#whistling expert

[sweetmapple]

Since google is absolute garbage I’m coming to the wonderful depths of tumblr to request the esoteric knowledge I seek

If I whistle, like a lot a lot, regularly 7 days a week, to a point where at around evening my lower lip muscles (the descending labials) are twitching (likely from overworking them) , will that make those muscles “get swole”? like am I gonna end up as the black and white chad sigma guy if I keep whistling at this rate???

Or alternatively will I just get better at whistling for longer? Will it lead to the warbling ability?

Please whistle masters of the internet, I need answers

Idgaf about loosing face fat, I just love whistling and want to know if there will be [c o n s e q u e n c e s]

[luciddownloading]

Mars and Sex

18+. Mars' house placement or aspects may modify certain details/traits

MARS IN FIRE (Aries Mars, Leo Mars, Sagittarius Mars) 🌶️

They are fun and playful in bed, not taking it too seriously. If something silly or awkward happens during the act, they're quick to laugh about it. They can also make you laugh before they make you... you know. Sex must always have an element of excitement or thrill for them, which is why they need a very sexual, passionate partner. A dry bedroom is like a death sentence for them. They get off on an element of danger, like public sex or doing it at an inappropriate time, like a family visit or on a flight. Potentially getting caught is really hot to them. They also LOVE a good simp and the especially confident ones attract this easily. The more you worship them and their body, the better. At the least, they need you to consistently tell them how hot they are and how awesome they are in bed. Validation turns them on. Calling out their name while doing it really works. Hype them up! It's their fuel. They're also most likely to record themselves, as in making a sex tape, and most turned on by that.

MARS IN EARTH (Taurus Mars, Virgo Mars, Capricorn Mars) 💋

These people are very straightforward sexually. Typically, they have very simple and non-kinky desires. They're pretty vanilla but do not take that in a negative way. Most of them are downright experts in bed and can really, um, impress partners with their skills. They just don't need any bells and whistles. The pure physical pleasure of sex is more than enough to satisfy them. (Sex toys aren't really their thing, either. They'd rather just have another person or their own hand.) However, if their partner is kinky, they will fully commit, so long as it's within their boundaries. Foreplay is also a MUST. Lots of kissing, maybe some wine, working up to the action. They prefer a nice buildup. Jumping right in too quickly or without any sensuality turns them off. They hate it when a partner doesn't kiss, for example, and they're usually superb kissers themselves. Using their mouth in that other way is also their special skill.

MARS IN AIR (Gemini Mars, Libra Mars, Aquarius Mars) 😏

Do not let a chill or innocent demeanor fool you. Some of them come across that way but these people are WILD. In general, definitely kinky and always down to experiment. You might be shocked if they ran down a list of the sexual things they've dabbled in. Sex is a very mental thing to them and they will try any idea that either comes to their mind or that someone else has. They can actually be very impressionable in that way. Communication is their thing, so they can be very verbal in a really hot, effective way. This can also translate into plenty of sexting or some video-call action. They love hookup apps, too. But, some of them talk a big game yet get nervous when they actually have to do all those things. Yes, they can get bored easily but they also can be most eager to please in bed. Typically, they care a lot about you enjoying yourself. Some can take that to the extreme of wanting to watch you get off or even watch you be with someone else (if you're into that).

MARS IN WATER (Cancer Mars, Scorpio Mars, Pisces Mars) 💦

These people are not necessarily the genteel lovers you may expect them to be. In fact, many of them are very rough in bed or just love to be roughed up by their partner. Generally, it's like you see another layer of their personality during sex that they may be too shy or self-protective to reveal otherwise. The flip side of this is that some of them are surprisingly much softer during sex than elsewhere, either being very submissive or having that "soft top" energy. Either way, sub/dom dynamics are HUGE with them. They are really into choking or slapping or inflicting pain. Sex may not be satisfactory for them unless it leaves bruises; on them or their partner. But, unless they're mentally unwell, they would never want to hurt without consent. Safety words and such. Sex for them can span a wide range because, if they feel safe enough, they can have the most tender lovemaking sessions. Or baby-making sessions, if it's a hetero couple who want that. Casual sex can be very hard to nearly impossible for them. Some may convince themselves they can do it but if they sleep with someone just a few times, things inevitably get messy. They can get very irrational or insecure if they don't feel truly needed by their partner.

[adaginy]

The Big Guide to Humans: Language

Most humans use their lungs, mouths, and larynx (a small organ between them colloquially called the "voice box") to produce audible language. There are also "signed" languages, in which the positions and motions of fingers, hands, and arms are used in place of audible language, primarily for communication with those lacking a sense of hearing or ability to use their mouths or larynx, but also in places where silence is required. There are also languages of whistling, a high-pitched noise made with the lips (the mobile edges of their mouths). Terra has thousands of languages, many of them incredibly complex and precise. Despite this, humans rarely use translation docks with each other, preferring to find a language they have in common. Most humans can use at least two Terran languages. They are likely to speak (or sign or whistle) a native language and are expected to speak or sign one or more Terran-Common languages (see human history for how Terran-Common languages spread). They may also be able to use languages of other regions as needed for trade, diplomacy, or curiosity. Human languages additionally have features called "accents" and "dialects." What makes something an accent, a dialect, or a separate language is ostensibly a spectrum of how different they are... but in practice some accents are not mutually intelligible* with each other while some languages are, and what is a "dialect" as opposed to one or the other may be political rather than practical: We asked human language-experts about this and the answer given by several of them** was "A language is a dialect with an army and a navy" (two types of human military). As a matter of practicality, translation docks allow for translation into and out of most dialects if the dialect (or accent) is, functionally, a separate language. This sometimes caused problems in comparatively early human space-history for those political reasons, but Terran politics has become more cooperative over time. Most human languages, particularly spoken ones, also have a written form. There are far fewer writing styles than languages. For example, many languages, including multiple Terran-Common languages, use what is known as the "Roman alphabet," named for a distantly historical military (see human history, again). In an alphabet, sounds are represented by marks or combinations of marks, and by knowing the sounds one knows what the line of marks would read if spoken. There are also syllabaries, in which the marks represent sets of sounds, and logographic systems, in which complex marks represent ideas. Some languages use combinations thereof. While humans generally cannot write as fast as they speak, many can read far faster than a human can speak, allowing for the rapid absorption of information.

Most humans are innately "good at" language, even if they do not believe they are. (This is especially true with human children.) If your language is adequately perceptible to humans, expect that over time they will learn at least a little bit of it. If your language is audible to them (or signed in a way that can be approximated), expect that they will find a way to produce it and use your own language to speak with you. They feel this is polite and friendly, although they understand that most non-Terrans are unlikely to learn and use their languages in return. * Many human languages share a "root" language, and the languages have spread and separated in ways akin to evolution. Similarly to how closely-related species can sometimes hybridize, a speaker of one language may be able to understand, with some difficulty, a speaker of a closely-related language. **see human hive mind debate

[angelltheninth]

Ghost refusing to let his girlfriend leave the bed because he's touch starved?

Of course he would be, and I want to fix that for him.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, established relationship, domestic fluff, clothes sharing, kissing, cuddles, slightly suggestive, Simon cooks for you, clingy!Simon, touch-starved!Simon

A/N: I would cuddle and kiss his forehead every day.

Getting pats on the back and side hugs from his teammates on the base or when on mission is no substitute for just one of your gentle touches

He's normally not as clingy if he spends a lot of time with you

Kind of like a dog in that way, when he's away from you for a long time the feeling of being touch-starved just ramps up and he needs to get rid of it

In his case its by being even more clingy with you then before

Usually it goes away after a few days with you but when you're also cuddling into him its kind of hard for him to be able to let you go

Every morning when you have to get up you need to fight your way out of Simon's big, muscular arms, which refuse to let you go most of the time anyway so there's little point to trying to wiggle away

Still both you and Simon enjoy a little playful competition

He is never the first to give up, locking his fingers around you the best he is able to in his drowsy state and burying his face between your breasts

Much better, much softer too, made even better if you're not wearing anything, or vey little so that he can kiss you there

He doesn't only want to be touched by you, he also wants to be the one doing the touching, sighing and humming deeply when he feels your warm skin under his lips and tongue

Feels like its been years since he had you this close, since he felt your warmth or heard your heartbeat

One of his favorite sounds by far, next to you laughing and you moaning

Doesn't let you go even in the shower, he just melts when you run his hands over his wet and naked muscles, massaging the knots in his shoulders away with your expert fingers while kissing the nape of his neck

Keep doing that, he'll have motivation to not only get close to you but inside you as well

What? He's got needs too

It doesn't matter if you need to make breakfast, he'll make it for you after he's had his favorite breakfast which is you

Never a man who goes back on his word he's got you almost boneless on the couch almost an hour later, wearing his big short sleeved shirt, which exposes your marked up shoulder and thighs while he's happily whistling in the kitchen and cooking breakfast

[soapppp]

Soap is alright with Gaz making fun of him for his puppy like behaviour. He’s okay with Price calling him a mutt when he gets dirty paw prints all over the base hallways. He’s more than happy to obey when Ghsot whistles at him to sit or lay or move. Soap knows that werewolves are, at heart, dogs. They play, they chew up couches, they whine and argue with yippy barks, they make a mess with their thick fur and drool in their sleep. Try as he might to hate it, Soap knows that it’s natural for him to want to chase the large blue ball Gaz rolls down the hall way. He doesn’t care that he once broke his tail from wagging it so hard when he stole Price’s hat and made the older man chase him around the base.

But then….

It was a simple mission, something they had all done a hundred times over. Only this time, Soap was without his captain and his fellow Sargent and his collar felt too lose without Ghost pulling it around. Soap was fine with that, until he found himself working with a Lieutenant Manes. The man was alright, a good leader and quick thinker, but even upon meeting him Soap had a bad feeling.

The man didn’t tug at his collar like Ghost did, instead he pulled at Soap’s chin hair and growled at him to “stay the fuck down you overgrown dog”. He let out loud whistles and expected Soap to know what they meant, pushing him down by his snout when he hesitated as he tried to get a grasp on what he was asking. Manes threw a Grenade at some point and pinched Soaps ear, “that’s a grenade, mutt. Not a fucking toy, don’t chance it.” Soap had wanted to snap back that he was a demolition expert and knew the dangers of a grenade better than Manes, but as he realised the man was mocking him for a dogs love of playing fetch…

Soap came home from the mission and instantly Price was taking him out back and letting him shift into his smaller form, cupping his maw and patting his ears. Apparently another member of the 141, a goddamn rookie, had sent word to Price on the way back from the mission of how Manes had been treating their star wolf. Price let him sleep in his office that night, curled up at his feet while Gaz brushed his fur.

He didn’t ask where Ghost was, already knowing the answer.

[thedevilspearl]

➛ the good, the bad and the bratty

a/n: here it is!!! cowboy!diavolo surprised me because he was voted least out of the top three yet i found myself loving him so much that i couldn’t stop writing and it turned into a whole fic haha check out the other cowboys here!

tags: 2.0k words, cowboy!diavolo x female reader, bondage, spanking, brat taming, breeding kink, mild exhibitionism. minors do not interact!

diavolo had a busy morning rounding up the sheep that slipped through the fence during the night. he crept out of bed without waking you, leaving you with warm blankets and a kiss to your cheeks as he pulled on his jeans and shirt.

you’re an expert rider, better than him although he won’t admit it — stubborn cowboys never do no matter how sweet they are.

but not waking you up to catch the sheep with him wasn’t due to his pride but rather the fact that you were up all night riding something else entirely.

he had you slamming up and down on his cock for hours, grinding on him until you both passed out. his cock throbs at the memories and he adjusts his crotch in his tight jeans before fastening his belt.

diavolo sighs, wishing he could spend the morning walking the perimeter of the ranch on horseback with you beside him, but you tired yourself out last night. you deserve rest. and on top of that, he can only imagine how sore your pussy must be.

he’d be the devil if he asked you to sit on a saddle before fully recovering.

so at dawn, he ventures onto his land and mounts his horse to chase after the escaped sheep. it takes hours, but once rounded up, he works on fixing the fence and then checking on the cattle.

it isn’t until long after noon when he spots you coming down to the barn.

“hey, sweetie,” you mutter with a kiss to his lips. “why didn’t you wake me?”

you smirk at his eyes widening from your appearance. it’s a hot day so you opted for one of his flannels and a pair of cowboy boots. his shirt is baggy enough to cover you, but the only thing on his mind is whether or not you’re wearing anything under his shirt.

“thought ya needed some rest after last night,” he teases. “you worked so hard.”

“well, you work hard every day looking after the ranch.”

he chuckles lowly and you find yourself warming up at the sound.

“so, what’s the plan for the day?”

diavolo is about to tell you he did most of the work and the only thing you should be doing is resting, but his inconveniently friendly neighbours interrupt him.

“hey!” mammon calls with beelzebub following behind him. “you got hay?”

“what happened to yours?” dia quips.

“found mould in ‘em. can’t use it anymore.”

both cowboys tip their hats in your direction as greeting.

“mornin’, boys.” you beam.

“afternoon,” beel corrects you. “but i assume it’s morning for you.”

they both grin and wink at diavolo, knowing exactly what happened last night given your attire. and diavolo hates them for thinking about you like that.

“why don’t ya head back to the house?” diavolo leans in and suggests. “get something to eat.”

you know he means to say go put on some clothes. or at least stay away from these guys while you’re dressed like that. jealousy rises from his body and you read him easily.

perhaps it’s the exhaustion from last night, or maybe it’s due to the heat, but your brain is frazzled enough to make you want to disobey his request and piss him off. for some reason, making him more jealous sounds like a good idea.

“i already had breakfast.” you say and hop onto a pile of hay, crossing your legs so no one can peek up the little clothing you have on.

dia stares at you starstruck, silenced by your boldness. and the other two cowboys suffocate in the growing tension. beel’s eye’s wander around the room nervously, not landing on anything specific. and mammon lets out a long whistle.

“so….” he clicks his tongue. “the hay?”

“there’s more round back.” diavolo says without tearing his stern eyes from you. you cower under his gaze, knowing you may have gone too far.

when mammon and beel disappear behind the stable, you hop down from your pile of hay. you thought it would be hot to tease him in front of the others but it turned out awkward so you wander back to the house. but diavolo grabs you before you can make it two paces out of the door.

“what?” you ask with feigned innocence.

“you know what.”

“i don’t.”

he scoffs.

“are ya wearing anything under that?” he asks, and your silence is his answer.

he rips open your shirt, his shirt, and buttons go flying in all direction to reveal your naked body. your tits sit freely and your bare pussy was only inches away from being exposed if the shirt was lifted high enough.

and yet, you jumped on that pile of hay without a care in the world, without caring if his neighbours saw what only he is allowed to see. and it angers him in ways it shouldn’t.

“dia!” you push him away, but he doesn’t let go of the shirt and because of its huge size, it slips off your frame too easily.

the cowboy is stunned for a second, but he gulps and tips his hat in your direction, admiring your glowing body in the sunlight.

he was ready to scold you for acting so scantily in front of his friends, but instead of listening to logic, he listens to his cock. despite the hours and hours of fucking you did last night, it aches for more.

and what turns him on to a point of no return is your god damned boldness, not even trying to hide your perky breasts or pretty pussy. your stand before him with confidence he can only admire.

mammon and beel are minutes away from walking in on you wearing nothing but a pair of cowboy boots and diavolo feels inclined to teach you a lesson.

you would dare to be seen naked by anyone other than diavolo?

not on his watch.

your brattiness knows no bounds but you’ve certainly got him in the mood to tame it. to teach you that no one else is allowed to see your pretty, perfect body.

he very rarely uses the lasso he carries on his hip, but all of a sudden he feels inspired to use it.

“c’mere.”

you ignore him, drifting away further without looking back and acknowledging him. if you step outside any further, there’d be no doubt the others would see you.

“don’t ignore me. i told ya to c’mere.”

you turn around with sass, standing with your hand on your hip. “or what?” you follow his hand down to where it grazes against his loop of rope and your heart beats faster, and your pussy throbs.

