#modern day fic

[mireyarowan]

Can’t quite figure out how to make the situation totally plausible - but was just imaging Ghost captured by the enemy and they’re torturing him for info. His shirt has been torn off and they spot an elegant script tattoo reading ‘MacTavish’. The enemy assumes he’s a proud Scotsman, since they know Ghost is SAS just not who exactly he is until they think the tattoo gives them that answer. Ghost hasn’t said a word yet, but would rather die than give any info on Johnny up, so when he does talk he perfectly fakes a Scottish accent.

Bonus - Ghost’s mic is picking all this up from where it was sloppily left on with his gear that’s piled in the corner and the 141 listening in to try and figure out a rescue mission with Soap losing his mind over listening to Ghost speaking in a Scottish accent and trying so hard to protect his Johnny.

[steviewashere]

I want to write something sort of meta, hear me out on it. Sorry, if this hits too close to home. The idea came to me and I needed to get it out of my system. And...would you look at that, another half-written fic.

Steve ends up getting really into Star Wars after Dustin shows him to it. Like, so much that he gets himself involved with conventions, cosplay, collecting anything and everything he can. He's involved in a fandom space. Learns the world of fan fiction. And let's say that maybe, during his time figuring out where he wants to go with life, he picks up writing fanfic as a hobby.

It encourages him to get an English degree. Encourages him to lean more into that hobby, but then expanding upon it to write original short stories and small novels that go published. But he holds strong to Star Wars and fandom and finding his spot cemented in it. He's been a fan for...nearly forty years at this point (set in 2024, ugh I know).

And maybe he dabbles in online spaces here and there. He ignores the insufferable adults in the Star Wars fandom (the "um, actually..." guys, btw). Indulges the effort of typing out his handwritten fan fiction, ones he used to bring and pass around at conventions, ones he'd let Eddie read with a shy look in his eyes. And he posts them online, has a Tumblr account, maybe does a few short things on Twitter, definitely is on AO3 (albeit newer, having never attempted online fan work before).

But then...then he gets his first little bit of hate. Vicious, gross comments on his work. Sometimes in private messages. Even publicly, once, on Twitter. It irks him. He holds strong, he does. But then it gets worse and worse and somehow, worse. Younger people claiming he's too old, others claiming that he can't write for certain characters because they're out of his age range, that he can't ship certain people, he can't say that a character would do this or that, that Star Wars is media for a younger audience (despite being somebody who saw it "back in the day"). But that he...That he's not supposed to be there.

And that last little comment sticks with him for a long time. It makes his effort and his attention and his love for writing fanworks falter. He stops. Thinks about the characters he loves, of Leia and Han or even Luke and Han or Lando and Han (listen he loves writing Han). But then he wonders if it's even worth it, to indulge this interest anymore. Yeah, maybe he's older than the source material. Sure, maybe he was introduced to it a little later than most, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love it. Yet, his attention towards Star Wars completely falls away.

He stops watching it. His DVDs going dusty and unused. Starts putting away all his action figures, because what if he posts a photo one day and somebody sees them and claims that that's not for him and—

Then, he goes completely offline from fandom. Even if he still gets the emails from users who actually enjoy his stuff, ignoring them completely. Focuses on using the internet for work. For his novels, for the little stories he actually gets paid to write. But his work just isn't the same. The passion, despite being an original story and original source material, is completely dwindled.

His hobby has been stripped from him. His interest has been knocked straight out of his hands. And he just...moves on.

Even if it hurts to go down into the basement of he and Eddie's home, eyes catching on the see-through bins of original action figures, Lego sets, comic books. Even if it makes something strangle in his chest when he opens up the browser on his phone and it immediately opens to a new ship he'd been getting into: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker—because he finally picked up The Mandalorian, because he was finally talked into watching it when he had the free time.

And then it all bursts over when Eddie finally approaches him about it, when they're enjoying a night-in, sitting around lazily on their sofa.

"There's a convention coming into town," he comments, "supposedly, Hayden Christensen is going to be there. We should go, try and meet him."

Steve just grunts in response.

"Oh-kay...or we could just stay home and watch the movie?" Eddie suggests. "Been a while since I've seen Darth on screen, telling Luke about"—

"I don't want to," Steve cuts in quietly, "isn't really my thing anymore."

Silence then follows. For a beat. Then two. A third.

"Not your thing?" Eddie asks him incredulously. "Not too long ago you were raving all about that new show that's coming out! That you saw they were doing lightsaber whips and you were excited to see how they worked! What do you mean it's 'not your thing'?"

Steve shrugs. "Grew out of it or whatever. Got more important things to focus on now." He sniffs, trying to keep himself held together, grumpy and firm in his decision.

Eddie's stare drills into the side of his face. Scalding, just like that lava was in Revenge of The Sith. "Baby," he speaks softly, "did something happen? You haven't even...you don't read your beautiful little stories to me anymore. In fact, now that I think about it, I haven't even seen your lightsabers around here. What's goin' on?"

He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. A ratty plain white t-shirt that he wears now when he's lounging around the house. It used to be one with the Millennium Falcon on it, but that's tucked down far in his dresser. Not for him anymore.

"Steve," Eddie presses, "did something happen?"

His stare stays down at his lap, still fiddling with his shirt. Fingers flexing unfamiliarly in the strings, unlike the loose ones on his Star Wars shirts. "I just"—Steve heaves a deep sigh—"it's time I grow up. It's...not for me anymore. Too old for it now, I guess."

"You guess or you know? Because nobody's too old for anything. Unless, y'know, you're like eighty-nine and in terrible health and trying to hike Everest, then..."

Despite everything, Steve finds himself chuckling. A giddy little sound here and gone in a breath. He shrugs again, albeit smaller this time. Crumbling within himself. Quietly, honestly, he admits, "People were being mean to me about it online. About my writing. That I'm doing it wrong, that I—that I'm too old for it. That I don't belong because of my age." He finally brings himself to look at Eddie, blearily because his eyes are aching and wet. "I got to thinking and I...maybe I've just been too caught up in my own bliss to realize that those people are right. They're right and I shouldn't be into kids stuff anymore."

Eddie makes a soft, sad cooing noise in the back of his throat. "Oh, baby," he breathes. "Baby, those people don't know a single damn thing about your love. But...but I do. I know that you've seen every single Star Wars movie more times than I've probably eaten in my entire life. And what about all those Halloween costumes over the years? I didn't dress up like Leia for nothing, Mr. Solo."

