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charliemwrites · 5 months

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Okay so the poll results were for an OC captain, though it was close enough that I still hesitate to name him in the canon of the fic.

I’m also going to be taking my time fleshing out his character because it’s been a while since I made an OC. So please be patient while I add tidbits here and there to build his character.

Content: safe/sane/consensual sex, descriptions of scars, mentions of past torture

Nikto beats you and Nova twice out of three rounds — but that’s no surprise. The man moves like a machine. Even against two opponents he controls the battlefield like a chess master. Neither you nor Nova take it to heart, especially since he always gives you both advice at the end, helping you to improve.

He’s a great partner, a great teammate; you’re sure to show him your appreciation after sparring with a kiss to his nose-plate. His hands spasm on yours as he helps you unwind your wraps, gloved thumb sweeping over your bare palm.

“You did good today,” he says, voice rough and accent thick. He must be pissed about earlier still, when Ghost and Soap threw your matches with them.

“So did you,” you reply, squeezing his hand in return.

“Stay with me tonight?” He asks.

You damn near melt. Nikto has an open invitation to your room, but his is a sacred place, only for him unless otherwise specified. That he’s asking you to come to his tonight…

“Absolutely,” you reply, squeezing his hand. “I just need to see the captain first. Okay?”

He grunts in understanding, eyes flicking to the door the 141 left through earlier. He mutters something in Russian — some insult about goats and mothers you think.

“Yeah, exactly,” you reply, voice dropping with simmering irritation.

A good spar with him and Nova has helped ground you a bit, but it hasn’t helped the anger. You don’t spar any of your team with anger; they don’t deserve.

Luckily, you and your captain worked something out a while ago when you’re feeling a bit… aggressive.

“Cap?” You call, still holding Nikto’s hand. “Could I stop by for a nightcap later?”

His eyes flash, a sinful twist to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, babygirl. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

Over his shoulder, you see Nova arch her eyebrows and Keegan grin wicked into his water bottle. Gossip fiends.

“Showers. Now,” the cap says, slapping them both on the ass. “Double time. I need to have a word with Price still.”

—

Long after the sun has gone down, you’re standing outside your captain’s door. Take a breath. Remind yourself of your mantra. He wants you, always will, and he’s going to take care of you.

Then loosen your shoulders, unboxing all the frustration and aggression you set aside earlier. Feel it burn through you, make your hands twitch in and out of fists.

One more inhale, and then you shove the door open.

“There you are,” he rumbles. “C’mere.”

You flash your teeth, “No.”

He tilts head back and forth, cracking his neck. “Alright then.”

There’s no real fight. You’re not looking to get away or actually hurt him. And he’s not looking to actually make you submit. That’s not the point of this game.

He strides across the room and shoves you back, pins your shoulder to the wall. You grip at his forearm, nails scraping, and squirming as the hot, hard length of his body squishes you flat.

“Settle,” he orders.

“Fuck you,” you snarl back, nipping his lip.

He growls, tangling a hand in your hair and tipping your head back. Leaves a searing trail of kisses down your throat, bites a bruise into your collarbone. You wriggle and fuss all the while, safely held still and supported by his hands and body.

“Brat,” he rasps in your ear.

“I’m not,” you snap.

“Oh, yes you are, babygirl,” he replies, a mean smirk on his flushed face. “But that’s alright, I like you bad.”

He pulls you from the wall, bullies you onto the bed. You try to grab at him, get him under you. He doesn’t indulge like he normally would. Pins you on your back so that you can keep fighting, yanking at your wrists in his firm grip, pushing your hips up to grind into his as if trying to flip you both.

He slots his hips between your thighs, positions just his knees under your ass so that your back is arched, shoulders on the mattress. Limits your mobility, but that doesn’t stop you from kicking at air, making half-angry, half-desperate noises in the back of your throat.

“Gonna say please like a good girl?” He teases.

“No,” you hiss back.

He has the audacity to chuckle, which just riles you up more. (It’s supposed to). You curse as he works a hand beneath your shirt, palms at your bare breasts and pinches your nipples until they ache. You gasp like a pornstar, surprised and turned on.

“Pretty noise,” he coos. “Do it again.”

When he twists, you mewl, face immediately burning up as you renew your “efforts” to get away. All it does is make the treatment rougher than if you just laid still and took it, but that’s what you want, what feels good. A little edge to the pleasure as adrenaline and energy electrify you from head to toe.

He grinds against you, cotton of your loose shorts sticking against your soaked cunt. Christ you were turned on before you even barged in. Now you’re fucking throbbing for it.

“Gimme,” you grit out, rocking against him. Gears successfully shifted from physically taking control to just ordering him around.

“Give you what, brat?” He goads, slapping your pussy. The thin fabric muffles the sting, but it sends a white-hot ache through you that makes your eyes roll. “My cock? You think you deserve it?”

Another slap. You cry out, notice the sly look on his face when he notices that you’ve soaked through your shorts.

“Yes,” you reply, all confidence and reckless arrogance.

He yanks his underwear down to mid thigh, thick cock springing up to smack lewdly against his toned stomach. Precum smears over the pale scars there, sticks in the trail of groomed hair there.

“Yeah?” He growls. “Alright then.”

He yanks the crotch of your shorts aside (you hear stitches pop) and then he’s plunging into you. It’s too much all at once and you cry as much, knees squeezing around his tattooed ribs.

“Fuck.” His voice is shredded, so rough and low you feel it more than hear it. He lets your wrists go to grip at your ass, grinding deeper. Can feel the fat head of his cock bullying at your cervix, his favorite passtime while you adjust to the thick base of him.

“How does that feel, babygirl?” He murmurs in your ear. “You needed daddy’s cock, huh? Needed it to set you right again?”

You whimper out a curse at him, gripping at his biceps. He croons mockingly, thumb slipping between your bodies to press at your clit. Not rubbing or grinding, but just pressing. Just the right amount to make you sweat and pant, start trying to squirm to get any friction at all.

He lets you — could stop you if he wanted, or pull away entirely — but he likes winding you up like this. Likes seeing all that vicious energy turned to seeking pleasure from him.

“Fucking move,” you try to snarl, but your voice breaks midway through and comes out more pleading than you’d like.

“What was that, babydoll? Are you talking to me?” He teases, rolling his hips.

Your mouth falls open, a moan ripping from your chest, deep and needy.

“Daddy, move,” you cry, voice going up in pitch.

“There’s my brat.”

He pushes one of your knees up against your chest and slams into you. You scream and he doesn’t even try to cover your mouth, whispering filth as he tilts your hips for the best angle with his other hand. Fucks into you deep and rough, grinning at the obscenely wet noises every time he plunges into you.

Can practically feel him fucking your cervix open to get just that little bit deeper. Licks his lips when he sees the little bump in your stomach. You give as good as you get, squeezing down tight, bouncing to meet him, nails scoring lines down his back and shoulders.

“Gonna ask daddy to make you cum?” He goads.

“Earn it,” you reply.

He laughs and pulls out, flips you onto your stomach while you’re still dizzy with emptiness. Hikes your hips up and sinks into you like coming home. Your knees almost give out but that’s fine by him, he’s plenty strong enough to hold you up all on his own, using you like a noisy little toy for his own benefit.

“Fuuuuck,” you whine, feeling overwhelmed, pleasured tears gathering in your eyes. Then, in a whisper, “Daddy…”

“Feel like being good yet?” He asks. A large, rough hand circles that back of your neck and pins you face down to the mattress.

“N-no,” you whine, fight gone out of you now that you’re getting exactly what you want.

Fuck it feels so, so good. Every inch bullying you wide open and loose, so wet you’re dripping down your own thighs, wetting his ball as they slap against you. You feel split open and pinned, unable to do anything but take it, tortured stupid on ecstasy. He licks a stripe up your back before pressing you down prone, ankles locked around yours to keep you open and accessible.

“S’alright, doll, don’t need to be good to be mine.”

He’s barely pulling out halfway before ramming home now. You can barely get a breath in, the weight of him pressing whatever resistance was left right out of you.

“Daddy, daddy,” you sob. “Fuck, I wan’ it.”

“Want it, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you moan, pressing your face into your arms. Cant your hips just that little bit to get him abusing that bundle of nerves.

“Oh, right there, huh?” He coos. “Did daddy find your little sweet spot?”

A series of short, ruthless thrusts right there, making incoherent, desperate noises fall from your mouth. Before you realize it, he’s wedged a hand beneath your hips and has two fingers toying with your poor, neglected clit.

“‘M gonna… f-fuck, fuck,” you whine, writhing (or at least trying to) against him. Not sure if you’re trying to urge him on or get away. Doesn’t matter, he’s in charge, has been since the beginning. “Daddy, I wanna…”

“Whenever you want, babygirl,” he replies, voice going all warm and gooey. Your chest hitches. “Squeeze around me nice and tight. Let me feel you cum on my cock.”

Didn’t realize that was what you needed, but you fucking scream as you clench down around him, stars bursting behind your closed eyes. He fucks you through it, tapping against your g-spot again and again until you dissolve into a weak, wet whimpers.

“Daddyyyy,” you whine.

And that sets him off, flooding you with heat. He loses control for a second as his hips jerk, pounding brutally into your oversensitive, swollen pussy. Makes a few tears finally slip down, soaking into the sheets along with your drool. The sound of him groaning as he cums makes you spasm around him again, a little aftershock that milks the last of his release.

“That’s it, easy,” he groans, brushing kisses over your trembling shoulders. “Easy, doll.”

He lies over you for a few minutes, letting you feel him there. Right there with you. Breathing and recovering, holding you through the endorphin rush. When you squirm a bit, he eases off you, cock slipping out. You shiver at the feeling of his cum trickling out of you, glassy eyes fluttering.

“C’mere,” he soothes, tugging you in. Lying on his side, he hitches one of your thighs up over his hip, tucks your arms between your chests and rests his stubbly chin on your temple. You splay your fingers over his peck, over the bold, dark symbol for SpecGru. Feel his heart settling back into rhythm and sigh, snuggling in.

The hormone drop is a monster on your emotions, often leaves you shivery and lonely, a little sick in your own body. First time you did this with him ended in tears, expecting him to get up and leave. He didn’t, never has, but you both learned that as much physical contact as possible in the aftermath eases the comedown away from a total crash.

“You did so well, babygirl,” he whispers, leaving kisses everywhere he can reach without dislodging you. “Such a good girl. Even if you think you’re being bad.”

You flush, hide your face against his neck. He chuckles, honeybalm on your soul. Can feel his hand start to move, then pause as he remembers that you can’t handle that stimulation right after sex. So he just squeezes, slow and gentle, helps get you back in your body.

“I still want you,” he assures, echoing your mantra back at you. “Always will. You’re mine.”

You outline a heart shape onto his forearm, not quite able to speak yet. He recognize the feeling though and gently guides your face up to place a slow, gentle kiss to your lips.

“Love you, too, babygirl. Ready to clean up?”

You nod. He eases you up, lets you cling onto his hand as he walks you to the en suite. Fills you a glass of cool water to sip on while he gets the shower running. Turns his back while you use the restroom and wash your hands, then guides you into the hot water.

You lean into him, near boneless, as he washes you, calloused palms with soap instead of a cloth. Then sits still, hands on your hips, while you return the favor. This part is one of the most important for you, getting to freely return touch.

(Simon hardly ever let you touch, especially in the aftermath. Sure, you could scratch and grip at him during sex, but during foreplay it was all part of his dom persona that you couldn’t just touch at will. And afterwards… well. It’s not like he didn’t do aftercare. He did! But the almost formulaic warm cloth wipe down, glass of water, doze for a bit before he left was not… not ideal. Not like this.)

Your captain hums, eyes half-lidded but trained on you, while you smooth your palms over the firms planes of his muscles. Fingers tracing over tattoos and scars. Squishing and patting at the healthy layer of tissue over his stomach and thighs. Lets you nuzzle and kiss his soft cock, even though it makes his fingers twitch with oversensitivity.

Squeezes when you lace fingers together to stretch his arm out, inspecting the lines your nails carved into him.

“M’okay, baby,” he says before you can ask. “Feels good.”

You similarly assure him over the bruises on your wrists and hips, smiling and leaning up to kiss his jaw.

When the shower is over, he dries you off, playfully ruffling your hair just to kiss the pout off your lips. He dresses you in one of his shirts and a spare pair of your own joggers, found in his duffel.

You sit with him for a while longer still, enjoying how he lets himself relax once he knows you’re taken care of. He lies with his head on your chest, your fingers fluffing his hair, while the two of you watch an episode of some stupid show Keegan got the rest of the team into.

Only when it’s over does he ask if you’re ready to go to Nikto’s. If you wanted to stay, you could. Nikto would understand. But you’re looking forward to a night with your quiet Russian while the other three have a little movie night.

At the door, you kiss your captain goodnight. Hug and kiss Keegan and Nova as you pass them in the hall headed to his room. Nova makes a point of kissing one of the bruises on your wrist, while Keegan whispers that he loves you.

You pad to the first door in the hall, where Nikto has stationed himself as the team guard dog. You tap gently at the door, a pre-determined pattern to let him know who it is.

The door cracks open, one startling blue eye peering from the darkness.

“Evening, Nik,” you coo.

