my god,” you mewl, suddenly flinging your head back as their thick fingers piston in and out of your tiny hole; there is a soft, squelching sound that fills the room as they repeatedly slide through your juices.

“Bloody hell, she’s fuckin’ gorgeous,” the younger Simon groans, bending down to suck on your nipple. He runs his free hand over your other breast, teasing your sensitive nub with his thumb. “Lucky bastard.” 

Your Simon smirks at that. “She loves havin’ her pretty pussy played with. Aye, don’t ya, love?” His fingers curl to hit that spongy g-spot that causes you to shriek and squirm and see stars, your pussy tightening around him. Simon grits his teeth. “Look at ya, baby…all flushed and panting.” He picks up the pace, thrusting his two fingers faster.

“C’mon, pretty girl," he further coos, tucking a strand behind your ear. "Be a good girl and cum all over our hands, yeah?” 

You nod, bucking your hips to follow their thrusts, in sheer desperation for your orgasm. The younger Simon leaves wet kisses along your jawline, lathering the skin around your mouth with his tongue. “God, you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against your skin with a deep, guttural moan, his fingers continuing to fuck your pussy, with his thumb rubbing your puffy, little clit roughly. 

“Tastes good for a Yank, huh?”

“I could survive off of her for life.”

Your back arches from the overstimulation, a puddle of salva pooling at the edge of your swollen lips. “Si—SIMON, FUCK.” You’re not sure which Simon the moan is meant to be for, and you’re also not sure how much longer you’re gonna last; your pussy is only becoming wetter, and you’re unable to muster out any words. “P-please, please, p-please.”

“Good fucking girl. That’s it. Cum for us. Cum for your men.” 

Meanwhile, younger Simon kisses the side of your mouth, pumping his fingers inside your poor pussy faster. “C’mon, love. Lemme feel you cum.” 

“Cum on our fingers—” your Simon mumbles in your ear again, pausing to suck your earlobe between his lips. He gives it a gentle tug with his teeth, making you squeak.“—like a good girl, and you’ll get your pussy eaten. Sounds good, yeah, don’t it, baby?” 

“Simon,” you whine out, oh so prettily. 

He grins. “C’mon, baby. That’s my good girl. Gimme  it—I know you can, pretty girl.” 

His words do it for you. With a loud, high-pitched moan, your mouth drops in a perfect, little ‘o’ as you shriek, gushing around their fingers, feeling a sharp orgasm raking across your body. Your legs shake while you fall limp against the couch’s cushion, breathing heavily. 

“Holy shit,” the younger Simon breathes while pulling his fingers out of your pussy. Would you look at that? In the room’s lighting, he can see the way they glisten with a mess of your juices, staring down at it with a mix of admiration, awe, and pure lust.

“Fuck.” He raises them to his mouth, slowly sucking off your essence with a low mmmm. “So fuckin’ good.” 

"Yeah?"

"Bloody fuckin' lucky bloke you are, mate."

"I know."

Their back-and-forth banter makes you giggle. "God," you pant, all flushed and covered in countless hickies. “Can’t drive for shit but knows how to give a girl a damn good orgasm.” 

“Hey,” your Simon chuckles, squeezing your thigh. “Don’t start with that shit, love.” He gives your forehead a kiss before gently caressing your chin, “Why don’t ya spread your thighs again and give him a taste, right from the source, hm?”  

[columboscreens]

[spockvarietyhour]

[scottsumrners]

quote from a man about to be killed by billy shitner: what are you gonna do, kill me?

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Fading Into Lilac Skies✨

Boyfriend’s Dad! Joel Miller x fem! reader

A/N: “Colors” by Halsey inspired this one-shot, and I’m absolutely in love with them. Thank you to the lovely @alltheirdamn for being my beta reader 💜 This has been permeating in my mind for a few months, and I’m so glad I finally wrote it. Reblogs and comments make my day ✨

Summary: You never meant to fall for your boyfriend’s dad, but it happened. You just couldn’t stay away from those shades of blue and grey. But your favorite thing was turning them the color your soul was. Lilac.