“don’t make me use this on ya, sweetheart.”

you swallow thickly, feeling your body burn. the thought of him tying you up is provocative, but using his lasso on you?

it’s unexpectedly the sexiest thing you’ve ever imagined.

and he knows it too.

“you like the sound of that?” he smirks and takes big steps towards you. “i’m sick of ya acting like a brat, ‘specially in front of other guys. how about i teach my little cowgirl a lesson, hm?”

you bite your lips and he hovers above you, eyes raking all over your form.

“want me to tie you up and teach you a lesson, baby?”

you nod eagerly but maintain the daring brattiness in your glare.

“i want ya to say it, sweetheart.”

“yes,” you yip, a little too excitedly. “use it on me. tie me up and fuck me good, dia.”

your heart flutters as the corner of his lip twitches upwards, and your pussy clenches as diavolo moves swiftly. he spins you around grabs both of your wrists in one of his hands, somehow rough and gentle at the same time. and with his other, he loosens his lasso before looping it around your wrists and pulling.

he then works some skilful magic to have your elbows touching together and the rope lacing around the length of your forearms.

it’s tight enough for you to be unable to fight against it. not that you’d want to.

your bound wrists rest on your lower back and he pulls you back into the barn, slamming the door behind him.

“what a fucking brat i’ve got,” he growls and bends you over on the pile of hay you were previously displaying yourself on. “wants to get fucked like an animal, huh?”

“yes, dia,” you moan. “wanna get fucked so good.”

you wiggle your ass in front of his crotch which earns a harsh slap on it. and then another.

“best be quiet or those assholes are gonna hear ya.”

you moan louder and lewder when he slaps your ass a third time.

“or don’t.”

diavolo wastes no more time in loosening his belt and pulling his cock from his jeans. it throbbed and ached all morning and now he can finally relieve himself by putting you in your place.

he grabs you by the rope, pulling you upright and pressing your ass against him. 

“fucking brat,” he grunts rubbing against you. “was last night not enough, huh? greedy pussy’s got you acting up like a slut.”

you whine loudly, defiant against his words. his large hand lands on your ass again, causing you to yelp and your whole body to jolt from the impact. writhing to free yourself from the rope is a fruitless attempt, but diavolo enjoys the sight of you struggling.

“use your hands.” he orders.

you could ignore him, piss him off even more. but your pussy is so fucking desperate to be filled and battered by his huge cock that your brattiness slowly fades away and you follow his orders quickly.

it’s difficult to move in the position you’re in but with the little freedom your bound hands have, you arch into him and stroke his huge cock. “fuck, dia. you’re so big. want it in me so bad.”

“patience, brat,” he mutters and runs his hands up and down your body, squeezing your tits with one hand and rubbing your clit with the other. “gotta wait for them to come back.”

arousal leaks from your pussy and you continue jerking him off until the familiar footsteps in the gravel grow louder, and dia takes it as his signal to push you down on the hay again and slam his cock into your soaking pussy.

“fuck!” you scream as your pussy welcomes him in greedily. “dia!”

“you like that, huh? you like my cock?”

“yes, i love it!” you moan loudly, gasping for air against the hay. “i love your cock.”

“that’s right.”

he continues hitting you with thrust after thrust of his hips, the sound reverberating through the wooden walls of the barn. it may be muffled from the outside, but there is no doubt the others can’t hear you.

your pussy is still sensitive from last night, but more than eager to please diavolo’s cock as he drills your hole, slamming against all the right places. “ah! fuck, dia, i’m gonna cum!”

“you’re gonna cum? your bratty pussy’s gonna cum all over my cock?”

“yes!”

“fuck,” he gasps. “want me to cum in your pussy, hm? fill it up ’til ya can’t take no more?”

“yes! dia, please!”

“gonna fuckin’ breed ya.”

“do it, dia! do it!”

“gonna knock ya up, show ‘em all how good i fucked ya!” he groans. “gonna teach my brat a lesson and knock her up.”

your cries turn into fully incomprehensible moans, but he knows you want it as much as he does. you want him to mark your body in ways it’s never been marked before and claim you as his forever.

so while you babble away, you both rock against the hay with hot, sticky bodies and there’s nothing but steamy air and filthy words between you.

before you know it, your orgasm washes over you and your pussy tightens around his cock, causing him to spurt ropes of his cum into your pussy.

your pussy tightens, causing him to spurt ropes of cum into your pussy as you scream in delight; your orgasms instils pure bliss into your body, as it does to dia who lets out an animalistic growl as he fucks you both through the high.

“who fuckin’ owns this pussy?”

“you do! you own it, dia.” you mumble, barely able to form words with how much you’re moaning. “you own my pussy. you own me.”

“that’s right,” he grunts. “i fuckin’ own ya.”

with one last rut, he stills deep groan and leans over, panting above you and pressing soft along your shoulder as you gasp for air.

“your mine, brat.”

[lacollectionneuse1967]

remembering you

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: the year is 1916 and you live with your family near the western front in france. after a chance encounter with a wizard soldier during the war, you don't think you'll ever see him again, although you're sure you'll always remember him.

nine years later, you find that the man not only works with you at the ministry, but he also happens to be the annoying auror who keeps accidentally sending interdepartmental memos to your desk. you develop a friendly, albeit anonymous, banter through sending each other notes, but the question remains--does he know who you are? and, if he does, does he remember you?

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: office romance. smut with plot.

warnings: 18+ smut scene. unprotected penetration. oral sex (fem receiving). dirty talk. mdom/femsub. fyi he begs for it.

author's note: i am not an expert on the wizarding world nor am i an expert on wwi / world history! with respect, i do not claim to be. this is a work of fanfiction.

1916, Northern France

How strange it was, being at home when it no longer felt like home.

Your memories from childhood were precious and few, almost unreal. It was uncanny to be back with your father at that small, unchanging farmhouse on the far outskirts of Verdun. Your school waited until the last possible minute to send its students home, as they would have been sending many students home to die.

The perpetual afternoon, summery quiet of the countryside that you were so used to took on a disconcerting edge, an unspoken terror. This was the silence of a stalemate, of a breath being held. Not far from here lay the trenches and, beyond that, the Germans.

The flat, low-slung lines of Meuse were an additional shock to you. You'd spent the last five years of your life in the high, rocky mountains of the Pyrenees, at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.

The river-run grasslands around you now had a vacant, exposed quality to them, the trees bare of birds, the squat buildings in town possessing the hollowed-out feel of an abandoned amusement park.

Even before the soldiers came you'd felt like a sitting duck.

Your sister's scream was the first noise to break the deadlock silence of the night.

You run from the windowsill without looking back. Smoke smell pricks your nostrils.

Your front door is swinging frenetically on its squealing hinges, left open, gapingly and awfully so. There are three uniformed men in boots, heavy gear, standing in your living room, looking around your small, low-ceilinged house with barely concealed reproach on their faces.

The wooden floors creak weakly underfoot. Through the doorframe you can make out some distant fires burning, you can't see them but you can smell them.

The sharp, whistling sound of war planes tears through the air.

"Parlez-vous anglais?" One of the men says in mangled French. He's redheaded, maybe in his early forties. There's black soot on his face which makes his irises look so light blue they're nearly white. "English. Anyone speak English?"

Your younger sister cowers at the booming cadence of his voice, she doesn't speak English. One of her bare feet takes a step back.

So they're English soldiers at least, but you don't recognize their uniforms. The redheaded one is brandishing a wand. But that can't be...

"[Your sister's name]," your father is too sick to rise from his chair, but he beckons to your sister, feebly, calling her away from the door in French. "Please, darling. It's okay, he's a soldier."

"There are no wizard soldiers," you step forward, placing yourself between the men and your family members. They look to you in plain surprise. Your English is unaccented. "The British and French Ministries of Magic abandoned us, forbade any wizard from involvement in-"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Your gaze shoots to the man who spoke.

He looks young. He has a long face and short-cut, curly brown hair. Handsome but not roguishly, not like a soldier ought to be. Handsome in an upright, gentlemanly way, the kind of face that exudes goodness and inspires trust. He almost seems out of place in his uniform, dressed for combat.

"What do you want?" you ask warily.

The third, sunken-eyed man gawks and lets out an incredulous sneer.

"Ungrateful little-"

"Quiet, it's fine," the brown-haired man says, silencing his comrade before turning to you. "We're here to evacuate all magical families in the area. We've received prophetic intel that invasion is imminent, the battle will begin moments from now and will span months. Hundreds of thousands will die. Pack your family's things."

Your brother lets out a noise of trepidation, turning to your father.

Your father--paler every day, made older by his illness, slumped over in his chair. He could not even make it out to the front garden, nevertheless survive an evacuation. His eyes are twinkling acutely, buried like gems in his wrinkled, ruined face.

"Come on!" Says the redheaded man in frustration. His blackened, ash-covered face is frightening to your siblings, as is his anger.

He pulls the man standing in the back towards him roughly by the shoulder to hiss in his ear.

"I'd understand if it was an estate that had been in their family for centuries, some of the pure-blood families that we…" For a moment his whispers are unintelligible, but you make out the last words well enough. "But this little farm?"

"Little farm?!" You step forward again, bristling. "This is our home. Can't you understand wanting the dignity of dying in your own home?"

The handsome one looks sharply to your father in his chair then. It is like he is seeing him clearly for the first time, you can see it click in his mind.

"Your father is a Muggle..." he says sympathetically.

"And he is sick. He won't survive apparition. Besides," you protest. "The Germans haven't broken the line since the Battle of the Marne."

The other two soldiers are stilled in shock, aghast at the fact of you, a young girl, arguing with them at all.

"Please," you entreat them. "There's been no movement. This is trench warfare, sir. They won't-"

"They will," the redheaded soldier's voice is grave, uncompromising. "Tonight, tomorrow. I don't know when, but the Germans intend to bleed the French white. They will break the line at Verdun. It is certain."

If what they said was true, if there was a prophecy....

Your hope sinks away from you, you feel your palms go limp and bloodless.

For a moment no one speaks. The silence of the night returns from wherever it fled to, creeps and settles around you.

When you find it again, your voice sounds heartless to your ears.

"Take my siblings," you say.

[Your brother's name] shouts in objection, your little sister cries out.

"No! Y/N, you can't-"

"Not another word!" You order. The words burn you to say. "You will go with these men, I won't hear anything about it."

The redheaded man grabs your sister by the forearm swiftly, and the sullen one extends a hand to your brother. They apparate away in a solitary whoosh. You feel the last remnants of your heart tear away and leave with them.

When the last man, the handsome one, steps towards you, you shake your head and retreat, backing up against the wall.

"I'm not going, sir."

You speak firmly, but the man scoffs anyway.

The front door is still erratically swinging on its hinges like a weather vane. Your father's neck has drooped forward, his chin buried in his chest. He falls in and out of sleep like this lately. He grows worse every day.

The lone soldier purses his lips, his eyes gleam testily. You think he might grab you then, and it sends a tingle down your spine.

"I'm a war nurse, you know?" Your hands are trembling suddenly. No one to pretend to be brave for now that your siblings are gone. Your courage takes on a raw, desperate quality. "Or I want to be. I know enough to help."

"Miss," the man speaks sincerely. Unlike his comrades, he really looks at you when he talks, looks you dead in the eyes. It should be unnerving, but it isn't. You can't name what it does to you.

"I vow to take full responsibility for your father's health and safety. Home or not, he won't be better off here. I will personally care for and protect him, I promise you."

You swallow and nod. He's about to grab your hand when you speak again.

"And them?" You say. "The Muggle soldiers? Who protects them? You can take my father, but I will stay."

He makes a noise of gentle surprise.

"Miss, we're here to minimize the global wizarding community's losses. No magical blood needs to be spi-"

"I don't care about all that," your voice is sharper than you intended. It appears to have cut him to the core. 'Magical blood,' he'd said. But you've never been ashamed of being a half-blood. You've never been ashamed of being your father's daughter.

He frowns in contemplation, more to himself than at you.

"You want to stay so badly. Why?"

"I told you, I'm a nurse."

"You're a child."

"I'm sixteen," you bite back.

"Like I said," his rebuttal is delivered with a sly smile. You amuse him, though you're not sure why. "A child. Not even old enough for Muggle conscription."

"I'm no Muggle."

"No, you're... You're something else."

You bite your lip. Your words are braver than your feelings now.

"If what you say is true, the Muggles--the Allied soldiers--will need medical attention. A woman in town has been training me as a nurse. I've been to the front, I can help. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

His eyes don't leave your face, some silent assessment taking place within him. You're already thinking of what else you can say to him, how else to convince him.

"Okay," he says, unflinchingly. "You can stay." He'll turn a blind eye.

Your shoulders slump in relief.

He walks towards your father, who is still sagged over in a worrisome-looking unconsciousness, too deep to be sleep.

'No,' you think. 'Don't go yet.'

Mindlessly, senselessly, you feel a blooming alarm. Some death rattle, some dying burst of life.

"Wait!" You call out to him, stepping away from the wall.

The man turns. "The handsome one," you'd called him in your head, fancifully, maybe even teasingly. Nothing about it seems funny now. It never had to mean anything to you, people being handsome or beautiful. It didn't have to be about you. But this, it feels serious, personal.

You don't know what overcomes you, how you could act so boldly. He'll probably think you deranged, hysterical.

But you can't imagine he'll deny you.

You've seen enough soldiers these last two years of war to know what they want from women and girls, what they all inescapably hunger for.

"Kiss me," you say, and then add, "Please. Please kiss me."

He halts completely. When his brows knit together your heart shutters closed, meekly.

"Why?"

"I..." It's hard to admit, even now, the world burning around you. "I've never been kissed. I want to be kissed, just once, before I die. In case I do..."

You're losing your breath as you speak, your stamina sputters out.

You know how he must see you--naive, insane, maybe even pathetic. You can bear the rejection, but, suddenly, can't bear to face him anymore.

You don't hear his footsteps. His touch is so gentle you barely feel it, are still turning away when you notice his fingertips resting on your wrist.

When you look up at his face it's so unexpectedly close that you gasp. His eyes are blue, a deep and true blue. You were a fool to think him anything like the other soldiers you'd encountered. No, his expression was achingly kind and perceptive. Devastatingly handsome.

He smells like engine smoke and soap and spearmint. He smells like a man. It's intoxicating. It makes you shudder.

You close your eyes tight and hold your breath. There is the smell of fire and the echoes of distant warfare around you, but your entire body drones that out, pauses and prepares for this moment, readies itself to be kissed.

The man rests a hand on the side of your face, that alone is as intimate as any kiss, the warmth of his palm. He hesitates.

His lips on your forehead are not what you expect, but your body thrills anyway when you feel them press there.

But you are sixteen and you want a real kiss.

You don't even care who from. You want just this one selfish, childish thing in a warring world where no one is afforded childhood.

You stare at him in unhappy perplexity when he pulls back.

You might cry, you realize, and the swelling tears in your vision, they stun you.

"Live," he says, softly. Insistently. "You'll live to be kissed."

He turns to leave, but stops midway. Your siblings gone, soon your father too. The Germans invading. Your whole life taken in one fell swoop, one night. The last trace of your girlhood will be the sight of this soldier's back as he walks out the door of your childhood home. This, you know.

The man looks back at your face and asks you a question no soldier has ever bothered to ask you, not when they burst into your home, not even when you were cleaning their wounds and saving their lives at the front.

"What is your name?" he says.

"What's yours?"

"Theseus Scamander," he doesn't miss a beat. He's an open book. "Do you not want to tell me your name?"

"It won't matter soon enough..."

"Do you so badly not want to live?"

"No, I do. I am just no longer afraid of death."

The look in his eyes is so tender and considerate, it's almost painful.

"I don't need a name to remember you," he's smiling again, it's so strange and out of place and, you admit, heartening. "Good luck. Goodbye."

Theseus Scamander leaves with your father in tow, closing the violently fluctuating door, at last, on his way out.

----

1925, London, Nine Years Later

'It can't be,' you think to yourself. 'Improbable.'

It's just too soon. You've hardly sat down at your new desk when you receive the interdepartmental memo. It unfolds from its airplane shape mid-air and sways delicately, falling in a rocking motion until it's flat on your desk.

A memo already?