A hand reaches out and gently yanks you inside. And then next thing you know, you’re wrapped up in thick arms devoid of any usual covering. You feel smothered, in a good way.

“Love,” he rasps in Russian into your hair.

You hum in return. Place your palms flat on his abdomen. The muscles clench, you pause as you realize his abs, impressive as they are, feel too defined. He needs water. Taking mental note, you draw your hands carefully around, feeling the raised bumps of wicked scars. Make sure he can track exactly where and how you’re touching until your arms are wrapped around him in a return hug.

“Smell good,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” You giggle. “Showered just for you.”

He snorts, then scoops you up. You make a delighted noise, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you across the room. Of course his navigation is impeccable, even in pitch black. He lays you down on the bed, but before he can crawl up with you, you place a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re dehydrated.”

He makes an annoyed noise, sounds like he’s about to protest. You shush him with a quick peck to his chest.

“Get a glass please? I could use some water myself.”

Which has him instantly moving. You politely turn away as the bathroom light flicks on, the water runs. Can hear him chug two entire glasses before he fills it one final time. The light turns off again. The bed dips as he returns, presses the cool edge gently to your cheek.

“Thank you,” you murmur, sipping about a quarter of it to appease him before he sets aside for you on a bedside table.

And then he gets what he really wants, stripping you down and tucking you in like a nesting bird. Practically on top of you while you’re still reeling from how much skin you can feel. Even during intimacy, he tends to stay clothed or mostly clothed. But right now all you can feel is a pair of underwear against your bare ass. Everywhere else it’s miles of warm skin, uncovered muscle and texture of scars.

“This is nice,” you coo. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

You wiggle around until you’re chest to chest. Start with his hands. Kiss each smooth fingertip, prints flayed off. Then his palms, the divots from nails driving through. Flip them over to kiss his scarred knuckles, smile at the way he twitches, flexing them outward like he’s trying not to close his hand.

“Okay?” You ask.

“Yes.”

You kiss his wrists, his forearms, to his collarbone. You’ve peeked a blue-black tattoo there before. Stars and the start of something that might be religious. Spend a little extra time there, tongue peeking out. He shifts; you take it as a sign of discomfort and move on.

“Here next,” he says when you dip to go to his chest.

He guides your face up his neck, where you press long (but chaste) kisses until you bump his jaw. And realize that’s all skin too.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Can I…?”

“Yes.”

You feather your lips along his fresh-shaved jaw, the nicked scars on his chin. Then up, ignoring the wicked scar along his cheek. Breathe against his temple, feeling dizzy with the trust he’s showing you.

“I love you,” you whisper, continuing along to his nose, twice broken and poorly set each time. A line over one nostril where a piercing was ripped out. He makes a noise in his throat, think he might be having trouble speaking again. Don’t mind.

He lets you get down to his mouth, where a particularly twisted scar warps part of his upper lip away from his teeth. You think that if you saw it in the light, his canine would be visible. His lower lip is uneven too, like a misaligned seam.

You don’t pay any special attention to any of it, focused more on reacquainting yourself with how your mouth fits with his. He doesn’t lead, doesn’t rush or pull or press. But there’s tension all along his body, everywhere you touch. You don’t ask for more than a chaste kiss, and when you pull away, you tilt your forehead gently against his.

“Still okay?” You ask.

“Still okay.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #the captain #cod nikto #the captain x reader #specgru reader #former 141 reader #nikto x reader

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prettyforwoso · 4 months

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Help Us Understand.

Barca x teen reader

Alexia x teen reader

Lionesses x teen reader

word count: 3500

Summary: y/n, a talented 16-year-old footballer, nicknamed "la princesa," battles the harsh realities of adolescence. Burdened by self-harm scars and body image insecurities, she attempts to hide her struggles from the team. The team uncovers her deepening eating disorder, prompting a collective effort to guide her through recovery.

tw: mention of eating disorders and self harm

Being a teenager in this world is hard. Not only are you working with shitty hormones and breakouts on your face, you also have to put up with the nightmare of other teenagers. Most of them are fine, in fact, what seems to be the worst of it, are the people who are no longer teenagers, and think that’s a valid reason to attack those who are younger and more vulnerable than them. Like you.

You are a lioness, 16, debuting at 15, now playing for Barcelona, a along side your England teammates, Lucy and Keira. You are known as “la princesa.” The nickname came around after your first game for Barca, in which, you scored a Hatrick and pulled a neat assist. the fans linking your talent to Alexia, saying how much you play like her. Quick, rough, strong. You have always been that way.

This nickname sparked a close connection between you and Alexia. She took you under her wing the second you got off the plane in Barcelona. She didn’t like the idea of you living alone in a new country, despite your ability to speak perfect Spanish. So, you lived with her “only for the first few weeks” which has turned into months. Alexia acts like she is trying to help you find an apartment, but isn’t, like secretly loves having you around, seeing so much of her younger self in you. She fusses over you, cares for you, feeds you, scolds you, drives you to school, gets emails from your school. She has stepped into your life and has supported you in every way a mother would.

You have a bad history with self-harm. It was Leah Williamson who noticed it first, well maybe just the first person to speak to you about it, but you don’t know that. You were rooming with her for your first England camp. Nervous about the girls seeing your scars, you were always wearing a long sleeve under your training kit, which at times got hard as it was summer.

A few girls would joke to you, “how are you not boiling?” was the consistent one that just made you want to rip the skin off whoever said it. It was some of the older girls who brought it up with each other at a post-match dinner that you managed to get out of. It was Lucy, Leah, Mary, Beth and Lotte who exchanged their concern, how they never seen your arms, how you were always somehow too busy for ice baths, how you shivered when someone would grab your wrists. They all kept a close eye on you, but decided not to come to any conclusions, as in reality, you were known to be the sunshine and smiles of the squad.

But you weren’t, and deep down, they knew that too.

It all came crashing down one afternoon, when Leah found a bloody rag in the bathroom bin, she investigated further and found your blades in the back of your phone case that you had left on your bed.

She called Beth to your room, who then called lucy, they gathered together in your room, talking about the next steps. The three of them sat in an almost silence, saddened by the conformed truth. They made their plan, not wanting to waste any time.

They found you in the games room, laughing with Ella as you and a group of girls played table tennis.

“y/n, sorry I just need to grab you real quick” Leah said, breaking her observant silence. You were pulled into a room, it all happened so fast. Lucy placing you on her lap, wrapping her arms around you and Beth pulling your phone out of her back pocket. Leah speaking, you didn’t hear any of it, your focus being on Beths hands, taking off your phone case and picking up the tiny metal blades. You just cried and cried as they talked to you, you didn’t say a word, not denying anything. You cried into lucy’s arms as they tried to understand you and your reasoning being the scars. It took some gentle tugging and tears of resistance for your top to be pulled over your head, leaving you in just your bra and pants in Lucys lap as Leah ran a gentle finger across the healed and fresh marks along your arms. Beth moved closer to you, taking your face in her hands, clearly holding back tears of her own.

No one was supposed to know. But when they did, it killed you.

The bad thing about talent is the expectation of performance, and when you underperform, you would be attacked online. The hatred and negativity really got you, and ruined a lot of your confidence and the girls knew that. They knew the comments you would get, about your play, your personality, your body.

The comments about your body were some of the worst, and they didn’t get better when you started at Barca, in fact, they got worse. It was almost like it was all you saw. You would make a post about a game and hardly anyone would speak about how well you played or how many goals you scored. All you would see was the comments about how your body has changed, how you look in the kit, your legs, hips, arms, boobs. It got so bad that you stopped posting all together and turned off all your comments. Soon however, they comments came to the Barcelona Instagram page, and the pages of your teammates. You worked harder that ever. Working out was no longer about training your body to perform and be strong, it became about looking different and making changes to your body physically.

You were running lengths each morning and evening as well as staying back at training. You weren’t fat, or thin, nothing abnormal for a teenager with a changing body. You had bigger boobs than you did 3 months ago, wider hips, thicker thighs, yknow, everything normal, but the fans didn’t think so, and that’s what got the best of you.

Alexia noticed your increase in running and working out but at first brushed it off as you wanting to prove yourself to a new team. But it soon became hard to ignore when you were finding excuses to not eat, the snacks she would buy you because she knew you loved them, sat in the kitchen untouched. She tried to pretend she couldn’t hear you coughing up each meal in the bathroom, more for her own comfort.

It became too much to ignore when others noticed.

“Why are you running so much little one?” Mapi asked you, completely innocently after training one day in the change room. At first you pretended not to hear, until you realised the whole team was awaiting an answer.

“Do you think I’m just naturally the fastest on the team?” you joke back, getting a laugh from her and a few others. Alexia remains stone face, looking as though she could see right through you.

A few of the girls watched you through squinted eyes as you pull your bag over your shoulder, noticing your spine that wasn’t visible last week. They exchange looks amongst themselves as you and Alexia walk towards her car.

“I got a call from your school yesterday” Alexia says, hiding behind her sunglasses as she pulls out of the car park.

“Why” you ask dry as you pull your phone out of your hoodie pocket. Alexias’s silence was inevitable. You turn your head towards her, awaiting a response. She keeps her eyes on the road, rolling her tongue along her top teeth, looking out at the cars ahead in deep thought.

“Why are you hiding from me bebita?” she breaks her silence, with an almost whisper.

“What are you talking about” you snap back in her direction

“You tell me Pequeña, Why do you think your school called, Se honesta conmigo” her eyes didn’t leave the road.

“No sé” you reply, swallowing the truth that lingers on the tip of your tongue, threatening to reveal itself.

“What is going on with you” Sabes que no deberías actuar de esta manera.” She takes a breath, remaining hidden being her bold sunglasses, refusing to look you in the eye, scared of becoming too vulnerable.

The silence was deafening. Pulling up in the driveway, you reach for the car door, your attempt at defusing the situation quickly rejected as Alexia locks the doors, trapping you in a conversation. You refuse to turn from the window, Alexia now being the one begging for eye contact.

“Bebita, look at me” she whispers. Her failed attempt of a resolution resulting in her hand reaching for your long curls, gently moving your head around to see your face. Her breath hitches as she looks at the tears swelling in your eyes, immediately bringing her thumb to wipe them off your soft skin.

“I hate when you yell at me” you begin, chocking on almost every syllable. “Estoy tratando de ser valiente”

“oh cariño ven” she says desperately as she pulls you effortlessly over the centre console and into her lap, wrapping her arms around you. Your tears just get heavier, as you hide your face into her neck, the idea of getting out of the car, now long forgotten.

“Bebita, your school is worried, you are the top student, why are you not doing work? Hay algo que te distraiga? She gently nudges you in her arms as she askes. “I am worried for you, talk to me”.

You just couldn’t bring yourself too. The truth is, you were too distracted for school, for homework, for study. There was so much on your mind right now. The last thing you were worried about was classes that you already knew all the content for. You were hungry, not eating at all, desperate for control over your changing body.

The next dreaded team bonding night came all too soon. Your tried to convince Alexia you were too busy with school but she wasn’t having a bar of it, almost having to drag you out the door and into the car. Nothing you wanted to do more in that moment than curl up in bed with a teddy and your warm blanket Alexia got you for my room in her house. But it was unavoidable. Alexia was correct in the way of you having to be at the dinner, in her perspective it was to show up and be social, for you personally it was about proving the concerned rumours between the girls that you weren’t eating wrong. However, that didn’t exactly go to plan.

Alexia parks in the driveway of Mapi and Ingrid’s home and you follow her inside. You greet all your teammates, receiving a kiss on the cheek and head pat from most of them and they smile down at you.

Since the conversation in Alexia’s car a few weeks ago, she hasn’t let you out of her sight, you didn’t even get into the not eating stuff, but still has watched your every mouthful over the past few weeks. You still had your tricks, not eating when she wasn’t around, running now three times a day on top of training, and all else. You were deteriorating. Dark bags under your eyes and hallowed cheeks.

“Y/n come get some pizza before you sit” Frido pulls you to the kitchen away from the crowd that was the typical team bonding, this felt like a test.

“Oh no, its okay” you scan your surroundings before following up your statement. “Alexia fed me before we came” you smile, attempting to be casual.

“oh, that’s weird, we always have dinner at team bonding” she raised an eyebrow, questioning what felt like your whole existence. She grabs a slice for herself and tries to offer you some anyways, failing as you kindly decline, insisting you will have some later.

People were scattered everywhere around the home, some sitting around the table playing card games, others vacating outside with a drink. You scan the house looking for place to escape to. All you wanted was to leave the overstimulation that was this monthly event.

You head towards the empty bathroom, the room you spend probably the most time in at other people’s houses. You begin to almost run towards it as you hear your name being called. It was too late; Lucy was stood outside yelling your name through the door of the garden.

“Y/n, come talk to us we miss you” she giggles as she enters the room to get you. You begin the walk of shame towards her. Overthinking what is coming next. Stepping out the door onto the porch your gently grabbed by the back of the neck and brought to a group of women standing around. Their faces light up as they see you. The group consists of Mapi, Lucy, Alexia Frido, Jenni and Ona, all sharing a bottle of wine.

“Y/n, you want a drink?” Ona asks, you aren’t sure if she’s joking or not.

“No Ona, she is a child” Jenni interferes and takes the drink Ona is pouring, handing it to Lucy, who puts it down with ease. You crack a smile at the interaction. They think you are so innocent…

“You’re not old enough for a drink yet Bebita, especially on an empty stomach” Alexia jokes with a smile.

