#first two are from the same wip <3

[soursherbat]

idk if im gonna finish these but LOOK AT HIM

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Meaningful Kiss

SUMMARY: Would they make Public Displays of Affection? If not, are they protective instead? And how do they show you how much they truly love you through their kisses?

CHARACTERS: OB students (Riddle, Leona, Azul, Jamil, Vil, Idia & Malleus)

TAGS: Bullet Points; Fluff; GN Reader; Established Relationship, Kissing, Flirting, Slightly Suggestive(?)

WORD COUNT: An average of 300 words per character.

COMMENTS: This has been a WIP for so long that I don't even remember how I got the idea to write it. And in my case, being a WIP for a long time means that I wrote one part and then went on to write something else and ended up forgetting about this one for a long time. 😅 But now I've finished it.

I hope you enjoy 💋

Meaningful Kiss 2 (Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Sebek)

Meaningful Kiss 3 (Ruggie, Jade, Kalim, Silver, Lilia)

Meaningful Kiss 4 (Cater, Trey, Floyd, Rook)

CONTEXT: You two are in an established relationship already.

Riddle is not really the PDA type. The most he would do with you in public could be walk arm in arm like you were royalty. In terms of kisses, a kiss on the back of your hand or, at the most, on your cheek.

When the two of you are alone on a normal day, he will probably be working on his student and Housewarden duties. But whenever you tell him he should take a break, he'll get up, sit next to you and hug you, like you're a charger.

If you're relaxing together, he’ll be reading a book with one arm around you. Either around your shoulders or around your waist, which you told him you like the most. He’ll also laying his head on your shoulder.

The most meaningful kisses are, of course, the kisses on your lips. He's not the type to kiss you on the lips just like a "good morning" thing. These kisses are always sweet and lovely. His hands would be on your cheeks to caress them.

He needs you, but his kisses aren't needy. They are the caring type. You are his precious rose. In contrast to his strict self, the way he shows you that he loves you is through soft affection and care.

A relationship with Leona Kingscholar comes with your rights and duties. Some of your rights: He will buy you things; you’re allowed to pet his ears; he will be your protector and you can sleep with him in his comfy bed and have breakfast in bed (he ordered someone to bring it to you two)

Some of your duties: let him use you as a pillow (be it your thighs in the greenhouse or your chest in bed.); don't be too annoying to him; dealing with his “smugness” on a daily basis and being his and his alone, the same way he's yours.

He's kinda into PDA, but more in the sense of telling anyone who might look at you with interest that you're his. Or anyone who looks down on you that if they do the slightest thing against you they will have to suffer at his claws. If the other person is a friend of yours, he'll let it go.

He has at least two types of kisses. The first is the “make out” kisses. When you're alone and he wants you (if you want him at the time too of course), he would give you deep kisses, kiss your neck and run his hands over you. Either he would make you sit on his lap our make you lie down with him.

His real meaningful kisses are the second ones. The "lazy" kisses. The first ones are linked to his pride. These second ones are much more affectionate. Usually happen when he's still sleepy, like when he just woke up from a good nap. He may lazily put his arms around you and kiss your cheek, neck, or shoulder gently. This is perhaps the most vulnerable state he will let you see. And so it will only happen in private.

Azul is also not very adept at PDA, but he is still capable of putting an arm around you and kissing your cheek to show how well he takes care of you.

He's already quite charming and pleasant with his potential clients, so with you it's not much different in public. The only difference is that with you it's genuine.

Do I need to say that dating him is like dating a Mafia Boss? AKA: Nobody disrespects my loved ones, unless they want a certain head in their beds when they wake up. (reference to The Godfather)

Being alone with him on a normal day would probably be being with him in his VIP room at Mostro Lounge. You're sitting on one of the couches while he's dealing with his paperwork. He’s probably the type that likes to be teased a little. So, when you see that he is no longer that attentive to the papers, go up to him, play with his hair, kiss his cheek, that will put him in the mood for you.

He’s the opposite of Leona. The kisses he usually gives you are sweet and charming like him. Because that's the side of him he want to show you the most. He'll kiss your cheek and lips affectionately. Let you sit on his lap. The side he most wants to show you is the confident and caring side. The one who shows you that you can trust him and that he will take care of you.

His most meaningful kiss is the opposite. The one related to his needy side. He shows you his most vulnerable side when he is the one who needs you. And that's what everything he does shows you. His kisses, his hugs, his begging look, all screaming “I need you! Please don’t leave me.”

Jamil is completely against PDA! He doesn't like to stand out or draw attention and PDA always do that to the people involved. He won't hold your hand or kiss you. To the point where no one knows if you're even dating or not.

The only way he would show his affection for you in public is if that is a way to protect you. If someone looks down on you and he feels that that persons can be a threat to you, he will show that he is an even greater threat to them. In these moments, his protective side is stronger. He is Kalim's protector by obligation, but yours by free will.

It's when you're alone that he'll make up for his lack of affection of the day. On a normal day, you would be alone in the kitchen. He would probably be cooking for Kalim, but making something for you two as well. He’ll let you taste things as he cooks. He feels more relaxed when he's with you and even more so when you hug him.

When you're relaxing together, he would spoil you. Give you soft and sweet kisses. Pet your head and play with your hair. Give you massages and feed you things like grapes or small snacks. Or even taking the first mouthful of food he made for you to your mouth and seeing your delighted face.

The most meaningful gestures of affection he shows you are related to his most lustful side (lust for power) when you are the one spoiling him. The one moment in his life where he is no longer the servant, but the master. This time, he kisses your lips, your neck and everything he's entitled to. He tends not to show his feelings but with you he will show how much he loves you and how much he wants you.

In reality, Vil neither likes nor dislikes PDA. He's kind of indifferent to it. The only reason he doesn't do it with you is because it would have bad consequences for both of you for his work as an actor and model. The most he can do is walk hand in hand with you.

Even though he doesn't show it much in public, everyone will know that you two are dating. He'll make sure of it, even if it's just information on the internet or him straight out saying it. On the one hand to protect you, because only an idiot would try to mess with Vil Schoenheit's partner. On the other hand to discourage anyone who has the slightest interest in you. “Honey, they’re with me. Do you really think you can even get to my heels? So, don't bother them.”

The only possible problem for you is that he's going to be more strict now that you're dating. From the outside it looks like he can be mean and demanding with you. But the truth is, he wants you to look your best so people know why he fell in love with you. He wants others to see on the outside how beautiful you are on the inside.

But of course, sometimes it's too much and you'll challenge him. Be stubborn and carefree. The best part? He's so into it! Your way of teasing each other.

He kisses you every now and then when you're alone. But when you put him on this mood, all his affection mix with boldness intensifies. Oh, of course, you wanted him to remind you what the reward is for listening to him. The answer is: appreciating you with the rest of his senses, sensual kisses on your lips, jaw, neck and shoulders; his hands running over your body, him delighting in your wearing the perfume he made for you. He'll show you how beautiful you are to him.

PDA is not even an option! There is no way! Na-a! Listen, Idia loves you, really, he promises BUT going with you to places where couples usually go is already a lot and holding hands is the absolute most he can do. IF that even happens.

He wouldn’t be the jealous type. If someone shows an interest in you, at least they have good taste. But if someone looks down on you or goes so far as to disrespect you, then he goes from 0 to 100. Do these worms know he can hack them? exposing things that can completely ruin their lives until the day they pass through the gates of the underworld? Ortho can help protect you in the meantime.

Since he is a 0 to 100 guy, his kisses are the same. His "0" kisses are lazy. Mainly light, on your shoulder and neck, because you would be sitting on his lap, chest to chest, while he plays on his PC and you on your phone on his back. He also gives you casual "hi" and "bye" kisses on the lips.

Then there is his "100" kisses. Those are the real meaningful kisses, the "I love you" kisses. They are passionate but kind. Because loving you is different for loving a game, it's like he found his balance. they are not needy, but appreciative, the real embodiment of "OMG, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!" He also becomes bolder as he feels comfortable with you. He loves to tease you until he makes you shut him up with a kiss. The stronger your relationship is, the more daring and smug he will be.

Malleus is quite indifferent to PDA. However, he is not the type to initiate the exchange of affection, but he is the type to reciprocate it. He won't kiss or hug you out of nowhere. But if you kiss or hug him, he will definitely reciprocate.

And he's going to be extremely casual about it. I mean, it's two lovers interacting with each other. As young humans would say: What's the big deal? However, he still distinguishes between the affection he gives you in public and the affection he gives you in private.

In public, his hugs are polite, and his kisses are light but loving.

In private, what he wants most is simply to be with you. He loves it when you sit on his lap and he cuddles you, and he likes it even more when you cuddle him back. He maintains his composure quite well, but you know that just your kisses on his checks already melt him inside.

His regular kisses in privet are sweet, loving, showing you that you are the most precious thing in his life. And very recurrent. He may not be the type to initiate the exchange of affection in public, but he certainly is in private.

All his kisses are meaningful, but the most meaningful of all are the one he gives you on your lips while smiling. The kind of kiss he can't stop himself from giving you. You may not even notice when they happen, because you are simply being yourself.

He feels the need to kiss you passionately when you do something that reminds him of why he fell in love with you. The moments when you do something that may seem simple, but for him it is something extraordinary. And if you don't realize at first how incredible that small gesture can be for him, it only makes you more charming.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[honeyedmiller]

When in Positano | Javier Peña

javier peña x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors do not interact

warnings: light alcohol consumption, smut (fingering, f & m oral receiving, unprotected piv, major breeding kink, ass slaps), talks of starting a family, an insane amount of fluff, javi is a romantic at heart, bits of spanish with translation, frequent pov switching, no use of y/n.

word count: 6.1k

synopsis: honeymooning in italy with your husband is a dream, especially when he reveals he wants to start a family with you.

a/n: this has been in my wips / drafts since january- and then i ultimately decided to change the whole plot of this bc i've been in a soft mushy mood for husband x reader lately. shoutout to @ilovepedro (ily) for beta'ing this baby for me. hope you enjoy <3

It was times like this that you could hardly believe this was your life.

The morning sun had shown her golden rays through the linen curtains that danced with the wind, illuminating your villa brilliantly. The first thing you get to see when your eyes flutter open is your husband, unknowingly basking in the golden light of the morning. 

You stretch your sore limbs, the glint of your wedding ring in the light catching your attention. You can't help the smile that spreads across your lips, eyes shifting down to the man next to you once again. 

You study his peaceful features as if you were sketching him from memory — tan, warm skin; dark, thick hair; a mustache that always tickles the tiniest bit when he’d kiss you anywhere on your body; a strong, angular nose; long lashes that fan his cheeks; and plush, pink lips that were slightly parted as he breathed steadily. 

The only thing you miss dearly in sight at that very moment are his beautiful brown eyes. The same eyes that had you hooked from the very first time your gaze fell upon them. 

Your eyes travel down to his muscular arms — the same arms that always hold you tight and protect you, all the way down to his torso and his naked, but covered, lower half. 

Your eyes snap up to his gorgeous face once more, reaching your hand out to trace featherlight lines over his smooth skin. You cup his cheek, leaning forward in the slightest to kiss his nose. His brows scrunch in reaction as he finally stirs awake. 

He groans softly as he instinctively wraps an arm around you, bringing your bare body flush to his. You can’t help the giggle that bubbles in your throat, taking advantage of your proximity to him as you start peppering kisses all over his face. 

You pull back and he peeks one sleepy eye open, a half smile immediately forming on his face. 

“Buenos días, mi amor.” [good morning, my love] He whispers, leaning in to kiss your forehead. 

“Buenos días, mi esposo.” [good morning, my husband] You beam, and he gently grabs your left hand — the one that decided to caress his face once more — and looks down at it with pride, seeing the wedding band and engagement ring together. It’s something he’ll never tire of. 

“Still can’t believe you said ‘I do’.” He chuckles, bringing your hand up to his lips so he can kiss your ring. 

“I’d say those two words in a million lifetimes with you, Javier.” You whisper, and his soft brown eyes look up at you in pure adoration. 

“Mi vida.” [my life] He shakes his head in disbelief, an undeniable grin etching itself upon his plush lips. 

You said I do to each other just seventy-two hours ago, and you both have been luxuriating in the blissful feeling of forever. 

Javier surprised you with your dream vacation destination as your honeymoon, and you cried in happiness on your twelve hour flight as you both made your way to Italy. 

You don’t know what you did to deserve such a man as Javier, and you truly don’t think you’ll ever comprehend how you got to marry him. What you do know, is that you’re the luckiest woman alive. 

Little do you also know, he feels the same exact way about you. 

“I love you.” The words flow naturally, easily, and he gives you a look that makes you want to give him the whole universe. Fuck, if you could, you would. 

This man—the man that has endured so much in his past, only to open up his heart to you and only you—to protect you, cherish you, and love you the way he does, is a man that deserves everything gracious and peaceful this world has to offer. 

And if you told him those exact words, he’d kiss you searingly and tell you that you are his grace, his peace, his god-given solace. You are the reason his heart beats, his days are brighter, his world spins on its axis. You’re everything to him and he’d show you time and time again just so. 

“I love you too, cariño.” [honey] His voice is softer, a voice only reserved for you. Underneath the harsh exterior and the stern brow he always wears, there’s a softness that he carries when it’s just you two in the confines of your own space. You always greet him at the door when he comes home, pressing a kiss between his furrowed brows, wrapping your arms around him before telling him “welcome home.” He always relaxes under your touch, and knowing you’re his peace makes pride bloom in your chest. 

Your heart aches in the best way possible with how much you love your husband, and your faithfulness and devotion to him will never, ever waver. 

Javi buries his face into your neck and leaves a trail of kisses up to your jaw, mustache hairs tickling your skin as he nibbles on your chin playfully. 

“What’s on the agenda today, baby?” He asks, hand gliding up the soft skin of your torso, thumb brushing just beneath your breast. The ghost of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you grin lazily as you look at him. 

“I was thinking about the street market we passed yesterday, and maybe a new restaurant?” You say, running a hand through his thick brown locks. You twirl a longer piece at the nape of his neck around your finger, and he begins to kiss your collarbone languidly. 

He hums in thought, kisses trailing down to the swell of your breasts. You cradle the back of his head gently, not particularly wanting him to stop, but also aware that you should really get out of bed and enjoy the beauty of Positano while you can. Your fingers release his head and skate down to his back, gently double tapping the space between his shoulder blades. 

“We should really get up, amor.” [love] Your tone isn’t convincing enough even to yourself, and Javi rests his chin on your sternum as he looks at you with a glimpse of mischief in his eyes. 

“Can I enjoy the sweet taste of my wife first?” His tone is more of a statement than a question, and you can’t help but laugh at his eagerness. Truthfully, if it were up to him, you two probably wouldn’t leave the bedroom very much in the week and a half you get to spend here. To you, Italy was paradise, but to Javier, you were his. 

He could spend days with his face – or cock – buried between your thighs, savoring every moment of your addicting taste and tight cunt. 

“Only if you let me pick the restaurant.” You negotiate poorly, and even then, Javier sports a grin that lights up the whole room. The sun and her radiance doesn’t even nearly hold a candle to your husband’s smile. 

