#serrate speaks

[talesofanundertalefictive]

Killer/Ink call it emetophilia

what a way to kick off our first post

Ink Sans by Comyet Killer Sans by rahafwabas

[nom-de-plume-system]

dunno where to scream this from the rooftops so guess what *slaps top of our tumblr blog*

i finally got my permaheat mostly fixed up and dealt with, though it's probably only momentary relief from time to time, this has been the first time since god damn teenhood I haven't been in this dreaded heat and! I didn't even have to kill an entire underground to get it!

[taksony-fr]

I’m like 90% sure I’ve seen this thing in a nightmare as a child

But also.

[peachesofteal]

Dead Disco / Chapter 13

Dead Disco masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 2.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ brief sexual content. This fic contains mature themes. Simon POV. Established throuple, relationship issues, fighting. Feelings of anxiety, despair. Crying. Johnny comes home

The holster is snug.

Simon pats it affectionately, swallowing roaring nausea, trying to stay limber on his feet.

He’s fine. He’s probably just at the gym, or the down the street. He’s a big boy, he can take care of himself, he's working himself up for nothing. 

He sends another text, just in case.

>Getting worried now. Where are you? 

It’s not like him, not responding. Not like him to vanish when he said he was staying in, not like him to not text with an update about where he’s going and how long he’ll be.

He knows Simon. Knows he he’ll get twisted up, get caught up in a vicious cycle of memory and fear, knows he’ll be worried.

Doesn’t he know? 

It’s not like him.

What if he’s hurt? What if someone snatched him, drugged him, loaded him into a box somewhere? What if someone is hurting him right now, and he’s scared, while all Simon is doing is pacing around in this godforsaken flat that’s too big for him to be comfortable in alone, what if he’s de-

A key clicks in the lock.

Simon is on his feet and in the hall before the door gets a chance to fully open.

He can hear his pulse, the hammer inside his skull, ticking away like a bomb, a new brand of fear: sickly and infectious, spreads from his heart, leeching into his body.

Johnny is crying.

“What’s wrong?” Simon keeps him at arm’s length for inspection, like he's looking him over in tac gear, triple checking his plates, his straps, his safety pieces. “Are you hurt? What’s happened?” Johnny doesn’t speak, raw, serrated breaths coming in and out too quickly, and Simon holds him steady, firm grip on his shoulders. “Johnny, love. Look at me.”

Control this. Contain it. Fix it. 

“I-m- I-“ The words are stilted, too thick, getting caught in Johnny’s throat, and Simon repeats himself, switching gears, shifting. His tone is stronger, unaffected. Battle tested.

“Are you hurt?” It straightens Johnny. Snaps him to attention, and he blinks, still the beautiful, sweet boy with tears in his eyes, looking up in Simon’s face, wracked with despair.

“No. No, ‘m, not hurt, Si. Not hurt.”

Not hurt. But not okay. 

He can save that for another moment. Another day if he has to. He’s okay. He came back. He’s here. 

Johnny’s eyes dive a deeper shade of blue when he cries. They become shards of stained glass, a sea blue that holds a million miles worth of passion, of feeling, of love.

Their mouths touch. Seeking, hesitant longing, desperately trying to connect, and Simon jerks away, cradling his face, holding him still.

It’s dread that fills Simon now. Dread and fear, snaking together to form a hydra that never sleeps, never dies. You cut off one head, another two emerge, and he cannot control them. Cannot tamp them down.

“What’s happened, love? What’s wrong?”

“Si, I… I made a mistake.” Simon closes his eyes.

“What did you do?” It’s not a question, it’s a demand.

Confess your sins and be forgiven. 

“I went to see her.”

It’s worse than what he was expecting. Far worse.

He splits in two.

“You what?” The words sound far less devastated than he feels. “You… what?”

“I went, I know I wasnae supposed to, but I had to see her.” Simon steps away. He releases his partner, the man he loves, and looks at him through the eyes of a stranger. “I havnae been sleepin’ I cannae eat, or focus, and I know ye’ve been havin’ an easier time-“

“Stop.” An easier time? Is he really that blind? “You think this has been easy for me?”

“N-no, I didnae mean-“

“You think I’m alright, when our girl…” He bites his tongue.

Control.

“I’m not having an easier time, Johnny.”

“I made a mistake.” He whispers to the floor, and sympathy, love, cracks Simon’s heart, just a little. He’s been having such a rough go, Simon knows. Struggling. Depressed. And nothing can fix it, not Simon or anything else in this world except… you.

He reaches, but Johnny steps out of his grasp, eyes wide.

“I… I made a mistake, Si.”

“I know, but it’s okay, we can-“

“We had sex.”

Everything changes. The floor disappears beneath his feet. His knees go weak, watery, and he steps away. A chainsaw tears through his diaphragm, blood and guts dropping to the floor.

“You what?” 

“I didnae plan to, it just… it just happened.” Simon closes his eyes. He struggles for air, a thousand pounds sat on his chest. “She was cryin’ and then we just… we lost control. I didnae even realize what was happening at first, and then she asked me to kiss her and I couldnae say no, Si. Ye know I… it just-“

“Stop.”

“She needed me, needs us, wanted to, and I-“

“STOP!” He shouts, and Johnny jerks back, eyes wide.

“Simon.” He reaches, but it’s too late. Simon is already stepping out of reach. An ocean of despair, sadness, rage tosses him in a turbulent wave, knocking him side to side, stealing his breath. Agony wails between his ears.

“Don’t touch me right now.” How could he do this? Betray you like this? When you’re vulnerable? 

He knows why. His next words are a poison barb, aimed straight at the heart of the man he loves.

“You’re weak.”

“Si.” Johnny’s voice cracks, face soaked with tears. He calls his name again and again, but Simon hears nothing, broken vibrato bouncing off his back as he turns away, locking himself in the bedroom.

“So, you want to do this. For real.” You’re so skeptical. Still. A battle never won but fought every day. You chew on your lip, hesitance heavy in your eyes. “With me.” 

“Aye, darling. With ye.” Johnny sucks a mark into your neck, hands roaming across your chest. You wriggle between them, uneasily laughing, huffing and pushing at him, still overstimulated and coming down from too many orgasms to count. They pushed you to the limit tonight, twisted you between them and bent you under their bodies, filled you at the same time. He can still feel the clench of your cunt around his cock, your warmth engulfing him, setting him aflame. “Is it so hard to believe?” 

“Yes.” Your answer is immediate, and Johnny rolls his eyes. You glance at Simon. 

He wants to rip away all your layers. Burrow between your heart and ribs. Remake you in an image of love, help you feel confident in their affection, their near obsession with you. 

“We know it will take time.” He murmurs, stroking a hand across the back of your neck when you push up onto your elbows. “We know this is a lot, and it won’t be easy, but we can make it work. If you give us a chance.” Tears line your lashes. You try to look away, but he holds you steady, refusing to let you hide.

“I’m scared.” You whisper. 

“I know.”

He thinks about calling you. What’s a phone call, in the face of such a boundary broken already? He wonders for a moment, if you’re okay, before his stomach tightens, realizing that Johnny left you there, alone.

Did you tell him to leave? Did he run home afterwards, worried? Did he hold you, make sure you’re okay, kiss you and tell you how much they love you?

He aches for violence. Wants to destroy this room, it’s walls, this place they tried to build around you.

The bed is too big now. The flat is empty. He feels the hollowness left in your wake everywhere, in the bathroom, missing your shampoo and toothbrush, the closet, lacking most of your clothes. The comforter has been replaced with a tired bedsheet and a blanket from the couch, a quarter of the pillows that are usually piled in the middle, missing.

It’s not his home. Not without you.

He eyes his phone.

He shouldn’t. 

Why is he being punished, for doing the right thing? For listening to you, when you begged them to understand this is what you needed. Why is he the one in hell, when Johnny gets to drink his fill? 

He doesn’t understand. How could he have gotten this so wrong? 

Is this what you wanted all along? For them to come, pluck you from your escape back into their arms? 

He looks at his phone again. The black screen taunts him, begs him, tells him it’s alright. It will be okay if he does it. If he breaks.

What kind of man is he, if he can’t respect what you need? 

Johnny knocks on the door.

“Ye cannae shut me out.” It’s reminiscent of not too long ago, when Simon was on the other side of a different door, begging to see your face, dying to hear your voice.

“Johnny.” He croaks. His own cheeks are wet now, tears dripping down his jaw to his shirt.

“Simon, please.”

“I can’t see you right now.”

“I cannae let ye-“

“If you love me,” He raises his voice, not quite a shout, but something awful instead, a low pitch of anger. “You’ll leave me alone.” He can’t even look at him right now, can’t understand why he did this. Why he acted so callously, so selfishly. Simon hates himself, for thinking it, for allowing this anger to fester but he can’t feel anything else when he thinks about his sweet boy on the other side of that door, crying out for him. He’s so angry. He reaches for his phone. The impulse is too strong, the pain and want and the fear of not knowing if you’re okay eating away at him until he’s tapping your contact open.

The phone rings three times. On the fourth, the line clicks open, and he holds his breath.

“Simon?” You’re crying. It’s in your voice, thick with it, trembling across the connection with an intensity that could crack the earth.

“Darling.”

“It’s not ideal-“ 

“Not ideal? It’s… it’s about to be Christmas.” You take a ragged breath, and Simon’s heart aches. “You just got home.” 

“Ah know love, but we cannae control when we’re needed. Ye know this.” 

“We’ll try to be home before Christmas.” He has to stem this bleeding somehow, patch this wound. He wants to take you in his arms, bury his face in your hair and promise you a million things he knows he can’t. 

“It’s fine.” It’s not. And neither are you. But you’re shoving it away, pushing it down where it will stay buried, building and building inside you like a storm, a wild thing that will drive you to the brink. 

“Darling.” He tries to grab you, hold onto you, make you stay near him, where he can hold you, where he can try to fix it. 

It’s not fair. None of it is. And never will be. Not for you. 

“I’m fine.” 

“We don’t want to be away from you, you know that.” You focus on the dishwasher, but your hands tremble, small tremors that signify an earthquake on the horizon. 

“I know. It’s fine.” 

“Darling.” You ignore him, focusing on the silverware draw, tugging on the handle. “Darling, please.” 

Johnny flinches when it crashes to the floor. There’s agony in your face, pain and disappointment, and he hates himself for it, hates this job, hates this life they brought you into. 

You break with a sob. 

“Fuck! Fff-fuck. I’m so-sorry.” You try to turn away, to run, but he meets you, pulling you into his chest, reaching for the back of your neck with a steady hand. You’re crying so hard he’s worried you can’t breathe. 

“It’s alright. You’re alright. We’re here.” For now. We’re here for now. He can’t give you much more, even though he’d give you both the world. You and Johnny, tucked away in secret, forever his. To hold. To love. “It’s okay, darling.” You cry and cry, sobs shaking your shoulders. 

It’s not going to end on its own. And why should it? They’re the ones who do this to you. They are the ones who have to fix it. 

Control it. 

“Bedroom lights.” He directs Johnny with a glance. 

“Rog.”

“The mess.” You whimper, and he shakes his head, still holding you firmly.

“We’ll clean it up later, darling. Let’s take care of you first.”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m calling.” He’s spiraling. Unmoored. Uncontrolled.