“empty stomach?” Frido butts in, tilting her head in confusion at the contradicting information.

fuck.

You let out a load cough to clear your voice before quickly excusing yourself from the conversation. “I need to pee” you announce before hurrying inside, finding Ingrid at the table, playing cards with a few others.

The group, now abandoned by you stand in a deafening silence.

“She’s not eating is she?” Frido breaks, looking at Alexia with wide eyes.

“Shes not doing good, no” Their captain reply’s looking down at the glass in her hand.

“So we were right” Mapi says through squinted eyes as she tightened her grip on the stem of her wine glass.

Most of the team has been talking for a few weeks now. Lucy briefly filled them in about your history with Self harm and how you were managing it now. But the not showing up to meal times and doing overtime in the gym was something she couldn’t explain. However, they soon linked it to the bullying from people online about your body. It became to much for them all when Alexia broke down in front of them, claiming her worry for you. It was clear there was a bigger picture to what you were letting them see, seeing as their usually stone faced, strong captain had tears in her eyes over you.

Your rapid weight loss didn’t go unnoticed, even coaching staff beginning to threaten benching you if you didn’t gain some weight, claiming you were too weak to continue at full trainings and games. You always just told them you were sick, claiming it as an excuse for the weight loss and loss of appetite.

At first, everyone, including team members believed you, until they noticed you weren’t getting better, like you would if you were really sick with a catchable illness.

“So what are we going to do? because we cant loose her, shes our best” Lucy asks, getting more frantic as the sentence rolls out her mouth.

“I’ve tried talking to her, she just lies, tells me shes fine, ella me ignorará” Alexia says, finally looking up from her half full glass, meeting the eyes of her teammates.

“I know she needs me, but she won’t talk to me, she is sneaking into my bed each night for comfort, I wrap my arms around her when she falls alseep, ella tiene miedo de estar sola, shes been clinging to us, as if she is desprate for help, but doesn’t know how to ask. She won’t leave my side, unless there is food involved. luego ella desaparece” Alexia blurted out, speaking slow and clear, explaining herself.

“Maybe if we all try” Ona breaks her personal silence, earning a raised brow from a few listeners, the nodding heads soon followed.

“Bebita, can I come in” You hear Alexias voice beam through the small gap in the doorframe.

“A few of us are here too see you” you tilt your head in confusion at her followup statement, why are people here to see you, so late in the evening. You thought everyone would have returned home after team bonding, as did you and Alexia, why was there people outside your bedroom door?

You sit up in your bed, still tucked under the covers in your hoodie (that may of may not be Alexias) and shorts, clinging to your Stitch teddy. You close your laptop playing your movie and move it down the bed, finally giving Alexia a response.

“ehh, yeah come in” you say, unsure on what you are agreeing too.

You remain put under the safety of your covers, as if they would protect you from danger as the group of women enter your once personal space, finding refusge in spots around your room, most of them making themselves at home on your bed, espechailly Alexia, who comes up close to you and wraps and arm around your shoulders. Lucy, Ingrid, Mapi, Frido and Ona looked at you, as if they were waiting for you to break the artifical silence.

“Querida estamos aquí para hablar contigo” Ingrid is the first to speak up, beofre Mapi adds to her girlfrinds statement.

“I think you know what about” she fidgests with her rings. “we are just trying to understand”

“so help us do that, please sweetheart” Frido interupts.

You shake your head and close your eyes, as if you could open them and it would all go away. “I don’t know what your talking about”

“I have lectured you enough about your lying bebita” Alexia says in a stern voice.

The silence isn’t going away. You were in full control of it, and you knew that. You knew that they were waiting for you to talk, no one was going to make it easy for you.

”Desearía poder hacer que todo desaparezca” you shut your eyes once again as the tears start to spill out the creases. “I just want to be able to control what is changing”

The girls don’t speak, they are waiting for more, and they won’t break untill they are statified.

“I don’t know how to ask for help, or how to be okay” The tears get heavier as you push out the words, Alexia runs her free hand along your face, nudging you to keep going. You put in your best efforts to regain your breathing as your lip quivers in Alexia’s hand. Still no one was talking.

“I never meant for it to get this bad, I just wanted to get some control, I feel like there is so much online about me, rumors, hate, negitivity, all things I cant just reach out and get my hands on, to be able to toy with it and mold it to the way I want it. There is so little I can control, but my body, I can. No queria llegar tan lejos. Im so scared of losing myself, I want to hold onto the me that I am forever but I know I can’t, but I wanted to try, and that is why I yearn for whatever control I can get. So many ideas are put into my head about what my body should look like, how tall I should be, how much I should weigh, how tan I should be, how I should hold myself. I realised I am so calm and content when I play football, and that is because I am perfect at it, no one finds flaws in the way I play, but I second I step off the pitch I loose that warm feeling, because I have flaws again. When football is out of the picture, I am covered in them. I just wanted living to feel the same as playing, perfect and flawless.

The amont of tears in the room should safe a deadly drought.

“nuestra niña hermosa, estamos aquí” Ingrid climbs onto the bed coming closer to you, followed by the remaining womens in the room, all finding a spot, as close to you as they could get. So many arms are wrapped around you, so many hands holding your face, wiping your cold tears away.

“Let us help you darling” Lucy and Ona say in an unmost unison.

You slowly allow yourself to nod.

The following weeks were slow and painful, but what isn’t in recovery? The girls put it upon themselves to keep you in check, taking turns taking you out on small adventures, like going for walks or getting icecream to get you out of the house as you were ruled out of training and playing for a few weeks by your phycologist, that Alexia and Lucy insisted that you saw, they drove you to each appointment and picked you up, no questions asked. Meal time in the house became a big thing, Alexia discarding the idea of sitting around the table and eating, instead opting for sitting wherever, weather that was outside, or in, watching a movie, or just chatting. This change of environment around meals made eating less of a chore, as you got better, teammates would come over for dinner and it became more a social event, a more relaxing endeavor. You slowly made your way back to training as you got your fitness back, earning pats on the back from your team who you had made, very proud.

#wsl #woso #lucy bronze #ona batlle #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #lucy bronze x reader #barca femeni #barca #barcelona femeni #barcelona x reader #lucybronze #lionesses #teen reader #eating disoder trigger warning #mental health #fluff #fanfic

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grandline-fics · 14 days

Text

The Little Things

DESCRIPTION: The little things they love with you

WARNINGS: just fluff

CHARACTERS: Law, Kid, Killer

WORDS: 734

A/N: Something small and slightly different that came to mind. Hope you all like it and have a good day. Thank you as always for reading

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

MASTERLIST | PROMPT LIST

———————

LAW

It might seem a little vain but Law loves how drawn you are to his tattoos. He loves how when he walks hand in hand with you, your thumb will always rub lightly against the inked pattern of his skin. You’re almost unconscious of it and he’s always silently expecting it and without fail you do it while looking around the new sights of the island the crew are exploring. It doesn’t stop at that though. When you’re sitting or lounging beside him in your more relaxed moments on the sub, depending on your position you have to have your hand on his arm or his chest with your fingers following the lines without even needing to be looking at them. Law finds it amusing how through muscle memory alone your hands just know the pathway of the ink perfectly.

Law loves how you accept his obsession with needing to work longer hours to a point. After becoming a couple you both reached an understanding that on the nights he’s drawn into his journals he has to read aloud in bed and even if you don’t fully understand the medical and other scientific terminologies, the sound of his voice will always lull you over to sleep. Finally when Law feels his eyes begin to grow heavy, he pulls you close and loves to lay his head close to your chest, his most treasured sound of your steady and strong heartbeat comforts him and is the final thing he needs to fall into a peaceful and restful sleep.

KID

Kid’s a simple man, one of the things he loves with you is when you help with his appearance. While he remains relaxed and perched on the edge of the bed you stand between his legs, perfectly slotted and almost pressed against his chest as you carefully apply his eyeliner and lipstick with a careful and steady hand. Kid loves the simple yet intimate moment each and every morning, trusting you completely while also getting to indulge in having his hand firmly against your hip, the appearance of keeping you steady when really you both know he can’t help but have his hands on you. Kid loves the complete focus in your eyes as you do this task, taking it seriously. He only closes his eyes when you’ve finished by pressing a gentle kiss against the scar.

More than anything Kid loves how at ease and adaptable you are in his larger than life presence. Despite him being the taller and louder in the pair you compliment him so well that it’s effortless. He doesn’t need to quiet who he is, you just accept him and match his energy in your own way. Whether he’s brawling in a bar or working on something in his workshop, you’re there as his constant support. He loves how easily you slotted into his life and made him realise just how much he needed someone like you to stabilise his chaotic nature without taming it.

KILLER

With Killer he loves the ability to communicate with you without needing to say much if anything at all. You’re both so comfortable and in sync with one another that you know what the other needs. One such thing being you always know when Killer needs the space to breathe and relieve the building pressure against his head. He wears his mask for a reason but constantly wearing it does cause a tightness and pain. You always know when Killer is reaching his limit and find a way to sneak him away, letting him pull off his mask and lay his head down in your lap and immediately feel your fingers sink into his hair and massage the tension away from his skull.

Killer loves having you with him in the kitchen. The two of you cook together in perfect harmony while also working together on making new recipes. Anything that Killer comes up with you’re always the first to taste test, giving him the only opinion he values while knowing that you will be completely honest and will offer helpful criticism or suggestions that will always help him improve his cooking. Killer also loves how you’re also as protective of the space as he is, always quick to kick out any of the crew when they try to sneak food before it’s ready, especially when it’s Kid that needs to be reprimanded.

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alexlwrites · 3 months

Text

𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐬

✿𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: OT7 x Plus Size! Reader

✿ 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: "What was so outrageous about someone like you, you asked yourself and the universe. You had tried your best to compensate for any shortcomings with everything else that was expected of you: femininity, understanding, a sense of humor. Never enough, those were never even the first thing that came to mind when people thought of you.

Why bother then? If nothing you did made any difference at all, why try? If people hated your body just for existing, why not give them a reason to hate your personality as well?"

The one where seven campus princes who are used to getting everything they wanted get enchanted by your distrust and brattiness, climbing over each other to get a smile from you who could not be bothered to give them a single second of your day.

✿ 𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒔: Romance, Humor, Fluff, Angst, College AU

✿ 𝑨/𝑵: I wanna leave this here as sort of a trigger warning: this work features a plus size main character and throughout the story there will be mean comments from characters about her body and her journey dealing with said comments. A lot of it comes from my own experience as a (now ex-ish) plus size girl myself and my path to living peacefully within my body. And although this work is about Y/N's relationship with the boys, I like to think that she still would've continued to grow and blossom happily on her own. Let this be something you learn from this fic, as I say right on the first chapter: You don't have to love the way you look right away, you just can't let it stop you from doing the things you want and, in a greater scale, from being happy and treated with respect.

Thank you for reading <3

P.S: Red daisies, like many red flowers, represent love and romance. Florists often use them to communicate affection to someone who doesn’t know how beautiful they are—a.k.a. beauty unknown to the possessor.

(Fanfic masterlist)

(support me on my ko-fi)

°•. ✿ .•°

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

The pattern in your relationships - if you could call them that - was tiring, to say the least. Once, they might have been soul crushing, but time and repetition took away the novelty of your pain and now the endgame was a mild, resented disappointment.

It started with kindness and a gentle smile, mainly from your part. You treated anyone who gave you any smidgen of attention with the utmost sweetness, hoping your energy would be matched. And sometimes it was, for a while. Sometimes you got to be on the receiving end of a blinding smile or a casual touch and you allowed yourself to hope - no, pray -that that could be it. That someone, some modern day knight in shiny armor , saw through your looks and decided that you were deserving of love, despite societal norms,

But men had a way of setting you up for disappointment. A talent, truly.

You were tired, you decided that night. No, beyond that, you were exhausted, scarred, bitter, hopeless, resentful… You could keep going. You could list every bad feeling you had been carrying in your chest by alphabetical order or by how badly they hurt and honestly you just wanted it to stop.

Would you have to change everything about your body to be happy, you wondered watching the boy you had been seeing for a few weeks make fun of you in front of his circle of friends at the party you were both at. Would you never be allowed to be happy just the way you were?

Would you have to change everything about your body to be happy?

“Yeah, she’s nice” Junsuu said, winking suggestively at his giggling friends “if you know what I mean.” you felt your face heat up in humiliation at the renewed round of laughter “But we just don’t match, like, physically. You know, looks-wise.”

“Right” someone agreed way too enthusiastically, sending a spear through your heart “I really just can’t see you with someone like her.”

What was so outrageous about someone like you, you asked yourself and the universe. You had tried your best to compensate for any shortcomings with everything else that was expected of you: femininity, understanding, a sense of humor. Never enough, those were never even the first thing that came to mind when people thought of you.

Why bother then? If nothing you did made any difference at all, why try? If people hated your body just for existing, why not give them a reason to hate your personality as well?

“You’re right” you said out loud, drawing attention to yourself. Filled with hatred (for him, the world, the circumstances), your heart had no room to be mortified when all eyes turned to you “we don’t match.”

You watched as Junsuu’s eyes widened, clearly not expecting you to hear, much less reply “I am a big girl” you continued, words dripping with rage “And I know for a fact that there’s nothing big about you.”