“Deal.” He murmurs, lips marking their territory down your sternum. Before he gets any further, he kisses both of your breasts before enveloping a nipple into his mouth. You suck in a breath at the feeling, the sensation shooting straight down to your already needy and aching core. 

Something of a whine escapes you, tugging on his hair as you arch your back off the mattress. You can feel his smug smirk against your skin before he switches sides, relishing the other pert bud before letting go with a small pop. 

The anticipation is building up much quicker than you expected, and you’re squirming beneath Javi as his lips ghost your stomach, moving down the bed before uncovering your bottom half. 

A lazy grin appears on his lips as he takes in the sight of your puffy, glistening pussy, ready for his tongue to drink you up like you’re the finest nectar on the planet. 

Javier tsks at the sight teasingly, swiping his middle finger through your folds, preening at your receptiveness to his touch as your hips buck toward his mouth involuntarily. “Now who made my beautiful wife this wet and needy, hm?” He asks, moving his face down to kiss the supple skin of your thigh before biting down gently. 

You yelp in surprise, looking down at him only to find him sporting a shit-eating grin. The word wife makes you even needier, loving the fact that you belong to him. 

“You, mi corazón [my heart]. Solo tú.” [only you]

Javi closes his eyes at the endearment, nestling his cheek to your thigh as he breathes in a few times. He feels like he’s in an alternate reality where his dream woman just dropped out of the sky, and he gets to spend the rest of his life with her. 

But this is real, you’re real, and he nearly has to pinch himself to prove that you aren’t a figment of his imagination. He gets to spend eternity with you, and he deems himself the luckiest son of a bitch alive. 

He opens his eyes and his gaze meets yours once more, and you can’t help but reach out for his face. You look so ethereal to him as the golden rays fall upon your body, making you glow like a goddess. Your head is back against the pillows as you watch him with an adoring gaze from above, and he truly has no words to ever conjure up just how much he loves you. 

And, for a moment, as he’s watching you watch him, his eyes flicker down to your stomach. Javier never thought he’d be a man who wants to have kids in his life. Hell, he didn’t even think he’d ever be able to get married, let alone to a gem such as yourself. 

You’ve given him a softer life; a life full of love and happiness—a complete one-eighty from his time in Colombia—and a house to call a home, albeit you being his home no matter where you two are. You’d also be the one to be able to give him the ultimate gift: fatherhood. 

He sweeps his reeling thoughts to the back of his mind for now, his main focus averting back to you and pleasing you until you’re screaming his name. 

With that thought in mind, he wastes no more time before he gives your pretty, glistening pussy a kiss, delving his tongue into your folds right after. 

You gasp at the sensation, eyebrows pinching together as his muscle works your nerves expertly as he’s done countless times before. He traces the tip of his tongue through your folds, up to your clit and flicks it a few times before moving back down to your entrance. He prods the muscle inside and dutifully fucks you with his tongue, the pace delicious as his nose bumps your clit repeatedly in the process. 

You grip onto his hair, hips bucking into his face in tandem with the stroke of his tongue. 

You can’t help but cry out his name repeatedly, and he feels prideful that he’s the only one that can make you feel this good. 

Javi’s mouth separates from your dripping cunt, bottom half of his face shiny with the taste he loves oh so much. 

“Taste like a dream, muñequita.” [doll] He breathes, sliding his hand down to grip your thigh as the other toys with the slick on your pussy. He kisses your thigh again and he looks up at you trying to catch your breath. Your head already feels fuzzy at the immense pleasure your husband’s tongue brings you, and to top it off, he slides his middle and ring finger into you. 

He keeps his eyes on your face and watches as you unravel, pumping his fingers in and out of you. He makes sure to curl his fingers to hit the very specific spot he knows you like, and when he does, you lose all resolve. You crumble under his touch as your arousal seeps out of you and down his fingers, coating his wedding band in your juices as they flow down to his wrist. 

“So fucking pretty, baby. You like when I fuck you with my fingers?” He asks, and you nod without hesitation. 

“Words, corazón.” [heart] 

“Fuck–fuck, yes, Javi, oh, god-” You cry, and he squeezes your thigh before diving back down to lap up your pussy once more. The combination of his tongue and fingers is absolutely lethal—you know you aren’t going to last much longer. 

Javier is the matchbox to your match, dragging, dragging, dragging you along. The coil in your core is wound up so tight that within seconds, you break and light aflame. 

You cry out his name, the sound of your own desperate plea reverberating off of the four walls of the villa’s bedroom eagerly. 

You feel like you’re gushing everywhere—his fingers, his mouth, the bedsheets—and it’s pure ecstasy when he blows out the flame, your body the smoke as you dissipate into the luxury of a devastatingly euphoric bliss. 

Javi drags his lips up your thigh, to your torso, all the way up to your jaw before capturing your lips in a searing kiss as you both share the taste of you on his tongue. 

He hums into the kiss and separates from you, bringing his slick-coated fingers to your mouth. You huff a laugh as you eagerly lick the arousal off of his wedding ring and up his digit, popping both of them into your mouth and suck them until they’re clean. 

Javi’s cock is impossibly hard now, but he knows how badly you want to explore the beautiful city. So, he pushes his urges down for now, though you’d likely gladly take his cock into that pretty mouth of yours and suck him dry. 

He groans as he gets up from the bed, giving you another chaste kiss before he trudges to the bathroom to retrieve a towel to clean you up. Your eyes follow him as you lay on your side, head propped up by your hand. You study his figure unashamedly, admiring your husband and his bare form in all of its glory. Long legs, toned arms, tan skin, and of course, that insanely cute ass of his—and he’s all yours. Every inch of his beautiful body, face, and mind is yours. 

He walks out of the bathroom with a towel in hand, and you can’t help but admire his impressive length. He teasingly throws the towel at you and you catch it, and before you can protest, his body is hovering over yours. 

“Someone can’t keep their eyes to themselves, hm?” He quirks a brow at you. 

“Well excuse me for admiring my husband and how sexy he is.” You retort, and he can’t help the guttural laugh that escapes his belly. 

“You’re something else, you know that?” His tone is playful, snatching the towel from you as he cleans you up. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows as you give him a stern look, and he meets your gaze with a boyish grin. 

“You’re the one who married me. That’s on you.” You say, and he grabs your shoulders after tossing the towel onto the floor before giving you a light shake. 

“And it’s been the best decision of my life, muchas gracias.” [thank you very much]

You roll your eyes before leaning up and giving him a kiss, tapping his thigh as you pull apart. 

“Up and at ‘em, baby. Italy is waiting for us.” 

-

You watched Javi as he bought some fresh fruit from a vendor at the street market, patrons bustling on the side as they enjoyed the beautiful weather and scenery before them. The water was a brilliant hue of blue, tying in the bright colors and coastal landscaping Positano had to offer. 

Javi holds out his arm for you after he purchases the fruit, and you gladly cling onto his bicep as you make your way down the street. You stop for a moment to look at him and admire his outfit—bright blue shirt that contrasted beautifully against his tan skin, and some white pants paired with brown loafers.

 He gave you a face when you originally suggested the shoes to him because it simply wasn’t something he’d ever wear, but they were insanely comfortable and undoubtedly great for walking, deeming you right once more. 

“Mi esposa always knows what’s best,” [my wife] He’d said. 

Javi peels an orange for you both to share, splitting it in half and hand feeding you the slices. You bite the tip of his finger playfully, and he can’t help but admire the buttery sweet sound of the laugh that emanates you. 

You hum at the citrus taste of the orange, closing your eyes in delight at how fresh it is. 

“That’s delicious.” You say aloud, and Javi looks at you while sliding his aviators down the bridge of his nose. 

“It is, but nothing compares to the taste of you.”

Your face heats up at his words, hiding it in the crook of his neck for a second while letting out a mumbled ‘behave’ from you. 

He’s smug when you pull your face back from the warmth of his body, and you lightly swat his chest in mock-chastise. 

“You hungry, mamí?” He pulls a food guide of local restaurants out from his back pocket, and you nod eagerly. 

“For more than just food.” You murmur, slotting your arms onto his broad shoulders, letting one hand dangle and the other play with the curls at the nape of his neck. His hands instinctively grab onto your waist and he pulls your body flush to his. 

“Now who needs to behave, hm?” 

“Still you.” You beam.

“Smartass.” He retorts with a chuckle. 

“Maybe. But you love me.”

“That I do, bebita,” [baby girl] He leans in for a kiss before handing you the food guide, and you briefly scan the options. 

 “How about some pizza?” 

-

The restaurant reminds you of your first date with Javier. You remember how much he tried to impress you, and even then, you knew he was someone special. To end up here with him in Italy eating the most delicious pizza and drinking the crispest glass of wine four years later seems like a total fever dream. 

Javi raises his glass up to you, giving you his infamous puppy dog eyes and the softest smile you think you’ve ever seen on him. “Cheers to you, amor de me vida,” [love of my life] “You make me the happiest man alive. You’ve given me everything I could wish for and then some, and your beautiful heart and soul never ceases to amaze me.” 

Tears prick your eyes as you raise your glass to clink against his, sipping the Prosecco in your glass. You reach for his left hand across the table, bringing his knuckles up to your lips as you kiss them and his wedding band repeatedly. 

“I love you, Javier Peña. Thank you for giving me a life well beyond my wildest dreams. I’d do anything for you. It’s me and you against the world, baby.” 

“I’ll never know how a bastard like me got so goddamn lucky. You’re a godsend, corazón,” [heart] “What if we had an addition to our world?” He asks, voice almost shy as he tries to gauge your reaction. 

“What do you mean, mi amor?” [my love]

”How do you feel about starting a family? With me?” 

He’s hopeful with the way he stares at you, squeezing your hand as he awaits your answer. 

“Is that something you want, baby? I know a while back you said you weren’t too sure.” 

You’d love to have a family with Javier. The thing was, he wasn’t too sure of that awhile back when things really got serious between you two. You were a little crushed by the prospect of not having kids with the love of your life, but you’d learn to make do. It was never a dealbreaker for you specifically, but you’ve always felt like you were meant to be a mom. 

“I’m sure now. I love the sound of having a little one of us running around. We don’t need to rush into it, though. I just—I want this with you, and I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. Well, besides asking you to be mine para siempre.” [forever]

You try to not let your emotions overwhelm you in the moment. The man sitting in front of you has you in pure awe, with the way a softness has wrapped itself around his heart, showing him that this side of life is full of warmth and love. He’s gradually learned to accept it, unlearning all of the harsh stoicism that seized his being in the past. 

“You’d be the best daddy, Javier Peña. No doubt in my mind.” 

His face gleams with joy as he brings your hand up to his mouth, kissing each knuckle individually. 

“And you’d be the best mommy, Mrs. Peña.” 

Your heart flutters at the sound of your new last name. You still genuinely cannot believe you’re married to this man. 

“Chucho is probably going to ask when we’re going to give him grandbabies.” 

Javier can’t help but laugh, knowing full well his father would undoubtedly ask that question as soon as you two get back to Texas. 

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at you. “We should start practicing now then, mamí. Wouldn’t wanna keep him or the rest of the family waiting.” 

-

A sheen of sweat coats your brow and chest as you arrive back to your villa with Javi. The walk itself wasn’t far but the warm weather was starting to get to you. And yet, as soon as you walked through the doors of the bedroom, he was on you. 

He was kissing your pulse point while his hands roamed over your body with fervor, skimming over the cotton material of the sundress you were wearing. You giggle as his mustache tickles your neck, playfully nudging him.

“Javi, baby, I’m all sticky and sweaty. Let me take a shower first.”

He hums at your words, continuing the assault of his lips down your jugular before nibbling on your hot skin. His grip on your waist tightens before he leads you backwards into the bathroom, hands moving down to your ass before giving it a playful slap. He spins you around so you’re both facing the huge mirror above the double vanity, and his hands settle onto your stomach. 

His eyes travel down to where his hands are as he starts to rub his thumbs back and forth. The look of pure love in his eyes was enough to tell you how badly he really wants to be a father. You reach an arm back to cradle the side of his face, craning your neck to the side to give his cheek a kiss. 

“Can you just imagine growing a life that’s half you and half me in here? Nuestro hijo o hija. You’d be glowing even more than you do now, mi amor.” [our son or daughter ; my love]

Your gaze snaps back up to his face, his usual stoic brow softened at the idea of you carrying his child. You didn’t think you could fall in love with this man even more, but picturing him taking your newborn baby out of the carseat after coming home from the hospital and seeing their tiny body resting against his chest in comfort, against someone so loving and so familiar, gives you an indescribable amount of butterflies. 

His eyes meet yours in the mirror once more, and you can’t help but give him a soft smile. Both of you are well aware that no words can ever come close to describing the emotions that flow through your minds and hearts, but somehow still connect perfectly like a puzzle piece.

It’s sacred, your love with Javi, and it’s something you’ll both pour into your future child endlessly. 

Javi’s lips find your neck once more, fingertips skating over the sticky flesh of your arms before settling on the straps of your dress. His lips move to your shoulder as he slips one strap off, then the other, and tugs down gently so the fabric falls and pools at your feet. 

You’re bare on top, and Javi takes advantage of the beautiful sight and kneads your breasts with his hands. You can’t help the way your head lolls back onto his shoulder, biting your lip as he tweaks both nipples simultaneously. 

“My beautiful wife.” He whispers, trailing a hand down your torso and over the fabric of your panties, teasingly rubbing you through the thin material. A gasp evades you as the familiar low ache bubbles in your core once again. 

“Javi,” You gasp, hand flying up to steady yourself as you grab the side of his neck. 

“Fuck, I love the way you say my name.”

Your ass presses against his front, and you feel his cock harden in his pants. You turn around to face him and he grabs your hips instinctively before pulling you forward so you’re flush to his body. He leans in to kiss you ferociously, hands sliding down to grab your ass as you toss your arms over his shoulders. 

You stay like that for a minute just enjoying the simplicity in the art of kissing your husband before reaching down to unbutton his shirt. You slide the material off of his shoulders before moving down to his pants, palming his cock teasingly. He groans into your mouth and kisses you like a starved man, backing you toward the shower. You slide his jeans off of his hips once he’s stagnant and he steps out of them, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. 

Before you two can continue your escapades, he gives your forehead a kiss before turning on the shower to a temperature comfortable for you both. You slide your panties off and he mirrors your actions, sliding his boxers off before you both step inside. 

The lukewarm water cools your skin briefly before Javi steps under the stream, face up toward the water. You watch as the droplets stream down his face, to his neck and shoulders, down his torso and down down down into the dark, wiry hairs that sit below his navel and above his delicious length. 

Your mouth is practically salivating at the sight before you, and you need to have a taste of your husband. 

Your hands are gentle on his torso before they drag down, your body lowering with them until you’re on your knees. Javi looks down at you with his lips parted and a wild look in his eye. 

You lick your lips and smirk at him before pushing on his thighs, backing him up so he sits down onto the bench in the shower. You scoot forward on your knees, admiring your man from below as his thighs spread wide and his hard cock is already furious and leaking pre-come, slathering itself onto his torso. 

Your nails scratch his thighs lightly before you lean down to kiss them each once, looking back up at him before taking his cock into your hand. You pump his silky flesh a few times before swiping your thumb over his slit, spreading his arousal over the head of his cock before lowering your mouth. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the taste, absolutely entranced by this man and his cock that you love oh so much. 