Steve scoffs wetly. Goes to protest, but—

"And...and that handshake! The one with Dustin? You guys have had that for nearly forty fucking years! So, why bother indulging any of these...these hardasses on the internet? Did they sit next to you on the sofa as you fucking curled yourself like a shrimp and wrote every little intricate detail of a kiss between Luke and Han? Have they read your work while you blushed all shy, while you tucked your hair behind your ear and asked for the most earnest of feedback, to make sure you spelt things correctly or put a comma in the right place? These people, did they get to see you blossom and grow like a fucking bushel of roses over your hobby?

"Because I know I did. And even though you were nervous about your words on the paper, you still came to me. You still wrote and wrote and wrote until I had to bully you into breaks, just so you wouldn't ruin your poor wrists. If they had even an ounce of the passion that you do, they could write their own stories. They can make their own endings and make the characters the way they imagine them.

"They choose, instead, to—what—make fun of you because you have a space to express yourself? Because you found passion and turned it into something so beautiful, even I—a dungeon master, someone supposed to be amazing at storytelling—can't put into words? You found a way to do that, Steve. And you do that with kindness. You do it for free, mind you. If their only passion sits within sending you vitriol over people who aren't even remotely close to real, then they're the ones who don't belong.

"If I've learned anything, fandom is a space to share and bounce off each other's words. It's community and it's belonging and it's sharing what you love because you just love it. Fandom isn't bullying. Bullying is just bullying, Steve.

"And everything you've ever done in your life, in regards to fandom and outside of it, is so much better than hate. You may be a nerd or...or a little bit overzealous or whatever, but at least you aren't hateful. I think being hateful, that's worse—don't you think?"

Steve can only stare in response, fast tears down his cheeks, hands shaking in his shirt. Mind reeling. Because, yes, Eddie's right. And he maybe should've talked about it initially, but the hurt festered and festered and tangled and grew until he was nothing but an unhealed scab. And Eddie, he's the antiseptic to his uncovered cuts—the ones deep on his heart, where all his love is—even for things considered mundane, like movies, like TV shows.

"Steve," Eddie carefully murmurs, wrapping Steve's hands with his own, "you don't have to do something right to love it. You don't have to be a certain way to be happy. If Star Wars made you happy, then why give it up?"

He sniffles and chokes back on a sob. Because, again—damnit—Eddie's right. "I miss it," he admits quietly, "all I've done is miss it."

Eddie gives him a small smile. Something achingly soft that reaches deep within Steve. "Then open your arms and welcome it back, baby," he whispers, "even if you can't be online anymore, do it for yourself."

"I...I want to try it again, I'm just...scared. What if people hate it all over again? What if they're just nasty to me and shut me down and push me to the side and"—

"But what if they love it? What if your readers have missed you just as much?"

"You think?" he meekly asks.

Eddie's eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "I know, actually. Your emails keep coming in on the computer's desktop because I keep forgetting to log you out. And, baby, you would not believe how many people have been eager for updates, for your return." His thumbs work into the backs of Steve's hands, warm and sure. "And, if it helps, maybe I can moderate your comments before you look at 'em? I'll read them to myself and if they're mean, I'll delete them."

Steve blows out a breathy little chuckle. "You'll just get mad at them," he gently teases. "But that doesn't sound too bad. Maybe I should try again. Not yet, though. I'm not ready."

"That's okay," Eddie assures, "take things slow. Maybe we start with watching the movies again? Getting your lightsabers back on display?"

"Can we go to the convention, too?"

"We can do whatever you want, Stevie."

For the first time in a long while, Steve finds himself smiling. "I love you," he whispers.

"I know."

[inklore]

COLIN BRIDGERTON IS A BOOB GUY.

He is the epitome of a boob guy, and he doesn’t even try to hide it either. Doesn’t stop himself from constantly needing a hand up your shirt to cup one of your boobs while the two of you cuddle or sleep. Doesn’t try to make excuses as to why he loves you wearing low cut tops. Loves the way your boobs spill out of a tight dress, or if a top is cut low enough, how the display of the skin between them makes his eyes constantly travel the expanse of said skin. 

The skin his mouth has been on a dozen times. The skin that his tongue has left a wet trail along on his way to one of your nipples. 

And when he can see those same nipples poke out against the fabric of your shirt, his jaw aches. 

His tongue runs along his dry lips, reaching for a drink to quench his dry mouth. To distract himself from leaning over and wetting the material of your top as his lips wrap around your clothed nipple—his teeth biting the sensitive peak until your chest is withering beneath him. 

You never knew how sensitive one’s chest could be. How a brush of a thumb against your hardened nipple could have you mewling. How the touch of a palm squeezing your breast could feel fucking amazing. 

Colin undeniably proving those things to you. 

Showing you just how sinful and torturous one’s mouth can be when it’s worshiping someone’s chest. When hands, tongue, and teeth have you soaking through your underwear, your pussy throbbing as if you’ve already come multiple times just from how good it feels. 

Spent.

And he’s barely touched you where you need him to. 

You’d think such acts would stay in the bedroom. Not leak their way out and have him acting up in public. 

But Colin Bridgerton is not a subtle man. 

And you look too damn good for him to not act up. 

To not stare longer than is appropriate when you’re in public. To not chew on his bottom lip when you bend over, reach for something that makes your boobs press together, brush your chest against his when you pass him to get to the other side of the room. 

Or if he’s feeling even more devious and wanting, his thumb rubbing small, slow circles against the fabric of your top. Right where your nipple grows hard. Right in the middle of a group of people, where it looks to them, a husband or lover is embracing his beloved. Shielding her from someone passing. Telling her a secret. About to lean in for a kiss. 

Definitely not making her swallow down the small gasps that cave in her lungs from the feel he is copping. 

From the breath at the shell of her ear when he whispers, “let’s go home.” 

Home. 

Where he strips you down and worships your body like he’s studying it to have it carved into stone. Studying it like he’ll never get to touch it again. Like this might be his last day on earth, and by god, he’s going to take his time, going to touch, kiss, lick, and bite every part of you he knows will illicit the filthiest of noises. The sweetest of moans. The heaviest of breaths. 

Both of his hands holding a handful of your breasts, a thumb and forefinger playing with one nipple while his mouth sucks and nips at the other. 