“It’s… it’s okay.” You stifle a sob, and he wants to rip his hair from his roots.

“Are you okay? That’s all…” He pulls away from the phone to take a short breath, trying to breathe through his nose. “That’s all I needed to know, if you’re okay.”

“I’m…” You go quiet, and he doesn’t push. Doesn’t want to. He goes at your pace, letting you control everything now, just as he has been for this last month. “I’m not okay.”

His heart freezes in his chest.

“Did you call your therapist?”

“No.” You cry, and he pinches his brow.

“What do you need?” The pattern on the carpet is a dizzying spiral, swirls of brown and tan spinning around him, drawing him down until he’s sitting with his back against the bed. When you don’t speak, he tries, just a little, to pull it from you. “Tell me darling.”

Y-you. I need… you.”

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Summary: Eddie's past in Chicago is revealed after he reaches his breaking point, but he's not the only one facing a crisis.

Warnings: mentions of drug use/addiction, neonatal medical trauma, panic attack, mentions of learning disability, brief allusion to Kurt Cobain's death, Reader's grandma has dementia.

WC: 7.2k

Chapter 7/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @vexed-n-hexed Divider credit to @saradika

Eddie was no stranger to bad report cards, failing grades, and dissatisfied teachers. You don’t fail twelfth grade twice without dealing with all three of those. He’d learned to shrug it off and move along with his day, mostly unfazed.

Those same things directed towards his son was a different story.

Ms. Marion’s words rattle around in his brain, wrapping around his lungs and choking him from the inside out.

Constantly interrupting 

His heartbeat pulses in his ears, drowning out the background noise of other parents chatting as they wait their turn to meet with the teachers.

Incapable of paying attention and following directions

A bead of sweat trickles down the back of his neck to his spine, then another, until he feels his t-shirt sticking to his skin. Despite the stifling heat building up in his body, his teeth chatter together noisily as a deep shiver rips through him.

Socially and academically behind his peers

He knew this day might come; he should’ve been prepared for it to happen. Has he only been fooling himself, pretending like everything was going to be fine?

At this rate, he won’t be ready for kindergarten

Eddie swears he’s walking to the parking lot, one foot in front of the other, keys clenched in his right hand until he feels their serrated edges digging into the calloused skin of his palm. Yet he finds himself at your classroom door jamb, leaning up against it with a soft thud.

You’re struggling to stay awake after the long day you’ve had. You roll your shoulders, wincing as you hear the small pop. You’ve just finished the last conference with Frankie’s mom, Carol, and she was a bitch and a half. She’d insisted that her son was gifted and demanded that you recommend he start kindergarten early.

A noise draws your attention to the door, and you’re suddenly wide awake when you see who’s there.

“What’re you doing–hey, what’s going on?” Your curiosity morphs into concern when you clock Eddie’s ragged breathing and tear-streaked face. He’s repeating something, but his voice is so low that the words resemble a hum, and you can’t catch them until you get closer to him. 

“Harris–falling behind–all my fault.” Eddie speaks as though he’s in a trance. His brown eyes are saucers, and more tears fall with each blink of his eyelids. “Falling behind–all my fault.”

You haven’t the slightest idea what he’s referring to, but you do know that you need to get him inside the classroom before anyone else sees him breaking down. You reach for his wrist, and he instinctively flinches and pulls away before seemingly snapping back to reality and resting his hand in yours. One calloused palm trembles in your smooth one as you lead him to the table where you’d just been speaking with Carol Perkins, only letting go to steady himself into the chair.

“Falling behind–all my fault.”

You take both of his hands this time, and he doesn’t draw back when you do. “Eyes on me, okay? We’re gonna breathe together.” It’s the same technique that you’d used with Harris on Halloween. In for three, out for three. Eddie watches you a few times before joining in, breath hitching slightly before evening out. “There ya go…here, let me get you something to eat.” You offer him a small, kind smile that he doesn’t reciprocate before rummaging through the bottom drawer of your desk and pulling out a little bag of mini pretzels and a half-pint of water. “These good?”

He manages a nod, eyes locked onto you even as he twists open the snack and absentmindedly pops one in his mouth. He’s still in a daze, but no longer at risk of hyperventilating. “Can you tell me what’s going on?” you cautiously ask, not wanting to trigger another panic attack.

A solid ten seconds passes before he answers. When he finally does, the hoarseness in his voice startles you. “Could you, um, close the door?” 

“Of course.” The wheels of your swivel chair skid against the tile floor, but Eddie’s too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice. When you return to your seat, he doesn’t even register your presence until you say, “whenever you’re ready.”

“I, um,” he clears his throat. “I just had the parent-teacher conference thing with Ms. Marion. And, apparently, Harris is destined for failure, just like his old man.”

He relays everything the old woman told him; the racing thoughts all spill out like bees fleeing their hive. 

“She starts off by saying that he’s already behind the other kids, which may not seem like a big deal now, but, apparently, it means he’ll fall farther behind as he grows up.” He gnaws on his lower lip and continues. “And then she said that him interrupting and not paying attention is because he ‘lacks structure at home,’” he adds with a grimace. 

“But y’know what really fuckin’ got me?” he asks, rubbing his hands over his jean-clad knees until his palms are tinged red. “She said to me, ‘Some kids aren’t cut out for school, and if Harris is struggling with preschool, it’ll be a long road ahead of him.” Eddie’s eyes are shiny with the prospect of a fresh batch of tears. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”

You try to quell your temper for the sake of professionalism, but your boiling blood makes it almost impossible. “None of that is true. Harris having trouble doesn’t make him impossible to teach. And it doesn’t make you a bad parent.”

Eddie can’t manage eye contact when he says, “But what if I’m the reason why he’s having trouble?” His voice is so small that you can barely hear it.

“I’ve taught a lot of kids with a lot of different needs, and none of them–”

“You’re not listening!” Eddie slams his fist on the desk, rattling your jar of pencils, and you reach out to steady it. His eyes blaze with fury, but this time, it’s not towards you. “It is my fault, because I am a bad parent! I let this happen!”

You crease your brows. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” What, exactly, is his fault? What could he possibly have done?

Eddie shakes his head despondently. “I-I didn’t know…Harris’s mom, she…Christ, it’s a long story.” But you can practically see the words on the tip of his tongue, just waiting for permission to be spoken.

So you give it to him.

“You can talk to me,” you murmur, resisting the urge to grab his hand and lace your fingers through his. Just to comfort him, you tell yourself. “You can trust me.”

Eddie lets out a slow, low breath and looks up at the ceiling. There’s a long silence; for a moment, you worry that you’ve said something wrong. Overstepped your bounds. Harris technically isn’t your student anymore, and God only knows where you and Eddie stand. 

Finally, Eddie begins to speak. “I met her out in Chicago when I was twenty-four? Twenty-five? She was a groupie, I guess. We never said we were seeing each other exclusively, but after a while, I realized that she was the only person I was sleeping with, so…” He shrugs. “A couple nights before my band and I left for tour, she told me she was pregnant. Too far along to, um, do anything about it. She apparently didn’t even think to test until she complained about gaining some weight and her friend brought it up.” His gaze shifts to the window over his right shoulder, and all you hear is the sound of his sneakered feet nervously tapping a fast rhythm against the tiled floor. “Look, I’m not proud of this, but I used to party. A lot. And at these parties, there were, um…”

“Drugs?” you supply before you can bite back the comment, clenching your fists at your side where he can’t see you chastising yourself.

Eddie just laughs, a throaty chuckle that escapes despite the seriousness of the conversation. “A shit-ton of ‘em. I was partial to coke; helped me stay awake when I wanted to crash. But I swear, I only used when I was partying. And when I found out I had a kid on the way, I stopped using completely. Cleanest tour of my life.” His lips turn up in a semblance of a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Figured she’d do the same…she said she would, but…”

Your heart sinks; you know exactly where this is going, but you don’t dare interrupt him this time.

“I was at some dive bar in Cincinnati when I got the call that she was in labor; ran right off the stage and caught the first flight back home. I got there in time to watch him be born; and it was the best goddamn moment of my stupid life, until…” His voice breaks on the last word, and he can’t stop the tears from leaking out of his eyes. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. “He was six weeks early. Fuck, I shoulda known, but I was just so excited to be a dad. He was shaking so hard that his tiny little body was practically blurry, and, like a total moron, I’m going, ‘Is he cold? Does he need a blanket?’ No one would answer me; they just fuckin’ whisked him away before I could even hold him. And when they brought him back, they told me that he tested positive for cocaine and had something called Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome because of it. Said it can affect his learning, his attention span, everything. Kid wasn’t even two hours old and I’d already fucked him up.”

Your response seems meek; far too pathetic for the intensity of what he’s just admitted. “But it was his mom…”

He tucks his lips into his mouth, pressing them together until the outer edges turn white. 

“Yeah, she was the one using,” he relents, but his tone is so thick with self-loathing that you couldn’t claw through it if you tried. “But where the fuck was I? On the road, thinking I could be a rockstar and take care of a family. If I had stayed back, I could’ve stopped her. I would’ve seen that she wasn’t just doing it at parties or shows; she was an addict. I could’ve gotten her help; I could’ve saved my son from being born a goddamn coke addict!”

“You can’t make someone stop doing drugs,” you say feebly, though you’re certain he already knows this.

“But I could’ve done something! Fucking anything! And it would’ve been better than not being there.”

You have to choose your next words wisely, mulling them on your tongue before talking. “Is she still involved in Harris’s life?” 

He shakes his head forlornly. “I invited her to his first birthday party, and she came, surprisingly. All the way from Chicago. I thought maybe she was getting her life together. Then, right before we were gonna cut the cake, she came out of the bathroom with white residue under her nose. I told her to leave and not to come back until she got clean.” He barks out a gruff laugh, as though he still can’t believe it. “Haven’t heard from her since.”

You don’t know how to respond to this. It’s going to be okay seems too patronizing, because nothing about this is okay. I’m sorry? What are you sorry for? Harris’s mom is an atrocious excuse for a human being, and so is Ms. Marion? Kind of tips the balance towards the unprofessionalism you’re striving to avoid.

Eddie continues, not noticing your failure to respond. “The doctors would tell me that he was developing slower than he should be–walking and talking and stuff–but he always got there eventually. But hearing his teacher say that he wouldn’t…fuck, if that’s true, I’ll never forgive myself.” He puffs out his cheeks as he exhales; tendrils of hair flow upwards and flutter back down with the exaggerated breath, and you realize that he’s trying to ward off another crying spell.

You can’t remove the guilt that eats him alive, but maybe he’s not asking you to. “I’ve never met a more determined little kid than Harris Munson,” you say truthfully. “Name one time that boy gave up.”

“For better or for worse, I can’t think of any.” His eyes still don’t meet yours, but you see a flicker of happiness at the mention of Harris’s perseverance before his expression darkens again. “Call me stupid; that’s fine. But my son is gonna be better than I ever was.”

Your heart pangs with sympathy when he puts himself down. “You’re not stupid.” He bristles at your reassurance, puzzling you even more. “What?”

Eddie runs his tongue over his teeth. “That’s not what you said before.” The comment isn’t accusatory, just a simple fact, as though he’s talking about the weather. “On the first day of school, you told me to leave before I said anything else ‘ridiculously stupid.’”