You have just been moved to the Department of Magical Games and Sports from the Department of Mysteries. The man who sat there before you was moved to a bigger, better office, had been some hunching, Quidditch-loving Old Boy who wore long socks and smelled of moth-eaten cotton. Allegedly his name was Mr. Byrne.

A real success story in his department, or, rather, your host department, as you'd been appointed Interdepartmental Liaison for the Department of Mysteries. A new position. In fact, the only "above ground" position in your department, which was, expectedly, shrouded in mystery and sunken deep within the depths of the British Ministry of Magic.

In truth, you were also here on a mission. There had been rumors of conspiracy, political mutiny. Grindelwald supporters who had infiltrated the British Ministry of Magic. And the top suspect was the Head of the Department you'd been moved to. You'd been instructed to investigate, discern the truth of the rumors.

This would usually be a job for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but they had also been compromised. Or so you'd been told...

Your new position meant that you were to be kept in the dark more often than not, but it also meant having a desk above ground and being around other people. Luxuries.

No more time travel experiments, thought experiments, or, thankfully, demented blood purity experiments that always made your half-blood boil. You could live without all of that.

Still, none of that explained you receiving an interdepartmental memo before you'd even settled in.

You lift it from your desk in annoyance.

You do a double-take at the words, blinking hard at them.

"Holy hell," the memo reads. "When I told you I wanted to investigate some cursed Gobstones I didn't mean I wanted you to send them to my office, fuck's sake. Next after-work pint is on you, my friend."

You scoff.

It must have been misaddressed. The unfortunate writer must not know about Mr. Byrne's relocation.

It's beneath you, and childish, but you can't help but write back.

It's the sort of enchanted parchment that you can just write your responding message on. The ink disappears into the scrap of paper and appears wherever your mystery correspondent may be.

For your own amusement, you try to picture their reaction the best that you can.

"First of all, 'Holy hell'? 'Fuck's sake'? How dare you," you write. "Second of all, I'm not your friend and I most certainly will not be paying for an 'after-hours' pint. If I'm not clocked in, I'll have nothing to do with the Ministry."

It takes him so long to write back you nearly forget about it, have already gotten to unpacking all your silver nibs and ink pots and lining them up in the drawer like little soldiers, just how you like.

"Who is this?" Comes the message.

It's so dry, the response, so worried and perfunctory, that you nearly laugh out loud.

But something about the formality and genuine concern in your mystery messenger's script compels you to reply with mercy.

"Relax. Mr. Byrne's desk has been moved. If you want to write him, he has the big office on level seven with the view of the Atrium now. Lucky bastard. I'm at his old desk. Was just kidding about being offended. You can say 'fuck' and 'hell' all you want to me."

His reply comes quickly this time.

"Oh, good. Fucking hell, I was scared for a moment there."

You smile in bemusement. Who knew anyone at the Ministry could have a sense of humor? You'd thought you were the only one. You can't help but write back eagerly.

"Damn, I should have lied and said I was the Minister for Magic."

"Have mercy. I think I honest to God would have cried."

"So, no after-work pint for me then?"

"Forgive me, where are my manners? Today. The White Horse. Not sure who you are, but pint is on me, sir."

"*Miss!!" You correct. "And I was only joking. I really meant what I said before about not wanting anything to do with the Ministry unless I'm at work and being paid for my time."

"How very patriotic."

There's nothing in his writing to indicate sarcasm, but it practically drips off the page. This person is cheeky, you realize. Sarcastic. And a little annoying.

You like it.

The Department of Magical Games and Sports is a sleepy, uneventful affair compared to the work you'd been engaged in for the Department of Mysteries when you were "below ground." You look around at your colleagues, your dreary officemates. They were relatively sedentary outside of Quidditch season. Sleepy, slow-moving creatures.

As interdepartmental liaison for the Department of Mysteries, a fabricated position, really, you were already bored out of your mind.

Maybe that's why you write back with unfounded enthusiasm.

"Mystery boy: Tell me something about you. Tell me something true."

----

London hadn't been kind to you.

It seemed you had a hard time of everything: finding a flat with your sister as two unmarried, unchaperoned women, making friends outside of work, making sure to look the right way when crossing the street to avoid getting hit by a bus ('They drive on the left side, Y/N. Get it together'). All these things had proved to be excessively difficult. Especially the not-getting-hit-by-a-bus part.

During the war, while you served as an underaged combat nurse on the frontlines, your father died, but your siblings lived.

They told you the soldier from that night, the one who denied you your first kiss, had kept his word. He'd done the best he could to care for your father and, more importantly, he'd stayed with him until the very end.

Your brother was still in France, working with magical aquatic beasts around les Calanques de Cassis, but your sister was here with you. She worked in some Muggle field you didn't quite understand.

Her, your brother, and, now, the mystery man you'd been writing to every day were the only real people in your life. The only people who really talked to and knew you.

Day by day you'd grown closer to the mystery man. What had started out as vaguely funny, sometimes hostile banter had developed into something more. You'd both genuinely warmed to each other.

"Morning, sunshine!"

You were so accustomed to reading his greeting with your morning coffee that you reached for it automatically, as soon as you arrived, hand sweeping wide over the expanse of your desk to pick it up.

"Hope you caught some bad guys today. Or at least got to enforce a law or two. Bye-bye, idiot." You sign at the end of most days. Or some other joking farewell.

It's a constant correspondence between the two of you, scrawled-in between assignments and research. On your desk there is your inbox, your outbox, the stack of parchment (whatever you happen to be working on), and, just to the side of that, the discreet piece of paper you use to correspond with the mystery man.

However, you do try to mitigate the sharing of identifying information. Even when he learns you're an "Unspeakable," or someone working for the Department of Mysteries, it does little to deter him.

"Keep your department's secrets," he writes. "I just want yours."

He volunteers information about himself, his initials ("TS") and even his department (Magical Law Enforcement), in the hopes that you'll reciprocate.

You do, but you offer unimportant, silly facts about yourself. Nothing that will help him identify you, though he's insistent that he'd know you anyway if you ran into each other.

"I'm an Auror. I fought in the war," he reveals one day. "Your turn now."

"Fine: I never learned how to swim. So if you want to kill me you should probably drown me."

"I'm considering it. I'll bring a bottle of water when I finally see you. Why won't you tell me something more about yourself?!"

"What do you want to know? Can't a girl working for the Department of Mysteries be mysterious once in a while?"

"It gets old."

"You're a liar. You love me."

"True on both counts. But one of these days I'm just going to show up at your desk. I know where it is, you know... Mu-ha-ha."

You write back dismissively. "Why show up? So I can berate you in person?"

Your heart pounds stupidly as you watch the message sink away. You don't want to encourage him.

It's been one whole month of your daily exchanging of magical notes.

You know his biggest stressors at work, you know what he finds irritating, what he finds funny. Know his hopes and dreams.

You hate to admit it, but you'd be completely adrift without it, without him. Even when you're back at your flat with your sister you find your hands moving to write whenever something weird or funny happens, just to tell him, instinctually. You find yourself missing him.

It makes you shudder, the thought.

You don't want anything more... You're both comfortable and satisfied with how things are now. It's really only him who jokes about meeting up sometimes. But you? You're afraid meeting him in person would ruin that.

Maybe it's easier to have a close relationship with him across the merciful distance of anonymity.

"Night night." He writes at the end of the day. He seems to get to work earlier than you and leave later, but he's learned to say goodbye right at 6:00pm, when you usually leave.

For some reason, the words don't disappear from the page, even when you write back beneath them. His boyish script stays put.

"'Night night?'" you write back. "Ouch. I'm not a grandmother, I do intend to go out for dinner after work. Why the bedtime message?"

His words fade in and your heart swells.

"I wrote it so you can put it in your pocket and save it for tonight. I get to say goodbye to you, and good morning, but not goodnight. Just trying to cover all my bases."

You smile and tear off the message, putting it in your pocket. On the remaining paper, you cast a spell for the same, lingering text that he'd gifted you.

"Okay. You can save and reuse this message: Goodnight then, T. Sleep well, I'll talk to you tomorrow, and tomorrow. And the day after that, too."

----

You're prone to daydreaming, you'll admit to that.

"You live in a world of your own!" your favorite professor at Beauxbatons would say fondly.

"Ditzy girl, that one!" your least favorite professor would scowl within earshot of you.

But it's so easy to slip away, especially when you have something, someone, to dream about.

You watch your feet sweep across the dark green tiled floors of the Atrium, but hardly pay attention to anything else as you make your way to the elevators.

You're chuckling to yourself, remembering something your mystery correspondent wrote yesterday. It was some outrageous story, so ridiculous you wouldn't have believed it if it came from anyone but him, who was honest to a fault.

It was about a disastrous trip he took with his younger brother and involved camping on a storm-logged beach, an angry Graphorn, and frantically singing some maritime folk song they'd been misinformed would calm the beast.

You're still smiling at the floor when you step into the elevator, or, more correctly, step directly into a tall man in a three-piece suit. You crash into him with a crushing momentum.

"Oof!" you redden immediately, try to catch your breath and sputter out an apology at the same time. "I'm so sorry, forgive me!"

But the man is engaged in a conversation with two other men in the elevator, laughing.

He doesn't look over to you, he just stills you with an attractive casualness, steadies your frame with a firm hand on your shoulder. You know you hit him hard, his nonchalance is for your benefit.

"S'alright. Sorry, miss," he says with a half-glance, before turning back to his conversation.

A half-glance is all you need.

The profile of his face in the elevator light. His exact height and the feeling of being next to him. His voice, for Christ's sake!

You go stiff, your face wan.

It was him. Unmistakably. The English soldier from that night at your father's house in France. From the last time you saw your father, the last time you felt like a girl...

You couldn't speak if you wanted to. You feel something like seasickness come over you, you don't dare open your mouth.

"Theseus Scamander," his colleague is joking. "I mean it when I say well done! We should've known our young war hero would make the best Auror in the department!"

"Really, really spectacular job, son!" The other man claps a hand over Theseus's back in agreement. They're both older, sort of brash men, they don't seem to sense Theseus's discomfort at being complimented.

Theseus is grinning bashfully.

"Just doing my job," he delivers with charm, shrugging.

"Nonsense! Tonight, we celebrate. I'm not taking no for an answer. I've actually felt somewhat of a mentor to you, when you first started out-"

"We ought to invite Mr. Byrne out with us!" The third man exclaims with revelatory fervor. "How has the old chap been? Do you still go down to the pub with him, Theseus?"

It is the second, overlapping wave of nausea that really does you in, digs in its claws and drags downwards. You feel your feet physically sink into the floor. You can't bring yourself to move at all, you drone out the rest of what they're saying. It's white noise, the buzz of flies.

Mr. Byrne.

War hero.

Auror.

Initials T.S.

God, how stupid could you be? No, that's not fair.

The chances of seeing him again were slim. The chances of the two of you working together were even slimmer. The chances of him, the soldier from that night, Theseus Scamander, being your mystery correspondent these last weeks.... It should've been impossible.

When the elevator doors ding open at level seven, you step past the men quickly, rudely, afraid they'll turn to say something to you. Even a belated greeting or perfunctory farewell you couldn't bear.

You don't know why you feel so shaken.

'It's not a big deal,' you tell yourself consolingly once at your desk. 'You were sixteen. So what if you asked him to kiss you?'

But deep within your core, in a space beyond words or reason, you know that it was more than that. You weren't embarrassed about a stupid non-kiss. No, you haven't been able to shake that night, to shake him.

You'd connected. Or, rather, he'd seen you. Something about his gaze and his words had cut through the fat of life, of circumstance, and he'd seen you for who you really are.

And he'd promised to remember you.

It's gutting, harrowing almost. Realizing he'd been writing to you all this time, unaware. Some sick joke from the universe with no punchline--because you decided then and there to stop writing to him, immediately.

Theseus realizes long before the end of the day.

After you crumple his unanswered "good morning" memo and push it to the far corner of your desk, another flies in.

"URGENT: Is it just me or is Mr. Byrne particularly dapper today? The magenta top hat I can forgive, even the monocle is pardonable, but the polkadot bowtie? Inexcusable. Unbecoming of the Ministry. Need your thoughts immediately."

You had seen Mr. Byrne's polkadot bowtie today. You still found the magenta top hat more scandalizing. You wanted to laugh, but felt too much like crying to give way to the urge.

Then:

"I'm dying. Dark wizard lead in Suffolk but I can't be bothered. Tell me some funny story about you telling the professors off in school. I'm relying on tales of your genius to boost my morale. The fate of the Aurors Office depends on you alone. T."

It's three hours before the next memo comes flapping around the corner like some wounded bird.

"Have I done something wrong?" Shortly after, "More importantly--Are you alright?"

You don't know why you can't leave them be, why you keep reading them with no intention of responding.

"Scaring me here, mystery girl. Write back and I'll stop harassing you, write anything at all. Even a little drawing or scribble will suffice."

"You're not liaising very well, Liaison... Sorry, that was a joke. Ha-ha. I know the Department of Mysteries isn't expected to answer to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement but I'd always hoped you'd still answer to me..."

You throw yourself into your work with rigor.

Even your Department of Magical Games and Sports officemates comment on it, commendably. They don't realize you're just trying to occupy your brain, distract yourself from the sizable pile of memos lying formidably on your desk until you can go home.

The last one comes late in the day: "Really--Are you alright?"

Your heart aches weakly.

But no, you know how persistent and how persistently optimistic the mystery man ('Theseus,' you correct yourself) could be. If you wrote back he'd want an explanation, which he'd inevitably refute, and, besides, you weren't ready to tell him the truth or to face him again.

Your head is a jumbled mess of half-formed truths and complicated emotions.

It's a few minutes before 6:00pm, but you click off your desk lamp anxiously and begin to organize your things.

The nature of your position for the Department of Mysteries required you to lock your work up before you left. It involves two spells and four charmed latches and bolts, and it takes some time. You sit back in your chair with a sigh, waiting for the process to finish. The soft, mechanical whirring and clicking noises are a comfort to you.

The frosted glass door to the office swings open thunderously, with the unnecessary force of someone unfamiliar with the delicate door.

You sit up straight in your chair, startled. A few of the workers behind you even look over in alarm, heads shooting up from their desks.

No. Fucking. Way.

Theseus's chest is heaving softly. He's looking right at you, purposefully.

He actually showed up to your desk like he always joked about doing. You want to feel angry, indignant that he'd betray your trust, but all you feel is a numbing shock.

The sight of his face alone would've been a shock. Blue eyes. High cheekbones. Wavy, dark hair. Handsome as the day he left you.

He seems genuinely rendered speechless. The open part of his lips suggests that he had come with some speech prepared for you when he first burst in, although now he is, evidently, lost.

His eyes keep flitting up and down your form, lingering especially on your lips. It makes you flush. Yes, he gets a good look at your face, and at the small pile of his opened memos shoved to the far corner of your desk.

Whatever he expected to find, expected you to look like, this clearly wasn't it.

"Mr. Scamander!"

Your officemate Ana's voice from behind you makes you jolt again.

She walks over and places a hand on your shoulder tenderly. She seems to be completely unaware of any tension between the two of you, speaking to Theseus with ease.

"I'm sorry to steal Y/N from you, but I have to talk to her about an interdepartmental issue before she leaves. Can't wait!"

You wince at the mention of your name, but you're standing, bag clutched like a shield, and Ana is already whisking you past Theseus and through the frosted glass double doors.

"Y/N..." you hear Theseus echo, dreamily, as you pass, just before the doors close in his face and sever you from him completely.

-----

The next day you see him at a far distance.

You feel less shaken about things after having screamed to your little sister about it all last night. But she'd said something stupid about some "string of fate" that irritated you so much that you'd ultimately resorted to screaming into your pillow.

Regardless, you feel more secure. Less unsettled.

Still, the sight of Theseus's open expression in the Atrium, looking back at you in recognition across the crowds of businessmen and women just as the doors to the elevator you're in close--it's a bit haunting.

You gulp once in the safety of the elevator.

He saw you.

His eyes had drifted up and down your form, unreadably, before settling on your face. You didn't have time to react, and he was too far away besides.

Later, later than usual, a small memo floats onto your desk.