The more he does so, the more sensitive you become. The more you beg him to touch your pussy. To fuck you. To stop moving the underside of his cock against your wetness while he marks up your chest—devours, claims, moans against the peaks that have made him delirious all day—and push inside of you. 

To make you come around him if only to stop this torture. 

And when he finally does, when you’ve come enough times for him to be satisfied and your body to feel hot and heavy with sedation against him, he’ll grin against your lips. Run a hand across your forehead, down your cheek, fingers cupping your jaw. 

“I need to see you covered in me.” 

You don’t have to question what he means. Don’t have to give him permission other than the breathy gasp he swallows down with his mouth pressing to yours. You know what he wants. What he’s craved all day. 

When he pulls out of you, your pussy feels swollen and hollow—like you lost the thing that was making you feel whole. 

But the need is still building back up. Still there even after your body has been built up and tumbled down already tonight. It’s hard for your body not to react to Colin moving up it, placing his wet cock between the expanse of your chest, pushing your boobs together, and letting out the weakest moan when he starts to move. 

His hips stuttering even though he’s just started. His mouth hung open as he watches the way his cock moves against your skin. Between your beautiful breasts.

Eyes flashing up to yours, making your own moan fall from your lips at how big his blue eyes shine with desire. How all it takes is your tongue snaking out from between your lips and moving against the head of his cock once, twice, when his hips thrust forward, for a guttural groan to shake his chest and his come painting across your skin. 

And once he can think straight, once his breath isn’t heaving from his lungs and he’s looking like a tortured man, he wraps a hand around his still hardened cock and smears the come at his tip against your nipple. 

Both your mouths twitching from released breaths. 

“You are beautiful.” He says as he admires his come on your chest, before his eyes meet yours with a smile. 

[temeyes]

i,, i don't know what possessed me,,

[hbdttg]

“Hold the elevator!”

The elevator doors are mere inches from closing, but Steve dutifully shoots a hand out to stop them. They slide back open, revealing a flustered-looking man about Steve’s age on the other side.

He’s dressed head to toe in black, decked out in a simple black pullover with a modest V-neck, snug black jeans, and all-black leather Chucks with a messenger bag slung across his chest. The messenger bag is, unsurprisingly, also black, but covered in a collection of tough-looking patches and pins in varying shades of—well, it’s mostly red, dark red, white, and some yellows, but the pops of color still stand out against his otherwise monochrome ensemble.

His dark, curly hair reaches a little past his shoulders and he’s got this frankly outdated fringe that, despite its very 80’s vibe, frames his face perfectly. His eyes are large and expressive, and he’s got this frantic energy about him that reminds Steve of a live wire. He’s nothing like the buttoned-up suits Steve usually shares his elevator rides with each morning, and it’s a refreshing change of pace.

The man gives Steve a thankful look before stepping into the elevator and leaning against the side wall. “Thanks,” he says, a little distractedly. He’s got a pair big of headphones on and Steve realizes he’s in the middle of a phone call when he adds, “No, not you, Gare, I was thanking the guy who held the elevator for me. Yeah, this building’s crazy. There’s a whole-ass sixtieth floor—guess I’m kind of a big deal now.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, reaching for the panel beside him.

As the doors close and the elevator starts to slowly ascend, Steve notices the man pressed the button for the floor above his. Both the fifty-second and fifty-third floor buttons are lit in a halo of green.

“You know I didn’t want to leave you guys,” the man continues, a bit more quietly now that he and Steve are sharing the same small space, “but shit, I couldn’t turn down the pay.” He scoffs. “Ugh, listen to me, just another cog in the capitalist machine. Man, if high school me could see me now. High school Eddie used to talk big about forced conformity and rising up against the man, and now here I am—”

Steve tries not to listen to the one-sided conversation going on beside him, but it’s difficult when a moment later, he hears his own name.

“—clocking in for my first day at fuckin’ Harrington Hargrove Hagan. The pretentious bastards can’t even shorten it to an acronym or something. God forbid they have to miss out on the sound of their own names.”

Steve manages to hold in the obnoxious snort that threatens to escape him. He’s starting to think he might like this guy—Eddie, his mind supplies helpfully—but Eddie’s next words have him freezing in place.

“And it’s nepo baby central. Yeah, pretty sure all the H kiddies are hotshot brokers with the company. All the biggest accounts—gee, I wonder why.”

Steve can feel the back of his neck burning hot with a mixture of annoyance and shame as Eddie cracks a caustic joke about silver spoons and trust funds.

“You’re kidding, one of them works at this branch? Damn, I guess I’ll just keep an eye out for the guy who most looks like he’s got a giant stick up his ass.”

This is quickly becoming the longest elevator ride of Steve’s life. He grits his teeth and stares fixedly at the floor display panel above the elevator doors, watching the numbers climb higher and higher. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.

“Listen, I should go, but let’s grab a drink at the Hideout later. Cool, see you then. Bye.”

Forty-one. Forty-two.

Eddie removes his headphones and shoves them into his bag, angling slightly toward Steve. “Sorry about that, man.”

“You’re good,” Steve says shortly, not looking away from the changing numbers. They reach the forty-seventh floor, and all the while, he feels Eddie’s gaze on him.

It’s not like he’s openly staring, but there’s a certain weight to his furtive glances that completely counteracts his attempts at subtlety. It’s the type of gaze Steve’s familiar with, one that he’s been on the receiving end of since his sophomore year of high school when he hit a growth spurt and actually learned how to style his hair. Assessing. Appreciative. Interested.

And in any other situation, Steve would gladly engage. He’d turn on the charm, quirk the corner of his lip up in that way Robin always rolls her eyes at but reluctantly acknowledges as ‘passably effective’, and maybe even make up an excuse to sidle a bit closer.

But he’s not giving this guy his A-game.

Instead, Steve waits in stifling silence until the fifty-second floor is announced and the doors slide open. He steps forward to exit, but at the very last moment stops in the doorway.

He initially wasn’t going to say anything—though, a past version of himself would have definitely spat something biting and bitchy to Eddie about his snark, would have snootily told him to take his little assumptions and shove them where the sun don’t shine—but sooner or later Eddie’s going to realize he and Steve are colleagues, and he’s going to remember shit-talking him in an elevator on his first day of work, and it’s going to be awkward and uncomfortable.