“I just–”

“Look, I’m not saying the Cat-and-Mouse is the nicest thing to do,” he interrupts, cheeks aflame at the mere mention of it, “but I guess it really fucked with me for someone I…someone I just met…to call me stupid.” The phrasing is clunky and awkward, and he sinks his teeth into the tip of his tongue in a paltry attempt to stop the word flow.

You take in his shameful expression, mulling over a response. Knowing what you know now–that his little game was a poorly-designed coping mechanism after being put through the wringer–your comment was harsher than he deserved. “I was hurt, and I…I should’ve just said so. I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Just an asshole?” He tilts his head, finally looking at you. The corners of his mouth turn up to form his first smile of the evening.

“Just an asshole,” you confirm playfully. Another silence fills the room, only interrupted by Eddie crunching on the pretzels you gave him. He’s nibbling on them from the outside, as though savoring each bite. “Mr. Munson?”

“Eddie,” he says, crinkling the empty pretzel bag in his fist and tossing it into the nearby waste bin. “Please, just call me Eddie.” Mr. Munson awakens memories of his father; specifically, the way the cops addressed him each time he got arrested for various offenses.

“Eddie.” Though you’d called him that on the night that you two had fooled around, the name feels foreign in your mouth. Too casual for what you’re about to propose. “Eddie, um, back to the stuff with Harris…” You swallow your nerves and push through, knowing that you need to do what’s best for Harris, even if you have to face his dad’s wrath. “If I suggest something, promise you won’t get mad.”

Eddie flinches, but not for the reason you think. No, it’s because he hates that you’re fearful of his reaction. He hates that he’s made you afraid of him. “Fuck. I mean, yeah. I promise.”

“What…what if we talked to the school psychologist about getting him evaluated for a learning disability?” The words tumble out, and you worry that whatever semblance of acquaintanceship will shatter, leaving you unable to pick up all of the pieces. And even if you can, even the best adhesive can leave visible fractures.  

His jaw clenches; his shoulders draw up and biceps flex with a twitch, fight or flight instinct kicking in. This was a horrible idea; he’s already emotional from the conference with Ms. Marion, and now you’ve crossed a line. You’re so caught up in deciphering his body language that you don’t catch his softening eyes as he silently reminds himself that you’re on his side. On Harris’s side, at the very least.

“What does that involve?” he asks. It’s inquisitive, not judgmental, and you permit yourself a small sigh of relief at the narrowly-averted crisis.

You explain the process as Eddie intently listens, nodding to acknowledge that he’s following along. “Nothing invasive; just asking him questions and giving him some tests, and then if he does have a learning disability, we’d figure out what modifications we can make so he can learn alongside the other kids.”

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, considering your recommendation. “Will they know? The other kids, I mean. Will they know that he needs, like, extra help to learn?” 

“Nope.” You shake your head. “I don’t know how Ms. Marion runs her classroom, but I always emphasize that everyone learns differently anyway.”

He nods, drumming his fingertips on the desk in a rhythm you can’t decipher. “Do you think…if we do the evaluation, would he go to kindergarten on time?”

“Well, as a teacher, I’m not supposed to say. But as a friend,” you shrug, “I think it’s worth a shot.”

As a friend. A friend. Friend. The word reverberates around Eddie’s brain, replaying like a melody he can’t pause. But he doesn’t want to stop it. He wants you to call him your friend over and over again, enveloping him in your kindness, never letting him go. He wants to wrap his arms around you in a hug and bury his face in the crook of your neck, while he laughs or sobs or a combination of both.

Do friends do that? Or is that something more complex than he can allow himself to imagine?

Your voice brings his perseverations to a grinding halt. “And you can be there while they evaluate him. So he won’t have to be alone.”

Another nod, another pregnant pause. He twists his curls around his pointer finger, brushing them over his lips. “Could you come, too?” he murmurs, quickly clarifying, “for Harris?”

“Of course.” You agree without a second thought, watching as his body unstiffens when he leans back in the chair with a sigh. “And if you want, I could tutor him after school once a week. Catch him up and stuff.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide. “You’d do that?”

“Mhm,” you beam. It’s like cracking a complex code after aimlessly spinning the dial, hoping to land on the right combination of numbers. “Just…it would have to be at my place, so I can stay home with Grandma. Medicare only pays for her aide to be there for a certain number of hours. I’m actually paying out of pocket so I could be here tonight.” While you’d initially been annoyed at having to spend your hard-earned money just to talk to ungrateful parents, this time with Eddie has made it worth every penny. 

“Yeah, no problem,” he easily agrees, starting to stand and brushing some rogue pretzel crumbs from his jeans. “Oh, um, how much do you charge? For the tutoring?”

At this, you giggle. “Eddie, you’re not paying me to work with my,” you lower your voice mid-protest, even though the door is closed and no one else is around, “favorite student.”

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest defiantly, denim jacket creasing at the elbows. “Well, I’m not gonna let you work for free, so name your price.”

“Fine,” you huff, feigning annoyance. “It’ll cost one…pizza.”

“Seriously?” Eddie asks, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Seriously,” you confirm, walking to the supply closet and grabbing your coat. The inside of the sleeves are chilly, having not been exposed to the heat churning through the classroom, and the temperature shift makes you shiver. “Saves me from having to worry about making dinner. And Grandma loves pizza, so it’s one less thing for her to argue about.” 

The arguments in question were still happening frequently, though her verbiage was decreasing with each subsequent spat. Last night, you’d told her that she had to turn her TV down so you could sleep. Grandma had repeatedly yelled “no” and “hate you” until you gave up and smushed one half of your pillow over your exposed ear in a pathetic attempt to muffle the sounds of the infomercials blasting from her room. 

“I can do that,” he agrees, following you towards the door and stepping out of the way so you can flick off the light, plunging the classroom into total darkness. “Any toppings?”

You think for a moment, tapping your forefinger to your chin as your other hand rotates the key in the door until you hear the soft click of the lock. You twist the knob just to make sure, only turning from the door once you’ve confirmed that it doesn’t open. “Ooh, we both love olives. Get those.”

Eddie scrunches his nose in disgust. “I’ll do half olives, half plain, so Harris and I won’t have to suffer.”

You stop in your tracks. Eddie’s chest bumps against your back. “Oh, I…” 

“Shit, that wasn’t an invitation, was it?” He’s blushing, cheeks turning a deep crimson at his gaffe. “Sorry, totally misread–”

“No, no, I’d like the company.” You’ve come to appreciate how much easier it is to navigate Grandma’s moods when there are other people around, but you can’t ask someone to endure that just for your comfort. “‘S just that my grandma…well, you saw her at the hospital that night. She says things that are mean, or inappropriate, or don’t make sense…I don’t want Harris to hear that.”

Eddie just laughs, waving off your concern of Harris. “He grew up around me and Wayne. He’ll probably be teaching her some bad words.” 

“Oh, God,” you shudder at the thought of Harris and Grandma swapping swear words. “Then, yeah, I’d love to have you over for dinner. Are Wednesdays at four okay? We can start tomorrow, if that works.”

“Perfect!” Eddie chirps, tossing his car keys upwards and dramatically snatching them mid-air. “I teach guitar lessons, so Wayne’ll drop him off. I’ll swing by around five with the olive pizza.” His pronunciation of the topping is obnoxiously whiny and snide, and you roll your eyes, pushing open the main doors to the school while he trails behind you. 

You’re normally not at work this late, and it feels almost unnatural to walk out to a night sky. Clouds obscure the stars, and the dim streetlights do little to pave a discernible path. Eddie seems to be walking in the same direction, and there’s a sense of comfort knowing that you don’t have to navigate the parking lot alone. 

The volume of Eddie’s voice lowers considerably as he says, “You’re…you’re kinda the best, y’know that?”

“About time you realized.” You smile as the two of you approach your car. You slide into the driver’s seat, tugging the seatbelt over your shoulder. “Where did you park?”

“Um…” Eddie squints, pointing to a spot clear across the lot. “Right there.”

Your jaw drops. “Eddie!”

“What?”

“Why’d you walk all this way, then?” Your keys sit in the ignition, waiting to be turned over.

“And leave you to trek across this vast terrain all by your lonesome?” He presses his hand to his heart, staggering backwards until he bumps into another parked car. “Ow, shit. So, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yup.” And as he closes your car door with a small wave, it occurs to you that you’re actually looking forward to seeing Eddie Munson.

Elise wasn’t exaggerating when she’d warned you that Grandma was in a mood today. In addition to the usual song and dance to the tune of “those pills aren’t mine,” she’s insisted on changing her clothes no less than four times in the hour since you’ve been home, grumbling that every outfit doesn’t look right. As you wipe down the kitchen counter, sweeping crumbs from your after-work snack into the garbage bin, you hear banging against the living room wall. Never a good sign.

“Grandma?” you call out as you abandon your chore and start towards her. She’s struggling to hold onto the large painting of a sailboat that should be mounted on the wall. You get to her side just before she can topple over, grabbing the artwork from her grasp. “What are you doing? Why did you take this down?”

She looks at it–and you–with utter disgust. “S’ugly,” she mumbles.

There’s no sense in telling her that it was her favorite or that she picked it out herself years ago. Instead, you heave a frustrated sigh. “Okay, well, we’ll just leave it here,” you say, carefully leaning the cherry-lacquered frame against the wall.

“No!” She shakes her head, tousled gray hair brushing against the wrinkles etched into her cheeks. “No, no!” Anger creeps into her voice, and tears appear along her lash line. Truth be told, your tears are not too far behind.

“Look, I’ll just…turn it around. See?” You swivel the painting so it faces the wall; all that’s visible now is the sad beige frame backing. It’s hard to believe that she finds this view more appealing than the soft watercolor brushstrokes of blues and greens, but you leave it as is, until she inevitably demands to know why it’s no longer hanging up.

The harsh buzz of the intercom brings your quasi-argument to an abrupt end. You can hear some shuffling, and then an older man’s raspy voice instructs, “say who you are so she knows you’re here.”

“HARRIS!” The little boy exclaims loudly. “Oh, and my Grampa Wayne!”

The sound of his voice alone is enough to bring a smile to your face. You press the button that lets them into the building, quickly ushering Grandma into her room and putting on the Animal Planet. A rerun of Wildlife SOS blares through the TV, and you can only hope that Harris won’t be too distracted by the noise. It certainly beats being the recipient of one of her incoherent rants.

The frantic knock on the door ushers away your anxious thoughts. “Ms. Sweetheart, I’m here!”

“Relax, buddy,” the older man–Wayne–gently reminds him. 

You open the door, grinning as Harris barrels into the apartment. His little arms wrap around your waist as he envelops you in a tight hug. “Ms. Sweetheart! I’m at your house!”

“You are,” you agree with a laugh, patting his back with your palm before offering your hand to his grandfather. “And you must be Grampa Wayne.” 

The older man chuckles as he shakes your hand in his own calloused one. The whiskers above his lips and on his chin are white, flecks of gray stubble peppered along his jawline. “‘S nice to put a face to the name. All I hear about lately is how wonderful Ms. Sweetheart is.” He bashfully scratches at the wisps of hair that lay flat along the crown of his head.

Taking compliments is not your strongest suit, but you manage. “Trust me, I’ve heard some great things about Grampa Wayne, too. I’m just glad Harris loves being my student as much as I love teaching him.” 