You don't hesitate, reaching for it, but the words aren't what you expect. No "good morning," not even anything referencing what had happened yesterday.

The words are so unexpected that his handwriting is the only indication that it's from him.

"You were so beautiful in that skirt this morning. So fucking beautiful. You look so enchanting in blue."

You flush deeply. So, that was what his look this morning had meant.

The relief comes delayed, second to your shyness at his flattery.

"Oh, thank God," you think.

He'd seen you, twice now, and hadn't recognized you.

He didn't remember. Or maybe he just didn't recognize you, it'd been nine years after all and you were no longer a scrawny, scrappy sixteen-year-old. But it was more likely that he just didn't remember.

You decide his not referencing your awkward encounter yesterday either is another mercy, so you go along pretending nothing happened.

"Are you flirting with me, sir?"

It's a comfort to be writing to him again.

"No," he writes back. Then, "Yes."

You laugh aloud at his candor.

"Y/N, I apologize for my outburst yesterday. I shouldn't have sprung on you like that, unannounced. Uninvited. I wish I could say I was afraid something had happened to you, but really I was just afraid you had stopped writing me for good. But then I just stood there like an absolute idiot, you probably had no idea who I was."

You huff at that.

"I knew who you were. I'm no Auror but 'Department of Magical Law Enforcement,' 'war hero,' and 'initials T.S.' aren't exactly subtle hints."

"Hey! I mentioned the war but never called myself 'hero.' I have a strong sense of propriety and I pride myself on it."

"How British..." you write back mockingly, unthinkingly.

"Are you not?"

Fuck. Well, you've already met.

"I live here now, and have for years, but I'm French."

The ink feels seared into the paper, how black your scrawl is, how you can't take it back. You don't know what you want from him. You wish he'd go away. You wish he'd never stop writing.

You wish he'd remember you on his own.

"Hmm..." he writes back.

Your heart is pounding. When he writes again your anxiety dissolves but your heart continues its steady, heavy drum.

"You're beautiful."

Your head is a scattered, overstimulated mess. You can't think straight.

He's still writing. The words fade in one by one.

"Why didn't you tell me you were beautiful? God, I didn't expect it, it took any coherent thought or word right out of me yesterday when you looked up at me with those eyes. And this morning, that skirt. Y/N, you should've warned me."

You laugh at the words on the paper, but your body's reaction to the thought of him writing them, thinking them, thinking of you, is anything but funny.

It feels overly warm in the office suddenly, and you are agitated. You stand and pace around your desk, fanning yourself with your hands.

Your fingers are shaking around the quill when you bend over your desktop to write back.

"Don't be dramatic, you'll live."

You worry you sound cruel so you add.

"And thank you. I don't think anyone has called me beautiful in a very long time."

He writes back: "Any time. And I highly doubt that. Y/N, I'm sure you've been beautiful your whole life. I can tell just by looking at you."

You don't know what possesses you when you write the next words:

"Can I come see you?"

There's a few, atypical beats before he writes back. It's excruciating.

"What, you mean at lunch?"

You look down at the small, oval face of your wristwatch.

Lunch is too far away. The bundle of nerves and anticipation you feel about Theseus, that swarming anxiety, is too unbearable to wait for lunch. You need to get him out of your system now, get him over with, and then you can move on and focus on your work.

"I mean now. In your office." You write back.

'Am I being presumptuous?' The thought makes you furrow your brow and bite your fingernail in worry. But then you remind yourself, 'Beautiful. He called you beautiful.'

It takes so long for him to reply that you almost write again to tell him never mind. But then his words come, like the sweet relief of rain:

"Yes, please. Level two, the very back left office."

You leave at once, smoothing down your skirt and brushing your hair back out of your face.

The anxiety ebbs and peaks at random. On the elevator ride you feel like you're dying. You recollect your confidence while walking to the wooden door of the Aurors Office only to feel another stab of panic as you make your way down the curved hall.

You feel so frazzled and worked up, too distracted to work or even ponder work. But you don't understand why until you push open Theseus's door, not bothering to knock. Until you're alone in the room with him, just the two of you behind closed doors.

He stands quickly upon your entrance, like a soldier.

For a moment the two of you just stare.

'Oh, God,' you realize with mounting dread. 'I am attracted to him. I am like this because I'm attracted to him.'

It feels terrible, awful, that sapping loss of power, that weakness in the knees. You haven't had a crush in your adult life, it's a trampling blow, the realization.

Theseus looks just as handsome as he always has, the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles, the sharp curve of his jaw.

He laughs and it breaks the spell of silence.

"Hello, you," his tone is fond but he still hasn't walked over to you, which is confusing and makes you shuffle aimlessly in place.

"Hi," you say, stupidly.

"Hi is all I get?" he jokes. "You know you've become something like my best friend in the office this last month. Actually, you probably know me better than my entire department."

You laugh bleakly, and you hope it dissipates the electrified energy between the two of you. That live-wire tension.

"I could say the same about you, actually."

He makes a strange, indecipherable expression then. It's both wry and lamenting.

"I don't want anything to change that, Y/N."

You frown.

"Why would anything change that?"

He doesn't answer you, changing the subject and turning his attention to the cup of quills on his desk, fiddling with the feathers.

"I... I didn't expect to react the way I did to seeing you for the first time yesterday. I've never reacted that way to anyone, anyone. When you told me you wanted to come see me here today, I panicked. I almost said no."

That hurts your feelings. "Why?"

He looks up from his desk. Your face burns at the sincerity of his expression.

"Because I knew it'd be harder for me to control myself if we were alone together. Harder to be a good friend and... behave."

He says the last word carefully. If he is calculated, delicate, you are anything but.

"I don't want you to behave," you whisper.

You step up to him, boldly. The tension is unbearable now.

"Y/N," he says warningly, disapprovingly. But the look in his eyes is agony.

"Kiss me," you say. The words come to you from far away, a train at the end of the tunnel, you pull them from that night in Verdun, from nine years ago. You need him just the same as you did then.

Theseus smiles reluctantly. The sideways tilt to his mouth is so captivating, it makes you want it more. God, he's attractive. Even more so now that you know him, are his friend.

"I can't," he says, pitifully.

But the look on his face, the way he's standing steadfastly behind his desk like having it between you will protect him, the way his eyes are flitting from yours down to your lips and back up again and again, that isn't saying no.

"Okay, have it your way. But I won't ask you again," you warn.

You want to admit that this isn't the first time he's denied you. He promised you'd live to be kissed, you've come back to haunt him for it now.

You would not ask him a third time.

Theseus groans loudly and puts his head in his hands. When you laugh he looks up at you disparagingly.

"You think that's funny, do you?"

You do. You find it cute. Maybe you don't realize the extent of his distress.

You reach forward to pinch his cheek, jokingly. He bats your hand away with an unwilling smile.

Then you're falling into him, losing your balance. He grasps both your hands in his to keep you from toppling over, the both of you laughing.

"Get off!" you shout gleefully.

"You get off," he retorts jokingly.

Pushing and pulling and touching, it's something like play-fighting the way you're both falling into and catching each other.

At last, he wrangles you onto his desk, so you're sitting there at the edge.

Your head is spinning. He grabs both your wrists, holding them together in a single, large hand.

"Hands to yourself, Y/N," is his gentle reprimand.

But you know, know from the soft pant of his breathing, the undone look on his face, lips half parted, that you've already won.

He doesn't cave into your will so much as collapse altogether, soundlessly, undetectably.

You don't blink, big, innocuous look in your eyes, staring up at him. Even when you're raised up, sitting on his desk while he stands, he's so tall that you have to look up at him.

"Please," Theseus says, and it's so attractive, his broken whisper. "I'm begging you, Y/N."

He drops down to his knees, one leg at a time with the heavy, hypnotized motions of a man defeated.

You gasp softly when his warm palms grip your kneecaps, rubbing gingerly over the sheer material of your tights, reverently.

A man on his knees, his curly head between your thighs. Your stomach plummets, burning low in desire.

You want him bad. Mind-numbingly bad, your whole body tingling underneath and keening to his touch. But it's too addictively sweet, him begging for it like this. You want to draw it out.

"Hm," you sigh, not responding, but you let your legs fall open under the guidance of his hands.

He moans at the sight. When he speaks again his voice is weak and ruined. Rough and pleading.

"Please, I'll do anything. Let me touch you. You're killing me, please."

It's almost a whine.

You can see that the fabric of his pants is stretched taut across his crotch--he's already hard.

His chest is rising and falling softly. There's a needy, trancelike glint in his eyes. He wants it bad, it's plain on his face. It's different from impatience, it's anguish.

"Kiss me," you say again. It's a demand this time. He gives in without a fight, rising up and capturing your open mouth in his.

It's a deep, languishing kiss. He kisses you like he wants to taste you, like he can't get enough of it. He grips your head by the jaw to kiss you better, deeper. When his tongue presses into your mouth you moan into his.

His hand sweeps blindly across his desk, clearing it with a crash. You jump at the sound but he grabs your face again, turning it back to his roughly.

"No," he murmurs. "C'mere."

And he's kissing you again, humming in approval when you tentatively push back against his tongue with your own.

With effort, you pull back to look at him. His pupils are blown out with desire, the collar of his dress shirt pulled open, revealing a collarbone.

"Theseus," you say, your whole body tingling with warmth. You say his name just to say it.

You're too shy to tell him that this is your first kiss, that you'd waited all this time.

It's startling, how quickly the tables turned. How deftly he took control of the situation once he had your permission to.

His hands pull down your skirt, worshipfully, that blue skirt he loves so much. He sets it aside, you're just in your sheer black tights now.

You understand why he cleared his desk now. You fall back with a moan when he flattens his massive hand across your crotch, spreads his fingers. It covers the entire expanse between your legs easily. It feels so lewd for him to touch you there now, but then he drags his hand up, sliding it over your stomach, the middle of your chest, up your neck.

"You'll let me touch you like this?" he asks.

You nod, quickly.

"Only me?" he inquires, sounding pleased. Maybe amused.

"Yes," you say, nodding again with urgency. "Only you. Nobody else."

"Fuck," he curses. He pulls open your blouse then, and disposes of that as well. You half sit up to help him with your bra. Whereas his movements are devout, seeming to worship every part of you, yours are frantic, crazed.

It's not just that you're in his office, at work, but it's that you want him badly. So very badly. It feels like the only thing that can make it better.

Once you have your bra off he pushes you back on the desk again. Places open-mouth kisses your neck, drags his teeth over the skin there then moves down. You gasp when he puts his mouth on your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue. He pinches your other nipple with his hand, rolling it gently between his rough fingertips.

"Hngh," you can't help but moan, writhe, throw your head back against the wood.

You almost want to cry out in disbelief when his head leaves your chest, sinking lower. He's on his knees again, pulling down your tights. You don't understand.

"Theseus, what-" you start, but you are silenced, the breath stolen from your chest, at the sensation of his mouth on your clit.

The moan that leaves your mouth this time is recklessly loud, carelessly so.

Theseus doesn't seem to mind.

"You taste so fucking good," he pulls back to say, his voice is ragged.

You're shy. The idea of him tasting and licking you, putting his mouth there makes you shy. But the pleasure that rocks through your entire body is too strong to deny. You'd never ask him to stop. You weren't capable of it.

Your hands go to his head, fingers wind through his hair automatically.

"Fuck," you say, involuntarily.

He's sucking your clit so well, you hardly notice when he brings up a hand, finger tracing the line of your wet slit, prodding in and out of your tight hole just barely, just to the knuckle. Kitten-fucking you with it.

He stops sucking to lick you up and down with his tongue, again and again in quick, steady rhythm, flicking the firm tip of it against your clit until you have to bite the back of your hand to keep from crying out. When he sinks his two fingers into your pussy fully, stuffing them in forcefully despite the restrictive tightness, still licking, that's all it takes for your orgasm to overtake you in pulses of unbelievable, unknown pleasure.

He removes his fingers and rises. His plush lips are slick with your arousal. He has a dreamy, dazed look in his eyes. The ravaged, destroyed look on your face seems to do something awful to him.

"Let me fuck you," Theseus says. It makes your stomach flip.

He doesn't ask, didn't say 'do you want to,' or 'can we.' He wants to take it from you.

"Yes," you mutter, spreading your legs again without thinking, head still laid back on his desk. Your orgasm made your limbs feel loose, compliant. Anything he wants. Anything at all.

Even the clinking sound of him undoing his belt buckle makes you swoon with yearning, makes your mouth water. He doesn't bother to take off his pants, just pulls his dick out, still staring into your eyes.

'God. Mercy,' you think. Even in his hand it looks huge. It's pretty.

He smiles crookedly at the widening of your eyes.

"You like my cock, baby?"

"Yes," you whisper. "Please. I want it."

He leans over you to kiss your forehead. You don't have the chance to reminisce, for it to remind you of anything, because then he is pushing into your wet warmth. He slides in so snugly, so smoothly, fits like a glove despite the stretch. The feeling of being so overfull is lewd and perfect.

He presses a hand to your lower stomach. He can feel himself inside of you there.

You gasp at the applied pressure.

He keeps his hand pressed there as he angles his hips back and then begins to fuck you. He wants to feel it underhand, how he's moving inside of you.

"Fuuuuucckkkk," you're incoherent, you know. But you can't help but swear, your whole body is vibrating with ecstasy as he drives his dick in and out of you.

"You're beautiful," he groans, throwing his head back. His entire world narrows down to this, fucking you, pumping his dick into your tightness and feeling you flutter and flex around him.

"Wait, Theseus I-" your second orgasm takes you by surprise. Your back arches off the desk, it hits you like a train, it's like an out-of-body experience.

"Fuck," He grips the back of your thighs to the point of pain. But you hardly notice that, you only feel his dick grow achingly hard. He pulls out at the last moment, coming into his hand. It spills out and between his fingertips anyway.

He makes a face of sore regret at the mess. You knew how badly he wanted to come inside of you, you could feel it, but you are grateful he didn't.

You have the strangest urge to get up and lick his fingers, but realistically you're too wrecked to move.

It takes a solid two minutes before either of you return to breathing normally and regain your bearings.

'What did we just do?' you think as you put your clothes back on.

You glance over to Theseus, he's fixing his tie in the small mirror next to the closed door of his office.

It was like you were a woman possessed. You can hardly believe your actions. But, strangely, you don't feel guilty or regretful. And your feelings for Theseus are stronger than ever. Consummated. You feel safe with him. Overjoyed, really.

He catches you looking at him in the mirror and turns. The look on his face is one of total contentment.

He comes over to you, runs his fingers through your hair gently. There's nothing but adoration in his eyes as he beholds you.

"I don't know how I'm expected to just sit back down and continue to do work on my desk now, after that. I'm gonna go insane, just knowing you're only a few levels away."

You laugh. It's an airy, light-hearted sound.

"I like you so much," he admits, brazenly, before you can even respond to him.

Your head is still a muddled mess, but this here is easy to admit. He could probably see it on your face anyway. Read you like a book.

"I like you too," you say. "I miss you already. Keep writing to me."

"I promise."

-----

part two here

author's note: what will happen when the truth of their past comes to light?? part two incoming!!! please leave feedback :)

comment/ask to be added to the taglist!

taglist: @msauthor

[rileyslibrary]

thinking about: reader injuring themselves during training (literally the smallest paper cut) and ghost over-dramatically carrying them to the medics because they “can’t walk” <3 <3 <3

Hey anon, I really liked your request, so I decided to spice it up a little (not in a naughty way, but in the “I-too-was-in-the-mood-to-over-exaggerate-the-living-sh!t-out-of-it-just-like-Ghost” way). I hope you don’t mind. Here, *passes you the story the way grandmas give birthday money*

———————————————————————

It was a goddamn obstacle course, and a simple one at that. They called it “routine training,” aimed to remind soldiers like you of your fundamental training principles while keeping you physically fit and mentally sharp. You’ve done it many times before, so it shouldn’t be a problem now, right?

Wrong.

This time, Lt. Riley summoned you to serve as a role model for the recruits. “Show them how it’s done,” Ghost said in his deep voice, to which you agreed with a seemingly disinterested shrug. It was a cocky, arrogant shrug that you later regretted for many reasons—far more than the number of times you had run that obstacle course.