Steve’s just speeding up the timeline, pushing for the sooner rather than the later, when he decides to spin around and fully face Eddie.

“I think you pressed the wrong button,” he says, all sweet and helpful like he’s talking to Dustin’s mom over a sink full of soapy dishes. “Couldn’t help but overhear that you work at Harrington Hargrove Hagan. It’s on the fifty-second floor, not the fifty-third.” Then he takes a small step backward, moving out into the carpeted hallway.

“Oh.” Eddie scrambles for his phone, unlocking it and scrolling quickly until he finds something that has him straightening up and smiling gratefully at Steve. “I guess I remembered it wrong. Thank you.” He pushes away from the wall, takes a step forward to follow Steve out, but then stops dead in his tracks.

Steve gleefully notes the line of Eddie’s gaze, how it lingers at the breast pocket of his shirt, where, clipped to a retractable badge reel, his building keycard hangs. Eddie evidently hadn’t noticed it during the elevator ride up, but he’s certainly fixated on it now.

Perhaps on the abstract yet easily recognizable Harrington Hargrove Hagan logo in the top right corner.

But more likely, based on the positively mortified look growing on Eddie’s face, on the name clearly printed underneath Steve’s photo in bold, black lettering: STEVE HARRINGTON.

Slowly, Eddie drags his eyes back up to Steve’s face. He stares in silence, eyes bugging nearly out of his head, face turning a concerning shade of pink, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and his reaction is extreme enough that a small part of Steve is almost inclined to take pity on the guy and laugh it all off.

Unfortunately for Eddie, a bigger part of Steve thinks Eddie looks kind of cute all red-faced and embarrassed like this. So he glances down at himself thoughtfully before turning his attention back on Eddie. “Wow,” he says with exaggerated astonishment, “now that you mention it, I guess I do look like I’ve got a giant stick up my ass.”

As if on cue, the elevator chimes in warning. The doors begin to close, but Eddie just remains rooted in place with that same wide-eyed, horrified expression.

When it becomes clear he has no intentions of actually exiting the elevator, Steve chuckles and wiggles his fingers in a cheeky little wave. “Welcome to the team,” he says airily, before Eddie’s still-blushing face disappears behind the elevator doors.

/ Now with a Part 2!

[twistedappletree]

Jin Ling wanting to see the Barbie movie and begrudgingly asking Lan Sizhui to go with him because he’s the only person who’ll probably agree and not make fun of him for it (and asking his uncle to go is way too embarrassing). Little did he know that LSZ’s grossly in-love dads would tag along with them and just when Jin Ling thinks things can’t get any more awkward, they all walk into the theatre to see a giddy Jiang Cheng huddled up alone in the back with a slurpee and popcorn 100% confident that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knows

[daenysx]

grumpy x sunshine with aemond, you try to wake him up with bunch of kisses on his neck but he doesn't wanna leave the bed just for once so he makes your job as hard as he can just to get more kisses

[sualne]

he's not supposed to drink

[superblysubpar]

I Think I Only Want You, Under My Mistletoe:

modern!steve harrington x fem!reader

3.6k words

summary: Meeting The Harrington's, an office Christmas party, seeing Steve's big, hard d- Desk. Get your mind out of the gutter. // The prompts: [mistletoe] - a playful or romantic kiss under a mistletoe // [BEND OVER] - one muse bends the other over a table/couch/etc. 

warnings: THIS HAS BIG SPOILERS FOR MY SERIES WE’LL CALL IT LOVE ( #a we’ll call it love blurb // we’ll call it love masterlist) - this blurb takes place only a few short weeks after the end of chapter 5: Getting Older, and before the Epilogue. | slight description of reader worrying about her appearance/comparison and anxiety about what people think of it | slight angst with Harrington parent disapproval and judgement | alcohol consumption | SMUT: semi-public (steve's office) teasing, calling Steve Mr. Harrington and sir, illusions to unprotected PIV intercourse

day 1 of 12 days of superbly subpar writing // requested by @palmtreesx3 - thank you for requesting and continuing to encourage WCIL nonsense. Hope you love it babe! 💛

Steve: You found a dress right? You: Nah, I was thinking I’d just show up in my period sweats and that sweatshirt with the stain on it.  Steve: Honey, seriously, I need confirmation.  You: 🙄 You: yes steve. I got a dress. Relax. 

You tossed more popcorn in your mouth, trying to squash the nerves he wasn’t making any better by harassing you for the last week about the dress. 

Like it wasn’t enough to have a boyfriend after swearing off love. The boyfriend you now had after confessing all dramatic and movie-like that you were falling for the guy despite thinking he was engaged. The engagement he called off because of you, much to his parents' fury. The parents you were going to meet at this party. The party at the office he had just put his notice in to quit, again because of you. 

What was there to be nervous about?

The phone next to you lit up and Robin glanced at it, and you caught the name ‘Dingus’ as she  cleared her throat and locked it. Her voice strained to sound nonchalant. 

“Can I see what you’re wearing to the party tomorrow?”

An annoyed huff and strangled cry left your mouth. “That’s it! I’m not going! I’m not!”

You stomped to the kitchen and poured more of the white wine they brought as Nancy failed to cover her smile, coughing over her laugh. 

Robin sat up on her knees, green clay mask beginning to harden on her face, so only her bright blue eyes could convey her feelings. “Just let us see it so we can tell him he has nothing to worry about and he can relax.”

Your head shook, laughing despite being unamused. “Does he think I don’t know how to dress myself? Does he think I’m gonna actually show up in something disgusting? Does he think-”

“You haven’t met the Harrington's.” Robin interrupts, her voice far more serious than you cared for. 

Stomping off to the bathroom, you scrubbed the mask off your face, splashing cold water against your cheeks and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in your stomach. She’s right. You hadn’t met the Harrington's. You’d heard all about them, and you weren’t sure you’d like to meet them under normal circumstances, let alone these complicated, messy ones. 

“Are you-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” You interrupted Robin’s call down the hallway, closing the door to your room and stared at the wine colored fabric with your arms crossed. 

Slipping it on with resentment and nausea fluttering throughout your body, you ran your hands over the velvet material, tilting your head to the side in the mirror as you exhaled. Turning on your heel before you could find all the ways you hated the dress you once were confident about, you stepped out of the room. Nancy and Robin’s mouths dropped in tandem when you stepped into the light of the living room. 