“Huh?” Wayne’s forehead crinkles in confusion before he catches himself. “Oh, yeah, Harris. Right.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, Ed’ll be here at five.”

“He’s bringing PIZZA!” Harris shouts, unable to contain his excitement as he pumps a tiny fist in the air.

Wayne shakes his head, as if to say, this kid. “C’mere, Har. Give me a hug goodbye.” Harris all but leaps into his grandpa’s arms, spider-monkeying his legs around his waist. Emotion wells within you as the gesture reminds you of the easy way love used to flow between you and Grandma. No questions or doubts about who you were or how she would perceive you in that moment. 

As soon as Wayne leaves, Harris tugs on the hem of your shirt, peering up at you with a gigantic grin. “Daddy telled me that you’re gonna teach me again! But not at school.”

“Mhm!” you say, guiding him over to the kitchen table. You’ve cleared a spot for the two of you to work. There’s a stack of flashcards in front of your chair, and Harris eyes them curiously. “Those are gonna help you learn letter names and sounds. You’ll be reading like a pro in no time.”

He eagerly nods, flinging one little leg onto the chair and climbing onto it haphazardly. He’s facing the back of the chair with his knees tucked underneath him, and he shifts until he’s sitting on his bottom, eye-level with the tabletop. “I can’t see anything!” he harrumphs grumpily.

“Here, you can face me,” you tell him, holding the chair steady as he swivels around again. “There ya go. This works out better anyway.” You tap the deck of cards on the table, watching as Harris kicks his feet in anticipation. “We’re gonna play a game with these,” you say, keeping your tone full of excitement. “I’ll hold up a letter, and you tell me what the letter’s name is and the sound it makes. And if it’s a little tricky, there’s a picture on the back that might help you out. Sounds good?”

Harris considers this, tongue poking out between his lips, and you can’t help but notice the way he mimics Eddie’s actions. “Can I see the picture even if it isn’t tricky?” he asks.

“Absolutely.” You shuffle the deck, making a dramatic show of closing your eyes and folding the cards into a bridge. “Let me give you an example.” You grab the card off of the top, the letter R printed in bold, black lettering. “This is the letter R. It makes the rrrr sound.” 

“What’s the picture?” Harris squeals, clapping his hands together, the sound muffled by the cast on his wrist. When you flip the card around to reveal a cartoon robot, he cackles like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “He has triangles for eyes! That is so silly!”

“That is silly,” you agree with a laugh, putting the card at the back of the deck and holding up the next one for him. “Okay, now it’s your turn. Remember, just do your best. This is just so I can see what we need to work on.”

He nods, sitting up straight as he reads the letter F. 

“Nice job, Har! And what sound does F make?” This is more difficult for him, and he squints as though it will help him remember.

“Umm, eh?” He knows it’s not correct, and you watch as his shoulders begin to slump dejectedly. “I…I don’t know.” His lower lip juts out, quivering as he admits it.

You keep your tone light and breezy. “No worries! We can always look at the picture, and if it’s still tricky, we can figure it out together.” You show him the french fries on the back of the card.

“French fries!” Harris exclaims giddily.

“And what sound does french fries start with?” You enunciate the start of the words, but he still can’t seem to get the pronunciation. His breath hitches with frustration, chubby fingers digging into his tousled curls to pull at them. “You can ask me for help if you need to. That’s what I’m here for!”

His tiny “need help” is almost inaudible, head drooping towards his chest in defeat. “Everyone needs help sometimes,” you say kindly, pointing to the flashcard to draw his attention back to it. “F makes the ffff sound. Go ahead, try it.”

Harris emulates you, bits of spittle flying as he makes the noise over and over again. “This is fun!” he cheers, eyes widening when he comes to a realization. “Hey, fun starts with the fffff sound, too!”

“Sure does!” You raise your hand for a high-five, shaking it in mock-agony when he slaps it. “Wow, Har, you’re super strong! Okay, let’s try the next one.”

With a few breaks to release some energy, Harris continues stumbling through the rest of the alphabet unceremoniously. He’s definitely behind, you realize, but not so badly that he’s unable to catch up with some extra help.

“Only a couple more to go,” you assure him, presenting the card with the letter P.

“P!” he yells, a grin spreading from ear to ear across his sweet face. “An’ it makes the puh sound!” He reaches out and plucks the flashcard from between your fingers, turning it to see the picture on the back. “It’s a princess.” His eyes flit between you and the pink poofy dress-clad cartoon. “Me an’ Daddy think you’re pretty like a princess.”

There’s no time to ask for further clarification before a loud bang erupts from Grandma’s bedroom. You swear silently, somehow still aware of the four-year-old beside you as you dash to her door. Instinctually, you grab the knob and twist, only to be met with resistance. 

“Grandma!” you call out, pounding your fist as loudly as you can. “Grandma, open the door!” You hear the soft, slow pad of her footsteps, watching as the door knob turns slightly before it stops. 

“‘S broke,” Grandma says from her side, and relief temporarily floods your senses with the knowledge that she’s unscathed enough to get to the door. 

“No, it’s just locked. I need you to unlock it.” Another brief twitch, then nothing. “You…you have to turn the little dial on it. See how it’s horizontal—um, left to right? It needs to go up and down. Can you switch it?” Jiggle jiggle, silence. No attempt to toggle the dial. 

“Ms. Sweetheart? ‘S everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, honey,” you lie through your teeth. “Why don’t you go look at the pictures on the—”

BZZZT!

“Pizza delivery!” Eddie croons through the intercom. “One half plain, half gross—sorry, half olive—”

“Eddie!” you press your finger to the button, cutting him off more sharply than you mean to. “Eddie, my grandma locked herself in her room, and she can’t remember how to open it.” Your voice catches in your throat, and you swallow the lump in a determined attempt not to break down in front of your guests. 

There’s a pause before his voice floats through the box again. “Gimme a sec.” That’s all he says before he’s gone as quickly as he arrived, and you turn to face the inquisitive little boy who remains glued to your side. 

“Har, why don’t you go sit at the table until Daddy comes.” Thankfully, he doesn’t put up a fight, and you’re able to turn your attention back to the crisis. “Grandma, can you please turn the dial?” But when you’re met with another disheartening turn of the doorknob, you have to accept defeat.

BZZZT!

“It’s me; let me up,” Eddie’s words are straightforward but not brusque or curt, and you buzz him in without wasting any time. He’s at your door in a hurry, and you open it before he can knock twice. He’s got the pizza box balancing in his right hand and a small rectangular container tucked under his arm. “Is she hurt?” he asks, handing you the box as you lead him towards Grandma’s room.

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. She’s been twisting the doorknob, but she doesn’t understand what I mean when I asked her to unlock it.”

He nods, examining the knob for a second before unfastening the box’s latch and pulling out a tool that resembles a miniature hook. Splitting his stance, he squints and pokes his tongue from his mouth, just as his son had done earlier. Within seconds, you hear the telltale click of the door unlocking, and you exhale audibly. Relief floods your body as your shoulders untense; you hadn’t even realized you’d pinched them together. Behind Grandma, the TV has toppled to the floor, screen now resting on top of the beige carpet, but that’s the least of your concerns.

“Are you all right?” you ask her, checking for scrapes and scratches, but she luckily appears to have escaped unscathed. “How did this even fall?” You pick up the TV, wincing as you get a glimpse of the spider web of cracked glass right in the center.

“Dunno,” Grandma shrugs, moving past you to get to the piping hot pizza that you’ve placed on the kitchen table. She slides into the chair you’d just been sitting on, pushing the pile of flashcards away clumsily. “‘M hungry.”

You look at Eddie and Harris and muster up a smile. “Guess it’s dinner time! Oh, Grandma, wait for a plate.” You grab four of the plastic pale blue plates from the cabinet to set the table, giving one to Grandma first. You place one at the spot Harris had just occupied, and one in front of the third and final chair–

“Shit,” you whisper under your breath before addressing the boys again. “Um, we only have three chairs. ‘S normally just me and Grandma, and sometimes her aide–”

“No worries,” Eddie waves off your concern, scooping Harris up and resting him against his hip. “Harris can sit on my lap.”

“Or I can sit on Ms. Sweetheart’s lap!” Harris squeals, wriggling out of his dad’s grasp. “Or Ms. Sweetheart can sit on your lap!”

You cough as Eddie turns bright red, cheeks the same shade as the marinara sauce buried under a thick layer of cheese. He sweeps Harris on top of his thighs and snags a slice of pizza for each of them. “Uh, yeah, no,” he mumbles, taking a gigantic cheesy bite in an attempt to end the conversation.

Dinner goes as well as it possibly can. Harris asks to try an olive, promptly spitting it onto his plate as soon as the taste hits his tongue. Grandma tells Eddie no less than five times that she likes his shirt, thoroughly embarrassing you, but he just politely says “thank you,” each time as though it’s the first. At one point, Harris gives him a bewildered glance, but before he can say anything, Eddie whispers, “I’ll explain later, bud.”

The rest of the meal is filled with conversations about work and school. Eddie tells a story about how a customer came into the store completely frazzled after listening to a Nirvana album. “She thought it was about Buddhism, and was very distraught when she got Kurt Cobain instead. Guess she missed the whole…” He mimics holding a gun to his head, and you laugh at the crude gesture, slapping his hand out of the way before Harris can see. Luckily, the boy is too engrossed in dissecting his slice to notice.

Grandma retreats to her room as soon as she finishes her dinner, and Harris gets bored soon after, squirming to the floor and dashing to the living room TV set–now the only working one in the house. That leaves you and Eddie at the table alone.

“I can take your plate if you’re done,” you say as you lean over, scoffing when Eddie starts to get up and bring his empty dish to the sink. “Hey, let me clean up. You brought the pizza.”

“Yeah, because you tutored Harris,” he reminds you, swooping in to grab your plate as well. “So we’re even.”

“Even?” you ask incredulously. “After you rescued my grandma and kept us company during dinner? Do you know how long it’s been since I had an actual conversation during a meal?” 

Eddie chuckles at this. “I think ‘rescued’ is a bit dramatic. All I did was unlock a door; not exactly superhero stuff.” He shakes his hair back behind his shoulders.

“She could’ve been hurt,” you point out earnestly, following him to shoo him away from the pile of dirty dishes, “and without you, my only option was to take a battering ram to the door. I don’t even know where I would buy one of those.”

“Have you tried Melvald’s? They sell everything there. ‘S actually where I got Harris.” Eddie teases, hand inching towards the faucet.

“Eddie, sit down and relax. Don’t you dare turn on the water.” Your eyes widen as he locks his gaze with yours, flicking on the spout indignantly and grabbing the sponge without breaking eye contact. “Eddie, I mean it–”

He smacks the sponge against a plate and harshly brushes it up and down, still staring at you. “Oops,” he deadpans, rinsing it and haphazardly placing it in the dishrack before picking up another one. “Oops again.”

“Give me that!” you charge over to him, yanking it away before he realizes what you’re doing. You squeeze the bottle of soap over the already-saturated sponge just to emphasize your point. “Go watch TV with your son and let me clean up.”

He’s quiet for a moment, leaning back next to you. The hem of his shirt makes contact with some water that sprayed out of the sink, but he doesn’t notice; if he does, then he doesn’t care. “I don’t usually have anyone to talk to at night, either. And with Harris–I mean, I love him to fuckin’ death, but a guy can only hear so much about the latest episode of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.” He clears his throat, but the words come out even softer somehow. “I like talking to you.”