See, you’ve never practised with so many people looking at you. And although you’ve completed the course with your teammates before, you have never been asked to act as a “demonstrator” in front of a crowd of eager eyes. Eyes that stare at you right now, admiring the seasoned soldier standing before them, waiting to see how you’d perform the track. You were an expert in their minds, a higher-up, so you wanted to give it your best and finish it in record time, just like a proper master would—just like Ghost would like you to.

As Lt. Riley finishes briefing the soldiers, he redirects their attention towards you. You, in response, begin to stretch your neck, arms, and legs and nod at Ghost, signalling that you’re ready. He nods back and blows the whistle through his balaclava.

The obstacle course begins with a row of five walls, each more challenging than the last. Despite the increasing difficulty, you summon all your skills and athleticism, and with a combination of agility and strength, you clear each of the five walls. You turn to look at Ghost, who stands proudly with his hands crossed in front of his chest. Good job, you.

The next challenge is a mud pit with barbed wire on top. It’s challenging if you don’t know the technique, but that doesn’t apply to you since you’ve mastered it. You quickly move through the second course, sliding with your back to the ground and carefully avoiding the barbed wire. As you pull yourself out of the pit, you feel a slight scratch on your knee from the barbed wire, but that doesn’t affect your ability to complete the course.

With the second challenge behind you, you reach the final obstacle: a 10-metre rope with a bell at the top. Climbing the rope and ringing the bell marks the end of the track.

As you pull yourself up the rope, you can hear Ghost’s thundering voice in the background, desperate and distressed, as if the world is about to end. You see him waving you down, but you’re determined to reach the top and shake the bell before sliding down, victorious. Your landing may not be as graceful as you imagined it, since you fell on your back, but that doesn’t matter; you did everything perfectly. You shift your attention to the recruits, who are now looking at Ghost, drawn by his frantic sprint towards you, followed by his dramatic slide to the ground.

“MEDIC!” Ghost yells as he grabs your knee and inspects it, “SOLDIER DOWN!”

You look at your knee to discover the source of all this urgency: it’s a scratch, a teeny tiny one, caused by the barbed wire you just passed. There is blood, as you would expect from a fresh wound, but nothing that would require the services of a medical professional or the attention of a hundred recruits.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT MEDIC?” he repeats and clasps your head with both hands. “Shhhh,” he murmurs, “it’s okay; everything will be okay.”

“Everything is okay, Lieutenant,” you reassure him with your face squeezed between his hands.

But he hears none of it. He pulls down your lower eyelids, peering into your eyes to inspect God knows what. He then turns to face the crowd. ‘Someone call for the medic!’ he cries, shifting his gaze to you and caressing your hair. ‘The poor thing is talking nonsense.’

He removes his scarf and begins wiping the blood off your knee. He starts giving you an impromptu pep talk, saying things like, ‘I won’t let anything happen to you’ and ‘Remember, pain is just weakness leaving the body.’ Embarrassed by the attention, you lie on the ground and cover your face with your hands. So much for the triumphant finale of completing the task.

The medic rushes over, grasping your leg to examine the wound, but Ghost slaps their hand and warns him not to touch you.

“He can’t provide consultation, Lieutenant,” you explain as you throw your hands in the air. “You called for him; at least let him do his job.”

He considers it, then turns to the medic. “Perhaps it’s better if we take this inside,” he says, sweeping you up in his arms and cradling you as if you’re injured beyond repair.

You put your palm to your temple and hide your face in embarrassment as he carries you bridal-style through the sea of soldiers. He yells for them to let him through, and you apologise to the recruits, explaining that it’s nothing but a scratch.

“I can walk, you know,” you mumble at Ghost as you smile at the soldiers.

“Have you tried?” he asks.

“No, you didn’t let me.”

“Exactly,” he replies, “no need to risk it.”

You reach the medical facility, and he gently places you on the hospital bed.

“They need a tetanus shot,” he orders the medic. “They scratched themselves on the barbed wire.”

The medic carefully listens to Ghost’s instructions and nods. He asks him to step outside so he can proceed with the treatment.

“I’ll be behind that curtain if you need me,” he informs you and walks behind the partition.

As the medic checks your wound, Ghost peers through the curtain, assessing the procedure. He makes unnecessary comments to the medic, asking him if “he’s sure he’s doing it right,” and the doctor reminds him that “he’s been patching up soldiers for years now.”

“It’s okay, Ghost,” you shout, trying to diffuse the situation. “The medic knows what he’s doing; let him work in peace.” You turn to the medic and lower your voice. “I’m really sorry,” you whisper, and he chuckles.

“That’s alright,” he says, putting on his gloves. “That’s how the lieutenant is, you know: he wants to look tough, but when he cares about someone, he goes all out.”

“Is that it?” You ask and look at Ghost’s shadow at the partition, eagerly pacing back and forth.

“Trust me,” the medic whispers, “you’re lucky to have him on your side.”

“Huh. I never thought about it that way.” You contemplate, “If we involve him in the process, do you think it will help him relax and stop biting his nails through his covered mouth?”

The medic lets out another chuckle. “It’ll certainly help,” he admits, “but it’d be best if you did it.”

You nod and straighten up. “Hey, Lt.?” You ask, and he immediately pops out of the curtain.

“The medic is about to apply some alcohol solution on my knee, and he said it might hurt a little,” you explain. “Would you mind sitting next to me for support?” You ask and pat the bed,

Without giving it a second thought, Ghost hurries over and sits beside you. He takes your hand in his and looks you straight in the eyes.

“You’re safe,” he states and turns to the medic, who is trying to suppress a laugh, “let’s do this.”

———————————————————————

[inuyashaluver]

bad influence - katie mccabe

katie mccabe x reader

description: in which katie gets dangerously tackled during a match, when she gets up to defend herself, her sweetheart girlfriend is doing it already, earning herself her first ever red card

warnings: swearing

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

as the arsenal women’s team began to line up in the tunnel, you could hear the crowd outside cheering and waiting for your team's arrival. you began to shift your weight on your legs. left foot, right foot, a sense of unease present on your face. your cleats softly padding on the floor as the rest of the girls engage in conversation or keeping their heads down in preparation for the match.

your eyes look down in front of you until you feel two hands applying slight pressure onto your shoulders. you turn around to face the eyes of the slightly taller girl and she smiles down at you.

“you alright, baby?”

her hands slowly moving from your shoulders, trailing down your arms until they reach your hands, taking yours into hers.

everything in this moment is completely silent as her gentle voice sounded in your ears. katie, notoriously known for her expert defending skills, was assumed that her harsh exterior would match her insides, unaware that you, nicknamed “sweetheart”, completely turned her soft. (only for you of course)

“I’ve got a bad feeling about today, mccabe”

“woah! who do you think you’re talking to like that, missy, it’s baby to you!” her thick accent putting a smile on your face.

“baby,” you mocked, “please, just, don’t be reckless” you cringed as the words came out, scared she would be offended.

“sweetheart, come on! I’m always a good girl aren’t I?”

the older girl smiled and winked at you. you giggle at her antics. then, as you turn around to face the front, her strong arms snaked around your waist, head hiding in the crook of your neck and placing a quick kiss there, a pre-game tradition that katie swore was necessary before every match. before she pulls herself from your body, she quickly taps your butt, smirking as you turn towards her with a really convincing glare, knowing that you were only joking. then, you follow the other girls, you both walk towards the pitch, ready for the game ahead.

arsenal was in the lead and you, a star striker along with russo had a powerful dynamic duo, scoring goals left, right and centre. arsenal was up 4-0 and it was only 12 minutes into the second half. due to the frustration of the other team, everything became sloppy and restless, the tackles, the energy and even their passes. another play had started and arsenal has possession, alessia passes the ball to you and you expertly pass the ball to katie, not even needing to look up, your connection was spot on, both of you knowing where the other was the whole time.

you begin to run up while katie has the ball, as she was about to pass it back to you, her entire body gets slammed off the pitch by her marker and she collides with the floor, whistle sounding immediately.

katie couldn’t even comprehend what was going on, her arm covering her face and she lay on the pitch. you on the other hand had the marker’s jersey balled up in your hands.

“are you fucking serious? who the fuck do you think you are?!”

everyone on the pitch was silent listening to your argument, faces all around shocked. sweetheart cracked.

“you touch her like that again and you’ll be so fucking sorry i’ll make you swallow the ball whole, you got that?”

katie, now was sitting in an upright position, watching your little outburst play. her face was evident with worry, her injury was cleared by the medics for her to continue to play and you were walking off the pitch. she quickly got up and ran over to you as you got to the sidelines, she grabbed the base of your neck, fingers grazing over your jaw, forcing your eyes to her.

“don’t let this bring you down, my girl, I'll come and find you after the match, okay?”

you entered the change room, showered and immediately dressed into katie’s training hoodie, her perfume enveloping you sat in your cubby, directly next to katie’s. while waiting for katie, you began to pull out green and white string, resembling the ireland colours, you began to make a friendship bracelet just as your national team mate esme had taught you. by the time you had finished the bracelet, the girls had slowly infiltrated the room, the first one being your girlfriend.

she had worry and frustration plastered on her face but quickly smiled as she saw her hoodie on you, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, the number 15 shining on your heart. she quickened her steps and made her way in front of you, separating your knees and stepping in between them looking down at you.

“there’s my cheeky girl, I think I’m a bad influence on you, baby, I mean red’s your colour but not like that, darlin’”

she once again held your face, eyes full with adoration.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you got hurt, katie. I would have lost it”

“my sweet girl looking out for me, getting a red card, best girlfriend ever”

she winked at you again and you wrapped your arms around her upper thighs, resting your chin on her stomach looking up at her with a slight pout.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you when you fell down, I just saw red and I couldn’t stop, I mean the nerve to fucking tackle you like that-”

katie leans down to place a short but passionate kiss, “baby, watching you get a red card for me has effects you won’t even imagine” you looked down, slightly embarrassed but flattered she found this attractive.

you looked down at the bench beside you and let go of katie’s legs excitedly, “look, baby! for you!” katie’s breath hitched, shocked at the handmade bracelet you had made for her in a time of your distress. even in your true sweetheart nature, you still do everything for her even when you needed to be there for yourself.

“my baby girl, I love you.” grinning as you grabbed her arm and delicately tied the bracelet, kissing the top of it when it was finally done.

“I love you more, mccabe”

“I’ll let that pass ‘cause you’re cute woman, let me shower and get your beautiful self in bed for katie cuddles.”

you nodded and smiled at her

“cuddles may be later though, I think I need to show you my appreciation for standing up for me like that.” she winked once again, something she knew made you weak at the knees

you laugh loudly and threw her towel, hitting her square in the face.

“we’ll see, katie, we’ll see” you wink, knowing you would do whatever she wants.

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

liked by stephcatley and 43,223 others

katie_mccabe11: my sweet girl, red is definitely your colour, but not on that silly little card 😉

view all comments

yourname: so when we get married, do I change my name to mccabe or mccard?

↳ katie_mccabe11: woman, I swear to god.

[optimist-pine]

Granny

Summary: You and Daryl have a secret confusing love language of insults

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1,236

Era: Seasons 1-5(ish), The quarry - Alexandria

It had started shortly after your first encounter with Mr. Dixon. Simply a passing (slightly pointed) comment - nothing more - as some of you gathered around the fire that night.

Dale stands near the flames, removing a whistling pot from the heat. "Anybody want a cup of tea? Kettle's hot."

"Why dun'cha ask granny over there?" Daryl suggests, nodding towards you with a snigger. Merle's not around tonight, and so it seems he's found a way to create a bit of entertainment.

Your head snaps up when you realize you're the butt of the joke, hands stilling as you set down your work. A crochet hook or knitting needles find their way into your hands as often as that damn crossbow ends up in his; usually when it's too late in the evening to be doing anything else. "You know what? I would love a cup of tea. Thank you, Dale." You reply, taking the steaming mug that's passed to you with a smile that melts into a pointed glare the second Daryl's eyes meet yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches mischievously. "Somebody get out tha' fancy china an' the biscuits an' we'll have ourselves a real tea party." He's prodding the coals with a stick, and in the darkness, the slope of his shoulders brings to mind the image of a caveman. The thought amuses you.

You nod your head, contemplating. "Hmm... I'd be down for that. In fact, I have a feeling we might even be in the presence of a tea party expert." You say knowingly. Sophia and Carol sit cuddled up to your right, and the little girl looks curiously up at you, cradling a well-loved teddy bear. You turn to the child, lowering your voice. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about tea parties, would you?"

She curls into herself a little, shyly. But at her mother's gentle urging, she nods her head, a tiny smile appearing on her face.

You clap your hands together. "It's settled then! Tomorrow we shall have a tea party." The last part is aimed at Daryl - you feel proud of yourself, but the confused look on his face makes you question why. It's like you've taken his accusation as a challenge to prove just how grandmotherly you can be, and funnily enough, he's probably right. You're actually looking forward to hanging out with Sophia tomorrow; she's a pretty cool kid.

Carol tuts softly. "After school." She adds.

"After school." You agree, shooting Sophia a conspiratorial wink.

Every time Daryl spots you working with your yarn he can't resist the urge to tease you about it. Maybe it's because you take every jest in good humor, or maybe it's because you always have a quick, witty comeback. He's never quite figured it out, but somehow it's become a staple of your interactions. Even though so much has changed, he's oddly glad that this hasn't.

One night, in the dead of winter, as the wind howls through gaps in the window frames you get an ornery glint in your eye. Daryl's already found your behavior suspicious, whatever current yarn project you've been committed to hasn't made a single appearance the entire evening. And the way you keep glancing at him almost nervously is... unsettling.

When he looks up again you're walking towards him, hands tucked behind your back, trying so hard to look casual that it doesn't take long before all eyes are on you. You stop in front of him and promptly shove a box in his face. No, not just a box. It's a present, wrapped perfectly in polka-dotted gift wrap with a glittery bow to top it all off.

He stares back at you, wondering what punchline he's missed.

You roll your eyes. "It's a gift, Daryl."

"Why?" He asks. He'd trust you with his life any day, but right now - with that box - he absolutely does not.

"Well, why don'tcha just open it and find out?" You taunt, shaking the present just a smidge.

He takes the box, feeling awkward and clumsy as he tears away the paper. Having never opened a present before - at least nothing like this that is - feelings of stupidity and excitement and pressure blend within him.

He dumps the object into his palm. It's cool and smooth to the touch; a black mug with white writing that says "World's Crankiest Grandpa".

You're trying so hard to withhold from laughing that your face is turning pink.

"Think ya could get yer money back on this one?" He asks, spinning the cup around to critique it.

You slap his arm lightly. "Ah, Dixon, you're no fun."

"She might'a hit the nail on the head there." Rick chuckles.

You sit back down, finally pulling out your yarn like all is now right in the world. "Ah, I found it a couple days ago. Couldn't resist. S'pecially not after the dream I had where you were yellin' at the walkers to 'git offa yer damn lawn'..." You shudder. "Took me a bit to get that one outta my head."

That earns quite a few laughs from the rest of the group. Once again, you've managed to lift the mood of those around you. It seems to be a habit of yours.

He turns the mug over and over again, running his thumb across the letters. He knows it's only a gag gift, but he's not blind to the effort that went into it. And it's not an exaggeration to say that this silly mug is by far the most thoughtful gift he's ever received.

He hangs onto that mug, using it proudly every day. Of course, it garners the occasional question from the new folks, but he doesn't mind. Soon enough he's got a matching handmade hat, scarf, and gloves as proof of your continuing love for the grandmotherly hobby.

When the prison falls he misses those gifts severely.

But then, Alexandria. The day he comes across you there on the porch in a creaky rocking chair, with your cup of steaming tea and a ball of yarn, the once-familiar urge to say something a little stupid and a lot annoying takes over.

He stoops down and leans in. "Where's yer glasses at, old lady?"

You wave your hand to shoo him away. "Ah, git yer muddy boots off'a my porch ya ol' geezer." You nag, the smile you're trying to hide peeking out like a sun ray from behind storm clouds. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, clomping down the steps. But it's not like he's trying to hide his own smile or anything... Not at all.