“What?” You squeaked, hands crossing and curling around your waist. “It’s bad? Is the slit okay? I thought…”

Robin started typing on her phone furiously and Nancy held up her hand as you trailed off, “You are so good. Furthest thing from bad. Don’t worry.”

Your shoulders released their tension, but the crease over your brows deepened as Robin smirked down at her phone. “What are you telling him?”

She hummed, “Don’t worry about it. Relax.”

Relax.

Easy for her to say. 

You: steven. You did NOT send a limo.  Steve: 🤷🏻‍♂️ You: you think you’re so cute, huh? Steve: I think *you* think I’m cute.

He clicked at his desktop more, glasses falling down the slope of his nose as he tried to finish work. He felt awful that not only were you nervous, but he was already here, you had to arrive alone, and he still hadn’t seen your dress. His phone vibrated and he looked down to see a picture of you, in the back of the limo, holding up an entire bottle of champagne just for you, and much to his dismay, a coat covering your dress.

You: you know what won’t be cute? When I down this entire bottle of champagne and puke from nerves all over your parents six thousand dollar shoes harrington Steve: they’ll buy new ones You: 🙄

He continued to work on his computer, people calling into his office and asking if he was coming downstairs to which he nodded and said soon to, until the lights started to turn off and it was just him. Hand running through his hair as he flipped back to his conversation with Robin last night.

Robin: DUDE Robin: You’re gonna go into cardiac arrest when you see her Steve: you’re not helping Robin: your mom will love her, you know she will Robin: Well, eventually. I did. Sort of. Steve: Again, NOT helping Robin: honestly your dad is gonna try to sleep with her Steve: you’re sick, you know that? Robin: The way she looks in this dress is sick steve Robin: ILLEGAL Robin: wow. You have wonderful taste in women Steve: YOU HAVE TO STOP 

Despite already having been to Steve’s office, the sight of it tonight still has your jaw going slack. When the limo stops and the door opens for you, the vast and towering skyscraper shimmering with snow swirling around it seems more intimidating than ever. As you push into the warm lobby, the two story Christmas tree steals your breath further. Decorated in golds, silvers, and crimson, two staircases curling on either side of it. 

You make your way up slowly, admiring the decor, hand gliding over the banister and reeling from the noise coming out of the transformed large ballroom. The space was used for a variety of events for the company, anywhere from big convention type conferences, parties, presentations and more. Steve had told you they’d put in a bar, a dance floor and stage, claiming this year’s Christmas party to be the biggest yet. 

Lucky you.

The room overflows out into the hallway with loud chatter, a jazz band playing familiar holiday songs. Boisterous laughter exploding each time the doors open and close, no doubt louder and more easily flowing from the contents inside the glasses you can hear clinking together and the pops of corks. 

You know you’re supposed to text Steve that you’re here, he said he’d come out and walk in with you, that he had been pulled in by his soon to be former boss. The thought of just going in by yourself is somehow easier though. Perhaps no one will even spare you a glance, not when you don’t have him next to you.

The room is even louder once you’re inside. The air smells like leather and cigars, champagne and scotch, stiff and overpowering floral perfume. It drips in luxury - mahogany tables, three Christmas trees, silver and gold candlesticks over burgundy table runners. 

Your feet carry you inside cautiously, and you spot the bar on the other side of the room and head towards it, ignoring the heat of strangers' stares. Feeling like every woman around you is eyeing you from head to toe, their judgment pushing up their chins and noses, rolling their eyes. Their dresses far more expensive and their makeup and hair done professionally. This was worse than the first time you went to Steve’s apartment. 

This was a big, big, massive mistake. 

When you make it to the bar, you order champagne that you can see already being prepped, hoping it’s comped or on the lower end, mentally preparing yourself for Steve insisting he’ll pay for it despite the zeros. The sharp bubbles slip over your tongue as you try to sip it slowly, eyes roaming over the crowd in search of Steve. 

“You look lost,” a deep voice comes from beside you. 

Turning, you find a man in a three piece navy suit that costs more than your rent. His hand holds a glass with three fingers of amber liquid over ice, a silver watch on his wrist that glints. His other is deep in his pocket, his posture nonchalant and lazy yet oozing with the confidence of a man who knows what he wants and how to get it. His jawline is familiar, clean and sharp, leading to soft brown eyes that roam over your face. He has two freckles next to his ear, and dark brown hair that’s just starting to gray. 

Your swallow is louder than the saxophone solo coming from the far end of the room as he removes his hand from his pocket, extends it to you, and says, “John.”

Fuck. 

“Mr. Harrington, it’s so nice to meet you,” your voice is calm, hand shaking his firmly while the inside of you screams, alarms inside your brain going off, shouting abort, abort, abort!

His lips twitch in a far too familiar way and he cocks his head, “Now, how do you know me and I don’t know you?”

You’re certain that everyone in this room knows who John Harrington is, and he knows it too. You squash the nerves inside of you, taking a deep breath. 

“Well, uh, Mr. Harrington-”

“Please, call me John.” He smiles, encouraging, and you nod, plastering on a bigger smile. 

“Right, Jo-John. I’m-”

“Honey, you don’t recognize her?” A softer, sweeter voice comes up behind him and her warm smile makes a little bit of your nerves disappear. That is until she says your name, and then:

“This is Steve’s friend.”

Friend. Friend. Friend. 

“Oh!” He snaps. “I forgot he decided to bring someone after all.”

Your lungs deflate, your stomach churns, you hear the way your heart cracks, chest aching from the pressure. 

Steve’s mom sticks out her hand, “Vivian.”

Introducing yourself far less confident, voice barely a murmur, cracking as you push out, “It’s really nice to meet both of you.”

“So,” John has a cigar in his mouth now, patting at his pockets for a lighter, frowning when Vivian takes it from between his lips, but he continues, “What do you do?”

“Oh, um,” you take a larger gulp of champagne before finishing, “I’m an assistant right now. But I hope to-”

“I’m sorry, what?” John interrupts you, his brows furrowed. Mrs. Harrington’s hand squeezes his bicep sharply, a smile plastered on her face. But he keeps going, “An assistant? How old are you? Your parents can’t be thrilled with-”

“Dad.” His voice is ice, a protective hand on the small of your back, appearing out of nowhere.  