You turned around to leave the room, cringing at the petty comeback, ignoring the murmurs and Junsuu’s panicked calls of your name. Walking fast, you fled the scene of the last heartbreak you would allow yourself to go through, deciding that a change was needed, but not the change everyone wanted from you.

Despite the rumors, you didn’t turn into a huge bitch overnight, didn’t start kicking puppies or spitting on the poor. Truly, the only thing you did was establish boundaries and reevaluate the amount of respect some people deserved, but very quickly people started seeing you as some sort of villain, especially when they realized how little you cared for how they saw you. How disrespectful of you to not allow yourself to be disrespected, right?

At first, there was still an air of uncertainty about you - years and years of non-reciprocal niceties drilled into your brain, habits hard to quit. But the more you let go of those things, these tiny acts of self-aggression disguised as pleasantries and altruism, the lighter you felt; Your days became easier to get through, existing within your body felt less and less like a punishment. You had yet to reach an Instagram-worthy level of body positivity, but you had become accustomed to body neutrality. You didn’t have to love the way you looked right away, you just couldn’t let it stop you from doing the things you wanted and, in a greater scale, from being happy and treated with respect.

And respect you started to demand and much happier you became, living in relative peace and solitude - safe by a few close friends - up until your days started being pestered by seven headaches you could not seem to shake away.

—-

Jungkook was the one that saw you first.

It was 3 weeks into the semester and he finally decided it was the perfect time to start going to classes, sitting in the back and only listening to about 25% of what was being said, mind floating towards more important subjects such as the package of ramen waiting for him at home. Only mildly interested in what the professor had to teach, he couldn’t help but to be startled when everyone started getting up from their seats to shuffle around the room. “What’s going on?” he asked the guy sitting next to him.

“Professor gave us a duo assignment.” the other man said, standing up “You're with Y/N.”

“Who?”

The guy just pointed towards you with his chin, redirecting Jungkook’s attention before leaving. You were sitting a couple rows further down, hunched over your little green IPad as you wrote something with impressive velocity. Jungkook walked over to you, already mentally going over what he would have to do to charm you into doing everything on your own “Y/N?” he called and you raised your head.

You were pretty, he noticed with satisfaction, all bright eyes and lovely features, curves everywhere he looked “Yes?”

“I’m Jungkook.” he extended his hand with a casual smirk “The professor put us together for this project.”

There had been a small, but pleasant and polite smile on your face up until he said those words, replaced by pursed lips and an arched brow. “Yes, I know. We’ve had classes together for over a year now and been partnered together before.”

Uh oh. “Right” he coughed awkwardly, fumbling under your hardened stare “so, about this project…”

“We will meet once a week,” you said, straightforward as you turned your eyes back to your sticker-filled IPad “I will go over the theme and split the work evenly, so give me your number and I can text you with what you’re supposed to do.”

“Woah, woah, asking for my number already?” he said in a flirting manner, sitting on top of your table so he could be directly in front of you.

“Would you prefer it if I emailed it to you?” you asked without looking up.

“Actually, I was thinking you could help me out a bit,” he placed his finger under your chin, raising your face towards him “you know I have soccer practice and…”

You pushed his hand away “Unless you’re playing at the World Cup, I can’t see how that would be more important than your studies, so you either do your part of the assignment or get an F in it, I don’t care. I won’t do all the work for you, Jeon. Not again.”

Again? Jungkook winced, trying to remember when you had met before. Surely he would remember getting his head bitten off by a snappy, pretty thing like you, wouldn’t he? Surely your attitude would stand out to him amongst all the sweetness and compliance he received just for existing and smiling.

“Here’s my number.” you gave him a piece of paper with your digits written in gel sparkly ink “Text me when you decide if you want to pass this class. Good day.”

You looked down again, going back to your notes, signing that the conversation was over before he even had the chance to add anything more. He jumped off the desk and stepped away, looking back to see if you were looking at him, but there wasn’t a single glance from your part.

Shit. Shit. He actually did have to pass this class, otherwise his overbearing soccer coach would kick him off the team. He stared down at your number, wondering what he would have to do to get you to cut him a little slack and forgive him for absolutely forgetting about your existence.

—

“Hey, this is Jungkook” the text from an unknown number said “looking forward to us working together. We should get dinner sometime, get to know each other better.”

You read over the text once more, willing your heart to slow down its beating. Sure, Jungkook was charming and handsome, but you had seen this dance before. He would talk his way into your good graces, making you laugh and giggle until you had a four thousand word essay done with both your names in it and your texts to him would go unanswered and unseen.

This was not your first hurtful rodeo. You put your phone away, facing down, ignoring as the poor device vibrated itself off the table with the upcoming texts.

Meanwhile, across campus, Jungkook was fuming.

“Or breakfast. We should get breakfast. I know a great place.” he tried once again, but his message was left unread. Still, he persisted.

“I have a lot of great ideas for this assignment. Don’t you want to know them?” he texted, even though he didn’t have the faintest idea on what the assignment was even about.

“You know, it’s rude to leave a guy hanging.”

“How can we do this if you won’t even text me back?”

“I thought we were in this together.”

“You know, like High School Musical.”

He kept typing out absurdity after absurdity, hoping you would dignify one with an answer. He just needed one opportunity, one opening…

His text stopped going through.

“She blocked me!” he gasped out loud.

“Who?” his roommate, Taehyung asked from where he laid on their couch, feet up on the coffee table.

“This girl in my class. We have this project together and she blocked me!”

Taehyung sent a disbelieving look his way “Were you actually planning to do the work?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Obviously not.”

His friend rolled his eyes “Obviously not. So what’s your plan here?”

Jungkook didn’t answer, too busy looking for alternative ways to contact you. After a few minutes of research, he found your Instagram. You were cute, he noticed again, scrolling through your few posts, all relatively recent. You had a very specific style, a tasteful mix or dark and edgy with splashes of pink and bows, tight corsets under leather jackets that he couldn’t help but stare appreciatively, the flattering material clinging to your waist line and pushing your breasts up, exposing the soft freckled top of cleavage to his always hungry eyes. In your pictures, your eyes shone brightly, crinkling at the sides from your ever present smile and he could not understand why you hadn’t directed one of those to him.

It was unsettling, to say the least, but he could not allow his annoyance to take over. He needed your help if he wanted to pass that class and if he had to use unconventional ways to get your attention, he would.

And so, much like a little boy pulling at a girl’s braids, he started liking and spamming the comments of every single post you had.

—

There were whispers all around you, your worst nightmare.

You were at the school library, getting work done while drinking from your fourth cup of coffee, hands shaking due to caffeine and anxiety, your ever present friends. You tried to focus on your books and carefully written notes, but every word you could barely hear and every look you felt over your shoulder seemed to dig claws into your skin. You knew what they were saying. You heard it all the way from your dorm to your classes and couldn’t seem to escape them.

“Did you see Jungkook’s comments on her pictures? What’s that about?”

“It’s not like there’s a lot to comment, is there?”

“Maybe he thought it was someone else?”

“It’s probably a prank.”

“I bet he was hacked.”

Of course, why else would someone like Jungkook - a campus prince, popular soccer player, heartthrob - show interest in you?

It hurt, but a small part of you still agreed with those mean spirited whispers. You closed your eyes, trying to even your breathing and will those thoughts away. You knew better, had learned better than to measure your value by how interested some boy was in you.

When you opened your eyes again, Jungkook was in front of you.

You barely had time to process his presence when the voices picked up volume, your skin prickling and eyes aching to remain dry.

“What’s Jungkook doing with Fat Y/N?”

That word shouldn’t be as hurtful as it was - after all, it was just an adjective, just the current state of your body that served only to carry your thinking mind, your feeling heart. But people always said it like a curse, wielding it like a sword.

You closed your eyes again and when you opened once more, Jungkook was still there. Looking furious.

“What are they saying?”

“What they always said” you shrugged, avoiding his eyes by looking down at your papers.

Jungkook didn’t move for a while, hearing people pretend to whisper around you but it was clear that the motherfuckers wanted you to hear. Was it always like this for you, he wondered, watching as you focused on whatever book you had in front of you, hunched over with tense shoulders, your face a far cry from the luminescent one he saw on your Instagram, not a hint of that smile he wanted directed at him so unreasonably.

He couldn’t just stand there and watch you struggle to keep your posture.

You felt him standing up and leaving more than you saw him. Good, you thought. He should leave, like everyone did, scared away by that one word that followed you around like a brand. He was probably embarrassed to be seen with you, you assumed bitterly, and there was no place in your life for people who didn’t want you proudly by your side…

Jungkook sat back in the chair in front of you and you couldn’t help but gape at the impressive bouquet of red daisies he extended towards you.

“Take it” he said, but you couldn’t move, could barely hear the furious voices around you over the roaring beat of your heart.

You… You had never gotten flowers.

“Take it” he repeated “I almost got run over because of this, the least you can do is accept it.”

“Jungkook” you whispered, dumbfoundedly accepting the bouquet “what’s this?”

“People keep doubting I could be interested in you” he said and there was an edge to his tone you did not expect “maybe this could help clear up some rumors.”

“This is not your battle to fight” you held the flowers close to your chest carefully, looking up at him with distrust, unable to understand his motives “I’m used to this sort of thing and I don’t care about those stupid rumors.”

You were used to it? That just made Jungkook angrier. How could you be used to that sort of treatment?

Jungkook was a lot of things - spoiled, a little lazy, sometimes a dick. But he wasn’t a bigot and he wasn’t about to stand around and let you become used to being disrespected if there was something - anything! - he could do about it “I like picking up fights”.

“Is this just pity?” you asked and he could see walls around you that stood thousands of feet tall “Is this because of that stupid assignment? Because I’m not going to do all the work just because you got me some flowers…”

He raised his hands and smiled at you “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll do my work” he said, a new goal in mind as he saw you recoil from him with eyes filled with wariness like a suspicious kitten “You said once a week, right? How’s friday for you?”

You still clung to your bouquet like a lifeline “That works, I guess.”

“Great!” he clapped loudly, standing up and catching the eye of those around him “I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart” you mumbled, but he pretended not to hear as he crossed the table around to your side, quickly leaving a kiss to your heated cheek before you had the chance to react.

“Alright, sweetheart, I’ll see you around” he said, making sure everyone in the library could hear him “do me a favor and unblock me, ok?”

You flipped him off, both for stealing a kiss and that stupid nickname, but he just laughed it off.

“That’s my girl” he said and the library erupted in renewed whispers.

°•. ✿ .•°

𝐌𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧! 𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝

°•. ✿ .•°

[Red Daisies taglist: @purplelady85 ]

[Permanent taglist: @imknewattis ; @dreamamubarak ; @onlythebest-106 ; @betysotelo18 ; @havetaeminforbreakfast ; @uno7 ; @chimchimmarie ; @anaya123world ; @junecat18 ; @kayleefriedchicken ; @jkselcouth ; @ivrose21 ; @svnbangtansworld ]

#bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts #jungkook x reader #alexl red daisies #ot7 x reader #ot7 x you #bts x y/n #kim taehyung x reader #park jimin x reader #kim namjoon x reader #jung hoseok x reader #min yoongi x reader #kim seokjin x reader #ot7 fluff #bts romance #bts college au

499 notes · View notes

novlr · 9 months

Note

Do you have any tips on how to write a character who’s being manipulated?

Your blog has been very helpful to me! :) thanks a lot

Quick Tips for Writing Manipulative Characters

To convincingly write a character who is being manipulated, you must first understand how to write a believable manipulator. Often hidden in plain sight, manipulators pull the strings, guiding the actions of those who are often unaware that they're dancing to someone else's tune.

Let’s look at manipulators as puppet masters, exploring how they function and how their actions echo throughout your story. By understanding the manipulator, you'll better equip yourself to create realistic characters who are unwittingly under their sway.

How do they behave?

Play the victim to garner sympathy

Charming and persuasive

Twist and distort the truth to suit their agenda

Play mind games

Are silver-tongued

Passive-aggressive when confronted

Use guilt to control others

Don’t hesitate to lie or deceive

Demonstrate a sense of entitlement.

Project their feelings onto others

How do they interact?

Play different roles with different people

Prefer indirect communication to direct confrontation

Gaslight others, making them doubt their own perceptions

Shift the blame onto others

Exploit others' vulnerabilities

Use people’s secrets against them

Make others feel obligated or in debt to them

Use flattery to get their way

Create conflict between other characters

Deliberately create confusion and chaos

Describe their body language

Maintain intense eye contact

Use touch to seem friendly and intimate

Facial expressions often don't match their words

Use large, expressive gestures to dramatise

Have a confident and exaggerated posture

Soften expression to look more trustworthy

Smile artificially or excessively

Lean in close, invading personal space

Mirror others’ behaviours to seem more likeable

Mimic emotions they may not feel

Describe their attitudes

Believe they are always right

Feel entitled and superior

Lack empathy

Highly competitive

Often impatient and intolerant

Controlling and like to be in charge

Rarely apologize sincerely

Often play the martyr, acting self-sacrificing

Can be sceptical of others’ intentions

Kindness is often an act

Positive narrative effects

Paradoxically, manipulative characters can have a positive narrative effect on those they manipulate. These characters can act as a catalyst for change, pushing others to unlock hidden potential and indirectly teaching them to be more cautious. In the face of manipulation, characters can mature and grow resilience.