The water runs uninterrupted by any movement as you look into his warm eyes. Flecks of gold punctuate the deep chocolate orbs that are drinking you in. They're the same eyes that you looked into on the night that he’d brought you back to his place. The eyes that shot daggers at you while he spewed venom at you in the music store. The eyes that could barely look at you when he’d somberly confessed his past, more motivated by anxiety than trust. The eyes that could flip your world upside down if you let them.

He lets his thumb graze yours as he grabs the newly clean plate from your hand, wiping it with a towel until it’s impossibly dry. You can’t look away from his lips, the way they practically scream kiss me. And you want to. Fuck, you want to so badly.

But you’re not stupid. Possibly naive, hooking up with him nearly three months ago and thinking it would have no emotional impact on you, but not stupid. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

“Same time next week?” you blurt out, taking you both by surprise. It’s too abrupt to be natural, but you don’t care. You need to stop this before it starts. Again.

Eddie recovers quickly, though his nod is a bit delayed. “It’s a date. Uh, a tutoring date. For Harris.”

“For Harris.”

Harris is at your classroom door the next morning, knocking excitedly. “Ms. Sweetheart, I got something for you!” Digging into his backpack, he produces a plastic bag tied in a knot. Bradley’s Big Buy is stamped on the side, but the contents aren’t anything you’d find in the supermarket.

It’s a lockout kit; the same kind that he’d used last night to unlock Grandma’s door. There’s a note Scotch-taped to it, and you read it silently:

I hope it doesn’t happen again, but I wanted you to be prepared in case it does. 

-Eddie

P.S. Don’t try to pay me back. It was much cheaper than a battering ram.

--

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[bits-and-babs]

✰ 𝐒𝐀𝐔𝐂𝐘 - 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 ‘𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓’ 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

↳ summary: prompt: “Shall we put that mouth to better use?” — A particularly crass comment over the radio almost exposes your secret situationship with Ghost.

↳ pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!Reader (Delta)

↳ [1k] content: 18+ MDNI. Violence, murder, injury detail, slight jealous Simon, secret relationship, panties as a gag, size kink, p in v sex, punishment, soft!dom-sub dynamic, tied wrists.

ghost masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

“Taking out the trash, Ghost?”

You shouldn’t have said it– It just slipped out. A reference to a ridiculous joke that Soap had made over the coms once. You can hear the Scotsman giggling over the radio, evidently finding your remark hilarious. 

“You’re pushing it now, Delta,” Ghost’s gruff accent crackles across the coms, the thud of a body slumping to the floor punctuating his warning. It’s terrible, really. You watch him work through a wall of mercenaries, jabbing his serrated huntsman’s knife into the soft walls of their jugular veins and shooting them through the temple with a silenced gun while you observe from the relative safety of the CCTV centre. “It’s like I’ve got deja vu.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” you mumble, trying to move past your obvious overstep. 

“You’ve been spendin’ too much time with Soap,” Ghost cuts through your quiet apology like the throats of the men that crumple to his feet. “Gonna start assignin’ you missions with Alejandro instead.”

The spluttering disbelief of the Scotsman on the line just makes you smile, shaking your head at the jealousy Simon was attempting to disguise with authority. You watch him peek over the crate he’s hidden behind, scanning for hostiles. 

“To the left, Lieutenant,” you advise him to advance. He crouches his gigantic body as low to the ground as he can, flipping the knife handle in his hand for a better grip. The blood of his victims paints his hands dark on the grainy black and white footage of the CCTV cameras. Soap ceases his wordless, bumbling protests while you both hold your breaths, waiting for Ghost to take the mercenary out. 

It’s a simple dispatch. Simon plunges the crimson-laden blade into the neck of the unsuspecting target and lowers the body to the floor as he scrambles at his neck desperately. You hear the choking death rattles over the radio before he falls silent.

“She’s learnin’ from the best, L.t.,” Soap continues, finally piecing his incoherent sounds into a sentence. You hear the muted scoff on the other end of the mic and can’t help the giggle that falls past your lips. 

“There’s a lot more where that came from,” you smile, watching Ghost clear the courtyard. The members of Task Force 141 watch from the shadows, readying for his approval to advance and open fire on the inhabitants of the abandoned construction site that the local drug lords appropriated as a central hub. 

“How ‘bout we put that mouth to better use?” Simon answers with little thought, the coquettish comment catching the attention of the others on the line.

Gaz whistles, and you hear Alejandro chuckle. 

“L.t!” Soap speaks up, and you can tell that he’s grinning from the smug tone of his voice, “A little saucy, don’t ya think?” 

“Careful, Sergeant.”

No one dares speak up again, the silence over the coms only broken when Ghost gives the order. Conversation is replaced with the roar of bullet spray and bodies thumping to the floor.

                                                    ✰

Arousal coats your tongue as Simon’s gloved fingers shove the cotton fabric of your panties into your mouth. You whimper softly, tears welling in your eyes at the burning stretch. Ghost had thrust into you all at once, the blunt head of his cock searing up against your cervix and blooming white hot in the pit of your stomach. 

“Shush,” Simon scolds you, but his gruff voice holds no malice. It’s punishment, you think, retribution for putting him in a position where your little trysts could have been found out. Of course, there’s no real blame aimed at you, but Ghost likes having a reason to penalise you, so to speak. 

You choke back a sob, feeling the rippling muscles of his abdomen rear up beneath your fingertips and thrust deep inside you. He’s bruising your guts like this, settling you on top of his hips as he lies back. Wrists bound behind your back with a crystal-white zip tie, your skin blooms with a bruise as you kneel helplessly over his cock, forced to take whatever he gives. 

“Got nothin’ to say, love?” The midnight black of Ghost’s mask conceals the smirk you know is tugging on his plush lips, and you can just barely make out the gleam in his eyes through the murkiness of the tears welling at your waterline. The sweet taste of your own slick soaked into the cotton of your panties gags you, and you can only manage a desperate shake of your head before Simon brutally thrusts up into you.

The ache is brutal, each savage stroke rattling your lungs and jolting your body upwards. Your nails dig into the soft skin stretched across Simon’s rock-hard abdomen, and you hear him groan beneath the balaclava fabric. His huge palms swallow your hips, digits burying into the flesh there.

“Be good for me, love,” he growls, “Nice and quiet now.” 

It’s pointless, you just barely think. The cot beneath you is so rickety that you’re sure that the team will hear the squeaking of the metal frame even past the stone walls of the safehouse you all shared for the night. 

A fierce snap of Ghost’s hips winds you, a squeak working past the bunched-up fabric of your panties stuffed in your mouth. Your head lolls back, eyes rolling as his cockhead punches up against something mind-numbing. It sparks white-hot plasma across your skin, tendrils spidering down your spine. 

“C’mon,” he urges, the rumble in his voice almost breathy with exertion, “Stay quiet, and I’ll give you what you want.”

You can’t. As the orgasm builds in the pit of your stomach with how Simon’s cock batters something blissful inside you, needy, muffled wails of bliss worm their way up your throat despite your best efforts to swallow them down. You needn’t bother because Ghost is too far gone to care who hears, chasing his high with a strained choke of your name.

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[reareaotaku]

Shut Up, Stu

Summary: Y/n accidentally killed Randy in front of [Stu] Ghostface, catching him off guard and you get away. Everyone thinks it was Ghostface who did it, but you're confronted when Stu accidentally slips that he knows. Characters: Yandere! Stu Macher x Fem! Reader x Yandere! Billy Loomis Tw: Blackmail, Murder, Death, Violence, Horror, Cheating Mentioned Probably going to have to make a Part 2, because there is no way this is complete. I did this months ago... Needed it out of drafts

Your feet slide on the bitter cold tiles; The freezing wet sensation of blood covering in between your toes. You could hear the click of the killer following you, but you couldn't look back. You held a sharp, serrated knife, blood dripping from the tip. You limped your way to an island counter, before pulling yourself together.

The adrenaline was pumping through your veins, which might be why when you heard Ghostface groan your name, you started swinging the knife. You just kept stabbing and stabbing, until the blood soaked your clothes. But you weren't standing over Ghostface. Infact, it was one of your friends, Randy Meeks.

You gasp, covering your mouth and you hear laughing. You look up at the serial killer. You had never thought you could kill someone; Why, you couldn't even kill a spider, even though they scared you.

"I didn't think you had it in you, Y/n," He laughs, as if he's telling a joke.

"It was an accident." You shook your head, "I didn't mean it," You bent over to Randy, putting your hand over his wound, "It was an accident-"

"An accident? An unexpected pregnancy is an accident."

You look down at your hands, which were covered in blood. You were going to have to get rid of your shirt and your pants. Oh god, you couldn't go to prison.... You push past Ghostface, who was much more preoccupied in your [Potential] murder victim than you.

-----

You were covered in blood as you walked the streets. You heard a honk and looked behind to see a red Mustang that's headlights were bright in your face. You held your body close as the car slowly pulled up to you. It was Billy.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

Your body shook and you couldn't speak. You were still in shock from what you had done. Billy opens the door and motions for you to get in. You looked around, before realizing that maybe it would be better if you went with him instead of the sheriff.

"So?" He tilts his head, but you don't say anything.

What could you say? You had killed Randy?

"You seem shaken up." You feel his hand on your thigh, causing you to finally look at him. "Your blood?"

He stops the car, looking at you. It was dark and the only light was from inside his car.

"No, it's not. I did.... Something bad."

"You? Bad?" He laughs, "Yeah right. Little Miss Perfect Goody Toe Shoes? What'd you do? Accidentally step-"

"I killed Randy Meeks."

His eyes widen and mouth drops, before he slowly nods his head, "Okay.... Um, well- That was unexpected. Where is his body?"

"Stu's house."

"Okay," He taps the wheel, "It'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

"I can't go to jail," You fiddle with your blood-soaked blouse. "I didn't mean to. Jail would kill me. God-"

"It's fine, Y/n. You're not going to jail. Don't worry about it."

"But-"

He grabs your shoulder, "Think of it as a favor."

-----

"And she just kept stabbing him."

Billy rolls his eyes, pulling on his sleeve. "So, what did you do with the body? He wasn't there."

"Hung him like a Christmas Light."

Billy chuckles, "She was walking the streets, terrified. Why didn't you stop her or something?"

"I was so shocked," Stu jumps on the bed, "I didn't think she could do something like that."

"Anyone can murder if pushed far enough."

----

You felt like all eyes were on you. Like everyone knew your dark secret. How could anyone live with such guilt? The guilt of death.

"Damn, what's got you wound up so tight, lil mama?"

You nearly jumped when the voice came out of nowhere, along with an arm swung around you. Stu pulled you in close and you can feel his breath on your neck.

"Nothing. Why would you think something's bothering me?"

"You just seem... on edge."

You turned towards the voice, seeing Sideny now walking by you. You shook your head, "It's fine. I'm fine."

Sidney didn't believe you, but she decided to not question it with everyone else around you.

----

Lunch was weird, without Randy having his arm wrapped around you, trying to flirt with you. How could you hurt him? Your mind was filled and you weren't listening to your friends. That was until you felt a hand grab you.

"Are you listening?"