You’ve heard Steve’s end of phone conversations with his dad, you’ve seen the way the people in this room acted just passing by him in the last few minutes, so you are shocked beyond belief when John Harrington closes his mouth at Steve’s singular warning. 

Vivian’s smile relaxes, her voice warm and syrupy, “Hi honey.” She hugs him and he only returns the gesture with one arm, the other keeping a firm grip on your waist as she pulls away and smiles, “We were just getting to know your friend-”

“Girlfriend,” he corrects quickly, strong, and nods at the bartender. You watch as the man behind the wood bar grabs a bottle from the very top shelf, pours two fingers, neat unlike his father, and Steve grabs the drink he didn’t have to order. Despite the last few moments, the tone and action has your thighs pushing together and you clear your throat as Steve’s thumb swipes over your spine. 

Vivian smiles, quietly correcting, “Right, girlfriend. She was just telling us what she does, right sweetheart?” Vivian pinches John’s arm again and he straightens, forcing a closed-lip smile. “So, an assistant, that’s…exciting?”

“I think we’re gonna go dance actually, we’ll talk to you later.” Steve’s voice leaves no room for argument. 

He starts to pull you away and you call over your shoulder, “It was nice meeting you.”

Steve pulls you through the crowd, his shoulders tense and the scotch tipped to his lips in one sip. He sets the empty glass on a passing tray, grabbing your champagne flute from your fingers as well. He stops in the shadow of one of the trees, his hands finding both of yours as he turns. 

“Honey, I think we have a real problem.”

Your heart and stomach drop even more, voice frail and small as you ask, “We do?”

He nods, face solemn, though his lips seem to be fighting a smile as sighs, “I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight all night in a dress like this.”

Relaxation floods over your veins, soothing your nerves as it feels like you finally exhale a breath you’ve been holding since last night. Still a little frazzled from the interaction, but a smile twitches your lips up slightly, forcing a light tone. 

“It’s okay? Up to the Harrington standards despite the girl inside it failing miserably?”

Steve hums, leaning in close, spice and stinging scotch on his breath as his nose traces yours. “I think the dress and the girl surpass all Harrington standards. They rearrange the meaning of the word babe.”

Your eyes roll, but your shoulders hunch again, hands smoothing over the lapels of his tux. “That’s a nice sentiment Mr. Harrington, but I think your parents would disagree on the matter.”

Steve’s eyes flash at the use of Mr. Harrington and your eyebrows raise, curious if it’s the authority of the name or the potential of you being a missus, but he’s too quick for you to investigate, bold and something in his eyes hungry. “Fuck my parents and their obnoxious standards. Every other person in this room wants to be you or be inside of you.”

“Steve.” Your head ducks at the forward compliment, “God, how much of that scotch have you had already?” 

“First glass.” His lips part, tongue licking over his top lip as he smirks, “I think you liked it though.”

“The comment or the way you ordered the drink?”

Steve, breathes into your lips as you tilt easily for him, mouth parting as he says, “Both.”

His hands press to your spine, a barely there kiss, when his name is called. He sighs, spinning to shake someone’s hand. The rest of the evening is spent with men clapping on his back and saying they’ll miss him. He holds your hand as he introduces you to co-workers he seems to genuinely like, flagging down servers and getting you glasses of champagne before they’re empty. Shushing you and kissing your temple when you ask how much it is. Maybe it’s the bubbles in your system, the pink flush to Steve’s cheeks when he stares at you, your name on his lips when he introduces you as his girlfriend, but the interaction with John and Vivian is long forgotten. 

All you can think about now, is how tonight has shown you a side of Steve you hadn’t seen before, and he looks good. He holds his drink that keeps being refilled without being ordered, slipping bills in waiters hands almost imperceptibly, their quiet ‘thank you Mr. Harrington.’ even more so if you weren’t listening. His suit is tailored to his body nicely, pieces of his hair falling over his forehead when he laughs in a charming and confident way. Steve is also handsy, and has been since he pulled you away from his parents. Squeezing your hip, running up your spine in the keyhole along it, pads of his fingers following the straps that hang off your shoulders back and forth, back and forth. Each touch of his skin to yours sparking like frayed wires. 

You excuse yourself quietly in the middle of a conversation about trading and something or other you can’t be bothered to listen to and Steve grabs your wrist, cocking his head in a silent question. You call out a little too loudly, maybe a little too flirty, “I’ll be right back, Mr. Harrington.”

The men around him smirk into their glasses and Steve watches you walk away, the color long gone from his eyes as his pupils take over. You feel the presence of his stare on your back as you make your way to the bar, only turning around when you have another glass in your hand. 

Steve’s still across the room, and you watch the path his eyes take over your body, heat rising to the surface of your skin in their trail like he’s physically touching you. He tracks you as you make your way to the exit, starting on your ankle, up your calf, then thigh. You’re almost able to feel his fingers sliding over the velvet, tracing the slit that exposes the skin. The cinch of merlot fabric on your hips and the way his hands would pause there and squeeze. You take another sip as they travel over the curve of your sweetheart neckline that shows off maybe a little too much. Tracing the path his lips could take over the straps, up your collarbones and neck, and they finally meet your eyes. 

His jaw is tight, tongue wetting his lips and gulping. His eyes narrow as you smile and you glance up at the familiar green holiday leaves hanging above the door, dropping your head and forming a fake pout. 

It takes Steve less than thirty seconds to cross the room, the now empty glass on a tray as he passes yet again, freeing his hands to grab onto your waist as he leans in. You let your bottom lip slip between the two of his, teasing and innocent. 

Steve groans as you bump the door open with your hip, letting your fingers linger on his chest, sighing, eyes wide, “Oh, I bet the view of the city is so beautiful on the 65th floor. You have a big, fancy office don’t you? Do you think I could see it, sir?”

He’s a man possessed. His mouth and hands haven’t stopped moving since the elevator closed. Clumsy lips and your name leaving him breathlessly as he pushed you into the railing as the floors climbed higher and higher. 

“Look too good, illegal, she was right,” he mouthed at your neck, slipping lower into your cleavage enough to make you laugh. 

“Wh-who was right?” 

He growled something that sounded like Robin’s name which made you laugh harder, stopping only when his mouth found yours. 

Steve shushed your giggles, leading you down the dark floor to the office at the corner, pulling the door closed and clicking the lock. 