Rating: 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 3.8k

Tags: Yearning, longing, forbidden love, secret affair, secret relationship, mentions of smut, falling in love, angst, boyfriend’s dad! Joel, age gap, no use y/n, no outbreak! au

“Everything is blue. His pills, his hands, his jeans. And now I'm covered in the colors, pulled apart at the seams. And it's blue, and it's blue. Everything is grey. His hair, his smoke, his dreams. And now he’s so devoid of color, he don’t know what it means. And he’s blue, and he’s blue.”

- “Colors” by Halsey

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

There’s a point you had passed long ago, a restricted section that should’ve had bolted locks forbidding you from ever daring to enter such a dangerous territory. Those gates were torn down and ripped open the moment you met him. Your boyfriend’s dad, Joel Miller. There was just something that kept you coming back to his house, back into the lion’s den. Back into his arms. Joel Miller’s.

It all started that first time you laid eyes on him while he sat in his garage, a large brewed cup of coffee in hand, taking slow sips while he watched the sun slip into the sky, painting vivid pinks and oranges from the sunrise.

He was intense, pensive, brooding. Something about him screamed sorrow, regret, maybe mournful like he had lost something or let someone slip from his fingers. His salt-and-pepper scruff framed his shadowed face, long greying sandy hair silhouetting his hooded chocolate eyes. His green flannel clung to his large arms, broad shoulders hugging the soft fabric. His thick veins spiraled down his tanned arms like a waterfall, and his thick fingers hugged the curve of the coffee cup with every sip he took from the steamy drink. You almost wanted to become the sides of that curved coffee cup, just so you could maybe taste what it was like to be kissed by lips that looked like they were soft enough to fall into, and maybe he’d swallow you whole.

His dark eyes fell on you, slowly slipping over your form entirely as your boyfriend, Jackson, introduced you to his father, an extremely handsome man that made butterflies flit through your stomach.

“Dad, this is my girlfriend. Had to finally introduce you,” Jackson smiled enthusiastically, like he was the proudest boyfriend in the world.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller,” you said shyly, fingers curling against your cotton summer dress, eyes widening with the slight grunt and nod your way from him.

“Call me Joel, sweetheart.” He took your hand slowly, calloused fingers colliding with your own to leave you choking on your own shaky voice. His eyes were like wildfire, dark flecks glistening up at you, tempting you to jump into the raging flames.

His big hand lingered against yours a little too long, not even paying attention to his son who stood right next to you, until he dropped your hand and flicked his eyes back to his only son. “I trust you’re takin’ good care of her?” he asked, eyes slightly narrowing at his twenty-eight-year-old son.

“Sure am, pops.”

Joel hummed, flicking his eyes back to you as they nonchalantly slid over your body again, making your breath falter at the sight. “He gives you any trouble you come to me, understand?” he demanded with a slight gruffness to his deep voice, almost sounding like he was commanding you.

You nodded, gasping at the dominance in his tone. “Yes, sir,” you murmured.

“Attagirl,” he smiled, coffee eyes swirling in your vision. You nearly buckled your knees at the word. Attagirl. Jackson never told you that, didn’t dare call you a good girl. But Joel? He might as well have fucking just said that, he basically did say that.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it. You two stay out of trouble, alright?”

“Sure, dad. See ya later. Gonna go drive down to the lake.”

You gave him one last glance as he said your name low, nodding his head your way as he watched you walk to the hunter green jeep, waiting for Jackson to unlock the car.

Your eyes trailed back to the garage, making you gasp when you saw Joel staring directly your way, sipping on his coffee and keeping those cool, dark eyes on you. Your breath shifted and your heartbeat skipped a beat, making your legs feel like mush. And when you finally drove off the pavement, his eyes still stayed locked on yours, even as you left the street. They never once looked away.