“My wife is so pretty with my cock in her mouth.” He says, stroking the side of your face with his thumb. 

You separate from him as you sit back on your heels, pumping his length as you quirk a brow. “I think I look prettier when your cock is in me, papí.” 

He groans and squeezes his eyes shut, thumping his head against the shower wall. “Got a dirty fucking mouth, bebita. Christ.” [baby girl]

“Just wait to see what it’ll do to your cock.” You can’t help but giggle at the way your words were easily affecting him, but you decide to cease your teasing. 

You slowly take him into your mouth, gagging as you reach the hilt. You swallow around him as best as you can manage before bringing your mouth up once more, swirling your tongue around his tip before taking him all the way into your mouth again. 

He’s heavy and warm against your tongue, twitching with every bob of your head as you set a steady rhythm. You squeeze your lips around him and he cradles the back of your head, guiding your movements up and down his cock in haste. 

“Your mouth feels so– fuck– fucking good, corazón.” [heart] 

He struggles to vocalize a coherent thought, babbling on about how good you make him feel and how much he loves you. 

The broken praises only spur you on further as you begin to deepthroat him with every pass, tears pricking your waterline as you control your gag reflex. He’s nearly bucking his hips up into you at this point, fucking your mouth at a pace that drives him insane. 

“Shit– yeah, baby, just like that. Fuck you’re so perfect, I’m gonna fucking come—”

You hum around him and squeeze your lips even tighter, gripping his thighs as he tenses up. His spend shoots onto your tongue and he can’t help the loud groan that rumbles through his chest, the feeling of your mouth so heavenly around his cock. You swallow everything he gives you, enjoying the view of your husband’s post-orgasm glow. 

The late afternoon sun seeps into the bathroom and illuminates him in such a way that even the Greek Gods have nothing against. He looks picturesque like this; mouth parted and panting—a wild and untamable rasp, eyes shut as he comes down from the orgasm he’s been pining after all day long. His wet curls stick to his forehead in disarray, but it suits him. 

His eyes slowly peel open and peer down at you, and you know better than to give him a smug smile. Instead, you lean down and kiss his inner thigh a few times without breaking his heady gaze. 

“C’mere.” He murmurs, pulling you up by your elbows. You’re standing now, and he leans forward to kiss your stomach a few times before he pats his thighs. You straddle his hips, hands landing on his chest as you trace small patterns. 

His hand slides down and in between your thighs where it’s slick with your arousal. You were so lost in pleasing your husband that you didn’t notice the incessant need growing stronger by the minute. It wasn’t a low, bubbling thing anymore—it was a full-fledged monstress clawing her way to the surface, begging to be tamed. 

The carnal desire for Javi couldn’t be held off anymore. You leaned in to kiss him, moaning into his mouth as your hips rock against nothing in particular. Javi is already half-hard again, and ever the gentleman that he is, he angles you down to where your dripping core is gliding against his warm, thick length. 

A strangled moan leaves your lips as you toss your head back, and Javi leans forward to nose at your jaw before peppering your neck in kisses. He nibbles on the junction between your neck and shoulder, rocking his hips up onto you simultaneously. 

You whine his name as you loll your head forward, eyes blinking open and gaze locking with his. 

You’re not sure what exactly possesses you to say your next words—maybe it’s the look in his eye, maybe it’s a mixture of desperation and desire, maybe it’s just pure, honest truth. Hell, maybe it was all of the above. 

“I want to make you a daddy, Javi.” Your voice is sultry and sickeningly sweet, dripping like honey. 

And from that point, he was determined. Determined to make you the mother of his child, determined to start a family with you and grow it to both your heart's content, and determined to love and cherish you and your future child, or children—always—and Javier Peña was a man of his word. 

He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you forward so you both are chest to chest, and you’re reeling over the look he’s giving you. He notches his tip at your entrance, fully hard once again with the promising tone behind your words. 

“Say it again.” He says.

“I want to make you,” You pause, moving your lips down to slot between his, pulling back just enough to whisper the rest of your sentence. “A daddy.” You sink down slowly onto him, and you kiss him again as you slowly adjust yourself to him. 

You both moan into each other, pulling apart as he fully sheathes himself into you. You’re so full like this, content in every way possible at the feeling of your husband’s cock stretching you out so deliciously. You rock your hips slightly as a test, moaning at the sensation that surges through you. 

You do it again, this time with more intent, and slowly set a rhythm with your hips. The feeling of his cock is otherworldly. A greedy, selfish part of you thinks that you’ll never be able to get enough of him or the feeling of this—being connected as so. 

You fist a hand into his thick wet locks as the other grabs onto his shoulder, ensuring you can keep your balance as you rock your hips back and forth. He captures your mouth in a blazing kiss, groping your ass before slapping it once as he picks up the pace for you. 

You’re panting into each other’s mouths as he increases the pace, now pounding his hips up into you. You cry out his name as your fingernails claw their way down his back and he hisses in pleasure, cradling the back of your head. 

Your mind is fuzzy and your lungs are on fire from kissing him desperately, and the white hot feeling in your core is blazing. 

“I–I love you, Javi– oh, god, I fucking love you. I love you and I want you to be the father of my child and I—” You’re babbling so much that you don’t even have a clue as to what it is that you’re really trying to say, but Javi gets the message, you think. 

He kisses your jaw as you try and match the movement of your hips to each thrust up into you, but it’s genuinely no use. Your body wants to succumb to Javier and his strong body and delicious cock and beautiful face and his big, loving heart—so you let it. You fall limp in his hold, leaning onto him as your orgasm surges through you unexpectedly. 

He can feel you pulsating around him and he knows he’s not going to last much longer. 

“Gonna make you a mama. Gonna be so good to our baby, the best mama ever.” He’s losing all self control, and you cradle his head as you ride out your prolonged orgasm. 

“Please, Javi.” You beg, and that’s enough for him to completely come undone. His hips still as he comes in you, a string of ‘I love you’s’ spilling from his mouth. You’re both breathless and completely dazed, immersed in post-coital bliss. The sound of the shower water hitting the tile floor is a relaxing constant as you both try to control your breathing. 

You sit like this for a while; you're perched in his lap as he leans against the wall, face tucked into the crook of his neck. 

You smatter kisses along his pulse point as a silent plea of love. You’re both pruny and fucked-out, but being here with each other like this is truly a dream in itself. 

The prospect of his dream woman giving him a child has him reeling, so perhaps leaving the room this week is an empty promise that flew out of the door the minute you told him you’d make him a daddy. 

Even if nothing happens right away for the two of you, that’s okay, too. You’d get to relish in the unbelievable life you already share with him a bit longer, built from the ground up by you and a man who loves you unconditionally. A man that would individually pick out the stars from the brilliant night sky for you. A man that still cannot fathom that he gets to share this life with you. 

And if that’s the case, you really wouldn’t mind at all. 

tags: @punkshort @endlessthxxghts @javierpena-inatacvest @ovaryacted @northernbluess @clawdee @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 (since all of you were excited about me posting this. ily)

divider by @saradika-graphics

[kentopedia]

˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

[coralinnii]

Congrats on reaching the 2.7 K followers milestone!! If it's okay to ask why specifically 2.7 K?

anyways I heard you were taking requests so I'll request something to celebrate with you :-D

I was wondering if you could do one where Idia, Kalim, Azul, Riddle rejects Fem!reader but ends up falling for reader after that, how would they react when they need to reject her and when the realization of them liking her back hits? (I tried to come up with an og idea but idrk if this one is actually good enough writing material :'-D)

 ‧₊˚✧ Waking up Too Late ‧₊˚✧

↳ Realizing their feelings for fem!reader after rejecting you 

feat: Idia ❋ Kalim ❋ Azul ❋ Riddle genre: slight hurt/comfort, open ending note: no pronouns were used but reader is written as a female in mind, reader can be interpreted as Yuu!reader, 

Question: Why specifically 2.7K? Well... I wanted to do something when I reached 2k but by the time I finished my initial wave of requests and WIPs, it already reached 2.7K ^_^" There wasn't a real rhyme or reason... I was just really late to the game

extra note: the joke in the start of Azul’s section doesn’t mean anything bad about him in general. It’s just Azul reminds me too much of myself during my younger days and I wasn't the biggest fan of myself back then.

Also, if anyone is wondering... I haven't stopped writing. I was just unable to find time for myself during the last 3 months because my classes and work didn't leave me time to do much outside of that. Seriously, I had assignments due on weekdays AND weekends! If none of you know who I am or didn't even realize I was gone... ignore me and have a good day ^_^

2.7K Followers Writing Event 2023

The Big Ooff

Regardless of Idia’s feelings before or after the confession, he rejected you in fear of change. He was content with the way things are, where he doesn’t have to worry about things like romance and relationships. 

Idia can’t imagine being the main protagonist for anything. He’s not the cool main hero or the handsome prince that gets the pretty girl. That's for the extroverts with high charm specs (a.k.a not him). Afterall, when does the NPC ever win? 

So when you, his friend and confidant, his solace and only exception, told him that you held feelings more than friendship…well, his system short-circuited. 

While the two of you said it wouldn’t change your friendship, you still wanted time away from him to heal the hurt. Idia agreed that the risky emotional roll dealt some real backlash to both of you.

The Realization

Idia tried to deny it, but he started imagining an alternative universe where he did accept your confession that fateful day. 

If he were to zone out during his level grinding sessions, he would vaguely envision himself in the same position, but perhaps with you lying next to him or even running your fingers through his flames. These daydreams would surprise him literally off the bed, his aforementioned flames burning a cute pinkish hue.

Some days when he’s browsing around online shops, he would occasionally encounter items that remind him of you.

Now, that in itself is not new but rather it was when he imagined how cute you would be if he got these items for you. Instead of your usual pleasantly surprised thank you, would you lovingly embrace him, maybe even kiss-! 

Ortho was startled to see his brother suddenly falling off his gaming chair, with his hands suspiciously covering his face. 

Crap, not only did he realize his feelings for you (which in hindsight probably was not surprising in the least), but he actually would like to be in a stupid lovey-dovey relationship with you. 

His Next Moves?

Continues to deny everything. So what if he wants a relationship with you? He can’t handle this new step even with these newly realized emotions. Plus, he was the one who blew his own shot by rejecting you the first time. 

So, he falls to his coping mechanism which is to deny everything and that he’s perfectly fine the way things are. 

When the two of you returned to your typical routine, he tried to keep things the way it used to be, as the same with you. 

Except it’s not quite the same. 

You weren’t sure if you were being conscious or that it’s been a while since you two hung out, but you felt that Idia was slightly more…attentive you could say?

He would give you first bids of the better controller before picking anything himself. If you seemed the slightest bit uncomfortable while sitting, the blue-flamed senior would offer you a comfier spot on his bed and a blanket if you wanted, before sputtering that he meant nothing weird about it.

He says he’s fine, but Idia’s is in no way the usual closed-off, sometimes cocky genius you knew before. He’s jittery, more prone to shriek and burst into pink flames to any of your gestures, and according to his little brother his heartbeat is slightly faster than usual. 

It’s weird…it’s like he actually acknowledges you as a woman…

Oh.

“Ahh, I seriously chose the wrong choice option. The story path…I wonder if I could still salvage a good ending…”

The Big Ooff

Kalim’s overly friendly nature, while harmless, is somewhat misleading and confusing to those around him. I mean, if someone threw a grand luxurious party for you, it’s easy to assume that you were someone special. Unfortunately, Kalim is simply just…too friendly. He would do this and more for just about anyone, no matter how special they may or may not be.

Nonetheless, you still wanted to tell him your feelings. You wanted to tell him how his smile and laugh hastens your heartbeat as you smile back. That you feel butterflies every time he extends his hands to you, coaxing you to dance with the boisterous Housewarden of Scarabia. 

To everyone’s genuine surprise, the snow-haired student sincerely apologized to you, not able to return your feelings the same way. All of your friends and also Scarabia was so sure that their Housewarden thought differently of you, but news quickly spread that Kalim never thought about being more than friends with you.

The Realization

To clarify, Kalim never thought about being more than friends with anyone. He’s happy to have so many friends, what more could he possibly want?

But your words did shake him mentally. He never realized that you would feel this way for him. On days when he can’t keep track of the lessons at hand, his mind would doze off and wander back to your confession. 

“Hastening heartbeat, feelings of butterflies, always wanting to smile when you do…”

The more he thinks about your love symptoms, he’s realizing how similar those feelings were to his own when he’s around you. It was why he would always try to find you in a crowd, or why he wanted to be your dance partner on any occasion. Sure, he’s happy to be around everyone, but he feels especially good when it's you.

The pieces are connecting, the clogs are aligning, and soon…

“JAMIL, I THINK I’M IN LOVE TOO!” 

“IS YOUR LACK OF INTROSPECTION THIS BAD?!”

His Next Moves?

Man is now a fool in love. He has this goofy smile on his boyish face at the slightest mention of you. Everytime he thinks about you, he keeps attempting to buy one or two grand bouquets of flowers for you, each flower as beautiful as you, much to Jamil’s chagrin as the vice-Housewarden has to keep reminding him of a crucial fact. 

“You two aren’t dating. Actually worse considering your prior actions.” 

Jamil’s brutal but accurate words brought Kalim back to harsh reality as he realized his mistake in not realizing his feelings soon enough. But not one to wallow in the past, Kalim sought to tell you his feelings just as you bravely did before. 

Whether I personally think if that’s a smart move is irrelevant

Whatever your response is to him, Kalim would fully respect your choice, prioritizing your comfort and feelings over his newly uncovered ones. Despite his well intentions and honest feelings before the realization, his carelessness hurt you and he needed to consider your healing process. 

Kalim would still act like a love-sick fool, however. Buying beautiful trinkets because he thought of you but won’t push them onto you if you couldn’t handle the heavy sentiment (thank Jamil for that). 

Though a little more sheepishly, he would still extend his hand to you hoping for a dance, small little gestures to make you smile even the slightest bit brighter…all this and more because “I like you” and nothing else.

Just because he’s slow in figuring things out, his feelings won’t change so easily. This special feeling of happiness, of love… he’s grateful that you taught him this whole new world.

"I’m a little much? Haha, sorry. I get really happy when I see you...It feels nice being in love with you.”

The Big Ooff

Please reconsider 

Ahem. Azul has grown accustomed to your presence. Perhaps even look forward to it throughout his daily routine, even assisting you in whatever trouble you always seem to get involved in. Some would accuse him of favoritism, but Azul argued that he was simply a gentleman treating a lady right.

He’s too observant to not notice that these sentiments are somewhat mutual. He thought of you as too kind and generous as to spend your spare time helping him around the lounge or to keep him company when the Leech twins get a little much. 

But he was surprised to learn that your feelings were deeper than he initially predicted. There was such sincerity in your voice as you confess your feelings that it shook Azul to his core and turned his human legs weak. 

However, he still had so many aspirations he hasn’t reached yet, opportunities he can’t miss. He can’t afford to split his time for something like romance, something that didn't register to him as urgent in the first place. Love is all well and good, but success is better and more tangible.

He’s careful with his words, gratefully thanking you for your confession and complimenting you with a list of traits he admired about you. 