Manipulative characters can also reveal people’s true natures by tricking them into revelations or by fostering unity as others band together against them. Furthermore, their actions can create dramatic plot twists, make people question their own perceptions and realities, and add intrigue.

Negative narrative effects

Manipulators can cause emotional and psychological distress, breed distrust and insecurity, and disrupt relationships and friendships. These characters often lead others to make damaging decisions, creating a toxic environment.

By exploiting and exposing others' vulnerabilities, manipulators make individuals question their self-worth. The extent of their manipulation can even cause physical harm and lead to the downfall of other characters. Their lasting legacy? Emotional scars that define their victims long after the manipulator has exited the narrative.

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ellastone-olsen · 4 months

Text

MafiaBoss!Wanda Maximoff x f!security!reader.

Warnings: NSFW 18 + knife play, guns, murder, pet names, eating out, impact play, dark! Wanda, overstimulation, mommy kink

AN: oh my god, today is exactly one month since I’ve been publishing my works here, thank you everyone, I’m glad you like my works💗

Mafia boss Wanda who...must control absolutely everything. Even if she is under you, her orders guide you so that there is no doubt about who is in charge. “Such an obedient little pup, lick mommy clean.” She guides you. “Faster, insert your fingers, oh yes like that, make me cum and I’ll get you a reward.” She encourages you, holding your hair to guide your head and ride your face.

Mafia boss Wanda who...always keeps a gun near her, even if entire retinue of security is around. One day you allowed yourself the impudence to anger her, and she took a weapon from the inside pocket of her coat, fired a warning shot somewhere to the side, and then put the barrel under your chin. “Don’t make me angry, dumb pup, you know how easily I can pull the trigger and not blink an eye.” You knew that she could, but you also knew that she would never do this, not with you.

Mafia boss Wanda who...after a hard day, drags you by the collar of a snow-white shirt into her room and casually throws you on the bed. “Mommy had a terrible day so let me use you like the stupid fucktoy you are.” Of course you have no choice, but you don't mind helping a woman relieve stress. When her tongue overstimulates you and a whine escapes your mouth, her hands press you harder and a rough, “Be patient.” that's all you hear.

Mafia boss Wanda who...noticed how her other guards treat you because of your obvious closeness. And when one of these bastards decides to start a fight with you, she will simply take out that same gun and shoot him in the head. “If anyone else decides to commit lynching, he will go to hell for this piece of shit. Did everyone understand me!?” She does not tolerate people touching what belongs to her.

Mafia boss Wanda who...tells you to get on all fours and crawl to her feet so that she rests the stiletto heel on your shoulder leaving a mark of the sole on your shirt and orders you to use your mouth. Finally, you obediently kiss her legs until you reach the top of her black stockings, smelling her arousal through her matching black underwear. Looking up with your puppy dog eyes, you get a nod from her and run your tongue over her clothed pussy, tasting her.

Mafia boss Wanda who...also does not neglect knives and always keeps a couple with her, for example, for murder or a little game with you. Perhaps she will leave a few scratches on your thighs while she eats you, perhaps the knife will painfully pass across your cheek and leave a deep scar as proof that she owns you. And when your tears gather in the corners of your eyes, she shows unusual tenderness and wipes them away with the pad of her thumb, whispering false words of reassurance.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda fanfic #wanda maximoff imagine #wandanat x reader #wandanat #wanda x you #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff smut #mommy wanda #wanda x reader #wanda marvel #wanda maximoff

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pyro-chaos · 6 months

Text

Mike Schmidt x Reader

Pt: 4 The Dream

Summary: Mike’s got a wet dream…

Tropes: Smuuuut. Kinda fluff if you look for it.

And they were roommates….

Word count: 1274

Part 4 of This Series

Every motion is a push and pull. A reaction to every action.

You match every kiss on your neck with a caress of his waist.

Mike’s discarded shirt lays on the bedroom floor, he’s left grinding his dick on your pelvis in his nice jeans.

You’re in that little black dress you wore in the gardens. The one that clings to you in a way that makes Mike tempted to touch you in broad daylight.

God, you’re making him go crazy. You’re making his dick go crazy.

Mike can’t control himself.

“Take it off.” Fuck, he sounds pathetic even to himself, “Please - Fuck - Take it off, please.”

You…don’t.

Instead you reach for his belt buckle and plant your lips on that little patch of skin below the curve of his jaw.

The warm wetness of your tongue on his neck makes his brow furrow and his tongue loll.

He wants that feeling to scar itself on his nerves. He wants to remember this when the sun returns.

Mike tilts his head to the side. The clink of his belt buckle coming loose makes his head start to feel a little light, so he grabs a palmful of your ass and guides you to the edge of the bed.

You lean back, and Mike chases your eyes until he’s hovering above you.

You… look good, laying under him. The way your lungs move gives Mike a nice view of your tits.

The anticipation of your touch feels like a shot of euphoria in itself. It’s like electricity shooting straight to the tip of his cock.

The aching throb makes him want to beg. It makes him want to plead and negotiate until you finally give him anything.

God, he’ll take anything you give him. Anything you want.

Eventually, you get his pants open enough for your palm to slide his cock out through the opening of his boxers.

Your hands are so… so soft, and warm and he’s hurting and leaking.

You swipe your thumb over that sensitive little slit at the tip.

He thrusts into your hand so hard that the tip of his dick hits your thigh.

The sensation makes his elbows buckle.

The new weight makes your dress ride up and -

You don’t have any panties on.

Mike’s head jerks down.

You don’t - you’re bare and - oh fuck you’re bare and you’re so hot.

He’s moving like he’s not conscious of himself when he brings his fingers to your slit.

Your hands fly to his biceps, Mike doesn’t know why you’re gripping him so tight, but he likes it. He likes the way your touch sets his whole body on fire.

He slides his fingers through your pussy one more time. This time, his middle finger prods at the center of your core.

The little mewl coming from your lips just encourages him.

He presses down a bit, not enough to give you any satisfaction, but enough to feel the throbbing resistance give in a little.

Your wetness excites him. The way your legs lay open makes him want to dive in and devour you.

He’s sure to slide his finger up your clit when he removes his hand from where he wants to feel you the most.

The way your legs jerk apart makes his tongue tingle.

Mike doesn’t waste any time. He slides his hand down to the bend of your knee and lifts your thigh over his hip.

You understand what he’s trying to do, and Mike can’t stop the breathless moan from escaping when you guide his dick to that pretty, warm, wet, velvety area between your legs.

One thrust and he slams balls deep inside you.

The choked sob that comes from the base of your throat mixes with his strangled groan.

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I know it hurts - oh f - fuh - fuck - please.”

Fuck - and the way you’re dragging your hands from his biceps, to his waist, and back to his shoulders.

He can feel you everywhere.

Mike goes a bit dumb, he’s groping any skin he can find. He’s pretty sure he hears a rip from your dress when he pulls down the neckline to get a fistful of your tits, but your cute little whimpers drown it out too much for him to be sure.

He nuzzles his nose into that little curve where your collar bone meets your neck. He's trying, he’s really trying not to move, but the way your pussy’s just gripping and tightening. Fuck it’s so fucking hard.

When you start to writhe beneath him Mike starts to feel that simmering burst of pleasure creep closer.

“M - Move”

Fuck the way you say it. You make it sound like a demand, and who is Mike to deny you?

Mike rutts further inside you. He wants to touch that sweet spot that makes you gasp.

He wants to feel close to you.

He wants you to swallow him whole.

He must take too long trying to find his joints because you flip him over and press your lips to his.

Your tongue tastes like something Mike can’t name, but he’s chasing the sensation when you pull away.

His hips twitch.

You lean into his upward bucks.

God, the way you’re squeezing.

Mike grabs your hips. He needs to grab something or - or…

The little gasp that flies out of your mouth makes Mike sit up and hook his arms around your waist.

He can’t let you move. He’s too close. He’s not ready to finish yet.

You run your hands through Mike’s hair, and then you tug.

His dick jumps inside you.

He bites your neck.

You make a little pained noise, but the pleasure of Mike’s teeth makes you tilt your head back.

Mike wants to leave himself imprinted on you. He wants to see the bruises when you walk out of the shower or lounge on the loveseat.

You sway your hips on Mike’s lap, an experimental swish from side to side, and the gravelly sound that bubbles out of his throat makes you feral.

The sway of your hips becomes a roll. You’re pushing him closer to an ending he’s not ready for, but he doesn’t want to tell you to slow down.

So, he closes his eyes and slides his hand down your body.

He’s gentle at first; his touch only a little more than a caress. The lightness is almost overwhelming. His hand starts from your ribs, at that little section of tenderness below your breasts. Then, Mike drags his palm lower and then he goes lower.

His middle finger reaches the sensitive little nub above where your bodies connect, and his caress becomes more than a caress.

Mike’s touch is more like an attempt to break into you. The roughness of his fingers circling your clit, paired with how he’s hooked his elbow around your waist, is blissful in a way that makes that growing ache between your thighs blaze into a pleasure that’s almost painful.

His fingers tease your bud like he knows what he’s doing.

Your pussy bears down in response.

He makes a choked little moan before pressing his forehead to your shoulder, his tongue lapping at whatever skin he can reach.

You wrap your arms around his neck. Your nails are digging into his shoulder blades. The pain mixes with the throbbing knot that’s about to burst.

He’s so close, he’s so… he’s close. Just a little more.

BEEEEP

That fucking alarm.

Mike rips himself out of bed and presses the snooze button with a bit more force than he usually does.

God, he can’t fucking escape his desire for you.

A/N: LOL what do you think??

I kinda wanna explore a FWB kind of relationship but I also kinda love slow burns

Anyway, I hope you like! I had fun with this one haha

#fnaf movie #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x you #fnaf #mike schmidt #five nights at freddy's

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farfromstrange · 1 year

Text

Daddy Issues | Matt Murdock x Reader

Masterlist

Inspired by this song.

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: There are some scars from our childhoods that just won't heal, like daddy issues will somehow always affect our relationships, especially with men. It's the trauma that makes us afraid. Matt Murdock is a considerate boyfriend and he hardly ever raises his voice, so when he lets his anger out on you, he triggers something in you that you have never told him about.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of child abuse, daddy issues (not the sexy kind), childhood trauma, yelling, crying, small injury (reader cuts her finger), not proofread

A/n: This is entirely self-indulgent. I won't tell you why exactly, but let's just say today was not a good day and I needed to write this to feel better. It helped, for the most part. If you have/had a father who yells a lot and likes to blame you for everything, this is for you. But also basically everyone who's afraid of men yelling at you because you've been traumatized before. This has not been proofread or beta-d. It’s just a silly little comfort fic.

Tags: (people who answered the original idea and I think would enjoy this or asked to be tagged)

@igotanidea @lina-mar @redzie02 @hellskitchens-whore

[not my gif, credits to the owner mentioned under the gif]

In the heat of the moment, some people raise their voices. May it be a fight or a moment of excitement. When we get angry, we often resort to a louder volume and sometimes even verbal abuse. We say things we don’t mean. We wouldn’t be human if that didn’t happen sometimes, although most fights can be resolved by talking civilly. There is no point in screaming when talking like adults is a viable option that won’t hurt anyone. But it hardly ever happens, not when both parties are already worked up to the point of no return.

For you, there has not been a fight or discussion in your life that hasn’t resulted in a screaming match. Your parents often yelled at each other. You grew up like this, the voices of your fighting parents constantly in the back of your head until the day they divorced. And even after that, you figure you started hallucinating their fights whenever the world went quiet around you so you would have some noise in the back of your head.

Your father was the one who screamed the most. He yelled and scolded you whenever you didn’t act according to his standards or made even the smallest of mistakes, didn’t do something or just used the wrong tone with him, something that often didn’t sit right with him.

He always resorted to screaming. The context never really mattered, he just got louder, harsher and he used words that would confuse every kid and make their tiny brains overflow with the guilt they caused. And when you cried, he only waved it off because “there is no reason to cry, I’m just stating the facts”.

It traumatized you in a way many children who grew up in such families understand, and he made you believe that every man in your life has a reason to yell at you, to use you, to abuse you and constantly ask you for things even though you can’t possibly match up to all of their expectations.

You always expect to be yelled at by the men in your life. Even the smallest hint of the disappointment in someone’s voice makes you anxious and more often than not, you start to cry. It’s your defense mechanism. You’re fragile and you get scared easily. A switch gets flicked and you’re suddenly standing in the same house you grew up in, letting your father rain hell down on you because you were too scared to fight back.

The constant screaming made you scared of men, and it made you more careful with what you say or do around others. You tread carefully. You try to please and not to screw up too much, too scared of the consequences and possible negative reactions. In school, you used to do the same, always wanting to please the teachers and when they raised their voices, you often excused yourself and were left shaking and crying in the bathroom.

Matt Murdock has always been a man with a heavy internal conflict, and that conflict resulted in anger issues and his ever-present catholic guilt. When you met him, he came across as attractive yet dominant, and that scared you a little until you talked for the first time in the middle of a cozy coffee shop and he showed how soft of a man he actually is. He keeps himself locked away and that might make him seem unapproachable, but he isn’t. He’s the kindest man you have ever met, and his heart is set right. Out of all the lovers you’ve had, he is truly the best and most considerate when it comes to your relationship.