Fuck. You never expected to have a crush on your boyfriend’s dad, but here you were. Fingers tangled in your fabric with your breathing rapid and unsteady.

Yeah, this was not going to be good.

Jackson later told you his father had gotten a bad divorce a couple years ago, had a struggling fight to keep custody of his daughter, Sarah, and had gone through a bunch of shit with his previous contracting company. He really had seen the tolls of hell lately, and now you started to get why he always seemed so sad when you’d see him working in his garage by himself or sitting out on his wooden porch drinking freshly brewed coffee and strumming along softly on his acoustic guitar. He was lonely.

There was always something missing, a fraction of a piece lost in those dark, somber eyes of his. And you felt bad for him, even sorry, like it was somehow your fault. You wished you could make it better, give him something to cling to for the sadness to settle away, maybe take a teaspoon of those grey skies and turn them to bright blue ones. But you shouldn’t think that, not with your boyfriend’s dad. What kind of girlfriend would that make you? But apparently those thoughts completely flew through your mind, getting lost to the soundless wind and muted regrets.

A couple of weeks went by and you found yourself at his house again, just so he could fix something on Jackson’s jeep. Something with the alternator. Just when you thought you were safe, Jackson ran to the car parts store, leaving you alone in Joel’s house. Somewhere where you should’ve never been left alone.

You meandered out on the back porch, finding him sitting in a wooden rocking chair and sighing, his back hunched while he watched a pack of deer graze on the tall grass. He looked somewhat content, but you could see in that far off gaze he was contemplating something very deep in that ocean of a grey mind.

“Mind if I sit?” you asked, watching him nod his head to the polished rocking chair sitting next to him. You took a seat cautiously, careful not to disturb his morning peace, but he didn’t seem so bothered by your company.

His eyes flicked to yours slowly. They were a shiny amber color today, deep brown flecks glittering against the rising sunshine. And they were so beautiful that a gasp slipped from your lips unexpectedly. Closing your gaping mouth, you briefly smiled, and his eyes seemed to crystallize over into a deeper chocolate color.

He was so beautiful.

“You doin’ alright, sweetheart?” he asked calmly, his breath warm, gently blowing against the side of your face. You smelled the coffee simmering on his tongue, and his pine scent kissed your skin, awakening something deep inside you that should’ve never bloomed in the first place.

“Oh, mhm. Great, actually. But what about you?” You tilted your head and watched the way his jaw flexed, his eyes cloudy with a tinge of gloom in those brown doe eyes of his.

He shrugged and took a slow sip of his coffee, looking far off into the open field that had deer and cattle meandering out in the lush green acreage. “Workin’, stayin’ busy. Guess you could say I’m jus’ fine. Got everything I need right here.” His eyes flicked over the open field, but you saw the faint hint of regret as his eyes darkened, and his body slid a little further down into his hand-made rocking chair.

Slowly turning your knees to him, you leaned against the solid arm of the rocking chair and caught the way his eyes slid back to yours, like he knew you were about to say something else. Taking a deep breath, you went for it. “Jackson told me about… about everything you’ve been going through these past couple of years. And I wanted to say, if you ever need a friend or just someone to talk to, then you can talk to me. I’ll be here.”

Your hand slowly reached over, timidly grazing over the top of his rough hand, until your palm cautiously settled against his broken skin, starting a warm fire in the pit of your stomach as your skin brushed against his.

His back went rigid, and the way he was looking at you all wide-eyed and soft had your heart pounding uncontrollably in your chest. An unsteady rhythm that had your throat closing up like there was no more air available in your lungs. There was only him swirling around your heart.

He flicked his gaze across your settled hand and slowly but surely, his other hand came down to rest on yours, his fingers lacing in the crevice of your fingers until they formed like impenetrable clay. And suddenly, a shade of grey cleared from his foggy eyes, and warmth spread across his tanned cheeks. He wasn’t so blue after all, at least not when you were around.