But you should know Azul by now. He’s hyping you up before ultimately giving you crushing news. Like a company recruiter telling you weren’t chosen despite your apparent talents. 

You knew this, but it still hurts to have your dynamic treated equivalent to that of a business relation. 

The Realization

Azul understood you needed time away. Certain things were said that can’t be taken back and it’ll be a while before you two could feel comfortable around each other again. 

During this time though, the Housewarden truly felt your absence. He feels it when someone else takes a seat in his office where you usually occupy, when his mealtime feels less fulfilling because you weren’t there to enjoy it with him, when his headaches get worse from stress and you weren’t there to lend a comforting hand. 

This sense of void was like a stream of cold water slowly trickling into his body and mind until he felt heavy and almost drowning. What an odd sensation for a deep-sea merman. 

His mind became cluttered. He can’t focus on his work when all he could think about is where you might be and what you were doing. 

He reached his limit when he realized that he couldn’t even hide this internal conflict from Jade or Floyd when their keen eyes pick on every moment of his loss of focus, and they have an inkling as to the cause. 

…Dear Sevens, he might have made a great miscalculation on his own feelings.

His Next Moves?

First off, he’s going to spend some time in his pot. He needs some personal time reflecting over his own obliviousness and self-sabotage. 

Once that’s over, he now has to figure out how to remedy this. A plan to get back into your good graces after the blunder. 

He is a greedy merman. If he’s going to do something, he wants the best outcome possible, which is you forgiving him and accepting him while forgetting the past even happened.  

He’s read through countless relationship books, advice found online, and personal intel that his schoolmates were forced to generous enough to offer under an NDA. 

He’ll use the knowledge he remembered from your confession to his advantage, highlighting the parts of himself that he knew you liked about him. He shows off his good side in hopes to reignite what attracted you to him. 

If there’s anything to expose his intent with you, it’s the flush of his pale skin when you finally thanked him with that sweet smile he missed so much.

"I’m not one to lose an opportunity when within my reach. However long it takes, I’ll earn back what I’ve foolishly lost.”

The Big Ooff

Riddle was, in all seriousness, taken aback by your confession.

The studious Housewarden of Heartslabyul is definitely smart, but he’s just slightly lacking in the people-reading department. 

To him, you were simply a very loving person. He thought perhaps you were on the shyer side but always worrying about his well-being, making sure he’s taken breaks and to enjoy himself between his duties.

You were still a little rambunctious as lately you seem at odds with Ace as you’re quick to smack and silence the mischievous redhead who seems to snicker more often than usual as of late. 

Frankly, you left him stunned, his face similar to a deer in headlights. No textbook or lecture has prepared him to reply back to your sincere confession. 

In the end, he rejected you while giving his full honesty. Silly things like love and relationships were subjects he never thought to consider in depth, and he wasn’t sure it was something he wanted at the moment. 

He tried to explain the best he could, but you couldn't stop the aching feeling of your heart breaking. 

The Realization

Your relationship with Riddle took a blow but it was not destroyed. Albeit some awkwardness here and there, life flows relentlessly as usual. 

But that fateful day would occasionally sneak its way into Riddle’s mind during his spare moments to himself, recalling your determined face, coupled with his memories of your beautiful, clear eyes.

Nowadays, his heart would tighten, his throat would feel dry, and his breathing would be shallower whenever his thoughts sway towards you. 

Spurred by these odd symptoms, he finally looked more into the topic of love. The more he delved into talks on relationships, seminars on emotional attraction, and even tropes from novels, the more it feels as though he’s going down a rabbit hole of new emotional discoveries. 

For a while, the Heartslabyul dorm was on edge as they feared for their necks every time their terrifying Housewarden suddenly turned franticly scarlet out of nowhere.

Alone in Riddle’s room, surrounded by articles and books littered on his once pristine desk, Riddle found his conclusion; he’s in love too

His Next Moves?

Riddle isn’t actually sure how to approach you anymore. This whole “in love” experience is all too new to him. He couldn’t bring up this embarrassing topic with any of his peers, and much less with his mother (Sevens knows he doesn’t exactly want to replicate a relationship like his parents). 

But he couldn’t handle the sudden sensations of nerves that occur every time he’s close to you. He can’t keep up constantly chastising himself internally for flinching every time he passes a tart or a teacup to you during Unbirthday parties. 

He can no longer focus during his study sessions with you as he’s now fighting with himself as he dreams to hold your free hand or to brush a stray lock of hair from your endearing face. 

Was it as difficult to deal with as it was for you? Was this the reason you decided to confess to him? But the thought of speaking to you about something so intimate invokes nerves in him that he couldn’t understand.

No, he should learn from your example. If the natural progression of his feelings should be clear communication between those involved, then he will face this challenge as confidently as he does with any other. 

Prepare yourself, the stubborn Riddle has made a goal for himself. 

“I admit my inexperience has hurt those I cherish. Next time, I will respond to your bravery in kind.” 

[mikichko]

it’s gaz who gives you the nickname wisp. and it sticks. you’re not exactly sure where it came from or what it means but it could’ve been much worse.

but the 141 know exactly why.

gaz notices first, of course. how different versions of you rotate throughout the day depending on who you're talking to. there are moments where he notices pieces of the real you coming out. telltale sign is your shoulders dropping back, not in the rigid stance usually saved for attention but in relief. like someone's snapped the string that was holding you up. those moments don't last and it's not long before your shoulder's are rigid and pinched the way someone on high alert keeps them.

in his head ghost calls you cam. short for chameleon. just like gaz he notices how you shape and mold yourself to appeal to others. you're not blending in, he realizes, you're mirroring them. reading them and reacting just how they'd like. a quip here, a smile there, a joke about some one-off thing that you'd noticed made their eyes light up. he wonders what it's like to see the real you, what you'd be like if you were in front of your own mirror. he doesn't get to ponder too long, he can see you fading as you morph

you escape out of soap's grasp so many times he thinks his nickname should be yours instead. he thinks to himself one day that it must be natural for the two of you to miss each other. to be lucky enough some days to occupy some square footage of space before you disappear through a doorway, leaving him wanting. even when you're on the same base, hell same missions sometimes, you're never close enough to him. just out of his reach.

price happens to find you when you think you're alone. just like gaz he's privy to the relaxed state of your body, rigid lines becoming softer against the worn material of the couch. he watches the way your hand strokes the skin along your clavicle, thumb pressing down into the dip of your jugular notch. there's a cloudy look to your eyes as you continue to absentmindedly soothe yourself from whatever you're dissecting in your head. he watches for a while, trying to piece together what it is you're reliving. he knows it's time for him to take his leave when your shoulders straighten, even before your eyes blink away the clouds.

you're there for a moment, before you disappear, evading their grasp.

a/n: i got crazy writers block and was trying to force myself to write my wips but instead my brain cooked this up. everyone say thank you to @buttdumplin for making me brave enough to post <3

[glossysoap]

lil bodyguard stalker ghoap concept from my drafts and the discord <3 fem reader, dark twist. i also have a regular bodyguard ghoap wip that has no dark twist to it, lemme know if you want that as well <3

🏷️: @vgilantee @itzzjxlyn @msdevil333 @damnirina @wrathofcats @claymorexpunisher @krakenbabe @ghastlybirdie @luvecarson @blissful-bunny @mandalover2023 @undeadsthings @kiroshang @ivymarquis (if ur struck out, tumblr wouldn’t let me tag)

retired ghoap x reader where they become her bodyguards because she has a hunch that someone’s been watching her.

more than a hunch, really.

especially when messages start rolling in from unknown numbers and blank social media accounts.

“what a cute little dress.”

“that perfume smells good.”

“you should wear those boots tonight. it’s gonna rain.”

all messages referring to things you’ve never shown online, things that have never left your house. a new dress you just bought that was sitting in your dresser. a perfume that never left your bedroom. new combat boots that you’ve never worn.

after receiving those messages, you blocked those accounts and any other blank followers you had. you even contemplated deleting all of your social media accounts.

as time passed, you became even more paranoid. maybe it had something to do with the flashes of black that seemed to flicker in your periphery as you walked to work or from the store.

when you hired the two former special forces soldiers to protect you, you felt like you could finally exhale. they were so big, brooding and muscular. constantly armed and ready to kill for you.

so for your safety, they insisted on moving in to your apartment.

ghost was quieter than soap, but much taller and bigger. making him tower even more over you. he still wore his mask, sometimes switching it out with a black surgical mask.

to the everyday person, he seemed cold and uncaring. but the more they stayed in your apartment, the more you witnessed his warm, protective nature. his hands skirting along your skin as he massaged your sore muscles.

him double checking the locks on your door.

soap was a little bit shorter than ghost, but still taller than you. still bigger than you because of his muscles. he still wore that tight blue shirt and the tan bulletproof vest as him and ghost occupied your apartment. his hair was still styled in that fluffy mohawk, though it sometimes grew out long enough to be pulled into a hair tie.

soap was touchy. very touchy. it wasn’t unwelcome, though. his warm hand would press against the small of your back as you cooked, sometimes even wrapping around your waist. sometimes pressing a kiss to your forehead when he first saw you after waking up in the morning.

for some reason or another, their hands were always on you. their eyes were always on you. and you found yourself.. enjoying it?

everything seemed just fine. great, actually.

until you went into their shared bedroom to gather their dirty laundry.

it was there you saw polaroids and polaroids of you pinned to their walls. candid shots. shots where you were shopping. shots where you were walking to work. shots where you were walking home. shots where you were sleeping.

your bodyguards were the very same stalkers that they were ‘protecting’ you from.

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[byoldervine]

How To Always Have Writing Ideas…

For A New Story:

1. Keep a list. Any time you have one of those sudden bursts of inspiration in the middle of writing a separate story, don’t quit your current WIP or pretend you’ll ‘just remember it’, put it into a separate list. You can always go back to this later on

2. Writing prompts. Look them up, use random word generators, pick a random object you can see, whatever helps you come up with any idea at all. Write a few paragraphs. Can it evolve from there?

3. People watch. Go to a public place and make up backstories for the strangers you come across. That man in the hat is using it to hide his elf ears. That woman with the bright pink hair didn’t dye it, she’s secretly the main character of an anime trying to dodge all the tropes and cliches. That toddler is actually a guardian angel reincarnated to watch over their new baby sibling. What brings them to this place? Where did they come from? Where are they going next?

To Continue An Existing Story:

1. Act it out. Say the words aloud, act out what your characters are doing, get props or people to act off of if you need to. See what feels like the most natural progression of the moment

2. Coffee shop AU, or other substitutional one-shot. Good for establishing dynamics between two or more characters, or even just working out a lone character’s day-to-day. Just write a few paragraphs about your characters entering a coffee shop or similar appropriate establishment/ordinary location. What do they do? What do they order to eat/drink? What do they say to each other? How do they treat the staff and other customers? If all else fails, write what they do after they leave, as if it were an ordinary day for them

3. Rubber duck it. This is something programmers use to work out where they went wrong in their code, but I’ve found it can work for figuring out story stuff as well. What you do is get a rubber duck, or any other object of focus, and start explaining your problem to it out loud. In this case you can read your chapter to the duck, or even give it the full run-down of the plot so far. Warning; side effects may include getting frustrated that the problem was right in front of you and subsequently throwing the duck

For Both:

1. Writing graveyards. I talked a bit about them in a previous post, but writing graveyards are basically just the folder you store your deleted scenes in instead of yeeting them into the void. Reread those, see if they have anything you can recontextualise or repurpose

2. Combine ideas. My WIP Byoldervine is a combination of two separate plots I had that I realised I’d be able to combine - twice. I first realised I could put together my ‘angel and demon heroes protecting humans from a war between heaven and hell’ story and my ‘quest through the fantasy realm to find the ingredients to a cure for a dying god’ story into the same universe as two sides of the same story as a duology. Then I realised I could just remove a few characters, tweak a few plot points and mash them completely together into one book. Combining them works wonders and minimises worldbuilding

3. Go out with friends or family. I guarantee that the one time you’ll be flooded with inspiration is when you don’t have an opportunity to write it down

[astonmartingf]

NOT MY FAULT ; FA14

dbf!fernando alonso x ex-red bull engineer! reader . . . if there are many fish in the ocean then fernando alonso is a catch, and it's not your fault if you fell for his hook, line, and sinker.

amgf a lot of appearances from other drivers, an actual plot! allusions to toxic work environment, red bull drama, the math is not mathing but okay. enjoy!!! thank you for still being here pwahaha it's been a while lbh but i hope you enjoy it like always!!!! wchagt update soon along with other wips <3

The only good thing that came out of your mother remarrying was the new found relationship you built with your step father, granted it took a while to get there- you first met him he was twice your age and dating your mother. Growing up you spent your formative years in the Red Bull garage answering math equations with Adrian Newey behind you, Sebastian Vettel laughing as Newey hands you a different worksheet after another.

It was an unusual dynamic, you mother 13 years older than your stepfather, being friends with your stepfather’s rival and teammate, it was unlike any other, but something you wouldn’t replace for the world. 

“Is it true you’re leaving Red Bull?” You were greeted with an over enthusiastic Oscar Piastri as you visited the McLaren motorhome using Mark’s pass. Your lip presses into a thin line, brows raised with a shrug from both shoulders leaving the younger groaning in frustration.

“I’m taking your silence as admission, also entering a McLaren motorhome on a race weekend? Seems like they finally fired you, it’s giving jobless.”

You roll your eyes, “This is a motorhome Osc, not your garage, I doubt they’d be hiding any of your data here, not like they’re secrets to me. Also they didn’t fire me, technically I was the one firing them since I will be leaving the team.”

“So you are leaving Red Bull.” Oscar deadpans, while you hiss as your tongue slipped faster than the thoughts in your head. You just promised yourself you won’t tell anything to anyone before you discussed it with your stepfather. 

Arms crossed to your chest, you face Oscar with the biggest smirk plastered on his face, proud for taunting you out on revealing your plans for the next seasons. “Well now that you know, I personally would like it if you kept your mouth shut. Mark doesn’t know yet and I plan to tell him before finalizing the contracts.”

Raising his hands with a small nod, Oscar moves leading the way to his quarters where you find your stepfather. “You’re free?” Mark looks up from the files in front of him glancing back and forth from you and Oscar. “Are you two in trouble?” 

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes, “No, why do you immediately think that? I for one am responsible, as for Oscar he can handle himself and no, we are not in trouble. I need your help.”

Just hearing the four words leaving from you, Mark closed the folders in front of him grabbing his keys, standing up. “Where do you want to go?”

It’s been known that the team principal has a preference for Daniel Ricciardo, the same can be said for Helmut with Yuki and Max, but for Newey it was you. Everyone in the team was well aware of your relationship, Newey taught you everything you knew about engineering and cars.

News of you leaving Red Bull wasn’t broadcasted on any social platform as you wanted to quit the team quietly, not bound to any long term contacts, yet within the team, your move was associated with Newey’s future whereabouts as whispers of him leaving Red Bull increased as the days went by. “You didn’t tell me you’re leaving Red Bull.” 

In front of you sat Newey, bringing forth a cup of coffee and the waffles you ordered prior. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving as well.” You scrunch your nose, whispering touché under your breath before taking a sip of coffee. 