When he returns home that evening, there, sitting on the end of his bed, is a small box. It's perfectly wrapped in paper that's covered in birds and trees, encircled with a pristinely hand-tied bow. He can't deny the flutter of excitement as he plops down to unwrap it. It's like Deja Vu, the coffee mug tumbling into his palm. This time it's white with black lettering that reads "I don't always roll a joint, but when I do, it's my ankle".

With a snort he falls back onto the bed, letting old memories wash away the burdens of the day. However he can, whatever it takes, he'll hold onto the hope that you'll both end up old and gray and worn someday - together.

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want: Part 10

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x plus size!reader

Summary: You’re new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: very likely typos, fluffy stuff, cursing i think.

Words: 3157

The One I Want Masterlist

The words ‘I’ll be fine’ are still ringing in your ear, drilled into your brain from the excessive number of times they’d been said or texted in the last ten hours. From the moment you stepped out of your bedroom door this morning, Jake began insisting on picking you up from the shop following your shift. He insisted before you even had a chance to suggest an alternative plan for your day. As soon as you opened your mouth, he had his hand up and head shaking to stop you.

“Don’t even say it,” he said, “I’ll be there to get you, same as always,” to which you responded with what might as well be your new catchphrase: “I’ll be fine.”

His attempts to put his foot down on the matter were unsuccessful as you pointed out every reason why finding your own means of transportation after work is the best solution. He rolled his eyes at “It’s your birthday, Jake,” and snorted at “Your party at the bar starts an hour and a half before my shift ends,” but finally surrendered to “If you’re late, your friends will be disappointed. They mean too much to you for that.” Then he sighed and nodded and continued about his morning routine as you did yours before you headed to the shop. Though you thought you’d won, you received multiple “Are you sure?” texts that were also answered with “I’ll be fine.” And you are fine. Your shift was dull, uneventful, and you had no issue securing a quick ride to The Hard Deck. 

Hopping out of the back of the driver’s car is a struggle with the number of bags hanging off your arms. Between your purse, Jake’s present, and the clothes you wore to work shoved into a grocery bag—which were switched with the casual, green knee-length dress you’re wearing—you’re weighed down. 

“Need some help there, Sweetness?” Javy is one of few lingering outside the bar, and the only person you know within sight. He smiles and the arms crossed over his chest bounce with his chuckle. Before you answer, he walks over to snatch both your purse and the grocery bag in his hands. “I’m gonna toss these in Jake’s truck. No one will bother them,” he says.

In his brief absence, you stand a little straighter and brush the stray hairs back behind your ear. A low whistle coming from behind you causes you to flinch until you realize it’s from your friend as he makes his way back over to you.

“You're definitely lookin’ lovely,” he teases, and you snort.

“Quit it.”

“No can-do, sweetness. Too pretty to ignore.”

Heat floods your cheeks and you look down at the ivy-green material flowing around your body. It’s about as simple a dress you could find—well, that Millie could help you find after insisting on leaving behind the jeans—but it’s much more than anything you’ve worn in the past. Social events have never been your cup of tea. Not being invited out has left you slim on practice, and that includes every aspect down to your choice of clothing. While Millie did help you pick it out, it doesn’t necessarily mean she is an expert either, but you have no way of knowing for sure. “Is it too much?”

“Not a chance,” Javy replies. “You look amazing. And you happen to be the very reason I am out here instead of in there.”

“Meaning…”

“As Jake’s top-tier friend, I want to be the one to personally deliver his favorite present. Now that you’re here, I can do that,” he says with a wink before holding out his elbow for you to take. 

—

Jake’s eyes are already on the door when you walk in, finding you instantly, and his entire body perks up like a man just shot with a bolt of life. Shoulders lose the little bit of slump there was from forearms resting on the high-top table and eyebrows drop their pinch as he watches your every step toward him. Through the mass of bodies Javy assists in weaving you through, Jake’s stare is impressive. It’s steady and he doesn’t lose you, not for a second. 

When you reach him, Javy loudly declares “The contest is over! I just won best present.” He then releases you to round the group and pops open a bottle of beer with the edge of the table. By the multiple marks on the wood surface, you imagine—hope, anyway—that Penny doesn’t mind. However, if anyone were to follow her rules and respect the property she requests be respected, it would be this group. 

As you stand there greeting the rest of the crew, you can still feel those green eyes. A few other pairs dart back and forth between you and Jake. Tension bubbles around the back corner of the room where the modest party is set up, but it’s not an aggressive tension from distress or concern of discomfort; it’s a tension buzzing wildly with excitement. And from the smiles on faces and the little redhead you’ve bonded with bouncing on her toes, you can begin to guess where this buzzing, humming, zapping energy is coming from. 

They know. You’re not sure why a flash of surprise moves through you. Of course, they know. Of course, Jake told them. They’re his best friends. They’re the family he made after the devastation of having his own taken from him. His sharing of what’s happened between you over the last week is normal, so normal that it’s unfamiliar. One more thing you’ll have to get used to if Jake continues to pull you out of the existence you’ve known for so long.

“Hi,” he says. It rides on a heavy exhale that you can barely hear through the cacophony of voices filling the bar. 

Jake’s friends appear to go back to their conversations, but they’re no good at disguising their true intentions. Their ears are alert as eyes rely on the strength of their peripheral vision to catch either your or Jake’s next move. A tight squeeze with roaming hands, a deep kiss, an arm wrapping possessively around a shoulder or waist—they’re clearly eager to witness it all, but the anticipation hanging in the air is snuffed out by Jake leaning in and innocently brushing his lips over your cheek. To your side, there is a collective murmuring of disappointment that is, again, poorly disguised.

“You get here ok? I mean, you know, without complication?” Jake asks. A nod joins your budding grin. 

“Easy-peasy.” He stares more, his fingers traveling from your elbow to your wrist, and you suddenly remember what’s clutched in your hands. “Oh, I got you this,” you say, holding up the bag. It’s made of a thin, golden paper that’s priced way too high for its quality with clashing orange tissue sticking out of it, and it’s about four sizes too big for the gift you got him, but it was all the shop had last minute. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“It’s your birthday. That’s what people do,” you counter, because even though you’ve never received a present on your birthday, Jake is the type of guy who always should. You hold the bag higher, forcing him to take it.

“Thank you,” he says before turning to set the bag on the table. It’s then that you see the remnants of paper and bows scattered across the wooden surface. Piled on a couple of stools behind Bob are the gifts he has already opened. Jake’s hand starts to dig through the bright orange tissue paper. 

“You’re going to open it right now?” you ask, having previously imagined there would be at least a sliver less of attention on the two of you when he does. Your fingers of one hand begin to fiddle with the fingers of the other. 

“Sure, why not?” His hand pauses and he looks at you a little harder. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

“N-No, it’s fine.” A blond brow raises. “Really, it is.”

He waits a second longer before resuming his discarding of the paper. When he looks inside, his hand retreats, and he watches your gift at the bottom of the bag as if it might start moving on its own. Then his head shakes and he grins ear to ear and he reaches back in to pull it out. The brows of the other aviators pinch in confusion at the globe sitting in the palm of Jake’s hand. In all of its cheap glory, it contains a beach scene with plenty of unnatural sparkly snow settled at the bottom of the liquid which is quickly disturbed by Jake’s light shaking. He chuckles. Then chuckles some more. Crinkles deepen at the corners of his eyes.

“I don’t get it,” Rooster mutters, only to have Millie elbow him in the side. 

“You don’t have to,” she scolds. “Now hush.”

Despite Jake’s laughter, when he places the snow globe back in the bag you fear you’ve somehow fucked up. That it’s not as cute as you imagined he would think. That he’d rather you have gotten him nothing over something so silly. But then he faces you, takes your hand, and as he starts to walk away from the table, whispers, “Come with me.”

As you’re led away you glance over your shoulder to see that your friends are all in different states. Nat and Bob are exchanging glances and snickering at the birthday boy’s rapid departure, Millie is smacking her boyfriend’s hand as he reaches for the golden bag, and Javy smirks along with the statement “That certainly didn't take long.” 

You look ahead, but before you can fully catch up with your surroundings, you’re yanked through a door and pushed up against the other side of it as a mouth firmly presses to yours. Jake’s palm smacks the surface next to you, blindly feeling around for the deadbolt, and the thud from its turn echoes in the empty bathroom. Then his hands cup your cheeks and you melt as he pulls you in closer. 

At a different time, with a different man, unmanageable thoughts would be taking control of your senses right now. Your fingers would be stiffening and your eyes would be snapping open, darting around to take in every square inch of the room in search of signs of other people. You would be listening for any and every sound with such intensity that you’d have a decent count on the number of footsteps passing by the other side of the door. You wouldn’t be letting yourself go or forget your troubles or feel for a single moment because you know what this behavior looks like. You know how others often perceive it. In the midst of past frenzied kisses, your brain would deteriorate into a fractured mess. Ten percent of your mind would struggle to focus on the wandering hands and lips attached to yours; fifteen percent would go to wondering if anyone saw you sneak into the bathroom with a man; twenty would be spent worrying you’ll receive looks of judgment and pity once you rejoin the bar; twenty-five would be questioning why you’re choosing to be in the position you’re in when you know it won’t end well; and the remaining thirty percent would be trying to prematurely push away the shame to come when the somewhat intoxicated man kissing you in the bar bathroom decides he is done. 

It’s not a different time, though. You’re not with a different man. You’re exactly where you are, with the man you are with, and you don’t care about anything but him. 

Jake is pulled in with hands fisted in the material of his shirt. He’s your only source of stability and direction as he turns your bodies and walks you backward. When your lower back meets the edge of the sink, you separate the kiss and instinctually jump up. Of course you jump. You always jump in these situations. But this time when your bottom lands on top of the counter, you don’t second guess the man whose hips are settling between your spread thighs, whose eyes gaze at you like you’re the most incredible thing they've ever seen, whose hands are threading into your hair, whose lips are once again claiming yours. 

His tongue teases the seam of your lips and when you part them so it can slip inside to brush along yours, muffled moans merge. The fingers hidden within the strands of your hair tighten into fists. They stay there until your own hands begin to explore. One index finger curls through a belt loop, tugging inward to remove what little distance remains between you. The other is the first on that hand to dip under the hem of his shirt and stroke over a patch of tanned skin just above the button of his jeans. You love how he feels there—hard with thick muscle but soft from the trail of hair that disappears under a band of denim. Jake shudders against you, and it seems to serve as a reminder that there is more of you for him to touch as well. 

With your hair freed, a hand grasps your outer thigh where your dress has ridden up. Fingertips knead flesh as an arm snakes around your waist. A squeak of surprise gets stuck in your throat when that arm jerks forward, unexpectedly managing to inch your bottom closer to the edge of the counter. 

There is so much happening, so much to absorb, and you don’t have a chance to mentally address the tick of uncertainty that never showed itself. Instead, you are simply full of the feeling that none of this scares you. Not a bit of it. Not the strength of his arm around you. Not the hand that has begun to slide up your thigh and under the hem of your dress to the swell of your ass. Not the pressing of his hips into the space between your legs. Not the heat he gives off that fights the chill of the room. Not his teeth nibbling your bottom lip, or the whimpers it draws forth that with anyone else would have you shrinking in embarrassment. You’re so far from afraid that you've crossed into happily addicted territory.

His mouth vanishes from yours to latch onto your neck. The sound you make at the new sensation has Jake’s hold on you tightening. 

“All because of a—” you gasp from a teasing lick under your ear, “a snow globe?”

You’ve learned that Jake likes to leave trails of his kisses; mark after mark to show the places he’s been. It is between the kisses of this trail from your ear to your shoulder that you hear “Partly the snow globe,” after one kiss, “partly this dress,” after another, and then “mostly just because it’s you.”

Jake chuckles when you sigh and wrap your arms around his neck. You could let him continue on for hours—would, too—but a banging on the door snaps you out of your blissful haze. 

Cursing, your spine straightens like a rod. “J-Just a second!” you yell, patting Jake’s shoulder. He hums into your sensitive skin, sending vibrations over your pulse. “Jake, I know you heard that. People want in.” There’s another knock, and another. Leaning back and placing your hands on his cheeks, you force Jake to look at you. “Time for you to leave.”

He holds his finger up. “One condition.”

“No conditions,” you say as you nudge him aside and hop off the counter. “There are women out there who have to pee.”

It’s a boom this time, leaving no question as to the person’s impatience. Twisting around, you glance over yourself in the mirror. Your lips are stolen, hair wild, and as you go about fixing it back into place, Jake’s arms wrap around your waist. 

“Promise me we can continue this at home,” he says. “I don't want to stop.” 

Your eyes meet his in the mirror. “Maybe…if you go.”

“Deal.” One more kiss lands on your shoulder before Jake is unbolting the door and jerking it open for whoever is on the other side. He peeks his head out, glances left and right, then looks back at you. “No one’s here.”

“You still have to go.” His face falls into a pout. “Don’t look at me like that. All of your friends are waiting for you, anyway.”

“They're waiting for you, too.”

“It's not my birthday. And I need to fix myself up a bit.”

Jake grins. Watching his reflection in the mirror, you see his eyes linger on your face and chest, enjoying the flush he caused that is more prominent under the fluorescents. They then make a slow line down your body, taking the time to appreciate your ass along the way. “That really is a great dress.”

Your flush deepens. “Go,” you demand, “I’ll be there in a minute.” He winks and then he’s gone. 

A squeeze traps the air in your lungs. It caves in your chest, making the thumping of your heart all the more demanding of your attention, and you roll your eyes when it becomes clear that your body is reacting to you missing him. Two seconds apart and you already want him back, and now you feel like a giddy fool; a horny teenager around the first boy to ever truly want her. 

Blowing out that trapped breath, you run your fingers through your hair to tame it. It doesn’t manage to return to its previous state, but there is nothing you can do about it. Neither can you remove that pink shade from your cheeks and chest despite the damp paper towel you blot over your skin. You look half-sexed, and it’s comically obvious. But maybe if you channel Jake Seresin energy and walk back to your friends’ table without looking guilty, they won’t look at you like you have something to be guilty of. Not guilty in a demeaning sense, of course, but guilty in a way that will have them shooting teasing looks at you right before Nat and Millie pull you away from the men for details of your actions.

That will have to be your plan, because there is no chance they won’t notice your altered appearance, especially when they immediately knew why you and Jake were disappearing to begin with. 

Shaking your head, you tug at the bottom of your dress to make sure all of its seams line up with where they are supposed to be on your body. When you decide it’s about as good as it’s going to get, you head for the door and pull it open, but your path is blocked. 

“Good thing he finally left,” Brit says. She steps forward and to avoid a collision you have to take a step back into the bathroom. “Now we have a chance to talk.”

---

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[rosygaze]

i think we’re alone now

pairing: eddie munson x female!reader

synopsis: you and eddie are experts at hiding your relationship but your friends would say otherwise.

warnings: tooth rotting fluff, secret relationships, cursing

word count: 3.2k+

masterlist

Lucas Sinclair was excited.

The entire year he’d been on the bench waiting patiently for a turn on those hardwood floors. He was there every practice, training just as hard as if he was even close to being on the starting lineup. He was there for every game, feet tapping with anxious excitement whenever his coach would look his way. Only for him to call the teammate beside him.

Any other person would’ve been discouraged by the second game but Lucas was determined. Something in his gut told him that today was the day.

The game was just about to start any minute now and the air inside the gym was electric. Lucas bounced on the balls of his feet in an attempt to keep his body warm and ready for action. He turned and saw his friends sitting on the bleachers right behind him.

Max, Dustin, Mike, Erica, and Steve all sat beside each other. Dustin gave him a toothy grin and two thumbs up and Max smiled at him in a way that made his heart race. Robin was off on the other side, sitting with the rest of the band. The one he was most surprised to see was Eddie. His feelings towards the basketball team weren’t exactly a secret. The only thing the Hawkins Tigers and the Hellfire Club had in common was their equal hatred for each other.

Somehow, you convinced the Dungeon Master to come tonight. Stating that it was only fair that Eddie supported all of his “little sheepies” no matter what. Whatever magic spell you cast on him worked, but that didn’t stop Eddie from looking completely bored and annoyed though.