Your eyes widened and you looked down at your hands, "Yeah. Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Randy was killed last night. He was found hanging in Stu's house."

You looked towards Stu, who shrugged, "Imagine my surprise coming home to that," He jokes, kissing Tatum, who pushes him off.

"I was surprised he was dead, but the guy was a jerk. Actually, I thought he was the one behind Ghostface," Tatum fiddles with her purse. "He didn't deserve to die, though."

"Yeah... He didn't," You frown and you could feel Billy's eyes on you, but he wasn't the only one looking at you.

----

The end of the day came to soon. You didn't know how anyone could just go on about their day with people being killed.... And Randy. Your gut twisted and you felt the icky feeling growing in your stomach.

A hand grabs you from behind, freaking you out. Before you can scream though, you're bombarded by Stu.

"What the hell, Stu. What's wrong with you."

"Damn, sorry babe. You seem so on edge."

You huff at the nickname. He had a girlfriend and here he was calling you babe. You didn't like it. "I'm not on edge."

"How about you come to my place? Just me and you."

"Your place? Alone?" You let out a muffled chuckle, "Yeah, right. Sounds like a great idea-"

"Great, I'll pick you up at 7."

"Wait what-"

He takes off and you are forced to shove down your concerns and arguments.

---

You had thought you would be alone with Stu, but thankfully someone else was there. Unfortunately, it was Billy. You felt like they were staring at you and a part of you wondered if they knew, but they couldn't know... Could they?

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: A Haunting.

Pairing: Yandere!Bruce Wayne x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 1.2k.

TW: Implied Stalking, Nonconsensual Touching, and Obsessive Behavior.

It was following you again.

A flickering shadow, skirting along the edges of rooftops and the wired frames of fire escapes, constantly slipping in and out of the corner of your vision. You’d seen it last night, too, falling from your balcony when you finally managed to tear yourself away from your laptop, and the night before that, on your way to grab something from the only corner store that was still open by the time you could force yourself to leave your apartment. You thought you’d be able to make it home uninterrupted tonight, but you weren’t sure why. It wasn’t like Gotham had ever been a particularly kind place to the people who just wanted to survive.

You caught something shifting in your peripheral, but kept yourself from snapping in its direction. It was better not to pay attention, to keep your eyes down and your hood pulled up and focus on getting home, into the relative safe-space that was your shitty apartment in your shitty building in your shitty neighborhood. It was better to concentrate on cutting corners than the two, identical pinpricks burying themselves in the nape of your neck. It was better to breathe, to try to keep a hold on your own pulse rather than pay any attention to the steady, muted footsteps trailing behind you. It was better to—

You cut into a narrow alleyway, took a few steps, and immediately ran into a dead-end.

Fuck.

You took a wrong turn.

The footsteps were closer, now, on cement rather than hollow steel. You spun on your heels, pressing your back into the brick wall that’d smothered your escape route, but that only managed to make you feel smaller, more cornered as you tried to make out any features of the dark, looming shape slowly approaching you. You tried to remember which villains were active in this area, if there was a curfew that you’d chosen to ignore, but your thoughts went blank as the dim light flowing in from the main street caught on the silver of brass knuckles and serrated throwing knives, as a pitch-black cape slid off of a shoulder too stiff not to be armored, and…

You let out a breath of a laugh. “Oh my god,” You mumbled, shaking your head. Batman, as odd as it felt to refer to him as that, didn’t seem perturbed, only coming to a stop in front of you. “You scared the hell out of me, Batman, sir. I wouldn’t have been so freaked out if I knew it was you.”

“I… apologize for that.” You’d never heard him speak, before. His voice was raspier than you thought it’d be – a lot deeper, too. Compared to the other local vigilantes you’d run into (particularly, Nightwing’s hyper-cheeriness or Orphan’s total silence), it wasn’t completely unpleasant. “I didn’t—” He seemed to interrupt himself, to trip over his words. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve called him nervous. “I’ve seen you walking alone, before. I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“Is anything safe in Gotham?” You laughed. He didn’t. Rubbing the back of your neck, you forced yourself to shut your mouth, swallow your humiliation, and go on in a way that wouldn't embarrass you in front of the city's greatest protector. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t do anything to add to your workload. My boss is sort of a sadist, though. Believe it or not, this was the earliest I could get out.”

He didn’t respond to that, not immediately. He scanned over you, instead, his eyes drifting from your face to your wrinkled post-shift hoodie and back again. He raised his hand, and you kept yourself from pulling away as gloved fingertips ghosted over your jaw. You’d almost forgotten about the small bandage plastered over your eye until he brushed against it – a result of a short-lived bar fight that’d gotten out of hand while you were behind the counter. It’d stopped bleeding in a few seconds, but better safe than sorry, right?

“Oh, that’s nothing you have to worry about.” You tried to smile, to shrug, but he was already cupping your face, tilting your head to the side with more force than he seemed to realize he was using. It was obviously a reflex; one he’d probably earned from years of protecting injured civilians. Your personal space, and the bruise his grip would leave on your jaw, were insignificant, in comparison. “Just a minor incident at work. It’s not a big deal, I promise.”

For whatever reason, that didn’t seem to satisfy him. “You should be more careful. A dive bar with a reputation like that isn’t a good place to spend your time.”

…huh.

You were starting to think he might’ve been better as a shadow.

“I don’t remember—”

“You should move, too.” You were really, really starting to prefer his shadow. “Your neighbor, three doors to the left – you know he’s wanted for arson in another city, don’t you? It’s dangerous for you to be so close to such an unstable person.”

It occurred to you, for possibly the first time since he’d initially shown himself, that you were in a dark alley, in the middle of the night, totally unarmed and totally trapped by a man who seemed to know you better than you knew him. You tried to remind yourself that it wasn’t just any man – it was Batman, but that name brought you less reassurance than it had, a few minutes ago.

“Uh, Batman, sir,” You started, suddenly struggling just to spit something out. “I… I really think I should be getting home.”

If you didn’t know better, you would’ve said he was smiling. “Of course. I’ll take you back to your apartment.” And then, after a short pause. “To make sure you don’t get hurt, again.”

His hand dropped from your cheek to your wrist. He began to pull you forward, but you dug your heels into the cement, jerking yourself out of his hold. His reaction was immediate, instinctual – a sharpened glare, a deepened scowl, only fazed by your clumsy attempts to stumble around him, to back towards the main road without letting your stiff grin falter. “I’m alright, I—” You cut yourself off, biting down on the side of your tongue. “I just don’t think that’d be such a good idea.”

He took a step towards you. You took one back. “So, you don’t want a superhero escort?”

“It’s late, and I—”

“You’re willingly putting yourself in danger.” You spared a glance over your shoulder. “You asking me to let you put yourself in harm’s—”

“Please.” You shrunk into yourself, shutting your eyes. “Please, sir, I just want to go home.”

You felt his gaze burning into you, for a few seconds.

But, when you found the courage to open your eyes again, he was gone.

His absence might’ve been more comforting, if you hadn’t still been able to see that little, flickering shadow in the corner of your eye.

[gildedkrone]

I’m your little scarlet, starlet, singin’ in the garden

Relationships: John Price x Male Reader Synopsis: John finds a million ways to say I love you A/N: Daddy issue readers beware Master List

The day utterly sucks. Wake up, get dressed and get breakfast. Sleep eluded you all night long with eyelids shutting the early morning, only to be wide awake again with the morning alarm and sunlight filtering through the curtains. Grumbling from the other sergeants you shared a room with are part and parcel of mornings and the sounds of shuffling when they got up and ready.

The communal toilets were packed to the brim. You nose upturns at the smell of piss and deodorant from the entrance. The smell is enough to send your stomach roiling in disgust and at barely past eight in the morning; it is too fucking early for this shit. Throwing in the literal towel, you decide to come back later to try your luck at a less congested toilet. The 141 enjoyed their private toilets and rec rooms, and while you worked with Price and his men, you are—technically speaking—not a part of the 141.

Sergeant by rank, combat medic by trade. Assigned under base command and on loan to Price, you did the work of the devil and enjoyed the luxuries of nothing. Your commanding officer, a prick of a Major, fought tooth and nail to keep you under his command when Price requested for your transfer.

Begrudging was Price when he lost the fight.  

Sleeping in a noisy and constantly busy bunk was hell and you rub the last wisps of sleep from your dull, pallid eyes. The roar of the cafeteria, normally a dull drone, is a sharp knife serrating on overwhelmed senses. A grimace pulls on your face when you see an unknown soldier take the last available seat at the table with the men you worked with prior. The tray clatters onto another table with a migraine forming in your head.

---

“That’s all, come back in three days if the wound doesn’t start healing.” The injured soldier on the bench grits his teeth just as you tighten the bandage around his arm.

He stares at you expectantly. You probe him to just ask his question. He says something about a medical record. Right. A medical slip excusing him from anything physically laborious. Usual protocol for injured soldiers. Ten minutes later with the printout secured, you dismiss the injured soldier and take a sip of water.

The headache is pulsating, evil festering from the deepest recesses of the mind in a barb to the front. Your hands grip the table for support and rummage through drawers for anything to quell the pain. Someone coughs and you look up to find Price at the door. He is a ray of hope spilling into the space as his smile is fond and endearing. Behind him, Ghost and Soap are there too, peeking into the room from the door.

“Hope you aren’t too busy, sweetheart,” Price drawls in that thick, charming accent of his. You tell him it’s never too much for him and he enters the room.

He smells wonderful and you pick up hints of lilac and jasmine. He smells wonderful and suspiciously similar to the bodywash you gifted him over a month ago. You tease him about finally upgrading his hygiene and earn yourself a few snickers from his men. Price shoots them his signature unimpressed look that morphs into a grin.

“It’s wonderful, sweets. Really appreciate the gift, love.”

Oh.

His smile is resplendent, much like his disposition this morning. It fades slightly when he gestures for Ghost to move forward. You slip into medic mode when he lifts up his shirt to expose the red gash running up his chest.

It’s angry and painful and by the looks of it, quite recent too. A fresh pair of gloves are on and Ghost sits obediently on the gurney. You gently prod at the surrounding flesh while assessing the pain he is in. Ghost gives you single word answers and you grab clean gauzes and bandages. Price is an anxious man, hovering beside you while you gently cleaned the wound. Soap holds the lieutenant’s hand and aside from the occasional jerks and hisses, Ghost remains a good patient and you gently bandage his wound.

“Don’t overdo on the training and make sure to keep the area clean and free of pressure for the next three days, minimum.” Your words emphasise minimum, knowing Ghost’s tendency to disregard his own injuries and medical advice. More than what is good for him.

“He’s going to behave. Ah’m gonnae make sure he doesn’t do anything dumb, promise.” Soap perks up and Ghost shoots him a look of withering ire, prompting a laugh from the sergeant and a huff from the captain.

With nothing else, you discharge Ghost and Soap follows the LT out of the room. Price shows no intention to move as he takes a seat on the couch in the room. You tie the used gloves and throw them into the bin and wash your hands.

“How’s my lad doing today?”

You roll your eyes and tell him that it has been a difficult morning. Between the pounding headache and grievances you had with the way things are run by the surly Major. Price smiles empathetically and he pats his thighs. It’s another hour to lunch and the medical wing is quiet at the time being. No harm in sitting with Price and on his warm lap. He chuffs when you scooch to lean your flank on his abdomen. Large hands encircle your chest and they pull you in for a warm hug; the owner of which is extremely happy to give you kisses on the nose then the lips.