“So, I’m assuming you told your father. Why did you leave?” You take a stab of the waffles, mulling over your conversation with Mark last week. “I told him what happened of course. You know why I left, it’s because of him. Well, partially. Everything was just slowly building up you know, they pushed me to the corner, I left. Simple as that. Mine’s boring, tell me yours. Why’d you leave?”

You felt Newey’s heavy stare into yours, “I heard what he told you, after that I left hoping to convince you to leave but you’ve surprised me once again.” Blinking, you put down the forkful of waffles in shock. Studying his demeanor, Newey continued taking bites of his club sandwich as if he didn’t drop the biggest revelation in front of you.

“You know you’re contractually not allowed to poach anyone right?” Newey rubs the crumbs off of his hands glancing at you with an incredulous look on his face. “I thought you knew me better than anyone, people always assumed I put Max in my clause. He’s a big guy who can handle himself, I put your name in. If I were to leave, I could take you from me. You know Horner said something along the lines of that when I ended my contract one year earlier. He asked about you- if you convinced me to leave. I told him you’re smarter than that, then I- are you crying?”

You raise your hand to your cheeks, wiping the tears you didn’t notice were falling off. “I just thought you’d stay there, and of course I would 100 percent support you wherever you went, I didn’t think you’d stick up for me when I left.” Now you were just full on bawling in front of him, early morning in a semi-busy cafe on a Friday morning. 

Newey laughs at you, throwing a napkin at your face. “I hope you’re ready to receive love calls for the next few days, we’ll be looking for some new prospects.”

You know time is of the essence, and when Newey advised you to keep an eye out for calls, you didn’t think they’d be calling you in the early mornings. Maybe it’s timezone differentiation but with the calls you’ve been getting for the last months have been more than alarming. A groan leaves your lips, before glancing over a familiar contact photo.

“Are you coming to China?” “It doesn’t seem like I have a choice now does it? Sounds like you want me to go now.” You hear movement from the other side of the line, “Yes, we’re stopping by to pick you up, get ready in 30 minutes.” “30 minutes? Am I not given time to prepare?” “Just bring yourself, if you’re worried you can use my money to buy whatever you need.” You scoff, jumping out of bed. “Just because I’m unemployed doesn’t mean I’m broke.” 

“Are you sure you want to pay?” 

“Hell no, I thought unemployment meant time for myself, didn’t think I would have to wake up at 4 AM catching flights to the Chinese Grand Prix.” You hear Mark’s laughter from the other side of the phone. “You better start getting ready, I’m on my way.”

“Never thought I’d see you sell me to another team. I thought I was sitting with you in the McLaren garage?” You explain to your stepfather as he walked with you to the Aston Martin garage.

Mark shook his head from your antics, “It’s a favor for a friend, you know to learn and see the company and team… it might make you enthusiastic to join.” You raise your brows listening to him sell the idea. “Are you not poaching me to join McLaren? Or are you worried about nepotism?”

Mark raised his hands to his face, panicking at the mention of nepotism right in front the Aston Martin garage, glancing around before shaking his head in disapproval while you’re giggling as he fusses over you. “I know you’re old enough to do this but please behave yourself, I just want you to see for yourself and not just because my friend asked for a favor, but I hope you enjoy yourself. I doubt McLaren is having any issues but if they wanted you, they would have to talk to you themselves instead of beating around the bush from me.”

You smile to yourself, “What about Aston Martin? What’s so different? And this favor from your friend, you must be really close with them, you’re offering my time so easily.”

“Fernando personally asked me to invite you.” You raise your brows glancing at the mechanic working on his car, “He couldn’t do it himself huh… Okay. I guess he had to go through such lengths seeing as he’s using you to invite me.” You take the ID Mark prepared for you, your name embossed with Fernando Alonso’s Guest below.

Your eyes wander around the green walls of their garage, you envision yourself in a dark green uniform, sitting on one of the pit lane garages looking over data. When Newey told you to prepare for new prospects you began looking around different teams, McLaren first and foremost due to Mark being involved, dabbling in offers from Mercedes and Williams, even from the junior Red Bull team which you immediately turned down, not wanting to be associated with the team any further. 

The news of Newey leaving hasn’t left the confines of Red Bull, despite Newey mentioning you as the reason he left, you don’t believe it’s the whole truth. You could be a partial reason, but there are many more underlying reasons behind his leave, especially to him who spent almost 20 years with the team, Newey leaving came as a shocker even to you, but what you’re waiting for is his future plans. 

You watch Mark slowly disappear from your sight, leaving you alone and for the first time in the 20 years of your life you felt exactly that. No one would have prepared you for what happened in the last two months of your life all leading to you leaving the first team you joined and spent your childhood in.

Sending a message to the only person you knew who spent his time in both Red Bull and Aston Martin garages, your phone rings as Sebastian calls you instead of answering your message. “Fernando invited you to the Aston Martin garage?” You stand from your seat to a quiet corner in the garage, away from the hustle and bustle, but more for your privacy. 

You rather no one listen to you talking about one of their drivers in his garage. “He asked Mark for a favor apparently, I was whisked away from my apartment to come here in China, now I’m in his garage, only for qualifying though so that’s that I guess.” The silence on the other side starts to make you question your own response.

“That's not the reaction I was hoping for. That’s that? That’s it? Where is the energy?” You roll your eyes at his implicating tone.

“It left the moment I got unemployed.” Sebastian laughs on the other side of the line, “Sounds like he’s trying to promote you as an elite employee.”

“Where the fuck are you learning these from? It’s so unlike you, has retirement made you younger?” You shout at your phone appalled by the words you never once thought would leave his mouth. “I kid, I kid. But you know what I think that message was?”

You sigh, trying to ignore the clammy feeling of your palms as you inch the phone higher to your ear, “I think that was a call for help. All those years of denial haven't changed? I’ll say this, green doesn’t look like a good color on you.”

“Fuck you Seb, calling you was a mistake.” Pressing the button furiously, you end the call. It’s funny how Sebastian always knows how to get on your nerves, maybe you were somewhat similar to your stepfather. That, or Sebastian is easily a mischievous prick who you’re unfortunately friends with and one of the only people who knew about your little something with a certain driver in the grid.

Your phone chimes, a reply from Seb, “I hope you get uncomfortable in his garage while you think back to your escapades in Barcelona, in the summer of 2019.”

It’s not your fault that of all the men available on the face of the earth, your eyes linger a little longer on Fernando Alonso, even if he is your step father’s friend he is hot, is he not?

[nonstoplover]

sleep without you ~ charles leclerc (cl16)

my masterlist | my f1 masterlist

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

song inspiration: sleep without you ~ brett young

summary: charles struggles to function properly without her by his side, or a story of a night without his girlfriend.

words: 2.1K

warnings: nothing, just fluff and a slightly clingy charles baby <3

a/n: idk why but this song honestly screams charles to me whenever i hear it, so i just had to make it happen. also this was supposed to be posted on my one year f1-aversary as celebration (well technically it should be more if counting my childhood f1 years but anyway), but i was so caught up in another wip that i couldn't do it. so happy anniversary to me and f1 (two weeks late) with this lil ficlet <3 thankful for all that f1 gave me.

big thanks to the amazing lovely silverstonesainz for helping me make this better and to the equally awesome monzabee for making me much less anxious with her words. love you sm queens!!

please, don't be a ghost reader, leave a comment or rb!

Charles spends a whole afternoon trying to convince her to have a night out with her friends. Just because they're in a relationship doesn't mean they can't have fun without the other as well from time to time. There are still a couple of weeks left of winter break, plenty of opportunity to spend time just the two of them before the season starts again. So the usual point of view, the usual reasoning doesn't stand a chance – that they should spend as much time together as they can, before he's back to travelling all around the world.

"Go to a club, grab some drinks, dance and laugh the night away", he tells her. The usual bestie coffee dates or walks in the park that she usually raises as argument are not the same as a night out, and she hasn't done that for so long now. Definitely not since he's been back home, and he knows just how much she enjoys dancing her heart out.

(y/n) agrees after a short while, accepting his reasons, knowing full well that he's right, and after a few phone calls she starts getting ready, soon walking out the front door, dressed all pretty and dolled up.

Doesn't take long before Charles realises what he's done. A feeling tingles in his chest, one he recognises swiftly. He's miserable. Solely because she's not there by his side, as he makes dinner, eats it – all by himself –, before settling on the couch to occupy himself with a movie. It doesn't matter though, he doesn't pay any attention to it. He doesn't even know what's going on, he hasn't heard a single line, too busy thinking about her.

When the credits start to roll, he switches the TV off with a surprised look in his eyes – how did it already end? He doesn't even remember the first scene ending. Then he moves into the bathroom to do his night routine, from taking a shower to putting on some skincare products, all the while wondering how long she will be out for? Will she come home soon? Hope tingles in his chest that the answer to his question is yes.

Having finished with everything, Charles lies down in bed, trying to read a book, then scrolling on social media, doing anything to keep his mind from straying over and over again back to her. He knows this is stupid, he was the one telling her to go out, why is he like this now? Lying awake on his side of the bed, the fingers on his right hand tracing figures onto the sheet where her body usually rests.

This is pathetic, Charles thinks. He never thought he would be like this, so miserable and impatient just because she's not at home, with him. He's tossing around, unable to find a comfortable position for himself – it seems like he forgot how to sleep without her. No matter how many times he's had to do just that, in hotel rooms all around the world. The past few weeks erased all those nights from his mind.

The delicious scent of her shampoo fills his lungs when his face lands just a bit too close to her pillow, and all of a sudden it's like he's burying his nose in her hair. It only makes him miss her more. Sleeping is impossible, he knows it now. He's only daydreaming, not actually dreaming, of her arriving home and being in his arms again.

Charles imagines the way she dances in the middle of the floor, her hands in the air, shouting the lyrics loudly to the song currently playing – most probably something she knows and loves –, and he can't help but smile fondly. Just the thought of her having fun is enough to make him happier, even in his misery.

He pictures a scene where a random guy tries to get too close to her, as it has happened so many times, whenever he leaves her alone for a few minutes at any club they've been to. It doesn't matter where they are, doesn't matter if they spent the night so far together, all over each other, someone comes into the picture immediately when he leaves, either to grab a drink for the two of them, or to go to the restrooms.

It's not like he doesn't understand those guys. She's simply gorgeous, and radiates such a vibrant aura that everyone is drawn to her. He honestly just finds it funny at this point. Nothing makes these men back off more effectively than her. Oh, the amount of times he bit back laughter watching the scene unfold from a distance. Seeing men crumble and disappear looking all ashamed, what a sight that is. And he doesn't have to do anything.

He wonders how many times she's had to fight off guys so far tonight, with him not even in the club, and he finds he can't wait to hear all her stories of the newest victims. Pierre never understood why Charles found it so amusing, he didn't seem to get it. The trust they have in each other. Knowing that it's him she'll come home to at the end of the night is enough to make him only feel entertained by each instance, and not irritated at the slightest bit.

But thinking about (y/n) fighting off men is only good enough entertainment for a limited amount of time, and soon the smile fades back into a miserable pout on his lips, as his thoughts turn back into ones of impatience, trying to make time move faster with short little prayers falling as mumbles from his lips.

With a sigh, he eventually sits up, looking around to find something he can do. At last he decides on grabbing a drink himself, maybe it will help stop the flow of thoughts racing in his head. A little welcomed dullness.

He takes a seat at the kitchen table, sipping on the liquid in his glass, enjoying the feeling of the light alcohol gently burning his throat on the way down, numbing his tongue along the way. His fingers stay restless, now drumming on the wooden surface. A few minutes later he realises they play a song, soundless except the soft thud of his fingertips with the occasional louder tap or little scratch of his nails when a finger finds a different angle to hit the table with.

A melody appears in his mind as he watches his fingers move, imagining how it would sound if it was his piano instead of the kitchen table. He would go sit at the beautiful, white instrument and try it, but he doesn't want to be so loud at such a late hour. And anyway, he's way too comfortable sitting where he is to stand up and go somewhere else.

He looks out the window, catching sight of the moon – almost full, just a tiny bit of it missing, and Charles examines the craters that are visible to the naked eye, though only as spots of a darker shade on the round shape.

Maybe he'll name this new musical piece that's being born in his head right now after her – well, if he ever finishes it. He'll keep the usual format, three letters of a city name and a date, only this time putting the time and place of when they first met. Or should it be the time and place of when he first asked her out? Or their first date? Or when she agreed to move in with him? God, there are way too many options to choose from. He decides to put this problem aside for now, he's not in a rush to name a song not even written yet.

As the clock on the oven changes all four numbers to display 2am, the action rouses his attention and makes him tear his eyes away from the moon and look at the numbers instead.

He would've never ever thought that he'd be like this.

Raising his glass he notices that there's only a small sip left in it, which he downs in a short moment. His tongue darts out to gather all the minuscule drops that might rest on his lips still, not wanting to waste even that much of the delicious drink. Then he stands up, placing the glass down into the sink, making a mental note to clean it in the morning before (y/n) wakes up.

Just as he ponders putting another movie on, maybe only as background noise if nothing else, his phone buzzes in the pocket of his pants. Taking his time, Charles pulls the device out, expecting nothing more than a useless notification from a social media app he shouldn't spend so much time on anyway.

Instead what he finds is a text. From her.

in a cab, be home soon &lt;3

Charles lets out a relieved sigh, his lips involuntarily curving into a smile, one that you could almost call giddy. It's not just the thought that she's going to be here soon, but the fact that she remembered to text him to let him know. He's in her mind, just like she's in his, even though she's been out with friends, having fun, drinking, while he's only been at home, all alone with his misery.

Now he can move back to bed happily, knowing that shortly she will join him.

It truly doesn't take long until Charles hears the front door creak as it opens, then the familiar jingle of her keys hitting the drawer in the hall, and his heart flutters with happiness. Finally. The high heels she chose to wear hit the floor with a soft thud as she presumably removes them, and the growing anticipation in his body seems to eat him whole.

Her steps grow louder and louder as she moves closer to the bedroom, and time slows for Charles. He watches in slow motion as she appears in the doorframe, being propped up on his elbows to have a better view, a lazy smile curling onto his face, and his eyes lidded with drowsiness.

"You're still awake?" (y/n) giggles, pausing in her steps for a second as her eyes take in the view he provides lying there. His lack of reply to her text made her think he's already fallen asleep.

"Of course," he mumbles. "Come to bed."

His voice is whiny and he behaves like an actual child, he knows, but he can't help it. He wants to sleep, and he wants to sleep beside her, feeling her warmth against his skin. That's the only way he can.

"Let me get changed first," she starts towards the closet, when a grunt of pure displeasure sounds from him along with the thump of his back as he falls into a lying position once more, making her glance back at her boyfriend. "What, can't wait a single minute?"

"No," he protests, pouting . "I've been waiting for hours."

His accent comes forth stronger when he's sleepy, and she can't help but smile adoringly upon hearing it. He's just so cute.

"Okay, fine, you'll get one kiss," she gives in. Charles resembles a lost puppy and she's sure he knows that's her weakness. She can't ever say no to anything when he looks like that.