Speaking of, Lucas noticed you weren’t here. He craned his neck but he couldn’t spot you anywhere. You hadn’t missed a game the entire year so he was a bit worried.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure running through the doors of the gym. Lucas sighed when he saw you hurrying to join your friends. You were mumbling your apologies to the other audience members as you awkwardly shuffled in the small walking space.

Instead of taking the nearest open seat beside Dustin, Lucas watched you continue your shuffling until you reached the open seat beside Eddie. The metalhead’s previously annoyed demeanor melted away as soon as he laid eyes on you. Lucas’ brow raised when he saw the two of you greet each other with wide smiles and soft glances.

He had never seen Eddie smile that way before.

When you were able to pull your attention away from Eddie, you looked in his direction and gave him a big wave. “Go Lucas!” You yelled, not caring about the weird looks you got for cheering on a benchwarmer. Eddie was looking at you the same way Lucas knew he looked at Max whenever she sniped at a mouth breather.

Before he could think about that any further, a loud whistle cut through the air.

Game time.

Robin Buckley was bored.

Tuesdays were always quiet at Family Video. Everyone was too busy with their jobs or school to take the time to choose the perfect movie for the night. She was stuck watching the clock, willing for 4 P.M. to come faster. Steve wasn’t even here to keep her company today. How else was she going to make the time pass if she couldn’t annoy her favorite dingus until closing time?

All of a sudden, the bell rang and you walked into the store.

“Hey, Robs.” You greeted.

“Finally! An actual human being!” Robin shouted into the empty store. Her voice echoed through the aisles of videotapes. You laughed.

“Figured you might be lonely so I thought I’d visit.” Crossing the entrance, you stopped in front of the counter. “Also, I needed to return some tapes.”

“Give it here.” Robin patted the countertop and you plopped your paper bag on top of it. You watched Robin take the tapes out and stack them into a pile. She typed your name into the computer and looked at your stack, taking inventory. Robin’s eyes narrowed when she realized that three of the tapes weren’t showing under your name. “Some of these aren’t in your file.”

“Oh, I forgot.” You slapped a palm on your forehead.  “Those are Eddie’s.”

“Eddie’s?” Robin’s head snapped up. She heard how your voice sounded softer when you said his name.

“Yeah, he heard that I was visiting you today and asked me to bring over his tapes too. Said he didn’t want to pay the late fees again.” You waved your hand in the air dismissively.

“Hmm.” Robin turned back to the computer to hide the knowing smirk growing on her face.

“Something wrong?” You checked on your tapes, thinking that you’d broken something on your drive here.  

“Nothing.” She said quickly and a bit too high-pitched for her liking. One last hit to the ‘Enter’ button and Robin gave you a big smile. “You’re all good.”

“Thanks, Robs. You wanna watch a movie? Your boss won’t mind if I stick around right?” You pushed yourself up onto the counter.

“Nah, he won’t care. Just bat your eyelashes at him and he’d probably hire you on the spot.” Robin blinked at you furiously in a terrible attempt at looking flirtatious.

“Haha.” You said, dryly. “Go pick us a movie or I’m leaving.” Your arm extended, pointing at the aisles.

“Yes, ma’am.” Robin saluted at you. Her gaze glanced down to your wrist. “Nice bracelet.”

“Thanks.” You shook your wrist, showing off your little collection.

Robin wasn’t talking about the pink bangle or the dainty gold chain. She had her eyes set on the black leather band that clearly didn’t belong with the others. The same black leather band she had definitely seen on Eddie’s wrist last week.

Dustin Henderson was impatient.

It had been 20 minutes since Eddie said he would pick him up from the library. He watched every car that passed by with hawk eyes but there was still no sign of the beat-up van that his older friend loved to drive. When another mini-van zoomed past, Dustin rolled his eyes and put the walkie up to his mouth.

“Eddie, this is Dustin. Where are you? Over.” He released the button but only got static in response. He pressed the button again. “I swear to god if you forgot about me, you’re on your own for the next session!” Dustin hissed into the walkie.

An elderly woman passed by, giving him a curious look. Dustin smiled at her politely. When she was out of hearing distance, Dustin yelled into the walkie again.

“Eddie, what the fu-”

“Slow your roll, Henderson. I’m almost there.” Eddie’s gruff voice crackled through the speaker. In the distance, Dustin could basically hear rubber burning as Eddie sped down the pavement. Not even a few seconds later, the white van came barrelling down the quiet streets of Downtown Hawkins.

Dustin stomped over to the van and threw the door open. “Took you long enough.” He grumbled and slid into the seat.

“Got caught up with something.” Eddie stepped on the gas.

“Yeah? What’s their name?” Dustin joked.

“Your mom.”

“Dude!” Dustin’s mouth dropped open.

“Walked straight into that one, bud. Sorry.” Eddie smirked and reached over to ruffle his curly hair affectionately.

“Because of that little comment, I’m picking the music today.” He aggressively turned on the radio and was immediately bombarded with the familiar tune of ‘Like a Virgin’. He furrowed his brows in confusion. “Were you listening to pop radio?”

“Maybe I was. What’s it to you?” Eddie took his eyes off the road for a second to give him a challenging look, Madonna’s voice echoing against the metal walls. Dustin held his hands up. “Nothing! I think it’s pretty cool for you to expand your music tastes.”

“Yeah okay, kiss ass. I got tapes over there.” Eddie stretched a finger and pointed at the dashboard.

Dustin opened the dash and saw the small collection of tapes that Eddie had hidden. He gathered them up and put them on his lap, scanning through the different plastic cases. One tape stood out to him. Among the sea of black and red tapes, was a singular pink tape. He picked it up and saw the handwritten scribbles on the front—a cluster of hearts surrounding two sets of initials in the center.

Eddie’s. And yours.

Dustin smiled. He was about to open the case when Eddie grabbed one of the tapes.

“Too slow! I’m playing this.” Eddie opened the plastic case with one hand and shoved the tape into the radio.

“Hey! I said I was gonna pick!” Dustin crossed his arms and glared at daggers into the side of his head.

“You’ll like this one. Trust me.” Eddie tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to the beats that were slowly creeping in. He was right, though. A minute into the song and Dustin was banging his head along with him.

Nancy Wheeler was frustrated.

This was the third time this week that her car had broken down. The past two times she could get it to work again but this time it wouldn’t budge. She sighed and swiped her hand across her forehead, wiping away the sweat that built while she tried everything to get the damned car to start.

Nancy paused, taking a minute to think. Jonathan was way too far and on the other side of town. Robin didn’t know how to drive so she was out of the question. She wouldn’t even dare ask Steve for help.

Wait.

She took in her surroundings and realized that she couldn’t be more than a 10-minute walk from the local car shop where a certain Eddie Munson worked. Nancy’s luck just might be turning around. She grabbed her purse and her keys and walked quickly along the side of the road until she saw the sign for the car shop.

Once she was close enough, Nancy all but ran inside and looked for her friend’s familiar head of hair. Instead, she found you sitting on the hood of a car with a book in your lap. You looked up when you heard footsteps coming in and gave Nancy a big smile.

“Hi, Nance!”

“Hi,” Nancy was happy to see you of course but a bit confused to see you here. “Are you having your car fixed?”

“Nah, I’m just visiting Eds.” You closed the book in your lap, marking the page with your finger.

“Oh,” She thought it was a bit weird. You and Eddie were friends but she’d never seen the two of you alone together. “Where is he by the way? My car stopped working and I left it on the road.”

You hissed at her predicament. “He’s just getting something in the back but he should be out any second now.”

As if on cue, Eddie came strutting out of the back office with two Coke cans in hand. “A can of Coke as requested, m’lad- Oh hey, Wheeler.” Eddie cut himself off when he saw Nancy.

“Hey…” Nancy trailed off.

“You need something?” Eddie handed you the soda can. Nancy, ever observant, noticed how his fingers lingered against yours for a second too long.

“Uh, yeah. My car broke down and I need a tow.” Nancy jutted her thumb behind her.

“I’ve been telling you for weeks that you needed to let me take a look at her. Now, look what’s happened.” She rolled her eyes at Eddie’s cocky tone.

“Yeah, yeah. So, can you help me or not?”

“Course I can! Lemme start the truck.” Eddie whipped out the keys from his pocket. He turned back to you. “I’ll be back in a jiff. You’ll be okay here?���

“Mhmm,” You nodded. “Go help, Nance.”

He nodded at you and walked towards the truck. Nancy noted how you stared after Eddie’s retreating form. Looking down, you shyly brushed your hair behind your ear. She was about to ask you what was up between the two of you when she was cut off by the sound of the engine spurring to life.

“Chop chop, Wheeler! I don’t have all day!” Eddie slapped his palm against the metal door and stuck his head out the window, his loud voice ringing through the garage.

Nancy rolled her eyes again.

Steve Harrington was drunk.

Or at least he was getting there.

Yes, his King Steve days were long gone. And yes, he would rather fight a demogorgon again than spend another minute with Tommy H. and Carol, but he did miss the occasional party game sometimes. Which is why he occasionally held parties for his little group of misfit friends.

Steve had his hand in the air, the ball gripped loosely in between his fingers. He shook out his wrist to relax the muscles. His eyes were target locked on the cup and he threw the ball. It made an arch in the air before missing the cup by inches, the ball bouncing off the edge of the table and clattering to the floor.

“Damnit!” He exclaimed.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this game.” You joked, fiddling with the ball in your hand. You’d taken Eddie’s place when he excused himself to get his “special stash” and Steve was losing to you. Badly. You threw the ball again and it landed perfectly into the cup.

Steve groaned. “And I thought you were going to be bad at this. Isn’t this your first time playing beer pong?”

“Yup. Now, drink up.” You smirked. The drink burned Steve’s throat as it went down.

“I’m gonna get you.” Steve pointed at you.

“You beating his ass?” Eddie had finally rejoined the two of you, metal lunchbox in hand.

“To a pulp.” You beamed at him.

Steve glared at you and grabbed the ball. He shook out the cloudiness that was starting to tunnel his vision. By sheer luck, the ball went into the cup. “Ha! I got you. Now, you drink up.” He pointed a finger at you.

Almost instantly, Eddie grabbed the cup and chugged the drink. Once he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He met Steve’s confused look and shrugged. “She doesn’t like alcohol.” Eddie looked at you and you smiled at him gratefully.

Steve knew that move. He’d seen enough happy couples in his life to know how to tell when two people were together. There were the subtle touches, the lingering looks, always finding a way to be near each other. Drinking for your partner during beer pong because they don't drink themselves

No. Steve was no idiot. He knew exactly what was going on when you and Eddie slyly slid out of the room when you thought no one was looking.

Eddie stood close behind you and whispered in your ear to follow him. His warm breath made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You looked around at your friends and checked if anyone had seen him but they were all too busy with their own conversations to notice. Eddie had slipped out of the room first. You counted to ten before leaving the room yourself and closing the door behind you.

Once you got outside, the cold Indiana air bit your cheeks. Eddie stood a couple of feet away from the door where he knew the two of you wouldn’t be seen if someone would come out. Even in dark with just the blue pool lights from the Harrington pool, you saw how Eddie’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw you. He opened his arms and you all but ran into them.

Eddie wrapped his arms around your waist and you were pulled flush against his chest. You nuzzled into him, feeling warmth return to your body. He kissed your temple with an exaggerated ‘mwah’. You braced yourself on his shoulders and looked up at him.

“Hey there, beautiful.” Eddie said, ever the smooth-talker.

“Hi.” You replied.

“You looked so hot playing beer pong.” He played with the hem of your shirt.

“Well, I learned from the best.”

“Yeah? And who’s that?” He furrowed his brows but the playful glint never left his eyes.

“My amazing, talented, and handsome boyfriend.” You tugged on the ends of his hair by his chin. You watched the corners of his lips tug up into a smirk.

“You have a boyfriend? Shit. I was gonna ask you out.” Eddie pretended to be devastated, pouting those full lips and everything.

“I’m taken, sorry.”

“Lucky guy.” He wiggled his brows and made you giggle. The sound made him pull you even closer to him. Not wanting a single inch of space between you.

“I think I’m pretty lucky, too.” You cupped his cheek and rubbed small, affectionate circles with your thumb. Eddie leaned into your touch and pressed his lips against the pad of your thumb.

“I missed you.” He pressed his forehead against yours.

“We were literally in the same room a minute ago.” You smiled despite your teasing.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t touch you.” He sounded so sad that it made your heart pang. When you and Eddie finally got together a month ago, you’d decided to keep it a secret from your friends. Not because you didn’t trust them. No, you’d trust any of them to save your life from interdimensional beings.

There was just something about your relationship with Eddie that you wanted to keep to yourselves. You two were living in this magical bubble. As if you two were the only people in the world. You wanted to hold onto that magic for as long as you could but you both knew that the bubble had to pop at some point.

“We should just tell them.” You whispered.

“I know. I’m surprised they haven’t found out already.” Eddie dropped his head to your shoulder and nuzzled his face in your neck.

“It was nice to just keep things to ourselves though.” You scratched his scalp lightly.

“Yeah. The hiding was kinda hot too.” He kissed your neck. A shiver ran down your spine and you were sure that Eddie knew since you could feel his smug smirk against your skin.

“Settle down, Romeo. Our friends are here.” You slapped his shoulder playfully.

“I’ll just have to wait until we get home then.” Eddie tickled your sides, making you squeal. His heart soared. He knew it was way too early in your relationship to be thinking about the L-word but he knew that was something he was starting to feel for you. When he finally relented, you were out of breath. Eddie noticed your hair had gone messy from your wiggling and he brushed it away from your face. With your cheeks cupped in his big hands, he looked into your eyes. “We’ll tell them.”

“Soon.” You nodded.

Eddie ducked down and pressed his lips against yours. You sighed in relief, feeling any sort of tension leave your body the second he kissed you. His hands tilted your head so he could deepen the kiss. Kissing Eddie just felt right.

Being with Eddie was right.

You brought your hand up to hold Eddie’s wrist, squeezing it three times slowly. Three times to say the three words you were too scared to say out loud just yet. It was way too soon anyways. You’d tell him one day.

Behind you, the party raged on. Pop music was blaring from the speakers. The soundtrack for the tender moment between you and your boyfriend. When the lyrics came in, the two of you chuckled into the kiss.

I think we’re alone now….

There doesn’t seem to be anyone around…

[malum-forev]

Non Exclusive

Bucky warmed the single beer he’d been nursing for hours by holding it with both hands. He blew air into the top of the bottle, making the glass whistle as he shifted on both legs. He glanced your way twice, not wanting to make it obvious he was staring. 

Sam pulled up next to the brunet, switching up his flat beer for a newer, colder one. 

“How much longer are you going to be lurking in the shadows?” Sam asked. “People have already started asking me who the peeping tom is.”

“I’m not staring.” Was all Bucky said. 

“Staring, wanting to burst Garrett’s head with your mind, tomato, tomato.” Sam sipped his beer, leaning back on the wall to join his friend. “You look pretty jealous Buck. I thought you said you and (Y/N) had agreed on just sex.” 

“It is just sex.” Bucky rolled his eyes. 

Bucky let his blue eyes roam your body, he had made it his personal mission to memorize the curves on your body. It was like he had X-Ray vision and he could accurately pinpoint where each and every one of your moles and scars were.  

Sam hummed. “If you two aren’t exclusive, then tell me who you’ve fucked other than her lately.”

Bucky realized it would have been too embarrassing for him to say he’d turned down more than a couple of offers. To be honest, once he got used to this new world, Bucky was- what’s the correct word?- he was liberated. 

When Dr. Raynor told him he was free and he’d asked her “Free to do what?” 

He didn’t think fucking every single woman within a five-mile radius would be her answer- but that’s what he did. And it was amazing. He wasn’t used to women being so open about how he made them feel, Bucky had even asked for pointers to make the experience more pleasurable for them. There wasn’t a clause in his contract that forbid him from fraternizing with other agents and boy did he make some of his higher ups wish they did. 

The Winter Soldier had gotten quite the reputation for being an expert in the one and done category. Making women all around the compound want him even more, wishing they would be the ones to return the soldier back to his 40’s ways. None of them had been successful. 