“He told you?” he asked quietly.

“He told me everything,” you answered back discreetly.

“Why?” His thick eyebrows threaded together, and the wrinkles on his forehead formed a map of lines that you strangely wanted to trace with the tip of your finger, so you could maybe reach into his mind and tear away anything that hurt him in the past.

“Because I asked him…” you answered shakily, your fingers curling nervously into your white summer dress, twisting them until you pinched skin and flinched.

“I see.” His voice came out hushed, his eyes stormy as if he looked to the past and saw heartache all over again. You could see it in the way he held himself, fingers flexing, his shoulders hunched over, his back stiff. And your heart broke just thinking of the years that tore his body to shreds.

“And jus’ what did my son say to you?” His voice was deep, but it didn’t come out unkind or aggressive. It was just quiet, almost silenced, like he didn’t want to hear those hurtful words repeated.

“Well, he told me about Sarah and your messy divorce and then your job and…”

“‘Course he did. Always runnin’ his mouth ‘bout private matters that don’t concern anyone else,” he scoffed, shaking his head like he was used to his son always sharing secrets that should’ve been kept under lock and key.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller. I didn’t mean to intrude.” You scooted your body into the back of the wooden rocking chair, making yourself smaller like you had just crossed a line. You shouldn’t have asked Jackson, but you just had to know. You weren’t sure why, but some part of you yearned to know what made this beautiful man so weathered and frayed like his cracked, calloused fingers. It wasn’t any of your business, but you wanted it to be.

“Nah. Don’t do that. Don’t apologize like any of it’s your fault, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.” His arm came down on the side of his rocking chair briefly, thick fingers digging absentmindedly into the polished wood. His eyes were long gone into the hazy field ahead of him, the wildflowers gently blowing in the breeze, the oak trees swaying like the shiny pond water that lapped against the lush grass, your heart thundering in your chest with every stolen glance to the broken man who sat right next to you.

You couldn’t help but memorize the shine of his syrupy eyes, dark chocolate irises glowing in the rays of the sun peeking out of the grey clouds. They were so beautiful yet so sad. They deserved to be sparkling. Instead, they were full of turmoil, and that made you feel so empty for some unknown reason.

“Oh, okay then,” you eventually answered after staring way too long at his worn but immaculate face, his calloused fingers still on top of yours, the tip of his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckle like maybe he was trying to commit to memory how your skin felt against his. And just the thought of that had you dripping with sweat on the back of your neck.

“And jus’ Joel,” he replied, pressing his hand deeper against yours.

“What?” you whispered out.

“Jus’ call me Joel, darlin’. That’s my name, after all.” You blinked a few times, your mind reeling at the ask. He already told you to call him Joel once, the first day you met him in the garage, but something about first name basis was dangerous, forbidden. You shouldn’t say his name, shouldn’t call him anything but Mr. Miller, but here you were about to let his name be tattooed on your tongue like it was the only word you knew how to speak.

“Alright. Joel…” you answered cautiously, letting the wing sweep through your messy strands.

After waiting a beat, you spoke again. “Well, the offer still stands. I’ll be here, if you need someone to talk to.”

A gentle smile curled against his mouth slowly and for the first time, you saw the clouds clear fully in his dewy brown eyes.“You’re a pretty fuckin’ special girl, ya know that? Jackson got lucky. Beautiful girl like you deserves the world…” His eyes flicked down to his lap momentarily, but they quickly reverted right back to yours.

“Oh, I’m not… no, I’m not that special,” you laughed, shaking your head like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever said to you. You’re nothing special.

“Don’t be modest, sweetheart. Beautiful and special. The perfect combination. Don’t you ever forget it either.” His smile was so genuine. And his eyes, those exquisite brown doe eyes that made your voice shake, were making you forget how to form a coherent thought.

Oh. Beautiful…

“That’s kind of you to say, Joel, but I really don’t think...”