So that's how she finds herself crawling into bed, trying to get as close as possible to the boy without causing damage to her dress. He grins, as much as his tired facial muscles allow, awaiting her lips touching his own. His pout becomes even more apparent, right until the moment he finally gets what he wants. His goodnight kiss. It's soft, slow and just so full of love it makes both their hearts flutter.

Then she caresses his cheek gently, whispering a barely audible good night, sleep tight to him, before moving back off the bed to disappear in the closet, leaving Charles to think about how he'd happily convince her again of going out if it means she'll come home to him, looking so radiant, properly buzzing with energy, eyes shining, hair messy but still looking so breathtaking. It's obvious how much it meant to her that she had this night out. He made her happy with telling her to go out with her friends, and he didn't regret it, despite all the miserable hours.

By the time she finishes her night routine and walks back into the bedroom once more, he's fast asleep, quiet snores filling the silence of the room. She bites into her bottom lip to keep in the giggle threatening to burst out, and with a heart full of adoration and a head slightly dizzy from the drinks she's had, she gets in bed beside him, snuggling up close to him, revelling in the feeling of his arms instinctively finding their way around her body even when he's sleeping.

He truly only waited for her to come home and give him a goodnight kiss to finally be able to fall asleep.

[spdrslayr]

001. atsv headcanons ! ★ jonathon ohnn & miguel o’hara both falling for the reader…

⁀➷ srcs... masterlist . rules . intro .

| synopsis, ୨♡୧ for the sake of this scenario, miguel and johnathon are working for alchemax in the same universe at the same time. miguel is a geneticist and johnathon is a physicist. you, my dear reader, are the cute receptionist!🥺

★ tags -> gender neutral reader; au; miguel o'hara; spider-man 2099; johnathon ohnn; the spot; love triangle; jealousy; fluff; etc...

★ warnings -> jealousy, slightly implied age gap, cursing

★ w.c -> 1,028

| xox, mei! ୨♡୧ -> woo my first post yay!! anyways requests are open for johnathon ohnn, miguel o'hara, and hobie brown if y'all are interested <3 my masterlist n rules are still a wip so stay tuned for that!

both men love their work but it still stresses the hell out of them. they’d enter and leave work exhausted. but then you started working at alchemax. you - with your bright smile and glittering eyes. most of the scientists and associates were drawn to you, but miguel and johnathon were on a whole nother level.

johnathon definitely fell first. it was daunting when someone he found attractive was being so sweet to him. jonathon’s usually too stuck in his own little world to care about such frivolities, so you were something special.  

★ he’s been late so many times because he’d chat with you for too long at your desk. at first he stumbled on his words with you, struggling to maintain eye contact while simultaneously trying not to stare too hard. now you’re one of the few people he feels comforting rambling to, because he knows you’re listening ★ johnathon loves it when you’d call him “doctor,” despite him insisting on his first name. sensing that air of respect from you makes him feel good about himself. ★ he takes great pride in making you laugh and smile with every chance he gets. this physicist has a vast arsenal of cheesy jokes, bad puns, and cute pick-up lines.  ★ he visits you throughout the day whenever he can, and tries to muster up the courage to have lunch with you. you’re young and gorgeous and out of his league but he’d be damned if he didn’t try. and then miguel o'hara came back from his business trip.

miguel didn’t care for the last receptionist. she was rude and lazy and got his name wrong. so it was a pleasant surprise when he was greeted by you instead. 

★ at first, your peppiness was too much for him, especially in the morning. he’d brush off your attempts at conversation and only mumble back to you when needed. such is the way of the resident grump at alchemax. but eventually, you wormed your way into his heart by remembering how he likes his coffee and staying up to help him on late nights in the lab. ★ miguel had to admit, you were a joy to have around. …and very very nice to look at. miguel's had a few serious relationships in the past, but they never ended well. since then he’s only indulged in one-night stands and temporary hook-ups. but he refused to look at you so fleetingly.  ★ miguel started bringing you expensive bouquets of flowers for your desk, along with sweet little notes. he’s obsessed with the scent of your vanilla perfume. he wants to be your hero, there to open every door, pull out every chair, and drive away any creep. for him, creeps include johnathon.

johnathon wasn’t concerned when he’d see other scientists and workers flirt with you. he wholeheartedly believed you two had a special connection that couldn’t be replicated. but seeing miguel turn you into a blushing stuttering mess proved him wrong. there was competition closer than he thought, and if he didn’t act quickly, he’d lose you for good.

★ johnathon felt deeply insecure in comparison to miguel. dr. o’hara’s movie star face & dreamy hair made him feel like crap.  ★ miguel clearly had way more experience in dating, always flirting with you so smoothly. johnathon on the other hand, is pretty sure he’s stuck in the friendzone with you. so he decided to experiment with bolder methods of winning your heart. ★ jonathon’s been more direct, showering you with compliments and buying you lunch whenever he could. he made it abundantly clear that he was single and that he liked you very much. you were his favorite person at alchemax, and for good reason.

miguel honestly thinks johnathon’s annoying as fuck. once john accidentally spilled hot coffee onto miguel on a very bad day, and he’s been bitter ever since. in the past johnathon would be friendly, but miguel would brush him off. who the hell is this lanky ass nerd and why is he hovering over him in HIS lab? 

★ now he’s wondering why the geek is messing with his love now. it pisses him off, not just because johnathon knows he feels the same about you, but how john makes you happier than he’s ever seen you be. miguel’s flirty, and funny in his own, stubborn way, but he lacked johnathon’s endearing dorky nature that had you hooked. ★ miguel is soooo grumpy lmao ★ really johnny is such a silly sweet guy while miguel, mr. give everything 1000% over here is fighting for his life. it took miguel a whole ass week to come up with a joke as good as johnathon’s that made you laugh your ass off. my guy is trying waaay too hard.

at first, miguel confronts johnathon kindly. he’s sympathetic and straight to the point - they both hold the same intentions towards you, but only one of them can win. he can tell that johnathon’s a good guy, with a big heart, so he’d understand… right?

★ “i’m in love with them, dr. ohnn. this isn’t just a silly crush. so either help me, or please refrain from getting in my way.” ★ “no, i’m good.” ★ “...you’re WHAT?”

war!!!!! miguel is a bitch to johnathon. dr. octavius has to give johnathon advice on how to win you over and how to fend off miguel. he’s gotten a lot better at brushing off miguel’s judgemental comments and acting unbothered by them.

although it’s not like johnathon isn’t cunty either. when he makes you laugh sometimes it’s because he’s making fun of miguel behind his back. he has a killer miguel impression that puts the original to shame.

★ “ugh, my shoulders are too broad and muscular. it’s so hard being so fit.” ★ “johnny!! he’s coming this way!” ★ “i work out every single part of my body at the gym. i do forehead pushups to keep my hairline in check.” ★ “JOHNNY-”

as long as a certain collider project goes swimmingly, and a radioactive spider stays in it’s fucking lane,  you’ll end up with one of them.

…unless…? ;)

[veronicaphoenix]

talk some sense to me | n.s.

Summary: Everybody thinks Noah is a Casanova. The truth is, that's just a façade to keep his romance with his best friend's sister a secret.

"Nicholas' sister was off-limits. It was never stated, but implicitly understood. And maybe because of that reason, Noah couldn’t stay away."

one shot ✨ word count: 2.9k pairing: noah sebastian x reader (nicholas' sister) tags and trigger warnings: 'forbidden' romance', reader is nicholas ruffilo's younger sister, reader is a uni student, long-distance relationship (sort of), fluff, angst, implied and mentioned sexual scenarios (but not described in detail), open ending (sorry).

author's note: i wrote this in a couple of hours and i did some minimal editing after. i had this random story cross my mind yesterday and thought i could turn it into a short fic, but with so many wips, i decided it to keep it a one shot <3 maybe one day it'll turn into a fic, who knows. For now, I hope you like it! 💕

“This is wrong,” Noah whispers as he kisses her, his mouth trailing down her jaw and neck. 

            The way she tilts her head to give him more access makes him feel dizzy and lucky at the same time. 

            “So wrong,” his voice vibrates against her pulse. 

            Her hands tangle in his hair, and he revels in the way she occasionally pulls at it, sending a jolt of ecstasy down his spine. “Your brother’s in the next room.”

            “Then stop,” she murmurs, her voice equally breathless, consumed by a sensation she can’t quite name. 

            But she can; it’s called Noah, her brother’s best friend. 

            “I don’t want to,” he replies, sucking at a spot on her neck he knows drives her crazy. 

            He hasn’t wanted to stop for over two years. 

            They know they’re playing with fire, especially tonight.

            Nick is in the living room, the ongoing party keeping him oblivious to the fact that his childhood best friend, Noah, has taken his little sister to an adjacent room at the back of the house to devour her mouth and touch her in ways no other man ever has. 

            It’s not the first time. 

            Noah has been captivated by her long enough to be her first. If Nick ever found out, he would surely kill him. 

            His sister was off-limits. Always had been. It was never stated, but implicitly understood. And maybe because of that reason, Noah couldn’t stay away. 

            He’d seen her grow up, transform from a shy teenager into an independent, confident woman. He saw her reject boys and girls who weren’t enough for her, saw her move away to pursue her studies at Harvard. She was away for an entire year, only coming home for the holidays. Noah didn’t see her for over 365 days, missing every chance he had to see her. After so long without seeing her, he grasped why he felt so miserable, why he’d felt like something was missing from the moment she said goodbye at a party and he stood there stupidly waving his hand, wishing her a safe flight and a good time at Harvard. Pathetic, he thought.

            Two summers later, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her as she joined the band to watch his brother and friends make music or play at nearby venues. She was no longer a teenager. Her hair was trimmed shorter, she had gained some weight and looked healthier, and the color in her cheeks and the spark in her eyes whenever she stared at something that fascinated her didn’t go unnoticed. 

            Noah thought he was out of his mind when he saw that spark every time she looked at him. 

            When the 4th of July came and the group was at a bonfire party by the beach, watching the fireworks, his hand had brushed hers as they stood looking up at the sky. She turned her head to look at him, and the smile she wore lit up his entire world. 

            She was the missing piece in his life, the muse behind all his writings, dreams, and songs.

            Two hours later, as everyone dispersed, he found her alone, sitting by the shore, her arms wrapped around her bent legs. He was the first to notice something wasn’t right. She confided in him: it had been a hard year at school. She wasn’t sure she was good enough or if she wanted to continue her studies. She questioned whether it was truly her path, what she was meant to do. 

            The insecurity wasn’t unfamiliar to Noah. He reassured her it was just a phase, a cloud of self-doubt that had settled over her. 

            “But it’ll soon pass,” he told her, sitting down next to her. “I know how much you love what you’re doing, even if you don’t feel like it right now. You’ve been interested in that field since you were a kid, right?” 

            How did he know that? 

            “Nick,” he said, “he used to mention it a lot.” 

            That was a lie, of course. Noah had been paying attention to her interests since she was barely a teenager, always captivated by her enthusiasm and eagerness to learn new things. 

            By midnight, he let her cry against his shoulder, her face buried in his chest, wearing his hoodie, holding on to him with eyes full of tears. Unexpectedly, she kissed him, then quickly moved away, expecting him to leave, horrified that she had crossed the line. Instead, he grabbed her and pulled her flush against him, kissing her back. Not much later, he had her pinned against a street wall after offering to walk her home, his mouth pressing down on hers, one hand cradling her face and the other holding her waist. She kissed him with the same intensity, as if she had been waiting for that moment all her life.

            That’s when she said the same words he was uttering two years later: “This is wrong.”

            It was, but neither of them cared, and so they met again the next day, alone, for a walk on the beach. Noah bought them ice cream and held her hand as they walked barefoot on the sand, the waves lapping at their feet with the Californian sun setting on the horizon. They talked about her studies, about the band, about Nick. They decided to keep this (him and her) a secret. After the evening spent together, he kissed her goodbye and chuckled when she said she wanted to see him again, like this; that she wanted to have him all to herself. 

            He wanted the same.

            It wasn’t the thrill of danger that brought them together; they learned that very quickly. It was a pull that had always been there, perhaps even before she turned eighteen. Noah had only ever had eyes for her, no matter how many other girls came and went. She had always been the girl from his dreams, and he made sure he was in hers from that moment onwards.

            Two years later, she finds herself perched on a piece of furniture at someone’s house. She doesn’t even know the host’s name. Noah doesn’t either. But it’s her last day in California before returning to Boston to complete her degree, and damn it if he’s not going to spend every last minute with her, kissing her.

            The problem?

            Nick is also there.

            For the past two years, they had been meeting in places where Nick wasn’t, at times when he wouldn’t wonder why Noah and his little sister were missing at the same time. It had been hard. The opportunities were few, and even though they never labeled themselves a couple, they behaved like one, even in the dark. Noah would call her right when he knew she was about to sleep, and she would text him updates on her studies and daily life, letting him know she wished he were there with her in Boston. She dreamed of going to cafés together and taking walks along the coast.

            Noah had hoped to make that dream come true more than once, and that one time he took a flight to Boston to surprise her was well worth it. Her roommate was gone for the weekend, and Bad Omens had just returned from an overseas tour. He didn’t hesitate before hopping on another plane just to see her.

            The most memorable moment of that weekend was probably Nick’s unexpected and ill-timed phone call. Noah and she had been lazily lounging on her bed, tangled in each other’s limbs, sharing stories, tender kisses, and innocent touches. When her iPhone’s screen lit up and they read Nick’s name, their hearts skipped a beat.

            “Shit, he said he would call me to discuss our parents’ anniversary,” she groaned, putting a hand to her forehead, cursing her brother for such bad timing. She didn’t want to miss a second with Noah.

            “Pick up, it’s fine,” Noah said, lying on his side with an arm draped across her stomach.

            “What? No. What if he hears you?”

            “I’ll stay as still as a statue.”

            She eyed him suspiciously. She knew him well enough by now to know when he was just pretending to behave. “You promise?”

            He lifted his pinky finger to her.

            With a resigned sigh, she hooked hers with his and a moment later answered Nick’s call.

            Of course, Noah didn’t stay still.

            The moment she sat upright on the bed and greeted her brother, Noah started tickling her. At first, it was just a little, making her squirm and swat at his hand. She was still able to have a normal conversation, but then Noah’s ministrations increased and her laughter couldn’t be contained.

            “What’s going on?” Nick asked from the other side of the phone.

            “Nothing,” she said, trying to kick Noah, but instead, he grabbed her foot and took her sock off before pretending to want to bite her toes.

            “I thought you were in your room.”

            “I am,” she said firmly, sending a stern look to Noah, who lifted his arms and pretended to retreat.

            Pretended. 

            Just when she thought he was finally going to behave, he undid the button of her jeans, eyeing her wickedly as her eyes widened. She mouthed a “no,” but it fell on deaf ears. Noah took off her jeans and removed her underwear. A moment later, he was settled between her legs, his nose brushing her most sensitive area.

            She sucked in a deep breath, thinking she was going to die for more than one reason.

            It was Nick who disconnected the call. The moment he realized she was with a boy, he shouted, “Ugh! You could’ve told me! This is disgusting!” and without a goodbye, he ended the call.

            She was already lost in pleasure. Her iPhone dropped to the floor, and soon enough, all she could utter was Noah’s name over and over again. 

But things weren’t always this beautiful and fun.