He treats you like you’re the universe to him and when you fight, it’s more often bickering than it is an exchange of vulgarities and screams. He takes his anger out on punching bags, not you, and when he hurts someone, it’s often criminals who deserve his wrath. His life is complicated, but it’s easier with you in it. He feels alive, he’s told you, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world, so he always makes sure you’re taken care of and happy before he looks after himself.

There is, of course, the issue with his enhanced senses. He’s blind but his senses are enhanced to an extent that most blind people don’t have. You found out about that early on in your relationship, but there’s never been a doubt in your mind about the love you feel for him, so it was no hard choice to stay.

Though dating the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen comes with its collection of issues. More often than not you have to stitch him up or search him in dark alleys and trash cans because he keeps getting in trouble, and the worry often eats you alive. Still, you comfort him when he’s had a bad day, always, and you make him the spotlight of your life every time. In your mind, taking care of him comes first.

But Matt always gives back. It’s his Catholicism, you’re sure of that. He can’t take help. He has to be the one doing the work and moving mountains. He is God’s disciple and he feels responsible for his city and the people living in it. His blindness feels like a gift given to him by God to conquer all possible battles, and while you don’t really believe in God, you have accepted that part of him with open arms and more often than not join him in his faith because life with him is surely not the easiest.

When Matt Murdock feels overwhelmed, he tries not to show it. He’d rather lock himself away than burden you. He’d rather struggle on his own than put the people he loves in danger or hurt them with his personal struggles and the pain that consumes him.

Matt is patient and he doesn’t care if you screw up, even though you apologize profusely most of the time. He’s patient because we’re all human. We all screw up. That is the principle that he lives by and he makes you feel like you can be more of yourself around him. So after a year, there are no more reservations and you feel a lot more comfortable in your skin.

Until this day, he had never let his anger out on you, and he had never opened his mouth to yell at you in any way. Until that day.

He’s different when he comes home. He finds himself at his wit's end, and he has been ever since that godforsaken murder trial started. When he comes home, you don’t think much of his distance toward you, the denial of a proper kiss, and his grunts as he lowers himself on the couch instead of asking you about your day. You don’t think much until it all goes wrong, and you’re not even sure at what point it does or what you did to deserve this, but there has to be a reason because the man you’re seeing right now is not the Matt you usually get to see.

We all have bad days sometimes, others more often, but this seems deeper than just a bad day at the courthouse. This is not the face of an exhausted man after a long work day that just needs some kisses and maybe a blowjob, or to have sex with his girlfriend in all his dominant glory with aftercare to put the cherry on top. This is not Matt Murdock, this is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen that comes through the front door, tosses his cane into a corner, and then just falls on the couch like a wet sack of potatoes, his fists clenched as if he is ready to explode any second.

You’ve been taught to tread carefully, so you do. You approach him only slowly because you are worried, you always are. Perhaps it’s the line of questioning that has him exploding in no time.

“You okay?” you ask.

He props his feet up on the living room table and huffs. “Fine,” he says.

“You don’t look fine. Did something happen?”

You’ve brought him a glass of water, which he takes with a curt nod. Something is bothering him, but he won’t talk to you.

“Bad day at work?”

“It doesn’t matter now. I’m fine. I just want to forget that today ever happened.”

“You want some coffee?” you decide to ask instead.

“No,” he says.

His leg starts to bounce. It only does when he is agitated or overstimulated and is trying to deal with the world around him.

“Do you want me to run you a bath?”

He sighs. “No.”

“We still have leftovers, maybe I could warm them up.”

His tone is harsher this time, “No!”

You blink, a little taken aback by the force in his voice and involuntarily, you start to shake.

“I just want to be alone,” he adds, softer this time. “Can you… you know what, I’m just gonna get changed.”

And like that, he is gone. He disappears into the bedroom and you’re left flabbergasted. You want to ask what’s wrong, but you’re scared. You’ve never been scared of him before. It’s not him, it’s his reaction, and so you retreat into the kitchen.

Eventually, he comes out again, though he is still missing a shirt. “Have you seen my Columbia sweater?” he asks, the lights of the billboard reflecting off his marble skin.

“It’s in the washer,” you tell him.

“Why?”

“Because it’s dirty. Matt, what is going on?” You place your mug down and look at him, eyes soft and full of concern.

He only rolls his. “I just want my sweater.” Grabbing the used shirt from the chair at the dinner table, he slips it on. It’s not the fabric he wanted and he tenses up, hating the new sensation already.

“Are you sure this is about your sweater? You’ve been on me ever since you got in.”

“Yes, because you keep asking useless questions.”

“Useless?” You scoff. “So my interest and worry for you are useless?”

If there is one thing you have gotten good at it has to be defending yourself.

He brushes past you to get a beer from the fridge. “I told you, I’m fine.” He is good at brushing you off because he doesn’t like to admit when he feels weaker than usual.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Oh, my God, then stop fucking looking!”

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?”

He scoffs. “You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get?”

“Everything.”

“Enlighten me then.”

“It’s not…” his chuckle is bitter. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re gonna keep seeing problems where there are none, so talking to you makes no sense anyway.”

What did he just say? You are so confused and suddenly very angry that you forget you are holding a glass. You smash it down on the counter, and, as expected, it shatters into a million pieces. Most of them fall to the floor and right at his bare feet. His eyes darken.

Oh.

Now you are scared, and not in a way that resembles sexy foreplay. You are scared because he is turning into a stranger right before your eyes. Suddenly, all you can see is not your loving boyfriend Matt Murdock, you see the anger of both your father and your stepfather in his eyes and hear it in his voice and it instantly tells you, 'this is all your fault'.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I didn’t see…”

“One night,” he says. He moves out of the kitchen, trying not to step into the glass.

You follow him with wide eyes. “What’s that?”

“One night,” he repeats his earlier statement. “That’s all I wanted. One fucking night where people don’t prod or- or want things from me. And what do you do? You keep talking and talking, and you don’t even care that I simply don’t want to talk.”

“Matt, that is not fair. I just wanted to-“ the tears start to prick in your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ.” And that’s where your strength stops and you retreat into your shell – the next words out of his mouth come so loud, you could have sworn they echoed off the brick walls and shot straight into your eardrums. “For once in your life, stop fucking apologizing!”

His hand lifts, mostly to underline his words, and with the bottle in his hand he is suddenly so close, your eyes squeeze shut at the gush of wind. You flinch, your entire body caving in on itself. It’s not even intentional, you can’t help it. You’ve been conditioned to expect the worst when someone raises their hand, and Matt has never done it before.

He realizes what it looks like the second your heart jumps and your blood rushes loudly in his ear. He can smell your sweat, the tears, and the fear that surrounds you. It’s your pheromones that change and something lingers in the air that makes him stop and think, what did I just do?

He has been so in his head and the city has been loud for hours, he lost most of his patience at the courthouse, and then you’re there all caring and lovely and he can’t help but tell himself he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve you. He just wants quiet and to be alone while at the same time, all he wants is you, but it’s too much. It’s all too much.

And now, as you flinch away from him and his booming voice, he snaps back to reality and realizes he made a mistake. He’s never experienced you like this before, and it scares him.

“Did you just…” he begins, his voice soft and barely above a whisper.

He hears you fall to your knees, the taste of salt thick in the air and your breath shakes with every intake. You bite your lip and you collect the shards, trying to clean up your mess as if he would hate you if you didn’t. You whisper a silent, “Sorry.” And then he hears it. You’re sobbing, you try not to but you are, and it is his fault.

“Did you think I was gonna hit you?” he asks, dreading the answer.

You sniffle, not answering.

You flinched, he heard it, and not because you were surprised. You are scared, he knows.

He slowly approaches the kitchen. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

“I just gotta clean this up,” you whimper and you brush the glass together with shaky hands. The tears are running down your cheeks in thick streams and your teeth have gnawed your bottom lip bloody, your throat dry with the denied sobs.

“I just gotta clean this up and then I can make you dinner or something. I don’t… I can fix this. I’ll fix this. I’m sorry.”

It’s your fault, you tell yourself. You pushed him. You deserve this. He worked hard the entire day and you annoyed him. He has every right to do this. In your head, at least. It makes all sense in your head while in reality, Matt has never been more shocked to read your body language than he is now.

He slowly kneels in front of you. “Answer me this,” he says, “did you flinch because you thought I was gonna hit you or because I yelled?”

You shrug, unable to look at him. One of the shards slides across your finger and you hiss, the smallest cut forming and causing blood to pool out of your skin. Still, you don’t stop. You need to clean this up before he gets even angrier at you. In your state, you don’t realize his voice has softened and he no longer stares at you with those blacked-out eyes. He looks sympathetic, almost, but most of all the guilt has spread throughout his features and his heart. He is aching to touch you, but you are scared and shaking and he doesn’t want to hurt you any further than he already has.

He had been so ignorant that he didn’t see the signs before.

“Why are you crying?” he asks again.

You wipe your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you. It’s my fault,” you say. “I’ll clean this up, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“Hey.”

“No, I gotta-”

“Stop.” His hand is on your arm then. “You cut yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” it’s a mantra you’ve taught yourself to say in the hopes you could somehow fix this before it’s too late.

But it’s not too late. When you finally look up, he’s smiling softly, and his thumb is stroking over your skin in circles.

“I’m sorry,” it’s his turn to say it. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. None of this is your fault. I was so caught up in my own shit, I… God, I would never hit you. I just- I didn’t think when I raised my hand. I didn’t think what it might look like to you. And I didn’t think when I yelled because I… in my head, I wasn’t thinking.”

Your facade cracks even more to the point you are seethrough and your defenses have fallen completely. You’re a snotty mess, shaking violently in his grasp.

“I’m trying, I swear I’m trying to be better. Just don’t be angry with me,” your voice is bordering on helpless little sobs, your lips turned downward and God, you are shaking so badly, you haven’t done so since the last fight with your father when you were a teenager.

Matt’s face softens even more, but there is a pain in there too. He takes a paper towel to wrap around your injured finger and he holds your hand, not sure if he is allowed to touch anywhere else, but he wants you to know he is here and he is going nowhere. He is neither mad nor is he going to break up with you. You try to tell yourself that, but it’s hard with the demon in your head whispering all those awful things into your ear, reminding you that everything bad that happens can only be your fault and that there is no use for you but to destroy and disappoint. But you don’t want to disappoint, you want him to be proud of you. You want him to hold you and tell you everything is alright. But you’re scared and you feel so stupidly guilty for something you can’t even put a finger on. Your bleeding finger.

“Angry with you?” he says. “No.” Matt chuckles, but it’s broken and almost whiny as he does so. “I’m not angry at you, bug. Of course not. I was just angry with the world. I was angry at everything else, but not you. I’m not angry at you. I couldn’t possibly be. I’m sorry, it wasn’t fair of me to take it out on you. I realize that now. And the glass…” he forces you away from the chaos gently, helping you stand up without hurting yourself further. “It’s just glass,” he tells you. “I’ll clean it up. There’s nothing bad about breaking something.”

“But the mess,” you say.

“Fuck the mess. The whole apartment’s a mess.”

“I’m so sorry! I can clean it. I can clean up, I promise. I just… I’m so sorry, Matt.”

“Stop apologizing, baby, please. The mess doesn’t matter. The apartment doesn’t matter, and the glass does not fucking matter. None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything but try to help. I had no right to yell at you. And my hand… I would never hit you. Never.” He squeezes your hand. “I love you.”

You hiccup, whimpering when he pulls you away from the glass on the floor and pulls you into his arms. His chin rests on the crown of your head and you mold into him, the tears taking on new speed and wetting through his shirt. He strokes your back, not sure what else to do, and his lips find your temple. “God, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that, none of that.”

You cling tighter to him.

He keeps asking himself the same question over and over again. “Who hurt you?” he asks. It’s a valid question. A fear like that doesn’t just stem from nothing. Something happened in the past to have traumatized you this badly.

Your breathing eventually slows down, as do your tears, and you look up at him through swollen eyes. His white shirt is wet now, but he doesn’t care, he only hugs you back to his chest. “My father used to yell at me whenever I did something wrong,” you tell him, your voice muffled through his chest, but he understands every word.

His grip tightens. “Did he hit you?”

“Sometimes, but… I remember that one time I forgot to clean up after myself and he just… he…” The lack of oxygen makes you shudder and you hiccup again, nails digging into his back. “I’m sorry, he just… yelled at me. Sometimes, he’d slap me, but only sometimes. He’d threaten most of the time, but he didn’t do it often. And I mean, I was a hard kid to raise, I-“

“No, don’t blame yourself,” he is quick to cut you off. “You were a kid.”

You shudder again. “Well, I… you know, he blamed me for the smallest of things, so I got used to apologizing and trying to please everyone, but I can’t always do that. I try to fix things, but it doesn’t always work. He used to yell at me every damn time and I just… I get scared. I don’t like it when people raise their voices. It makes me feel so guilty and now I even broke a glass. That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have… you had a bad day, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry like this. I swear I’m not a baby.”

You move away to rub your eyes. He grabs your face, smoothing the pads of his thumbs over your wet cheeks. The heat has pooled under the skin in an upset blush.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “It’s okay to cry. If I’d known, baby, I…” Matt can only shake his head in disbelief.