He lifted a rough-edged palm and stopped you right there. “Well, s’true. Don’t take anything less than what you deserve. I mean it when I say if you ever need anything, you come straight to me, darlin’. Wouldn’t ever leave you hangin’.”

His hand slowly reached out, your body completely paralyzed with every steady movement his fingers made. His fingertips brushed against your cheek, leaving scars you’d soon regret ever touched you, but they felt like a fine paintbrush drawing an entire masterpiece with every careful stroke he drew across your skin.

Electricity zapped through the cool air, sending sparks of lightning across every square inch he touched. And his eyes were absolutely sparkling, crystal domes that reminded you of citrine and smoky quartz. And when his fingers traced a loose strand behind the shell of your ear, it was like the world completely stopped, and the only sound you could hear was his slow breaths that smelled like strong coffee and pine trees dancing in the wind.

He was magnetic, and you wanted to burn right there in that little wooden rocking chair until you were nothing but burnt embers in his gentle palms.

Tires treading over gravel broke the intense spell you were under, and Joel’s palm fell from your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth behind in their absence. Both of your eyes were wide and daunting, and you knew you were fucked.

You shouldn’t be out here sitting alone with Joel, but you didn’t really care. He had you hooked, and now you were a baited fish.

“I should probably get back to Jackson,” you said quietly, pushing your shaky body from the rocking chair. The one that Joel had made by hand.

“Yeah, afraid you should,” he murmured in a hushed tone, his dark brown eyes following after you until you turned a corner where his electric stare couldn’t hold yours anymore.

You watched him sigh, his thick fingers curling back over his ceramic coffee cup as his plush lips met the sides. And in that moment, you so desperately wanted to be the dark coffee that caked his tongue in a swirl of various flavors. You wanted to be the sugar that left his body begging for more.

Taking a deep breath, you spoke without thinking it through. A plea to continue the conversations with this dream of a man. “Joel, your ex-wife was stupid to leave you. The way she treated you? You never deserved that. You deserve much better. I just hope you don’t think you were ever the problem because it never sounded like you were.”

Your hand latched onto the handle of the screen door and just as you started pulling it open, his deep voice made you lose your grip, and then the door swung shut with a bang.

“Sweetheart?” he called, craning his neck to look back at you with deep brown eyes.

“Yeah?” You slowly circled around and met those dazzling brown eyes that turned you into mush.

“You sure do know how to light up a room. Bring that pretty smile around here more often. You seem to keep the cloudy skies away.”

Your heart leapt into your throat and for the first time, you felt a heated warmth pull through your entire body, twisting around your veins until his name imprinted a mark on your heart.

Giving him one last smile, you turned and made your way back through the house, back to where you should be. With Jackson. But was that what you really wanted now? You never expected to have a crush on your boyfriend’s fifty-year-old dad, but here you were. Completely and utterly falling for something that should be so forbidden.

As the weeks went by, you found yourself at Joel’s more and more often, finding any excuse to visit or to have Jackson take you there. It started so innocent, so friendly but quickly faded into something that started to smother your insides until you bled Joel entirely.

Mornings became fresh cups of coffee on the back porch as you watched the golden sunrise and talked about life; the evenings you’d spend curled up on the floor, reading a book while he scanned over articles in the newspaper. Sometimes you’d sit on top of his workbench in the garage and watch him work on his truck.

It was the way he completely spilled his soul to you, making you feel alive, a feeling Jackson never could quite reach. Even just being in his warm presence was enough, where you could breathe in his lingering coffee scent, his cologne that smelled like pinewood and cedar trees, the aroma of sandpaper and palms caked in traces of paint that made you completely dizzy.

The small conversations started to not be enough later on; none of it was enough for you anymore. The slow touches became more frequent. Each time he’d walk past you, he’d brush against your shoulder, letting his hand trace against your strands of hair, your back, your hand. And you let it happen because it felt warm, right. And Jackson didn’t even fucking have a clue. Joel was that subtle; Jackson never saw it coming. You didn’t see it coming until that first day in his garage. You knew right then he was something special, and you just couldn’t learn to leave him alone.