            It got hard sometimes. Some nights she cried, and other times Noah was sure she would find someone else—probably another student her age who could take her out on dates and introduce her to his family.

            It had been a struggle, but they fought to make it work. Every time she returned to California, Noah was the one to pick her up at the airport. Nick thought she always took an Uber, completely unaware that his sister had arrived hours earlier and was already in Noah’s bed, savoring the weight of his body on hers, or maybe his tongue between her legs, or the weight of his length in her mouth and his words of praise flooding her senses.

            Despite their deep feelings for each other, maintaining a relationship that they refused to label grew increasingly difficult.

            That’s why tonight they had abandoned all the rules and locked themselves in a room, mere feet away from the rest of the party—and from Nick.

            “I don’t want to go,” she whispers as Noah’s lips trail across her chest. She’s wearing a thin V-neck tank top, and he can’t help but kiss the valley of her breasts.

            “We have to tell Nick,” he murmurs back. “I’m fucking tired of this—of not being able to kiss you in front of everyone, of not being able to follow you wherever you go, of not being able to take you on dates in town.”

            “He’s not going to like it...” she’s half-gone, half-present. She can’t think straight when Noah’s lips and hands are on her. But she’s faintly aware of what he’s saying, of what he’s proposing.

            “Not my fucking problem,” he says, sucking at her sweet spot and making her moan. “I want to be there when you graduate,” he continues, nibbling at her shoulder, “to take pictures of my girl and use them as my wallpaper. I want to take you back to your dorm afterward and give you graduation sex.”

            She snorts, then grabs his face to pull him away from her chest so she can look into his eyes.

            “Graduation sex? Is that even a thing?”

            “I don’t know,” he admits, smiling with eyes full of adoration, “but I’m willing to make it a thing.”

            After a moment of staring at each other, their eyes soften.

            “I want you to be there more than anything,” she admits.

            “Then we have to tell him,” he concludes. “It’s time.”

            She can do nothing but agree. He’s right. At some point, Nick needs to know, and so do the rest of their friends and family.

            Noah hasn’t said he loves her yet, and neither has she, but isn’t it obvious? At least, that’s what she likes to think. She knows she’s been in love with him for years but hasn’t mustered the courage to tell him. A devil on her shoulder keeps whispering that he’s an artist, a rockstar. What if he eventually gets tired of her? They’re on very different career paths. What if he chooses to let her go?

            If Noah senses her sudden distress, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he leans down again to capture her lips, his hand creeping up her thigh beneath the black skirt she’s wearing. His tongue is about to dance with hers when the door swings open.

            “Noah, have you seen my sister?” 

            It’s Nick. 

            The room is dark, but it’s obvious he’s going to find out in the next two seconds. “She’s been missing since...”

            As they pull away from each other, her face comes into view. Nick’s eyes widen, but he’s frozen in place. She jumps down from where she’s seated, and Noah steps back, putting some distance between them.

            “Nick...” Noah starts, lifting an arm.

            For a moment, no one says anything. The heavy music from the party thumps in the background.     Nick’s hand is still on the doorknob, and he suddenly looks paler.

            It doesn’t take much for him to understand. It’s the aura of comfort surrounding his best friend and his sister, the confidence exuding from them the moment he caught them, the shared look they exchanged a moment ago. This has been going on for a long time, right? They’ve been seeing each other behind his back. Who knows what things Noah has done to her?

            Nick’s throat tightens. When he’s able to react, he storms out, slamming the door behind him.

            “Fuck,” Noah mutters, making a move to go after him, but she stops him.

            “Let me,” she says. “He’s my brother. I’ll handle him.”

            She searches for Nick for five minutes until she finds him outside, sitting on the pavement with a cigarette in his mouth. He doesn’t care about her apologies, her stories, her feelings for his best friend, or the fact that they were planning to tell him soon. He doesn’t want to listen.

            It shouldn’t be like this. It should have never been like this. Not Noah and her. Not ever. They lied to him, deceived him to his face, kept it a secret. How many times had they laughed behind his back?

            He’s never going to forgive them.

            “Please, listen to me,” she begs.

            He continues with his back to her, refusing to face her, to see her expression of guilt—or perhaps the lack thereof. Maybe she doesn’t feel guilty, which just makes it worse. 

            “I hope you’ve enjoyed this game,” he says, a cloud of smoking leaving his lips.

            She’s confused for a second, then she understands: Nick is not going to believe whatever she says about her feelings. He also thinks that Noah is not the kind of guy to have just one girl. Nick has had to deal with the version of Noah that she and he had decided he would show in front of others: one totally uninterested in the little sister and completely into every girl they met at the club. 

            Nick thinks Noah is a bad influence on her, that he’s going to break her heart.

            “It’s not a fucking game,” a voice says from behind them. She turns around and finds Noah approaching. She wants to tell him to stay away, to let her handle it, but she knows Noah is more stubborn than she is and won’t let her deal with this alone. “It’s never been.”

            That elicits a reaction from Nick. He chuckles, a sarcastic sound, and stands up to face them both, letting his unfinished cigarette fall on the ground.

            “You’re a fucking Casanova, Noah. Playing with girls is all you do.”

            “I’m not that kind of man,” he says, sternly, maintaining his cool.

            She was about to let panic take over, but Noah was keeping his composure on check, even though they’d both been scared of this moment for weeks, months, years. 

            “You’re not?” Nick’s voice drips with cynicism. “How the fuck am I supposed to believe that? How am I supposed to believe that you’re not using her?! That you didn’t get into her head and are playing with her?! That you’re not going to break her heart the moment you get what you fucking want?!”

            His words sting her, as they do Noah. He wants to tell Nick that he’s completely wrong, but it’s not his fault. He and she had made her brother believe that he was that exact type of man to avoid him finding out about them, but now the consequences are showing. 

            Instead of trying to explain or justify himself in any way, Noah just says what he should have said long ago, what he should have told her. He’s honest and raw. He’s admitting what he should’ve admitted even before he had her naked under him for the first time. 

            When she hears him, all the fear she’s ever had about the boy she loves disappears, because finally, she knows he feels the same, that all that connection they’ve had and built for years has been real.

            “I’m in love with her.”

            It just a sentence, but it changes everything. 

Taglist: @crossedxoceans | @somebodyels3 | @respectfulrebel <3

[seiya-starsniper]

WIP Tag Game

tagged by @tj-dragonblade, thanks for the tag friend! <3

Rules: Share 100 words or so of a WIP, and then add an extra line

I'm writing a little thing for @amielot's horse girl AU, and since it's the most recent thing I've worked on, and what I felt like working on tonight, here's a sneak peek, that is definitely more than a hundred or so words 😅

Content warnings: Gun violence, somewhat graphic depiction of a man with his face blown off

Dream turns, aiming now to rush to Hob's aid, but just as he gets close to where they're fighting, the man with the gun ends up behind Hob and then wraps an arm around Hob’s neck. He grins cruelly at Dream as Hob struggles beneath his hold. Dream whinnies angrily, but he can’t move any further. He's furiously close, and yet not close enough to reach Hob in time, even if he gallops, even if he runs. Then the man points the gun directly at Hob's head. Hob doesn’t let him get any further with the threat. He lurches his entire body backwards, the force of the movement knocking them both off balance. While the man is distracted and trying to rebalance himself, Hob frees one of his hands and repositions the barrel directly underneath the man’s chin. He pulls the trigger before the man can react.  The resulting bang! rings loudly in the other quiet forest, and Dream winces as the sound thunders through his sensitive ears. There’s a high pitched whine that follows soon after, and Dream staggers, his entire equilibrium now thrown off balance. He can smell blood and smoke and death. Everything is suddenly too loud; the rustling of the leaves, the screech of the birds as they flee from nearby branches, the sound of his own heartbeat.  Dream shuts his eyes, trying to will the nausea that overtakes him to go away. He barely registers the remaining two men from Burgess’s group running off in the opposite direction, leaving him and Hob alone. Hob. Dream can’t hear Hob, not over the loud, pulsing, ringing in his ears. While he was certain Hob wasn’t dead, Dream still had to see proof of life with his own eyes. Groaning in pain, Dream forces himself to take a few steadying breaths to calm himself, his entire body shaking uncontrollably. Breathing feels like he's swallowing glass, but it gets easier with each slow inhale and exhale. His heart eventually calms, and Dream feels somewhat proud that he's been able to remain upright the entire time. When he’s able to open his eyes again, the first thing he sees is the man with the gun lying dead just inches away from Hob, his entire face blown clean off. Blood and viscera, and what Dream assumes are bits of the man’s brain, are scattered on the forest floor. When Dream lifts his gaze to finally look up at Hob, his eyes widen and he feels his pulse jump as the sight. The majority of Hob’s face and upper body is covered in blood and bits of flesh that slowly drip down the man’s clothes, bathing him in a sea of red. Dream notices that some small fragments of bone have stuck to Hob’s hair, likely parts of the other man’s skull. Hob is panting heavily, but then he suddenly collapses next to the disfigured remains of his assailant, as if whatever invisible force holding him upright had suddenly cut loose its strings. He groans, burying his face in bloodied hands, smearing it across the rest of his face. Hob doesn’t even seem to notice the state he’s in, he’s likely too preoccupied with the same kind of nausea Dream had been feeling just moments ago. Dream imagines whatever ringing Hob must hear in his head is likely even worse than what Dream experienced, due to the man’s proximity to the weapon when it fired. 

tagging with no pressure @bazzybelle @five-and-dimes @kydrogendragon @valiantstarlights @blueberrymffn @gabessquishytum @apocraphelion

[fiveht]

Proof of life (Adore pt 3)

Hello my sweet angel babies ♥️

I'm not going to be able to adequately express my gratitude for the steady stream of love (and concern, sorry) I've been receiving over the past couple of months. I'm so sorry I've been AWOL, it will definitely happen again. Because see, for me, I usually have to make a choice between social and creative fandom participation. My battery is small, and takes a long time to charge.

Thank you to everyone who's left comments and asks and DMs since I've been gone. I don't think I can respond to all of it, but rest assured those messages ping my cold, dead heart every time I see them.

So I'm gonna go out on a limb here. I did this same thing months and months ago, when I was working on Head Over Feet, and let me be clear: posting even a single word of a WIP goes against my every instinct and principle as an author. I am someone who likes to finish an entire story before I post any of it, and on top of that, I am NOT a fast writer, so the expectations that I'm setting up here might not be advisable. But I did it before and managed to finish the thing, and I want to give you guys something in exchange for being so unbelievably awesome, so here I am again.

This will probably be the only time I mention this story in public until it's finished and posted, and inquiries about my progress are unlikely to help with the writing process, I'm just saying. I reserve the right to change every last word of this before the final draft, and I also reserve the right to fall off the face of the planet and simply never finish it, as much as I will strive to prevent that from happening. Please be patient with me.

Anyway, here is my paltry offering to say thanks for the love: the (VERY rough) first ~1300 words of the third instalment of The Adventures of Soft Daddy and Danger Twink.

Sirius secures his handheld shower head to its holder at the edge of his clawfoot tub, and steps out carefully onto the bathmat. He shivers in the cool air outside the shower curtain; it's about twenty degrees below zero outside, so even if he could afford to run his ancient radiator at full blast, it probably wouldn't help much.

He dries himself off and checks his reflection in the mirror, turning his face this way and that as he tugs his hair out of the bun he'd piled it into to keep it dry during his shower. There's no need for makeup tonight, not when he's not even planning to put on clothes.

It's incrementally warmer when he steps out into the main room of his apartment. He gathers an array of splayed text books and notes from his bed and dumps them carelessly onto the couch, then closes his new laptop and places it delicately on the coffee table. It's the most expensive thing he owns, save for the Gucci backpack currently sitting in his wardrobe with a three-inch berth around it like his shoes and other bags might somehow contaminate it. It's weird owning rich-people stuff when you are still, objectively, broke as fuck.

He perches on the edge of his bed and sets his phone to charge, because his battery doesn't even last a day anymore, and he's going to need it this evening. He tucks it in next to his pillow and picks up his new toy.

The plug isn't much larger than the one he already has. A little longer, which is appealing, but no wider, so it shouldn't be a challenge to get it in comfortably. He disconnects it from its charger and hefts it in his hand, feeling the added weight from the electronics inside.

He picks up his phone, and hesitates when he sees the notification waiting for him.

Rieka: let's go out tomorrow

Rieka: the fact that we haven't been drunk since the term started is criminal

Rieka: we've had two chem labs and zero drinks

Sirius purses his lips, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. There's a fine line here, and he hasn't quite found it yet.

Me: got plans

Me: raincheck?

So complete avoidance is the best strategy, right?

Rieka: booooo 👎

He sighs, but at least she's not asking for an explanation. He opens a different conversation then, pushing all thoughts of Rieka Lupin into a tidy, sealed compartment, not to be opened during certain activities with a certain relative of hers.

Me: i'm ready

Me: are you in your office?

Daddy: Yup, I've got a few minutes

Daddy: Want me to call?

Instead of answering, Sirius hits the call button himself.

"Hey baby," Remus answers. His voice is already smooth and honey-sweet, and just from that, Sirius knows he's planning to lay it on thick tonight.

"Hi daddy," Sirius says with a smile. "Should I put it in now?"

There's a low chuckle over the line. "Are we feeling eager?"

"Always," Sirius says, laying back on his bed.

"Use the good lube I got you, it's gonna be in there a while."

He switches the call to speaker, and snags the bottle from his nightstand. "I threw out the old stuff, you've got me ruined for cheap lube."

"Only the best for that ass," Remus says, and Sirius can hear his smirk.

He gives the plug a liberal coating, running his fingers along its shape, his dick twitching just at the feel of the silky-smooth silicone, at the anticipation of what's about to happen. He spreads his legs wide, drawing one knee up to give himself easier access.

"Take it slow," Remus says, succinctly heading off Sirius' impulse to just shove the thing inside himself in one go. "Rub the tip against yourself, so you're nice and wet."

Sirius shuts his eyes as he obeys, sliding the slick end of the toy over his entrance. "Okay."

"Are you going to be a good boy for daddy tonight?"

"Uh-huh," Sirius says, teasing the very tip of the plug in and out of his hole.

"Tell me how."

"I'm not gonna touch."

"You're not gonna touch, and you're not gonna come."

"Yeah," Sirius says. His cock is starting to harden as his body tries to draw the plug inside. "Can I put it in, daddy?"

"Slow," Remus reminds him, "Slide it in nice and slow for me, baby."

Sirius catches his lip between his teeth and tries to push the plug in slowly, the way he knows Remus would do if he was here. 

The shower has left him relaxed and more than ready, and it's hard not to take advantage, just press the toy in to its limit because he can. But he's working on his patience -- under Remus' careful tutelage -- so he shuts his eyes and tries to savour it, the tease of the plug's rubber tip at his entrance, the slow stretch as he eases it past the slight resistance before he sighs, and his body eagerly accepts the intrusion.

"Mmmm," Sirius sighs as he settles the base of the plug flush against his entrance, shifting his hips and feeling the constant, dull pressure against his prostate.

"How's it feel?" 

"Good," Sirius says, splaying his legs out and just enjoying the pleasant fullness. It's been almost a week since Remus last fucked him, and that's just way too long. Christmas really spoiled him. He tugs the blankets up around him, because it's going to take some time before his body temperature is high enough to fight against the chill in his apartment.