But something changed when he met you. You’d been on the team for some time now but you had never expressed any interest in him. Until that night. For Bucky, his life would be separated into two categories: Before You and After You. 

It was a late night and you came into his office with your tactical suit zipped down to your waist with a tight cropped shirt underneath that begged to be taken off, your hair that was usually up in a ponytail had been let free a long time ago.

Bucky gulped as you leaned over the table to reach for something, your breasts taunting him.

Before he knew it, your lips were on his. You were running your hands through his short hair, trying to grip anything. Your ragged breaths only pushed your breasts closer to him, making him go feral. 

“I’m not looking for anything serious.” He panted.

Your devious smile only made him harder. “Neither am I.” 

Ever since that day, he’d been entranced. Of course he enjoyed sex with other women but with you, Bucky felt a deep connection. Like you were made for him, you introduced Bucky to a pleasure high he didn’t think was even possible or existed for that matter. 

It started when he called you after a mission, wanting to get rid of pent-up aggression. Bucky was extra happy when you’d told him you were more than happy to let him use your body, that day he’d introduced you to the stars. Fucking you into oblivion. 

Then, it was once a week at least. 

“Training has been-“ Bucky said between thrusts but you shushed him. 

You craned your neck from your position on all fours, locking with his darkened and lustful eyes. “Concentrate on me, on us.”

Bucky thought it was a miracle he didn’t come then and there, just from your words. 

You laid in bed with him after the two of you had finished. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back on his almost flat pillows before focusing all your energy- whatever he hadn’t drained- into lifting your body. 

“A-are you leaving already?” Bucky’s voice was just above a whisper. 

“I didn’t think you wanted me to stay longer.” You chuckled. 

Bucky’s eyes furrowed. “What makes you think that?”

“I thought you used those as a quick fuck quick exit tactic.” You pointed at the uncomfortable pillows. “You know, to make your guest understand they shouldn’t overstay their welcome.”

When you came over a week later, a couple of things had changed in his room. On the nightstand opposite his were a couple of boxes of tampons, one candle, a toothbrush and an oversized vintage t-shirt of his. You fought back a smile as you saw a brand-new fluffy pillow rest next to his flat one on the bed with the tags still attached. 

“Did you take some pointers from romantic comedies?” You bit your bottom lip. 

Bucky smiled, kneeling between your legs perched at the edge of the bed. “Concentrate on me.” 

You threw your head back with a moan as he lowered his head in between your thighs. 

“I’ll take your lack of an answer as a no.” Sam laughed. “The fuckboy became the simp.”

“What of course I’ve been seeing other people.” Bucky scoffed. “Yes, I’ve been doing a lot of that. Recently. Constantly.”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “Then I assume you won’t care if I told you Thor is coming to the compound next week.”

The sound of his name made the blood coursing through Bucky’s veins become hot. He clamped down on his molars. 

“I thought he wasn’t returning, at least not soon.” Bucky tried to sound relaxed, like he totally didn’t care that the man you have the biggest crush on would be training with the team. 

Sam shrugged. “Something about having intel.”

“What kind of intel could he have that we couldn’t easily get.” Bucky rolled his eyes and sipped the beer. 

“You’re seriously considering you have more information than the literal God of Thunder?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “It’s not like I care anyways.”

“You don’t?” Sam pushed.

“I. don’t. care.” Bucky enunciated each word, following your hands as you placed them on Garrett’s chest. 

“When’s the whole Mr. Casual act going to stop?” Sam asked. 

“You know me-“ Bucky let out a strained smile. “Monogamy bores me. Being with only one woman, for the rest of my life, the whole get married and spend eternity wishing I would die at the same time as her so I don’t need to spend another minute of my time on Earth without her- yeah that doesn’t sound like me.” 

Sam judged his friend silently. 

“She can go home with Garrett and I wouldn’t care-“ Bucky laughed into his beer. “Plus he’s like a full four inches shorter than me so- yeah I don’t care.”

Just as Sam was about to say something, his friends eyes lit up and for the first time in hours he saw Bucky look not miserable- dare he even say happy?

You strutted towards the soldier, your happy glow transferring onto him. 

“How about you take me back to your place, Sarge?” You whispered into his ear. 

Bucky’s face lit up and he took your hand, quickly waving back at Sam. “If you have an emergency, don't call!”

I'm the worst at writing even mild spice so pls don't kill me if this is cringeeee. I triedddd and I'm a sucker for slutty Buck.

tagged: @kpopgirlbtssvt @shara-ne @namelesssaviour@hallecarey1

[parkersbliss]

Flustered | F. Hargreeves

pairing: five hargreeves x fem!reader

wc: 903

warnings: sexual innuendo?

synopsis: ever since five retried, he’s been a lot more affectionate with you

requests: CLOSED

prompts: 043: “Your hands are really soft.” 054: “They have everyone.” “Not you.” “I’m the exception.” 067: “Nice hickey. Where’d you get it?”

—

“Hi, Luther, Klaus, Diego!” You greet happily. Five doesn’t bother and just pulls out his chair.

“What’s wrong?” Later said through a mouthful of Chinese takeout. “You look happy.”

You come up next to Five, and he pulls a chair out for you, making your cheeks heat up at the small action. “Why can’t he be happy?”

“Well, he’s Five. Always so… bitter.”

You shrug. “They hate everyone.”

“Not you.”

“I’m the exception.”

“I am plenty happy,” Five spoke, taking a seat. “Had a nap and shvitz, what does a man need?”

“Brother’s who don’t eat like barn animals?” Klaus suggests.

Both Diego and Luther look to Klaus, mouths full of noodles, proving his point.

You sit down, smiling at the three brothers. You're dressed in the same thing as Five, a soft bathrobe that says “Hotel Obsidian.”

Klaus grins at you, and you raise a brow. “Nice hickey. Where’d you get it?”

“What?” You practically scream, pulling back the collar of your bathrobe.

Diego snickers, “Seems like Five got a little more than a Shvitz.”

Luther nods. “Yeah, (Y/N) looks like she’s gonna die of embarrassment.”

Klaus claps. “Oh my god, I’m so happy for you two! How was it?”

Five blinked at his brother. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, why not? We’re bros!”

Five sighs, looking at you, then back to Klaus. “It was… nice.” You basically die in your seat at his choice of wording. He notices and chuckles, grabbing your hand in his. The three brothers whistle, and you shrink further into your seat.

“Your hands are really soft,” He whispers in your ear.

“Five!” You whine, feeling like you might explode at all the attention and affection. You and Five mostly kept your relationship on the down-low, seeming it was the most concerning issue the past month.

“So I’ve been thinking through our little timeline snafu, and I’m pleased to report that in my professional, expert opinion: we are totally in the clear.”

“Awesome!”

“Huh.”

“Great! So everything’s totally fine?” Luther asked.

“More or less. I mean,” Five hesitates, smiling. “There is one small thing. But it’s nothing we can’t manage.”

Five hands you one of the carry-out boxes, “Choi mein, your favorite.” And you smile softly, mumbling a thanks to him. He just smiles back, “Anytime.” And your stomach flips when he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. You actually think you might die this time.

“So, spit it out, boomer!” Diego mumbles through his noodles.

“Fine, Diego, it’s like this. Dad didn’t adopt us as babies, but those babies still existed here,” Five explained as you take a bite of your own meal.

Klaus frowns. “Awww.”

“We just grew up in different places with different people.”

“So?” Diego questions.

“So where are they now? Odds are we each have identical versions of ourselves walking around out there living completely different lives.”

Luter gasps excitedly. “Our doppelgängers!”

“That’s a made-up word,” Klaus dismisses.

“No, no, I learned all about this in Texas. Tell them about the paranoid psychosis, Five!”

“It’s paradox,” You correct.

“Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa, I thought you said this wasn’t a problem?”

“Okay, yes,” Five admits. “Technically, if you’re near your Doppel for too long, you’ll go insane. So if you ever see your other self—”

“Kill them.”

“Sleep with them.”

“… avoid them."

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Luther asked, giving both his brothers a skeptical look.

“Oh, come on, as if you wouldn’t climb Luther mountain,” Klaus teases. The look on Luther’s face tells you enough about what he’s thinking.

“Wait, how are we supposed to guarantee we don’t cross paths with ourselves?”

“Easy. I mean, we’re the Benetton of superheroes, born all around the world until dad brought us here, which he no longer did. Doppel’s probably aren’t even in the same time zone as us.”

“That’s true,” Luther mumbles.

Diego nods. “Yeah.”

“Would you pass the moo shu?” Five asked, reaching across the table, and Luther does so. Suddenly, Diego leaves in a rush, and you shrug it off.

“So how long have you two been…” Klaus trails off, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Gross, Klaus,” Five said, before adding. “We’ve been together for a while now.”

“Oh, wow,” Klaus sighs. “That’s so cute. I mean, (Y/N) is so sweet, and you’re so… you!”

You giggle at that, and Five rolls his eyes, “Thanks, Klaus.” Five grabs his takeout and a pair of chopsticks before taking your hand and helping you off your seat.

“You didn’t have to do that, Five,” You mumble, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I know, darling, but I wanted to,” He replies, and you swear you’re gonna pass out.

Five must notice because he waves his brothers goodbye and leads you back to the hotel room. His hand intertwines with yours, and your face is even hotter now.

“You’re easily flustered, darling,” Five said, opening the door to his room.

“You’re not usually so forward, that’s all,” You shrug.

“Well, I’m retired, so I get to spend the rest of my life loving you.”

You hide your face in your hands at his comment. “Five!”

He chuckles, peeling your hands away carefully. “There you are, pretty girl.” Five cups your face in his hands, pressing a tender kiss to your lips that has you internally screaming.

“The rest of our lives is just gonna be this,” He promises.

“Really?”

“Really.”

— END —

🏷 five taglist: @clearbasementvoid @halfumbrella @esmedith @navs-bhat @alexxavicry @thelaststraw3 @rainbows-r-nice05 @gcldtom @bokuakadaily @3ternalreal1ty @umbrellatte @hahaspoilerhaha @mi1kobitch @analuizafernandescavalcante @icarus-star @yuki1s--note @m4nd0l0r @ells-graveyard @eichenhouseproperty @iaevs @oneirataxia-girl @ay4kshalatus

[would-you-like-a-scooby-snack]

Hey There Scooby Doo! Here's a Promo for you!

*The screen turns on as it shows a blonde haired jock adjusting the camera.*

Blonde Jock: "I got it working everyone. It's up and running." *The jock backs up a bit.* "Hello everyone. You're probably wondering who we are right now. Well we are Mystery Incorporated, a gang of 5 who travels the world solving mysteries of many kinds. I'm Fred Jones, the Ultimate Quarterback and Ultimate Trap maker.....Or I would be if my title didn't get give to *Kevin McCallister*....!!" *An orange haired girl taps Fred on the shoulder.* "*Ahem* Right. Anyway, i'm tough, I can bench press 220, I'm an expert driver, and I am a master of setting traps. Could've been called the Ultimate Trap maker, but noooooo. I get Quarterback instead...."

Orange haired beauty: "Freddy, calm down." *Fred groans and walks off screen.* "*Ahem.* Hi everyone! My name's Daphne Blake, the Ultimate model. I'm a master at all things fashion, I'm highly resourceful, and I dabble in a bit of martial arts here and there." *Someone comes up to Daphne.*

Shaggey haired fellow: "Hey, Daph. Can you cut this wood?"

Daphne: "Sure." *She chops through the wood with ease, slipting it in half.*

Shaggey haired fellow: "Thanks."

Daphne: "You're welcome, Shaggey." *Shaggey walks off screen as cooking noises is heard.* "Anyway that's enough out of the most beautiful member of the gang, now to the smartest and cutest member of the gang!" *She turns the camera to a girl in glasses reading a book. The girl jumped from surprise.*

Girl in glasses: "W-Wait, I thought you were the beautiful one, Daph."

Daphne: "I am. But you and Scooby share the title of the cutest members. Not even beauty can compete with that. Or would you like to argue with Marcy about it, Velma?" *The girl in glasses blushes brightly and covers her face with the book.* "Hehehehe! See, cute? Whenever you're ready, Velma." *Daphne pats Velma's back and moves to the side. Velma slowly lowers the book.*

Velma: "I-I'm Velma D-Dinkle.....Brains of the group, investigator of the mysterious, a-and Ultimate Activist. I...I.....Darn it, Daph! Now I can't get my words across!" *She covers her face with the book she was ready, blushing like a mess.*

Daphne: "Hehehe! Sorry, Vel. I'm turn the camera over to Shaggey and Scooby. Ok?"

Velma: ".......Ok......" *Daphne turns the camera over to a the shaggey haired guy from earlier and a dog cooking some pineapple shrimp fried rice. Daphne whistles to them, getting their attention.*

Shaggey: "Huh? Oh, like, hello! I'm Norville Rogers. But my friends call me Shaggey. I'm the Ultimate Cook and this is my pet dog and Mystery Inc's mascot, Scooby Doo."

Scooby Doo: "Hi there. It's nice to meet everyone."

Daphne: "That smells yummy, Shaggey."

Shaggey: "Thanks. it's almost ready. I'm making pineapple shrimp fried rice."

Daphne: "Got it, Shaggey." *She turns the camera back to her.* "And that's all the members of the gang. We would love it if you would give us a promo. Looking forward to talking to you all." *Daphne smiles.*

@a-house-divided @full-course-for-people-pleasers @salmon-running-octoling @tinyronpa @needy-girl-overload @disheiress @d4y-0f-judg3m3nt @candy-cocktail @carnivore-and-cannibal @mxfia-kingpins @ask-the-steel-gray-admin-rp @ult-aikido-princess @excitement-to-consumption @fabled-fauna @y0u-f4il3d-m3 @mikado-sannoji @mercy-of-the-ashes @little-miss-noire-detective @little-miss-succubus @rxnowned-vxmpire-hxnter

[ghouljams]

I can just imagine fae!141 teasing price for not getting tethers into witch darling despite trying so long. Then price going “you should try then” knowing it’ll be impossible for them to even get close to the one tether he has

This is going to be short but yeah they would tease him lol

"Thought you were supposed to be good at snaring people, you losin' your touch old man?" Soap grins over his drink, Price's fingers twitch on his cigar.

"Almost as bad as Ghost," Gaz agrees quietly. This was getting into real insubordination territory. Everyone seemed to think they were some real god damn comedians.

"S'alright Sir, not everyone can be an expert." Ghost sighs.

"Not one word from you Ghost," Price finally jumps in, he thinks that earns him a smile from the man, but it's so hard to tell with the mask. Price takes a long drag from his cigar, letting the smoke slip through his teeth before he pulls it back to fill his lungs. "Alright, how about a deal then?" Soap and Gaz lean eagerly over the table, Ghost tellingly does not, "You get a hook in my witch, I'll forgive a debt."

Soap let's out a low whistle, Gaz smacks the table, Ghost sits forward, quickly brought back into the fold. There's an air of palpable excitement from the other fae at the table. One Price would be worried about if he wasn't so confident in you.

"One week," Price tells them, "should be plenty of time for experience operators like yourselves."

-

Ghost caves first. Kicks his feet up on their usual table at the bar and orders a double. Price isn't sure how much effort he actually put into it, but he doesn't have any extra tethers in him at least. It's hardly two days into the bet, Price doesn't think he even went to see you. Probably couldn't get it past his wife.

Gaz and Soap both take the whole week. They settle hard onto their usual seats, not bothering to look at Price as he checks their progress.

"I thought you two were experienced web weavers, don't tell me one little witch gave you this much trouble."

Soap grumbles, scrubbing a hand through his hair and grabbing the waitress for a double scotch. Gaz thumps his head against the table as Ghost offers him a cigarette. Both of them the picture of defeat.

"Couldn't even get close to her," Soap groans, "One conversation and she started wearing this awful perfume. Still can't get it out of my nose."

"Gave it my best effort, but I couldn't find a need to hook. Plus she kept sending me home with all this produce." Gaz sighs, holding his cigarette for Ghost to light. "You and the Missus need any tomatoes?" He asks exhaling smoke. Ghost shakes his head.

Price smiles to himself, that's his girl.