He loves you more than anything and to see you hurting because of something another man did to you, a man who is supposed to protect you, makes him feel all kinds of things, but none of them positive.

But his anger doesn’t matter. This is about you. He has to take care of you now, not himself, and definitely not your father. It’s just you on his mind.

You choke on nothing. “He told me I have no reason to cry because he’s just stating facts.”

Matt clicks his tongue. “No, don’t ever think that again. You have every right to cry when you feel the need to.”

“It makes me weak,” you say.

“Your father’s wrong. You’re the strongest person I know,” he says. “And the fact that he yelled at you and blamed you for things that were out of your control… no one has the right to treat you like that, not even your parents, and he should have never even thought about raising his hand against you. That’s abuse. I can’t believe- fuck! Do you understand that it wasn’t your fault? That he had no right to do that?”

“Yes, but… it happened. Maybe I deserved some of those slaps. I mean you… I- I don’t know. It happened, we can’t change it. And who knows, maybe he was right.”

“Stop it! That’s not true and you know it.”

“I know, but-“

“No buts, sweetheart. I would never raise my hand against you, I promise. I’m not like your father. No one should be like him. You deserve so much better.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” you sniffle, “it was just instinct.”

“Shh,” Matt kisses you gently, “I know. It’s like me dodging punches in a fight. It’s a defense mechanism. Your father, I… you’ve never said anything. I would’ve never suspected this.”

“‘Cause I didn’t think it was important. This never happened before. You never yelled before.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. You should have told me,” he says. “It’s important to me. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. I want you to feel comfortable around me, not scared.”

You nod. “And I am, really, it’s just… I thought I did something wrong.”

His smile is soft when he leans in to kiss you again, tasting the tears on your lips. “You didn’t. I let my anger out on you for no reason. You didn’t deserve that. It won’t happen again, I promise,” and he dives right back in.

You wrap your arms around his neck, relaxing in his arms as his lips move against yours with sweet precision, making you feel lightheaded. He scared you, that much is true, but it was neither you nor his fault and you realize that now, safe in his arms as he proves his devotion to you with a single breath into your mouth. With his gentle touch around your waist he promises never to hurt you, never to let his anger out on you again, and he promises that he will drive himself to hell personally if he ever scares you like that again because he couldn’t forgive himself if anything happened to you because of him. He couldn’t live with himself if he broke your heart or triggered the trauma you brought into the relationship from your broken childhood, and he promises that he will never leave you, never put you second and always hold you when times get hard because people screw up, bad things happen, and you might be at fault sometimes, but so is he and there is no reason to be put down for being human. He wants to teach you that, he wants to help you heal yourself, and you have never felt more in love than at that moment, losing yourself in his lips, eyes and arms.

He breaks the kiss, moving on to your forehead. “If there is anything else I need to know,” he breathes hotly against your already heated skin, and the exhaustion slowly starts to seep into your bones as the shakes and tension subside from your bones, “please tell me before I make another mistake that might trigger you.”

You take in a deep breath, shaking your head. “There is not much else. My childhood wasn’t the best, but that’s okay,” you say.

He brushes his knuckles over your cheekbone. “Bad enough. Promise you’ll tell me if something else might come up?” He resembles a puppy as he tries to meet your eyes, but he fails miserably.

So you promise him, “Okay.”

“Can you forgive me for yelling?”

Your tears have finally come to a halt. “Yes,” you say.

“Thank you.”

Your eyes fall on the mess on the kitchen floor again and you go to grab the broom. Matt’s arm around your frame stop you and he gently pushes you out of the kitchen. “Let me clean it up,” he says. “Put a bandaid on your finger and then go lie down. I’ll deal with it.”

“No, I broke it. Please, Matt, let me do this.”

“Not everything is your fault, sweetheart. Besides, you already cut yourself once and with how you’re shaking, the next time you accidentally cut yourself I’m sure you’re gonna cause more damage.”

“But I-”

“Go to bed,” he insists, “I’ll be there in a second and then we’ll cuddle so you know I’m serious when I say that I love you more than life itself.”

The weight and guilt fall off your heart. “I love you,” you tell him. “More than life itself, too.”

It’s not a lie. If there is anything or anyone you love, it’s him, and you’ve never been this in love with anyone before. It’s sickening to the point it hurts, but the pain is sweet and it’s all worth it because with Matt, you can be yourself.

The past matters just a little less with someone who loves you right by your side, and he would never give up on you like everyone else did before him.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil x reader #gender neutral reader #matt murdock imagines #marvel #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock angst #mentions of child abuse #hurt/comfort #matt murdock fic #daredevil fic #daddy issues (but not the sexy kind)

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nezuscribe · 2 years

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i think that there’s something different about bakugo and how he ages. and by that i mean he ages really well. like really well.

he’s not somebody that likes to stick his head into social media unless he absolutely has to, but he’s defiantly seen the comments from people staring how they’ve never been happier that he divorced (he agrees) and that he’s back to dating (he’s not really, but he’ll indulge them). it’s funny too because his friends don’t seem to be getting the same amount of attention they got when they were in their twenties, but it seems that it never changed for bakugo. in fact, the added scars and muscle seemed to have just helped his image. deku would grumble every now and then, but it didn’t change anything that bakugo was still easy on the eyes.

and sure he could pretend that the word dilf hasn’t passed his ear once or twice but he tries to hide the redness of his cheeks as he tries to shove it all down.

so when he’s on patrol one night and he hears a childlike scream, it’s not only his hero sense that goes off but his dad sense as well.

so he’s sprinting as fast as he can, trying to track down the sound when he bumps into a figure at the round of the corner. he hears a muted groan as they fall to the ground from his impact, and he winces as he tries to help them back up.

“watch it!” the voice yells, massaging their forehead as they try to get a better look at him.

“sorry…ya’ hurt anywhere? need me to take’ya to a hospital?” he’s much better with people than he was back then, but he can still hear the awkward tilt in his voice. he gives you an apologetic wince as you roll your eyes, still not able to see him fully in the dim light.

“no, i just fell. i’m fine,” you touch the sensitive skin as you groan at the pain, already feeling something form, “damn, that hurts.”

“sorry, really,” he says, but still trying to look around you for who had just screamed, “but, by any chance, ‘ya hear who screamed?” and he can just tell your glare burning into the side of your face.

“yeah,” you fidget with your sleeve in annoyance, “me.”

“not now,” he wants to say sarcastically, but he can’t because he’s a public figure and he has to control that urge, “couple minutes ago.”

he hears you snort, looking back into the neighborhood as you nod again.

“yeah, still me.”

he pauses, scratching his head as he tried to math that sound to your voice. it could have matched?

“why….why’d you scream? you okay?” he sounds so stupid, towering over you but acting like an idiot as you roll your eyes.

“cause a fuckin’ bug flew into my face.”

he nods in understanding, now feeling bad that he not only knocked you down but did it after you were so viciously attacked.

there’s a silent beat as the two of you have nothing to say, and he almost wants to just jog off.

“you owe me.” you say, kicking a pebble around as he can feel his brows furrow in confusion.

“for what?” his voice is gruff, but even you can tell that without needing to see him he’s good looking.

“knocking me over and giving me a bruise,” your arms cross, “i want compensation. or i can do the same to you.”

he groans, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to imagine anyway else his night could have ended. all he wanted to do was go home early and spend some time with his daughter but he got himself caught up in this.

“can take you to a hospital, like i offered.”

you shake your head, looking around as you track down a small shop down the corner of the road.

“that bakery’s closed,” you point over to a small building with purple fringes, its lights off as he tracks what you’re motioning to him, “it opens at four everyday and it always runs out of shit at six. get me one of their croissants.”

he almost wants to say ‘or else….’ but you beat him to it before he could even mutter the words.

“or else you can stand over there and i’ll ram into you.”

and he won’t lie, even though both of your ultimatums were terrible at least he could crack a grin at the last one. and anyways, he was battered and bruised from the villain he fought the afternoon and was in no mood ready to be speared so close to finishing his patrol.

“fuckin’ hell,” he murmurs, digging his phone out of his pocket as he unlocks it, going to his contacts app as he outreaches it to you, “put your number in.”

“why?”

“so i can call you to give you you’re fuckin’ croissant tomorrow.”

your eyes comically widen, not believing it was that easy to bribe somebody to get you the one thing you’ve been wanting the past few weeks. you graciously take it as you jam your number in, putting your name after.

when you pass it back to him, the light of the screen luminaries his face and you gasp, feeling your heart drop to your ass when you realize who it actually is. here you can see the infamous red eyes, wheat colored hair freckled with gray as he looks over your name.

“cute name.” he grunts, muttering your it under his breath so that he doesn’t forget it. he even gives you a little wink as he walks away, almost gracing your shoulder as you stand there motionless.

a couple minutes your phone buzzes with a text, and you whip it out to see who it was. even if it said unknown you had a guess who it was seeing his first text.

unknown: forgot but i got playdate duties tmr so can’t pick ur shit up

and then another one came in

unknown: get some good clothes for tmr night and i can fly you over to get some

your lips pout slightly as you try to decipher what the hero was trying to get at, texting back a confused where as you try to pretend that your cheeks weren’t heating up because of this all. it was surely out of the blue, nothing you would have expected from shrieking because of an insect, but even more so was what he sent next.

unknown: place in france i heard is good

unknown: thought u wanted croissants?

#bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #katsuki fluff #bakugo drabble #bakugou headcanons #bakugo fluff #bakugo x reader fluff

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undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

it's you. it's me.

simon ghost riley x f!reader (reader!helen) wordcount: 5.3k (i have zero self-control) summary: he never wanted to get married. he’s not sure when you became the exception. an: mention of loss, blood. smut. emotions. angst. fluff (usual jo-shit)

simon ghost riley masterlist

He never wanted to get married. Marriage meant paperwork. Paperwork meant leads. Leads led to death. Not just for him, but for the poor soul he’d chain to him. The one who he’d rather not have than know their life was ended because of him. Because he’s supposed to be dead. He’s not sure when you became the exception. Unsure when you buried yourself so deep into his veins he needs you more than blood, oxygen and bullets.

Shit hit the fan.

Some missions were worse than others. Some leave more than scars and nightmares.

Today was bad. Even he knew that.

Alpha 0-3 lay on the floor, unconscious proof of it.

Half the soldiers they’d gone with—dead, KIA.

His jaw is tight, almost cracking as he stares at Johnny—unsure how they’ve walked away from it. How they’re both here, surrounded by silence as the few who have survived try to process.

He almost says something, spits it out. But then he hears it—your orders.

They’re piercing and direct. Coming over the radio as the blades overhead slow, guiding them down to the ground. He feels it—the itch to get to you. To bury his hands in your hair and pull your face to him.

Ghost makes do with meeting your eyes when the rear opens, your eyes scanning him, the briefest mist of relief over your lips, cheeks and eyes before you nod.

“Later?” Later.

He responds in the same silence, puncturing it with a nod.

The two of you had your own spoken language—something he’d mastered quicker than he had any other language. But then, speaking Helen had more pros than cons. More benefits than listening to enemies talk shit about him and his mask.

All he could do was watch as you followed the carried body.

Unsure what version of you he’d find later—what fragments of you he’d have to scoop up. If there would even be pieces left where they were supposed to be.

Secretly, and selfishly, he just hopes the pieces of him match with the pieces of you. Praying they slot together until the two of you can both return to some semblance of a whole.

It’s then he has to remind himself it’s a luxury having you. War takes so much—the darkness takes so much more.

It’s a reward to pull you close to him after a shit show like this; it’ll be a gift to feel your breath on his chest. Even more so for your fingers to draw those bloody shapes on his side—dancing over healed scars and your needle stitching.

“C’mon, Johnny,” he snaps, filling the air with something other than failings, disappointment and held breath. “Briefing. Now.”

You crumble.

Lost it. Lost them.

Losing is part of the war, part of the battle. But, it doesn’t sting any less, doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

Call it. But— I said call it.

Your gloved hands clenching and unclenching. Desperately clinging, digging your toes into your boots as you try to not unravel. You could do it alone. When they’d left. When the room was emptied and there was only you and your failure on the table.

They moved to leave. Quickly. Announcing they’d check the others—the ones who had wounds but still had air in their lungs. Your eyes blinking, the machines turning off, their boots squeaking before the door to the theatre squeals.

That’s when you look at their backs, firing a quick, but soft thank you. Something those above you didn’t do when you were in their position—when you were them, head hung down, feeling the weight of another loss.

Both of them meet your eyes, and you reward them with a smile, one which tells them it’s not on them—a smile which says you can’t win them all. Something you don’t believe, have never believed but can understand why it’s a comfort.

They nod, and they leave.

Not knowing you’re ticking, that you’re a bomb. Emotions bubbling, fizzing and hissing. Time ticks as you wait. For what you’re unsure.

Silence? The moment to snap?

It would have needed a miracle. The damage was extensive—you knew that, you’d already calculated it before you’d begun. A life, was a life. A person had people.

You stare at the corpse—the one which had a beating heart minutes ago, the one which had the slimmest chance, but a chance all the same.

You could feel it crushing you. The weight of loss. The failure pecking at your bones—good soldiers lost. Gone.

Because your fucking hands weren’t quick enough.

You’re not in your office.

Not in the infirmary or the utility cupboard you often hide in.