Jackson was completely oblivious when the two of you would stay for dinner at Joel’s, not even noticing the lingering glances and the small brushes of knees under the kitchen table. And that’s all it took to fall.

And that first kiss. God, that first fucking kiss. The one that was so earth shattering it felt like you had the world in your hands. You were only supposed to help him with the watermelon in the kitchen, but then he pulled you into his arms, crushing you to his broad chest, and looked at you like no one else ever had before. Like he was completely and utterly in love with you.

You saw flickers of onyx and dark chocolate swirling in your vision, tempting you to jump into the flames. And when his calloused palm traced your cheek softly and he leaned in, you drowned in the flames.

His mouth molded to yours perfectly, shooting sparks of lightning through your bloodstream the way his taste fell like water against your soft lips. And you lapped it all up, committed his coffee taste to memory, even the wafts of spice that drizzled off his slicked back greying locks.

And that was the moment you sold your soul to hades because this calamitous decision would drag you down into the inferno. But you’d burn, never regretting the day his lips fell into yours.

It wasn’t even a one time thing. No. It formed into the most catastrophic, impending decision of your life, but you let it happen anyways. If Jackson was granite then Joel was gold. Impenetrable, unique, beautiful. You just couldn’t let him go.

Hot summer days turned to cool autumn evenings where you spent hours curled up against Joel’s warm chest. The sheets damp, clothes long forgotten, sweaty bodies that burned hot for each other. You forgot all your morals each time his head was between your thighs, his mouth fused to your drenched center, his tongue stroking and lapping up your breath-taking release each time he took you over the edge. And the way his cock stretched you, filling you so full of him, felt like fireworks shooting off inside you. His mouth swallowed your echoing moans with each snap of his hips, his body like a burning furnace that set you ablaze time and time again.

And that first moment he told you he loved you while you were curled up in his lap on the porch swing was magic. He was magic. And god, you loved this man with every fiber of your being.

There were no more cloudy days, no more grey shades threading his body like his tousled curls. No. He was vibrant, alive, and your red shades collided with his blue hues, mixing together to form the prettiest lilac skies you ever did see. And when he weaved his body around yours like a tight string, claiming you as his, entire hurricanes crashed and left your body to float out to sea. But Joel would keep you afloat, even through the pain of losing Jackson.

One day you’d have to tell Jackson, end it, but you had no strength to do that. Neither did Joel. So you were both doomed, damned to burn together in the pits of hell. You’d never forgive yourself for betraying Jackson, but Joel… well, you just couldn’t lose him. So you wouldn’t.

Joel found a way to thread every inch of you to him, sewn into the very essence of his soul as you swirled yourself into his shades of blue.

And then you were nothing but lilac skies.

[baeksqt]

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 - aitana bonmatí

aitana bonmatí x fem!reader

(a/n: oooh guess who’s posting a 6 month old piece dedicated to her boo, yep me, hopefully this doesn’t feel so long winded -_-)

word count: 918

genre: fluff

The trumpets of soft jazz accompanied your hums whilst your face sat inches away from your bedroom wall. With a slight ache in your back and a steady hand, you meticulously painted, the paintbrush moving over the same spot repeatedly, while your glasses slowly slid down the bridge of your nose.

The task of painting a mural for your newborn niece's bedroom, as requested by your sister, was no small undertaking. Utilising your time after work to visit, despite the demands, and hopefully make some decent progress. A week had passed and now, once again, you were sitting hunched over adding details. With your loyal Irish terrier, Dulce, sleeping soundly in your lap, occasionally stirring whenever you shifted positions.

The tranquillity of the bedroom is interrupted by a gentle knock at the door. You look to your left and the corners of your lips upturn. Seeing your girlfriend Aitana standing at the door, her hair in her usual relaxed ponytail, dressed in comfortable grey sweats.