His beard is rough and tingly and you let him know. His amused chuckles are tinged with adoration across the tranquil blanket enveloping the room. No complaints when you’re spilling into my mouth, his scandalous retort earns him a chaste kiss on his cheek and a pout on your lips. The mirth in his eyes are a molten gold and you see yourself in the waterfall of Price’s joy in being this close to his lover. His hand trails your flank and fingertips traces up your face to your temple.

Before you can ask him, rough fingers capable of unadulterated violence on the battlefield display a grace dancing across temples in a soothing manner. You moan on instinct at the slowly receding headache under the gently pull and push of Price’s ministrations.

“John, ah, where did you—”

“Learn to do this? You aren’t the only one with medical experience here, sweetheart.” His voice is helping to ward off the discomfort and he brings your face close for another deep kiss.

You are putty under his ministrations and he takes the opportunity to rest one hand on your hip while the other soothes and calms.

“Our poor medic, worked to the bone by his cruel commanding officer.” You laugh as Price admonishes you to listen. “Won’t happen if you are under my command.”

Your chuckles are interrupted by the occasional gasps when Price’s fingers untangle the knots in your mental faculties.

“Well, Captain, what about me is so important to fight with the Major?” Price grumbles something about an unappreciative asshole and you giggle.

“Hardworking. The most faithful combat medic in the company and,” the glint in his eyes is teasing, “the most handsome.”

Smooth talker, but he doesn’t take any heat.

“Tough and disciplined, I’ve never seen anyone so steadfast in their duty to save lives and protect their teammates.” His whispers are gruff and in puffs of warm air against your ear.

“Not afraid to speak up against idiots, like the bumbling fool assigned as his commanding officer.” Price reminds you of the time you yelled at the Major for even suggesting abandoning the 141 on a mission gone wrong. You tell him it is nothing and his sweet lips are firm and plush against yours.

“An asset, through and through.”

“All mine.”

“Stop embellishing, John. I’m not that impressive. Just your usual, everyday medic.” You jokingly sigh and look into contented eyes shining with the pride of the Captain. The same pride that made Price, well, Price. He heart is telling him to rectify it—the way your perceived yourself.

“I only tell the truth and I will keep speaking it. You can’t stop me, love.” Kisses attack you and your squeak of surprise is drowned out in a tilt of the head. “So beautiful and so fucking hot on the field.”

“I’m sure there are much more capable medics than me serving the country, old man.” A finger is on your lips to shush your words.

“None of that now, love. We are talking about you, not some wanker. If it takes this old man every minute of his life reassuring you, then I will.” Then he starts and it’s an avalanche, clearing the negative thoughts and doubt from the roof of your heart.

“I’m so honoured to know someone like you, love.”

“You are the best thing that I have ever chanced upon.”

“I am so proud to be your Captain and more so, your partner.”

He grasps your head gently and cradles your head against his chest.

“This heart beats for you, love. Can you hear how it yearns for you?” It echoes with the rush of rivers, the gentle crashing of waves on shores of his heart you trod with steps of affection and care.

You nod and Price gives you one of his realest smiles. The kind he reserved for only a selected few, including you. You feel something swell in your at the dopey look on his face.

“I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Proud of your accomplishments, the effort you put into your work and this relationship.”

“I’m so damn proud to be together with someone like you, darling. Never change, love.”

“You make this old fart so very happy and there’s nothing I won’t do for you. Nothing is too much or too far.”

“Love you so much. So, so much. My good boy.”

My love.

Tears are obscuring the vision of him in a glow that gives him an ethereal look. Your angel, descended from the heavens. He wipes away the tears and rests his forehead on yours. It brings him close, so close and he strokes your cheeks gently. You run a finger through his beard and cup his cheek in a sweet embrace. Time is lost upon the two of you and nothing else matters.

Nothing but the beating of two hearts in sync in a rhythm you labelled as John.

“The boys trust you. And I do, too. There isn’t anyone else out in the world I trust as much as you and …”

“I want you to know that I’ll always be thinking of you.”

“John, you can’t—”

“Always in here.” His hand envelopes yours and brings it to his chest.

“You have me, until the end of time and for as long as you want.”

“Eternity isn’t long enough then.”

The kiss is akin to light pouring from urns of gold and showering the two men in a lustre the shine of the sun and the intensity of fire. He whispers something along the lines of never enough. The nasty headache fades into a dull ache then into nothing. Being with Price is worth the awful mornings with idiot sergeants and the annoying Major assigned to be your boss. Anything, everything is worth being able to spend time with this man called yours.

“I love you, dearest.”

“I love you too. My bear.”

His eyes twinkle at the term of endearment. A bear? He clarifies. Exactly, and he has a beard to match. He gives your hand a squeeze and you push up for another kiss.

Not just a bear.

Your bear.

[gojobiscuit]

just come kiss me and bite me - miguel o'hara

content: nsfw, fingering, size difference, fangs, mention of small cuts from his claws but no blood, scenting, marking, he goes a lil feral, he calls you doll once, biting, possessiveness, one line of spanish

note: just me wanting to write about his fangs hehe. this is my first fic on this blog + in a while 🎉! mdni.

Miguel loves to leave his mark on you.

He does it with everything he owns, but he especially enjoys the visual reminders that you're his and his alone.

Sometimes it's the strong curl of his fingers around your waist, his serrated claws protruding ever so slightly from marred fingertips. It hurts as they press into you, small cuts blossoming onto your skin.

(The next morning, there's small scabs and welts where he held you. And he'll kiss the markings, his own form of apology. Though you know he isn't that sorry.)

It's a warning. A reminder to stay still as he fucks his thick fingers into you, or else. He enjoys watching your struggle to behave, the slight fear and yet overwhelming pleasure filtering out of your body through shudders and spasms.

He uses his weight to press you further into the bed you're laying on, forcing you to be good.

Of course, you're familiar with Miguel's size and strength, but being rendered immobile by his all consuming gait never failed to leave you breathless.

In this position, all you can see is him as his size shrouds everything else in your vision. You clench around his fingers as he massages deep inside of you, drawling a mewl from your lips.

"There you go, that's a good doll..."

As he speaks, his lips peel back to reveal sharp fangs splitting an almost sadistic grin.

Above all, his favorite way to leave his mark was through his bite.

He leans down, getting in your face and inhaling deeply. Because Miguel was part spider after all, you did notice that in his more err- emotional states, he tended to act less human and more... something else.

He begins at the top of your forehead, suckling and kissing and scenting your skin. He makes his way down the side of your face, fangs elongating the closer he gets to your neck.

“You smell-fuck- you smell so sweet.”

His words leave a sheen of goosebumps over your skin, and your eyelids flutter closed.

As he reaches his destination, he stares at your neck unblinkingly, red eyes boring into you. His fingers have slowed to a stop inside of you now, and you can feel the air around the two of you still as you anticipate what comes next.

Then,

he bites.

You absolutely keen, eyelids ripping open as instant pleasure, stimulation, euphoria rush through you.

He just presses harder, lets more of his weight hold you steady, docile against the bed.

He immediately resumes pumping his fingers inside of you, the bite energizing him.

You feel him start to roughly grind against your lower half. His hips are lined up with his arm so that every thrust sends his fingers plunging inside you.

His thrusts quickly speed up, and he's frantically humping against you.

His teeth are still sunken deep into the flesh at your neck, the rushing in your ears drowning out his animalistic grunts.

You soon lose yourself to a daze, feeling the numbing affect of his venom take place.

You cutely whisper a "te amo~" before letting your head loll backwards in ecstasy, already trying to think of how you could explain wearing a turtleneck in June to your friends.

© gojobiscuit

[nom-de-plume-system]

Even though you changed userpic, you're still a purple cat to me

Teehee, that purple cat is actually Saoirse, our resident fox-bird lookin girl! An artfight picture of her was our pfp for a long time.

Might come back eventually, but we wanred something different for a change <3

[carrotkicks]

24/05/2010

06:54:23

TRANSCRIPT START

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Okay, I started the recording. What do think we’re expecting from – 

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Well, this certainly isn’t something you see everyday.

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Oh my god… what is this?

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Bodies, Atsushi-kun. Really, really dead bodies.

A murder scene like this comes once a blue moon.

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

… 

Have you ever seen anything like this before, Mr. Dazai?

[DAZAI OSAMU]

No time for that Atsushi-kun! Get that camera out, you know what to do. 

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Hh... Okay, deep breaths. Through the mouth.

*click* *whirr*

*click* *whirr*

*click* *whirr*

[Dep. MINOURA]

Oi! What are you two doing?

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Ah! He-hello, we were ju-just –

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Deputy Inspector! Hello, do you remember us? We’re from *rustle* the Armed Detective Agency, you commissioned us for this investigation? 

[Dep. MINOURA]

The ADA.. That’s right, you’re that freak from the river. We specifically requested Edogawa, not you. 

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Ranpo-san would have loved to join you here today, but he was obligated to other arrangements and asked me and my associate, Nakajima Atsushi, to go in his stead. But I assure you can trust me with this case. You are looking at the second greatest detective at the agency, after all.

[Dep. MINOURA]

Hmph, very well. Demonstrate your deductive ability. You, kid. Get back to work. 

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Ah, right!

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Of course.

*click* *whirr*

*click* *whirr*

*click* *whirr*

07:23:14

[DAZAI OSAMU]

It seems the victims were impaled quite rapidly. The material they were hung from is a blend of polyester and… *sniffs* wool. It’s in long strips, seemingly torn from a longer sheet. It’s the kind of textile you’d find on a winter coat. It’s far too warm for this sort of cloth. 

[Dep. MINOURA]

How do you figure? 

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Oh my coat is made of the same material. 

*click* *whirr*

Anyways, the way these bodies have been sliced looks like they were cut by the fabric itself. On some of these dismembered parts, there are traces fibers along the serrated edge. 

…

This is the work of something inhuman. 

*click* *whirr*

[Dep. MINOURA]

That’s impossible.

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Is it? 

[Dep. MINOURA]

*grumble* Edogawa would have at least given us something that was grounded in reality to work with. 

…

The effort is appreciated, Dazai. Tell your photographer to give us his copies and get the hell out of here. 

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Sure thing, Inspector-san!

*click* *whirr*

*click* *whirr*

*click* *whirr*

Hey Atsushi-ku– AH

*click*

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Oops, sorry Mr. Dazai!

*whirr*

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Right in the eyes! I’m blinded! I’m blind!

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Really sorry! I was really occupied with these photos, I didn’t see you! Really– ah. What’s with the scary look?

[DAZAI OSAMU]

*hiss* next time pay more attention to your surroundings protege-kun. Careful where you point that flash. Whatever. We’re gonna blow this joint. 

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

So soon? 

Thank goodness.

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Yeah. We’ve done as much investigating as we could for now. 

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Do you have any ideas as to who caused this Mr. Dazai? This crime scene is… more elaborate…  than anything that I can imagine. 

[DAZAI OSAMU]

I just might… Atsushi-kun I’ll be leaving you here. I want to do some further sleuthing.

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Huh? You’re taking on more work on purpose, Mr. Dazai? That’s… new.