A brown leather couch, gold lamps, a bookshelf and a cart full of bottles of fancy liquors and sparkling glasses. A giant, wood desk with a tall leather chair. A name plate that glinted and said Steve Harrington with a pair of wire rimmed glasses. 

You’d seen it before, but not on a night like tonight. Not with all the lights off, snow falling lazily across the skyline. Not with champagne in your system, not with your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who had confidence and charm, who commanded respect and attention. Who stood up to his parents for you, for what he wanted.

Steve stood behind you, hands on your hips again as he led you towards the desk. Sucking a bruise under your ear, tongue soothing the way his teeth scraped down your neck. He was wrecked, gone, could cum in his slacks right then and there with the view of you in his office in this dress. Would he miss being in charge at a place like this? Sure. But he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time he was a boss. 

His voice was strong, cinnamon and scotch on his breath as he commanded, “Bend over, baby.”

You laughed, arching over his desk slowly. Looking over your shoulder as you spread your legs and pouted, “Kind of bossy, Steve, not gonna even say please?”

Steve watched under heavy lids as you kept your gaze on his fingers moving over his buckle, the way your chest moved up and down quicker as he freed himself. He knelt behind you, pushing up the fabric of your dress. Kissing up your calves, your thighs, nipping at the curve of your ass and smirking when you yelped. 

He stood, hands landing on the desk on either side of yours, mouth a ghost over your ear, heaving chest pressed along your spine, and his hard erection pressing into your ass. 

“You think you’re cute, huh?”

A shiver ran through you at his tone, the way his breath hit your cheek and fingers overtook yours on the desk. 

You gasped out, parroting your conversation earlier, “I think you think I’m cute, Harrington.”

Steve’s nose skimmed the curve of your ear, tutting, “No more mister already? Where’d your manners go baby?”

He slid his tip against your clit, circles to it until your head fell forward in a gasp, slick coating his cock with barely anything to prompt it. 

Steve finally moved lower, his lips on your neck and his tip nudging at your entrance but pausing as he laughed, smirk pressed to your skin. “You are cute, though, honey. Prettiest,” he kissed your shoulder, “Sexiest,” a kiss below your ear, “Cutest thing here tonight.”

He kept his tip pressed to your entrance, waiting until your hips squirmed, till your fingers twitched below his. Breath warm on your jaw as he kept his voice even, confident, pulling himself back up to your clit and starting all over again as he spoke. 

“Know what’s even cuter though?”

You whimpered, head empty, nerves buzzing, and stomach burning as his lips brushed against your jaw with each word, head circling your clit and tapping again. 

“You’re about to be begging for me.”

[happilyhertale]

Take it – Modern Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: Another night at your sugar daddy Daemon's house. He never fails to spoil and satisfy you and he knows exactly what you can take.

Pairing: Modern Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Use of sextoy, sex – p in v; Daddy-kink

Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1 k

Other stories of mine

12 days of smuff

You lie on his sofa, dressed only in stockings. Your legs are bent and your teeth don't want to expose your lower lip again while Daemon stands in front of you and spreads your bent legs wider. Almost incidentally, he brings his whiskey glass to his lips and takes a sip as he watches your most intimate part, how it drips with anticipation.

Slowly he leans forward, holds the glass to your lips and you obey, taking a sip and feeling the drink burning in your throat long after you've swallowed it down. Before the burning subsides, he places the glass against your cleavage. The coolness of the glass bores into your soft skin and you feel the sensation interrupted by the whiskey running between your breasts. The burn that flares in your wet folds as the whiskey flows down matches the burn in your throat. You whimper slightly, look up at him and you see him grinning slightly.

He puts the glass down on the table and reaches for something else almost at the same time – you don't have to look to know what he's reaching for. With his other hand, he grabs your chin and pushes your face up slightly as he slides his lip onto yours. You return his kiss almost greedily, tasting the remnants of the drink still on his lips and moaning lightly into his mouth.

"Mmhm... pretty impatient today, aren't we?" he murmurs against your lips. But before you can answer, you hear a soft click and suddenly feel something cold against your sensitive bundle. The vibration that follows and floods your intimate parts makes you moan. Daemon chuckles softly as your head falls back and another whimper, ending in a moan, leaves your lips.

With a casual movement of his finger, he raises the vibration level as he starts to press harder against your clit, which is followed by another moan from you. Your eyes open and fall on Daemon. But your eyes don't meet – his gaze is fixed on your pussy. He watches closely as he starts to slide the vibrator between your folds. Your whimpers are answered with a growl as he starts to tease your entrance.

Slowly, he increases the pressure and slides the tip of the toy inside you. Again you moan and gasp, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your fingers dig into the sofa as Daemon starts to push the vibrator deeper into your wet pussy. Only the gentle whirring and your heavy breathing can be heard in the room as you feel the vibrations deep inside you, the slight pain making your pussy spasm.

"Daemon... gods... Daemon... too deep," you whimper, but he only chuckles slightly.

"I know what you can take... I just know it, little one," he murmurs and thrusts deeper, teasing your sensitive walls with the silicone. You cry out slightly and feel your entire abdomen vibrate as Daemon increases the vibration level again. The vibration reaches your clit as he changes the angle of the toy. It makes you moan and whimper at the same time.

Daemon leans down and kisses you, pushing his tongue almost brutally into your mouth as one hand spreads your legs wider and he pushes the vibrator deeper inside you. His movements become faster and with each thrust you feel his rough palm pressing against your folds and rubbing over your clit. Your whimpers fill the air and his teeth dig into your lower lip.

"Come for me..." he grunts as he notices your thighs start to tremble – but you can't answer. His hand slides from your thigh to your clit and a loud moan escapes you as you feel the pressure on your sensitive pearl while the vibrator disappears completely inside you again and again. He grunts as he watches everything closely and listens to the smacking sound your pussy makes as it is attacked by the toy.

But you can't hold it back any longer as you feel the tension building in your lower abdomen. You whimper and keep your eyes tightly closed. Your moans get louder and your fingers dig desperately into his forearm as you drop your head back onto the sofa. Daemon's chuckle fills the air as he notices you greedily trying to thrust your hips towards the toy.

"Fuck... Yes..." Daemon grunts and pushes it deeper into you. Loud moans literally shake the walls as your climax floods through you. You cry out and Daemon feels your pussy tighten around the toy, making it harder for him to penetrate you. But he thrusts it one last time, all the way into your tightness, watching your face closely as it contorts with desire and pain and a cry from you follows. He grunts again as your moans subside as the waves of heat slowly die.