"I thought you might have snuck Dulce in here with you." She quipped with a soft chuckle, looking at her watch as the clock hit 8:30pm.

You start to shift in your seat, intending to get up and greet the Barcelona player, before realising that Dulce is nestled between your legs, letting out a low grumble of disapprovement. You quickly settle back down, opting to stay put.

Aitana stood quietly behind you, her gaze fixed on the mural taking shape before her, the adorable zoo scene slowly coming together as you filled in the giraffe's spots. Above your head, you heard an approving hum, and then Aitana's encouraging voice, "You're doing well, chica. It's looking good!" She leaned in to examine the baby elephant on the wall. You release a doubtful sigh as you painted but your girlfriend was having none of it. "Don't be like that, amor meu! You're almost done." Aitana patting your thigh as she was now sitting next to you, "You don't know it yet, but your sister is currently bragging to her friends about you on the phone." Throwing you a knowing glance before resting her head on your shoulder.

You pause for a moment, the paintbrush resting lightly in your hand, looking up at the colourful, vast wall. As your eyes roam the wall, they come to rest on your girlfriend, nestled on your shoulder, her eyes closed in a state of wakefulness and slumber.

"I can hear your thoughts from here," Aitana mumbles quietly as you carefully set down your paintbrush, lifting Dulce out of your lap and glancing over at her. She stirs slightly, still half-asleep, and then continues, "relax." Her voice is gentle but firm as you unintentionally wake her from her short slumber as you stand up.

As Aitana observed, you stretched and vigorously mixed paints together in an attempt to find the perfect shade of blue. She then turned to the bedside table and quickly retrieved a new paintbrush.

"What can I help you with?" Aitana asked with a slight smile. You look up at her bewildered, surprised at her sudden involvement, considering that she hadn't shown much interest in the mural in the last couple of days.

"Uh...well the butterflies in this corner still need to be completed," you used the end of your paintbrush to point at the lightly sketched butterflies that fluttered across the wall, "that is, if you can reach." you teased your girlfriend.

Aitana, now pouting, threw a miserable glance, not taking kindly to the playful jab. "There's a step stool by the crib." you motioned to the oak crib behind the two of you.

"...Or I do the butterflies and you can finish the tiger—" you began to offer.

"No, no. I'll do the butterflies! I can reach perfectly fine." a smug look appeared on Aitana's face, turning away from you to retrieve the step stool.

As you and your girlfriend focused intently on your respective sections of the mural, time seemed to slip away unnoticed. Idle conversations about work and football filled the air until you suddenly became aware of Aitana approaching. With a mischievous grin on her face, she swiftly swiped her paintbrush across your cheek, leaving a streak of pastel pink in its wake.

"Lighten up, chica!" she planted a gentle kiss on your forehead, having to stand on her tiptoes to reach you.

Surprised and amused, you quickly retaliated by dragging your own blue-coated paintbrush across Aitana's forehead, eliciting a playful squeal from her. Dipping your hand into your palette, preparing to imprint your handprint onto your girlfriend's sweatshirt, before being interrupted by the sudden sensation of paint being splattered across your shirt.

You both gasped, meeting each other's wide-eyed gaze, recalling the mural that overlook you. "Aitana!" you hissed, scanning the mural in a panic for any paint splashes. "Amor meu, it's completely fine!" Aitana pointed at the mural with a smile.

"Completely—" the Barca player's expression fell as she ran her index finger across the pastel blue background of the wall, leaving a harsh pink line across, almost touching the giraffe. "Fine." You finish her sentence, blinking twice, hoping the mark would magically disappear.

Before either of you could say anything more, the knock at the bedroom door caught your attention. You turn to see your heavily pregnant sister standing in the doorway, a hopeful smile sitting on her cheeks before catching the sight of you and your girlfriend from your shenanigans.

"The mural's not done isn't it?"