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Yep! I trust you can make it back to the Agency on your own and log the evidence for us At-su-shi! You are our star at documentation!

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

Wait–

[DAZAI OSAMU]

Bye now, Atsushi-kun! 

[NAKAJIMA ATSUSHI]

There it is. I guess I never had a choice huh? I’ll see you tomorrow then, Mr. Dazai.

*rustle*

*click*

END TRANSCRIPT

24/05/2010

07:32:46

27/05/2010

Mr. Dazai has been in and out of the office since Monday. I’m kind of worried he’s avoiding me, because I tried to speak with him and he just brushed past me. Maybe he’s just stressed from this case. With this job as a crime scene photographer, I’ve seen some truly horrific sights but I have to agree, there’s no way a human being could have caused this sort of brutality. The problem is, that it just makes no sense. I wonder how he’ll figure this out. In other, better news, Junichirou will be coming to the office after his school tomorrow. I want to see if he can help me fix my camera. It’s been really finicky since Monday, and I can’t figure out why. Maybe the internal components got a bit corrupted or something. In any case, I hope it’s not too difficult of a repair.

That’s all for today, then. See you around!

N. Atsushi

NEXT

[endless-ineffabilities]

Masterlist 📝

A regularly updated list of my works; all are x f!Reader unless otherwise stated. If you wish to be tagged for any specific story, or all future works with a certain character, please comment on the specific post!

Please do NOT copy, repost, steal, or translate any of these! My works should only exist here, on Tumblr. I have not and will not post them on any other platform, nor do I consent to any other individual doing so.

The Sandman

Morpheus / Corinthian

Ineffable (series) *on hiatus

Corinthian

Easy on the eyes (series) (18+) *on hiatus

Morpheus

Only you can set alight the fire in me (oneshot)

House of the Dragon

Daemon Targaryen

Without you, I would not be (upcoming series)

This world was never meant for a fire like yours (part one - part two (18+) - unalloyed - part three.one - )

in the shadow of your heart (part one - part two)

She is my heart (oneshot)

ñuha mērī jorrāelagon (oneshot)

feast (oneshot)

rogue ink (oneshot)

turning red (oneshot)

Aemond Targaryen

prūmia va perzys (heart on fire) series

part one: don't you love me?

part two: and what of your love? (18+)

part three: the flames that divide (18+)

part four: the aftermath

part five: never tear us apart

part six:

part seven:

some jealous Aemond Targaryen scenarios

burn them all for you (oneshot)

a little game (modern au oneshot)

hmm (a christmas drabble)

sepār iā sylutegon (just a taste)

your heart's serrated edges are much like mine own (oneshot) (18+)

sapphire-hearted - part one - part two - part three -

dragonfire (oneshot)

Daemon and/or Aemond

A dance with two rogue dragons (oneshot)

If these walls could speak (18+)

midnights imagines : question...? - anti-hero - labyrinth - lavender haze - maroon (part one - part two - part three - part four)

dialogue series: King? -

Star Wars

Anakin Skywalker

As I believe in you (oneshot)

there's hope for us, yet - part 1 - part 2

MCU

Bucky Barnes

babydoll (oneshot)

Steve Rogers / Bucky Barnes

reconnaissance - one - two - three

so high school - one - two

The Bolter - part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six -

World On Fire

Tom Bennett

tongue in cheek (one - two - three - four )

John Wick 4

Marquis Vincent de Gramont

le marquis et le moineau - (ill)fated - first dance -

[taksony-fr]

OUGH this b-day hatch Hits NICE

Now to figure out if Spines or Sparkle would work best for her... And a breed... Mostly a breed. Bc if i don’t figure that out, she’ll just be a snapper. Again lmao Tho with snapper, sparkle looks better so that would answer that question...

[divine-misfortune]

perhaps 45 with omega/alpha, if that sounds interesting?

A kiss out of anger from this prompt list.

Btw toxic old man yaoi art by @aweisz if you even care (thank you so much)

Bracing himself only did so much. It didn’t stop him from choking on the wave of dry heat that assaulted him when he opened the door. Omega dutifully swallowed a mouthful of scalding cinder and gripped the doorknob a little tighter, eyes tracking the scorched path Alpha had paced along the length of his room. It would take several hours to polish his anger from the floorboards but he knew no amount of waxing and shining would remove the traces of ash from the wood. Just another scar. 

Omega stepped over the threshold. Willingly entered the cage with the spitting, raging demon and closed the door behind him.

Alpha’s eyes were fixed on the floor, hunched over himself. His arms were folded behind his back, clasping his wrist in one hand while the other repeatedly curled in and out of a fist. Omega ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, finding himself subconsciously mimicking his posture with a well trained rigidity. Steel spined, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly. There was a practiced sense of pride that he couldn’t give up, even now, even when he should be curling in on himself in shame. 

“Understand?” He interrupted, sparks sputtering from between his teeth. Restrained anger that Omega didn’t deserve the kindness of. “Where the fuck do you get off taking matters into your own hands like this? You have no right to speak on my behalf, to call me and my capability into question, no fucking right Meg!” 

“Alpha,” Omega began without knowing where he was going. If there was even a point to opening his mouth he had yet to find it. He debated a step forward but his body refused to budge and carry him closer to the fire ghoul.  “You have to understand-”

“I’m not questioning your capability,” he tried to start again, nails digging into his palm behind his back as he tried to gather himself. Beyond scattered, he found himself grasping blindly for the right wording - searching for the sincerity Alpha deserved but his shallow inhale left too much of a pregnant pause that Alpha took as a chance to continue spitting. 

“Oh but you did, you did the second you breathed a word of retirement to clergy. They’re all looking at me differently, like I’m useless. You seem to think I can’t do my fucking job, so what is it?” The question comes out serrated, sharp and ripping through him. “What’s this really about?” 

Alpha finally looked at him. Crimson eyes gone dull, the raging fire he’d fallen in love with had burned down to low embers and the guilt jabs him in the gut. 

Smoke billowed from the corners of his snarl and Omega found himself grateful for the awful heat filling the room, like the judgmental fires of hell were finally catching up to him. He hoped he burned, at the hands of Alpha or unholy retribution. Perhaps it was a deserved punishment in the end, his unwelcomed overstepping finally leading him to the cliff's edge. 

“I’m worried about you.”

Closer now, Omega noticed the twitch of discomfort in Alpha’s face as he stepped forward again. The way his body moved was jerky for a passing second like he was flinching from his own weight on his right leg. Another stab, higher, a knife between his ribs. Closer now, Alpha had never felt further away from him. Despite being in arms reach, there were miles between them. 

“Worried about me? You're worried about me?”

“You can't expect me to just sit and watch you-” 

“Be honest, this is about Terzo isn't it?”

“Alpha.” 

“No, no. It makes sense, it makes a lot of fucking sense when you think about it.” He's close, close enough Omega can feel the heat of his shaky breathing. “You don't think I'm good enough to stand by him anymore, do you? Do I tarnish your humans shiny appearance? Shouldn't surprise me that his image matters more to you-” 

“For the love of everything unholy. Alpha, no. Would you just listen to me?” 

“Oh yes, yes, of course I should listen. Omega knows best.” He threw his hands up with a laugh of disbelief. Omega couldn't stop his face from screwing up in irritation. “I don't know why I’m wasting my breath here, it’s clear you don’t care about me or a word I say.” 

The accusation knocked the wind from his sails, impeccable posture beginning to sag. First in the shoulders and then his arms fell back to his sides, hands curling into fists to hide the shake to them. Alpha scoffed as the quintessence ghoul opened his mouth to argue but couldn’t seem to find the words. Dismissive. He looked tired, years of being beaten into submission and pushing well past his limits taking their toll. Ice crept into his veins, a chilled numbness spreading from the tips of his fingers to his core - he couldn’t place if it was guilt or his own particular brand of rage. 

Alpha began to stalk past him, floorboards squeaking shrilly under his step like nails on a chalkboard. He grit his teeth, jaw creaking in kind as he turned and grabbed the other ghoul by the arm. There came the beginnings of a growl but Omega knew it was all bark, that there would never have been a real bite behind it, so he pushed. He pushed Alpha the few steps backwards till his back hit the door too hard, and he’d apologize later, but he chased the nerve he’d managed to scrounge up.

His skin was scalding as Omega grabbed his face roughly, surging forward to mold his mouth to Alpha’s before he could bite off another sharp word. The fire ghoul made a choked off sound of surprise, head thumping against the wood. His lips were rough, overly worried raw by well filed fangs, and Omega ached somewhere in his ribs at the familiarity. Months, it had been months since he'd felt Alpha against him and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it. Missed him. 

Tobacco and communion wine. Omega was sure Alpha had stolen it from the chapel and downed the bottle in an attempt to quell his anger but it hardly seemed to do the trick given where they found themselves. 

He braced a hand against Omega’s broad chest, not exactly pushing him away, it felt like another vye for physical contact. A quiet admission of how much Alpha missed this all the same. One kiss hardly felt like enough to convey himself, but as he flicked his tongue over the seam of his lips and Alpha reluctantly let him in, it felt like a start. The best he could do so suddenly. 

Slipping into his mouth, Alpha groaned lowly and leaned fully against the closed door, curling his fingers into the front of the other ghoul’s uniform to drag him all that much closer. Flames seemingly extinguished, the heat beneath his palms began to ebb back to a comfortable warmth and Omega let up a bit, opting to cradle his face instead of grab. Offer him a touch of tenderness, it was the least he could do. 

That clever forked tongue forced past his teeth and sought to lick the soured ash from his mouth. 

It was a moment he wished they could stay suspended in forever, reminiscent of their younger days where every spare moment they could steal together was passion fueled and driven by sparks. Alpha’s warm breath tickled against his cheek with every pleasured sigh, neither of them managing to quiet a single grateful sound. 

He started to pull back, managing an inch before changing his mind. Pressing forward for another far more chaste kiss, hating the idea of it ever truly ending. 

“Alpha…” The quintessence ghoul started, stroking a thumb over the cut of his cheek, eyes flicking from his spit shined lips to his almost glassy eyes. They refocused a bit more with every sluggish blink. “Alpha, love, I’ve never doubted you or your ability to perform for a minute, but I worry about how hard you push yourself.” 

He found himself frowning despite the previous giddy flutter of his heart. 

“You might be immortal, but your vessel is not.” Omega smoothed his hands down Alpha’s front, pausing over his chest to just feel his pulse and the labored breaths he took. “You’re not a young ghoul anymore, and I know you don’t want to admit it…So I admitted it for you. I know it wasn’t my place but I couldn’t sit and watch you work yourself to the bone.” 

“Megs,” Alpha sighed, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you talk to me?” 

“Because I know you, and I know you’d never go quietly.” He chuckled though there was no real humor there, tinged by something sad. “We only have so much time left on the surface, and the idea of not spending the rest of it with you at my side is agonizing. I just wanted you to come back to me and not worry about you leaving again, always coming back in worse shape than you left in…You’re making me go gray from all the worrying I have to do.” 

It was Alpha’s turn to laugh. A sort of snort, actually amused unlike his previous attempt. Omega tipped his forehead against his, wanting to melt into him and his comforting warmth. 

“I’m sorry, my light. I would never do something like this to slight you, you know that, right?”

“...Yeah, yeah I do.”