Heavy breathing and your slight whimpering now fills the room. It seems as if your lips can't close properly as his hand slows down and lets you calm down. Your breathing is still heavy, but you look into his beautiful violet eyes and notice the slight smile on his lips as he slowly pulls the toy out of you.

You barely notice as he puts the toy aside to open his trousers and let out his obvious arousal. As it dawns on you what's about to happen, you bite your lip and look up at him. He now has his cock in his hand, his fingers grip it, moving up and down. The pumping of his hand is accompanied by his grunts as he watches you spread your legs again, almost of your own accord.

"Yeah... I know what you can take," he mumbles and kneels down on the sofa between your spread legs. Slowly, he leans forward and lets the tip of his cock slide through the juice of your last climax before he cups your lips with his again and starts to thrust into you. You whimper and moan into his mouth as your warm walls, now filled with his cock instead of silicone, begin to clench. His balls slap against your ass with every thrust as he continues to fuck you towards your next climax.

@hoshi-miharu-blog @arryn-nyx @aemonds-eyeball @praline357 @melsunshine @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @lauftivy @valeskafics @dreamlandcreations @hopelesswritergall @wetbitchlibrarychlibrary @bl4ckph0enix @autumnhymns @fan-goddess @msmorningstaarr @aemondsbabe

[catchingdaydreams]

Modern day Mithrun Headcannons

Just some random ideas and perspective on how a modern au Mithrun would act/live and what not .

He would have his apartment spotless and minimalist as hell. Like everyone is to accommodate for one person. He doesn't really invite friends over but when he does their often confused about how theres just one of everything. A single chair, only one bowel and glass that he just uses ect, ect.

OR his room is just full of piles of trash bags and instant noodle cups because he can't be bothered to clean that shit up. The room is also bathed in darkness, curtains drawn down with the only source of light is through his TV and microwave clock.

He hates summer and winter. He gets sunburnt too often cause he can't be bothered to put sunscreen on. He doesn't like to cover up as an alternative as he justs overheats himself. In the Winter he would rather spend it hibernating if he could. The alternative is just becoming a blanket burrito and wait it out. He wears a lot of warm clothing too, often comedically too much, looking like a penguin on the way he waddles. This man will always get sick in winter.

His favorite season is autumn as it's the only season where it's not going to inconvenience him by either giving him sunburn, colds or hay fever.

He use to job hops quite a lot. Mostly working as chef at a local noodle shop that's near his apartment. Nothing wrong with the way he cooked, he just lacked most social skills which his blank tone and expressions upset both customers and other staff. He was a little stubborn but is a stickler for workplace hygiene and safety and would definitely tell people off for not doing something up to code. Even to the boss (instant way for getting fired).

Now he works at a high-end/fancy restaurant (probs has a michelin star ) wheres his nack for nick picking made him well respected for being precise.

Though he will not tell anyone where he works at. The Canaries will try to pester him (some *coff* *coff* Fleki and Lycion *coff* have tired staking but failed). He likes his privacy.

On days off he likes to be active and go hiking in the woods. He sometimes volunteers with the local nature parks for general upkeep and search and rescue.

But he doesn't do this alone. He WILL get lost. Kabur is a good hiking partner and also does volunteering. The Canaries are generally the go to personnel with supervising him. But he's generally in charge of operations which they bestowed him the nickname 'caption' to him.

He WILL get mistaken as an old man (yes he is technically old but I'm mean on deaths bed old). His white hair causes kids to point and look. He gets annoyed when a teenager asks him if he needs help crossing the street (especially if he's waddling like a penguin in Winter clothing). One time he was so annoyed by a kid calling him a grandma that he took out his prosthetic eye to make the kid cry.

Probs gets mistaken as a woman at times as well. He does have a feminine look about him. I imagine him coming home from a late shift and he gets catcalled by some bums. All he has to do is reply back in his low manly voice and they shut up . The times that they don't, Mithrun doesn't mind getting his hands dirty. He will throw the bums beaten and bruised bodies in the dumpster, it's where they belong of course.

Mithrun isn't a social butterfly. He likes to go to bed early then party and have a few drinks with his friends. Even when he does gets invited he'll hardly drink anything. He use to alot in his youth but his body isn't the same anymore and would just black out after a few drinks.

[rupturedhaven]

“...When will she grow back?”

Colm looked down at him with concern all over his face. “What do you mean?”

Jesper looked at the ground beneath the cherry tree. “We’ve planted her now, so when will she grow back?”

“...Oh, Jesper.” Colm welled up again. He knelt down and took Jesper’s hands in his. “Your mother…she was a flower that can only grow once."

When We Collide Chapter 11: "Missed Beyond Measure" (COMING SOON!)

[temeyes]

when you're a ghostsoap stan, but have urges to self-ship with either of them

[saltyspecs]

I've been thinking some binggeyuan Thoughts.

So, people usually write any binggeyuan as after the bingge vs bingmei extra which is super valid and narratively makes a lot of sense, but I've been thinking about dropping a bingge from earlier in the PIDW timeline into Shen Yuan's world. I'm talking like. Reverse transmigration straight from the abyss.

He finds Xin Mo, his seal gets fully broken, but instead of getting out of the abyss to get his revenge plans started he gets yeeted into modern day China, nothing but the clothes on his back and a system to guide him through it. He's bitter but he's also been fighting tooth and nail to survive for *checks watch* five years. He's like. 3/4 black lotus. Xin Mo hasn't quite had the time to sink its claws in.

I really do just have the mental image of Shen Yuan picking him up from out of an alley cause he looks like he got mugged. like a dirty kitten.

[spockfallsinlove]

hear me out: pride and prejudice au with kirk and spock. i mean. I MEAN??? not only do they fit the character archetypes perfectly, throwing in a t'hy'la bond in there that Spock is too proud to realize is there before it's (almost) too late would be so angsty?? help i might actually write this thing

[the-shotce-newsletter]

Originally one of two doodles inspired by Gummichii’s fic Hypothermic Heartaches, I decided to make a bunny!Soap instead of Soap discovering Ghost’s ‘secret’ when I ran out of time.

Thank you @peachflavouredicetea for finding the fic for me!!