"Have you tried out the settings at all?" Remus asks him, and Sirius picks up the phone, switching off speaker and holding it to his ear.

"No," he says, grinding his ass down against the bed to test the plug's reach inside him. "I thought you'd rather do the honours."

Remus hums, and Sirius hears the phone shifting in his grip. "I'm gonna turn it on, okay? Lowest setting."

"O--" Sirius stutters as the plug buzzes to life inside him, nestled snug against his prostate and sending little zings of pleasure down his legs. "Fuck that feels good. That's the lowest setting?"

"It is," Remus confirms. "Want to run through them all, see how high it goes? Or would you rather be surprised?"

"Mmmm, surprise me."

"Surprise it is," Remus says, and Sirius hears shuffling papers in the background as he prepares for his night class. Psychology 1001, Thursdays, 7-9:30PM. Two and a half hours of a lecture that Remus swears he's given so many times he could recite it in his sleep, so why not give himself something fun to focus on while he goes through the motions? 

Being privy to all of this brilliant, upstanding man's secret perversions is a privilege Sirius does not take lightly.

"You can turn it off from the app if you need to," Remus is saying, "Or you can call me and I'll switch it off. My phone's on vibrate, so I'll see it right away."

Sirius smiles to himself. "Got it," he says, though this is a rehashing of the rules that Remus had laid out when he'd brought the plug over last weekend. He'd called it a "late Christmas gift", as if he hadn't already given Sirius several thousand dollars worth of presents on Christmas morning.

There's more rustling over the line, the squeak of a chair. 

"Tell me again how you're going to be good tonight."

"I'm not gonna touch myself, and I'm not gonna come." The toy is still buzzing away inside him, making everything a little fuzzy at the edges. 

"Tell me why."

"'Cause daddy's in charge, even when he's not here."

"Good boy."

Sirius squirms with pleasure, his cock smearing a little drop of fluid on his belly as the toy hums insistently at his prostate.

"I have to head out," Remus says. "How do you feel?"

"Good," Sirius says, his abs tensing as he shifts his legs and the angle of the toy changes. "Excited."

"Me too," Remus says softly. "I'll talk to you soon, beautiful. Send me some pictures." With a low beep, the call disconnects.

[ladykailitha]

Paper Hearts Part 6

The sequel is coming along great I just have one more part to do and it'll be done. Sweet Home Indiana is nearing its end too.

Heads up! I will be going on vacation on Tuesday and won't be back until next week. So no WIP Wednesday this week as that is the day of my niece's graduation and I will be away from laptop all day.

I will still be uploading chapters and should be able to do WIP Wednesday next week. But if not I'll let you know.

In this we have the Corroded Coffin boys being silly and a wild Dustin appears.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

****

Eddie rolled up to band practice fashionably late as always. The other three boys were doing a sound check and making sure everything was in order.

Gareth looked up first. “Did you bring the hearts?” he asked excitedly.

Eddie held up his bag and the other boys cheered.

“So how are we going to do this?” Eddie asked flopping on the sofa after gently setting his sweetheart to the side. “Do we want to do the hearts first or practice first?”

They all look around at each for a moment.

“Let’s get the heart thing out of the way,” Jeff suggested, “get it out of the way so we can focus on practicing.”

“Sounds good to me, man,” Gareth said. “In case practice runs over or some shit.”

Eddie pulled his backpack closer and began digging through it. He pulled out the hearts that he’d put in a plastic baggie so they wouldn’t get bent in the maw that was his bag.

He tossed the bag onto the table in front of them and then dug around for his notebook. He pulled it out with a bunch of pens.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured, “but I’d recommend changing up your handwriting a couple of times so he doesn’t realize they’re from the same four people.”

“We were doing anonymous and initials, right?” Brian asked, picking up the bag and opening it up.

Eddie lit up, a huge smile on his face. “I actually had an idea about that. I was thinking of famous groups with four dudes in it and I thought it would be hilarious if we mixed it up a bit with some of those to avoid the whole repetition thing.”

Jeff licked his top lip. “Show us what you’ve got,” he said jutting out his chin.

He opened up his notebook and flipped to the right page. “Alright, so I was thinking the Three Musketeers plus D’Artagnan.”

“Who would be who?” Gareth asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Gareth is absolutely D’Artagnan,” Brian said without hesitation. “No question.”

Jeff straightened up and looked over at him in confusion. “Why’s that?”

“Because my dearest Jeffy,” Eddie said with a grin, “because he’s the youngest and not an original member. Therefore D’Artagnan.”

Gareth and Brian glanced at each. Brian shrugged and Gareth blinked a moment or two before he shrugged, too.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

“I’ll take Aramis,” Eddie said with a grin. “The smooth talker with religious trauma.”

The other boys just cackled.

“I’ll be Porthos,” Brian said. “The compulsive liar with a flare for the dramatic.”

“Why am I left with the dude with serious romantic wo–” Jeff stopped. “Right, scratch that. I’m Athos.”

They cackled again. Eddie had had some wild crushes, but it was nothing on Jeff. He even had a slightly tragic love story. He’d actually dated Vicki Carmichael before she became a popular kid and hanging out with Steve’s crowd. They had both loved metal music, but Jeff was pretty sure she stopped listening to it once she joined the cool kids.

“And I have a list of other ones too,” Eddie said breaking into the resulting silence. “The four winds from Greek mythology. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles...um...let’s see...” he looked at the notebook again. “The members of Metallica. The four horsemen of the apocalypse–”

Jeff winced. “Probably not that one, man. It’s for Valentine’s day and that kinda screams the opposite.”

Eddie blinked at him for a moment and then scratched out that idea. “Fair enough.”

“The four hobbits from Lord of the Rings?” Gareth suggested.

“Yes!” Brian cried. “I get to be Samwise!”

Jeff cackled. “Gareth and Eddie are sooo Merry and Pippin!”

“Oh god! Yes! Which one is which, though?” Brian said joining in the laughter.

“I’m Merry, of course,” Eddie said proudly. “I’m the instigator and Gareth goes where I lead.”

Gareth grumped in the corner, crossing his arms and glaring at all of them. “But that makes Jeff Frodo though.”

Jeff straightened up, smug. “I could handle that.”

Eddie shook his head at his friends. “All right, also on my list are the Ghostbusters and The A-Team.”

The other boys shook their heads at either suggestion but they had a pretty good list anyway. Plus their D&D names sprinkled in here and there and they’ve got in the bag.

They spent the next half hour coming up with nice things about Steve. Eddie did have nix a couple of their ideas because they came off as stalker-esque. Which was not the look they were going for.

****

To say that Eddie got a kick out of seeing Steve light up every time he opened his locker and more pink hearts fluttered out of it was an understatement.

The goofy smile the former jock got on his face was worth every second of the time they’d spent on the project.

And it was working, too. That was the really impressive part.

Even Tommy H. was baffled.

“How the hell are you getting so many pink hearts, Harrington?” he said on Friday, just four days into Eddie’s plan.

Steve shrugged in that dorky way that made Eddie’s heart stop. “I guess people are deciding to hell with social constructs and stupid cliques and are telling me even if they don’t dare to be open about that they still like me.”

Tommy’s mouth open and closed like a goldfish then he turned around and stormed off.

Eddie lean against the lock above Steve. “Back to being king again, huh, Stevie?”

“Not really,” he said, closing his locker and standing up. “Most of them are anonymous or fake names. But there are a few that real names.”

“You think someone is stuffing the ballot box as it were?” Eddie asked, worried the jig was up.

Steve shook his head. “At least I don’t think so. But it’s sad that they think they have to hide who they are to tell me that they still think I’m a cool dude or whatever.”

“For what it’s worth,” Eddie said, pushing off from the locker, “I think you’re a pretty cool dude.”

Steve blushed and mumbled his thanks.

God, did Eddie just want to bite those flushed cheeks. They were just too cute.

“It’s worth a lot, actually,” Steve whispered. He stood up and shouldered his backpack. “Catch you later, Eds.”

Shit that little nickname had Eddie’s heart doing overtime.

****

Steve was outside the middle school waiting for Dustin to come out. His mom had asked Steve to pick him because she had to stay after hours at work for a meeting.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he hummed to the music in his head. He could have turned on the radio but Dustin hated his music didn’t like him blaring it for the whole school to hear.

His eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror to see his backpack on the backseat. He wanted to go over the ones he got today. There had been some really good ones. Ones that melted his insides and turned them to goo.

He bit his lip and checked the mirror again. He looked at his watch and he still had a couple minutes until the bell rang.

Steve whirled around and grabbed the bag. He ripped it open and pulled out his trapper keeper. Tucked in the front pocket were the hearts. He ran his fingers over the outline the hearts made on the plastic pocket.

He pulled out the hearts and read over each one. Tracing the names of the givers, thinking about each name and wondering where they were from.

There was a thump on his window startling him. He looked up to see Dustin making faces at him through the glass.

Steve shook his head and unlocked the passenger door to let the twerp in.

“Looking at pink hearts, Steve?” Dustin asked with the shake of his head. “So pathetic.”

Steve rolled his eyes and tried to put the hearts back in the folder, but Dustin snatched them from him and wouldn’t let him take them back.

“Come on, man!” Steve whined. “They’re none of your business.”

“I want to see which girls are giving the Steve Harrington Valentine’s hearts,” Dustin said, wagging his eyebrows.

“Dude, give it up,” he growled. “The pink hearts are friendship hearts, the red ones are the romantic ones. So give it back.”

The younger teen cocked his head to the side and said, “No.”

Steve folded his arms and glared at him.

“Aren’t you going to take me home?” Dustin asked after they sat in silence for a minute or two.

“Not until you give them back.”

Dustin just shrugged. “It’s your funeral if we get home after my mom does.”

Steve threw his arms in the air, but turned the engine and started the car toward the Hendersons.

“These are actually really sweet, Steve,” Dustin said after a couple of minutes. “I like the idea of friendship hearts. That way you don’t accidentally send the wrong message.”

Steve just shrugged.

“You do know that some of these are fake names, right?”

Steve rolled his eyes and dared to look over at him. “Yes, of course I do. I am familiar with D’Artagnan after you named a fucking demodog after him, thanks.”

Dustin cocked his head to the side and then shrugged. “That’s fair. What you probably don’t know is that Aramis, Porthos, and Athos are the names of the Three Musketeers.”

Steve pursed his lips and nodded. “That’s cool.” They hit a stop sign and Steve looked over and pulled out one. “What about this one? Tommy H. thinks it’s short for Kassie, but none of the girls at our school spell it like that.”

Dustin took the heart and looked at it. “Kas. Kas. Yeah, okay. That does sound familiar. Can I get back to you on that one?”

“Sure thing, bud.”

Steve pulled up to curb to let Dustin out. “You got your key? If you don’t, you can hang out with me until your mom gets home.”

Dustin began rummaging around in his bag and Steve snatched the hearts away before he could bend them.

The kid pulled out his keys with a triumphant, “Eureka!”

Steve shook his head. “You are such a dweeb. Go on, get.”

“Bye, Steve!”

“Next time say thank you, asshole!” Steve called out the window.

Dustin turned around and gave him the double middle finger.

Steve shook his head and drove off. Why he loved that kid, he had no idea.

When he got home he pulled out the little notebook and placed the pink hearts in with the rest. All but the one from Kas. Those he kept in his wallet. He really couldn’t place why. There was just something about what they said that made him feel warm and not in the fuzzy friendship way that the others did.

There was the first one:

-Stevie I like the way you’re kind even when it doesn’t benefit you. Kas

Which Steve loved but the others were just as sweet.

-Stevie You have a great laugh, you don’t have to hide it. Kas

-Stevie That shirt today really brings out the color in your eyes. Kas

And Steve’s personal favorite:

-Stevie Each day is brighter because you’re in it. Kas

There was one for each day he got hearts in his locker so he assumed it was all the same person.

He slid it next to the other three hearts in the billfold portion of his wallet and put the wallet next to his keys on his desk. Then he put the little notebook back, careful to make sure it was well hidden.

He wasn’t sure what his dad would do about the mementos but Steve really didn’t want to find out.

He was really going to miss getting the hearts over the weekend. They really had become the highlight of his day.

He sighed and buckled down to work on his homework. It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do with his time. He wasn’t invited to any parties, he didn’t have friends to hang out with, and the people who would hang with him were fourteen year olds and they all had bedtimes.

He briefly thought about calling Eddie, but the guy had friends, unlike Steve and was probably doing something with them. Probably that nerd game that Eddie had a club for.

He buried his head in his hands.

Steve sighed. Fuck his life was depressing as shit.

With another sigh, he resigned himself to another lonely weekend.

****

Part 7 Part 8

Tag List: CLOSED

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[morbethgames]

The Final Part of Chapter 4 Mostly Is Now Live!

So, you guys are probably wondering what the mostly is about. Simply put, there’s a subroute in the final part that I still need to write. Not very long, it won’t be too big of a deal later on, but this scene was blocking me hard. After working on it for 2 months straight I just wanted to move on. Needless to say, if I had to write one more set of variations for how the PC fights the suspect, I was going to go insane. That being said, it is all mostly there. There’s simply one greyed out option is all. I’m going to come revisit this scene when it’s more fresh to me again and when I don’t have to push myself so damn hard and force myself to write it. Along with the final part, I’ll probably be adding a bit more variation to it in general. But, now that that’s out of the way, let me get to the patch notes!

Patch Notes:

Added most of the rest of Chapter 4, which includes another Text Box Investigation Scene!

Added an unlockable extra story of Ryder’s PoV before the after funeral scene.

Multiple gender variable mistakes have been fixed.

Fixed a mistake where Alvarez and Ryder were being referred to as ‘mommy’.

Added a small dialogue variation to Ryder’s train scene where, if you’ve already talked to Alvarez, the PC won’t ask Ryder to clarify details about Alvarez’s age.

Added a small dialogue variation to the talk with Hawks in Dennis’ Office where, if the PC didn’t answer the phone for their brother in Chapter 2, it will reflect that choice.

Fixed the error on my part where the hoplite in the painting in Hawks’ office was being referred to as ‘Roman’ instead of ‘Greek’.

Fixed a bug where, if you chose to talk to Lance first on the train, it wouldn’t give you the option to talk to a second person.

Thank you all so much for sticking with me while I’m pumping this stuff out! It feels like such a weight off my shoulders to be able to just moved on from this scene, and to give myself the room to just come back to it later. Expect the Patreon to pick back up to two posts a week again as I get to start writing all the in between stuff for Chapter 4.5! If you like this story, and you want to support either me or this story, head on over to my Patreon where you can get an early look at extra stories, audiobook readings of this story and other IF’s, original short stories with original characters, and so on.

Patreon Link ←

We’re getting close for sure everyone. Hopefully, bare minimum, by the end of the year, this story will be completed. I’m excited, scared, and worried all at the same time.

Thank you all again so much for sticking with me.

Stay Brilliant, -Vi

Demo Link: https://dashingdon.com/play/morbethgames/the-bureau-wip/mygame/

The Bureau forum page: https://forum.choiceofgames.com/t/wip-the-bureau-chapters-1-3-550k-total-words-updated-03-14-2024/99993