The one he’s somehow crammed himself into when you’ve needed a minute—hands grasping at his belt buckle.

He’d counted the bodies hooked up to machines.

Realised quickly, but not quickly enough. The soles of his feet hammer down, and it dawns on him how shit shit was.

He’d felt the thrum in his chest earlier. The knot of something undoing—his gut telling, screaming and kicking that something was wrong. Now he knows what.

Because he knows you. It’s why he cuts down corridors and passes soldiers who almost flatten themselves to the wall as he passes.

Doing so until he finds you, and finds you he does.

If someone told him he grasped his chest at the sight of you, he’d have crushed their windpipe with his palm. But, as he stepped through his open door, spotting you pressed into the corner of his room, he unclenches his hand from his jacket.

You’ve been broken. A shattered raft out at sea, lost and delirious in grief.

But this is worse.

His foot closes the door, waiting for a reaction—finding none. Nothing. Not an arch of your brow, not a snort.

Your knees remain bent, elbows hanging over them. There’s a distant, empty look in your eyes. Both of them almost glazed over, like the light in them has been snuffed out.

Exactly how Johnny had described them to him when he’d come looking for him, having passed you…

But, it’s that plus the fact your bloody apron is still on, your blue gloves crumbled before you—boots removed, white sock-covered feet flat on his floor.

The only way he can even tell you’re alive and awake is from the slow rise and fall of your chest—the occasional blink here and there.

He knows how often you’ve taken care of him. You’ve stitched him. Stapled him.

You’ve listened and you’ve sat as he had shouted.

Most of all, you have looked for him—found him. You’ve saved him from falling into a hole. Even going as far as to find him behind the mess, cold ebbing at him as your fingers snake under his mask—not to remove it, but to touch the back of his neck.

I’ve got you. Ghost, I have you. Simon. Simon, I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.

Your eyes staring into his, saying those words over and over until he can blink a little easier—he can move your hand under the mask to his lips so he can kiss them.

And he knows it’s his turn now.

He crouches, sliding a glove from his hand, brushing his finger over your cheek, watching your eyes flicker—registering him, acknowledging.

“Helen.”

Your lips twitch.

The name usually does that. The one he uses more than your own. At this point, he’s unsure if you truly hate it or just hate that you love it. He prefers it, personally. Not because he dislikes your name, but because he’s the only one who calls you this. The only one who gets that glint in your eye, that twitch of your lips.

His fingers trace down your cheek, running to clutch your chin. You’re cold, so impossibly cold, watching your teeth nip at your lip, watching for the tremble, the quiver he knows is due to come. Not taking his eyes from you as they stare back at him, all sunken and sad, but still somehow more beautiful than any fucking sunrise he’s ever seen.

He whispers your name—your real name, stroking the skin under your chin as he feels you swallow against his little finger.

“Y’know why Price likes you?”

He wraps his other hand around your arm, feeling you move with him—allowing him to lift you to your feet. Your plastic apron is crinkling, feet shuffling until he can lift you with ease.

“Cause I’m cheap for saying I’m good with a scalpel and a PC?”

Ghost shakes his head, wanting to chastise you—but he assumes you’re doing that enough to yourself for the two of them.

Instead, he forces his fingers to lift your chin. “Because you give a shit, Helen.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

Your hands gently clutching his mask-covered cheeks, staring into his eyes as you silently stare. Not saying anything with your lips, but plenty with your eyes.

“What do you want, hmm?”

You. I want you.

His hands take your wrists, holding you, not letting go.

“I don’t want to think. Just… make me forget, help me not give a shit, Simon.”

And he knows what you need, what you’re too afraid to ask for. Fuck me like a whore, Ghost. Fuck me until I'm whimpering and begging cause I can't take anymore.

You have said those words once. Albeit drunk, confidence propped up with vodka and fruit juice. But, if you had that same confidence now, he imagines it’s what you’d ask for. And who is he to say no? How could he?

You’ve looked up at him from your place between his thighs, knees on stone and dirt as your hand wrapped around the base of him. Let your tongue swirl over his tip, tasting him, hollowing your cheek, sucking, teeth grazing down his shaft when he needed it the most. When he needed something so similar.

Some drink to forget the bad days.

The two of you fuck until your raw, till you’re both full of something other than regret and sadness.

He’s aware he shouldn’t, not this time.

Ghost should hold your cheeks, stare into those pretty eyes he’d happily burn the world for, and take you for a shower, washing the day from your skin and bones. Because you’re crumbling, the parts of your confidence withering—hoping and needing to feel good, to be good.

And he can prove that to you without fucking you senseless. He can name an infinite amount of fucking things that prove you’re good, that you’re kind, and that you can do what you can do.

Because you’re you.

You've wormed your way inside of him, flooded the darkest parts of him with light and made a slither of him think he deserved you.

Your hand presses to his chest, cold and timidly. All of sudden so aware of how delicate and thin your fingers are, how small and delicate it is next to his scarred, worn skin.

“Please, Simon.”

And he hooks his fingers into the elastic of your scrubs at the whisper of his name—feeling you hold his shoulders as you kick them into some distant corner.

You silently thank him when he rips the disposable apron, balling it before tossing it. Letting your fingers, those soft, slightly calloused, healing fingers slide under his top—run over his skin, over the places you’ve stitched.

He doesn’t move, even if he wants to. Letting you brush over the hair on his stomach, run your nails over the lines of his muscles. Letting you read him as if his scars are Braille, allowing yourself the reminder of the times you’ve saved and healed.

And then he pulls your chin up.

“‘You sure you want this?”

Ghost is rarely gentle, but Simon sometimes is.

The man you have in front of you is some hybrid of the two—masked up, but with the eyes of Simon. All blue, like the ocean, willing to drag you down.

Sometimes they’re like the water you’d expect to be licking a sandy beach, and sometimes they’re so dark you’d fear what breathed under the watery depths.

Sometimes, it’s hard to breathe when he looks at you. When his eyes—all swirls of blue surrounded by charcoal black—curl into you. He’s big, broad and tall, and so much more than you could have ever known you’d have.

He makes heat pool between your legs with one look, and makes you feel safe by just being close. Even if he doesn’t see it—doesn’t fathom it at all—you’d throw away all your values and beliefs of saving people, and rip them apart with your hands to get to him.

You feel his thumb flutter over your scar, the one on your hip from a bullet meant for him. He hates it, and yet always strokes it. A memory forever embedded into your skin he can’t help but press play on, even if he knows how it ends.

You shouldn’ have done that, Helen. I’d do it again. Stupid, woman. You’re a fuckin’ idiot. Only for you, Ghost. Only for you.

Your hands move to his belt, undoing it—the clang of metal piercing the air.

“Helen?”

You look at him, meet him in those beautiful blue eyes. Don’t ask me to talk, Simon. Your lungs are tightening, aching, as if each emotion you’re holding in is made from molten ash.

You crack his belt like a whip with the speed of releasing it from his hooks, eyes holding his more firmly, blinking away the weakness—the emotions, the fucking audacity of the day.

“Be my reason,” you say.

To breathe. To keep fighting. To get up.

For his sins, he’s gentle.

Both in the way he lays your naked frame on his bed and the way he runs his fingers over the inside of your thigh.

He wants to devour you, plunge his tongue into your cunt and taste everything you’ll give him. He almost does—instead he breathes over you, watching your hips try to wiggle, his other hand holding you in place.

He lifts his head, watching, earning the sights he’s about to behold as he eases two fingers inside of you. You’re wet, warm—but it’s the way your lips fall that makes his hip roll against his mattress.

With each movement, he watches for your reaction. Like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and you are.

You whimper. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter, and your mouth falls open. And it’s all for him.

With each rise of your chest, breath hitches, and he runs his mask down your abdomen. Feeling how slick you are against his fingers, how you whimper, both pleading and breathless. Even through the mask, he can smell your arousal, how you want him to take you apart—practically taste it all in the air.

He curls his fingers, watching as your hand grasps his forearm. More, Simon. More. Your other knotting his sheets in between your fingers, a root, something to grip until space, time and life crashes into you and makes your throat sore as you moan his name around his room.

He wants it too. He wants to earn his name, coax it from your beautiful pink, swollen lips and wear it with pride.

But, Ghost also wants something else.

Normally, he’d give you everything you want, and more. From the feral look in your eye, you want to be turned away from him, for him to be rough—and normally, fuck he’d want that too.

He’d want to split you apart, know that you’ll be thinking—feeling—him for the next fucking three days.

He admittedly also likes the sight.

Something about getting to see your arse while holding your tits, and having the ability to suck red and purple welts on your neck. The best, though, is when you try to wiggle to see him—catch sight of him. Your eyes pressed into the corner of your sockets, hands gripping nothing as he takes you apart with his cock.

Ghost likes fucking you like that—likes fucking you when you have nowhere to go. Pinning you. Locking you in place.

Not that you ever want to go, he knows you don’t.

You’re so fucking big, Simon.

You clench around him like you never want him to stop filling you. A vice on him that he never wants to rid of either.

Because Helen likes to be pinned, to be smothered by his body. You like him looming over you, dwarfing you; like him lifting you and fucking you against walls, doors and even fucking windows.

He suspects it’s because you like to surrender control, like for it to be taken from her. So used to being in control, needing to be, and people depending on it. to be taken away from her.

Your thighs quiver, soft protests as he slides another finger inside of you. Stretching you.

“Fuck… Simon, fuck.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.”

He doesn’t lessen, listening to each whimper and moan, lifting his mask so he can kiss your skin—teeth grazing as he curls his fingers, thumb swiping over your swollen clit as your hips try to cant against his hand.

The sensation of your fingers in his hair, makes him groan as he captures your lips. All teeth, tongue and messy, both pushing your legs wider and pulling your hips to him all in one movement.

Needy. Desperate. Hungry.

And then you're clenching, hips tensing before a hand grips his mask—and then you come, hips spasming, thighs shaking.

Often, you let him leave the mask on—partly.

You like to kiss him, like to bury your moans against his mouth. You’ve seen him, know him. You know the shape of his cheekbones and the silver scars.

“Your eyes are enough for me. Never take them from me.” “Never.”

He's being a tease.

Sliding inch by inch of himself into you. His tongue in your mouth, your focus on the fiery stretch he provides as he buried himself to the hilt.

He rears his hips back until he fills you all over again, faster, sharper, more purposeful. And it’s sinful. It’s fucking bliss and a high you don’t even deserve. Not as you begin to meet his thrusts with a squeeze, a clench. Hearing his hiss, watching him place his mask-covered forehead against yours.

Because he’s deep. So fucking deep.

Sheathed inside of you at an angle you’ve not known before. Almost unsure what your body has had to adjust to accommodate him. Not that you care, you never fucking care.

You want him to claim you, mould himself inside of you. Because the sting passes, the size of him is something you never prepare for. Your nails are in the back of his hair, your lips almost meeting him as he ruts into you. Your eyes gazing down, watching where the two of you meet, and you’re not sure you’ll ever tire of it—of him.

You imagine each muscle of his, tightening and flexing—especially as he rocks into you at alternating speeds, your eyelashes fluttering, feeling beads of sweat build at your brow.

He’s everything.

He’s fucking fire and ice, both dusk and dawn and everything in between. Your eyes blink open, seeing his own truth—seeing it as he grunts and his hand tightens on your hip as he seats himself deeply into you.

The words are like licks of fire up your spine, mixing and blending with searing pleasure.

I love you. I love you.

You know.

Fuck you know.

Your lips crash and swallow the words he hasn’t yet said. Feeling him shake, as your toes curl, red-hot pleasure desperate to smother every inch of you and spread along every single nerve.

His hips losing their rhythm, hammering the head of his cock against that spot which makes the sound of him filling you so damn deplorable.

You whine for him.

Biting down on his lip as it slams into you, snapping you, tears spilling down your eyes as his name storms past your lips as he holds you in place.

Fucking you through it.

Holding you, pinning you—until he fills you, his hips shuddering, fingers bruising until they slowly unclench from your hip.

If someone cracked his head open, they’d see that one of his favourite things is holding you.

He won’t admit it.

Not even under the worst of tortures.

But it is. It’s simple. Homely. Something he knows he doesn’t fucking deserve, and yet, has all the same.

“You wanna talk?”

“No.”

You’re quick. The short, sharp no filling the small space between his face and yours. Mask gone, the lamp on his desk smothering the room in soft light.

But he knows you do want to talk. So he gives it a minute.

He lets his fingers draw shapes on your ribs, waiting, letting you settle against him, hearing your mind begin to turn and churn.

And then you talk, as he suspects you will.

Because he knows it’s what you need. Even if you beg him to fuck you into his mattress, even if you tell him to fuck off, you need to talk. The thoughts building otherwise, stealing your confidence, your belief, your fucking hope.

He needs silence, and sometimes needs to be alone. Sometimes, he needs both.

You need to be touched, to be rooted, and to talk it out. Let the thoughts run from your tongue and meet the air—even if you repeat yourself, even if the same thought comes up time and time again. He will just listen.

You’re rambling, talking about the clinical-ness before you move into how there was nothing you could do. So much blood. Too many bullets. You’re good. Not that good. You lost one, and then the other.

On another day it can be more, your hands not good enough today, but will they be tomorrow?

“Simon…”

He doesn’t breathe. Feeling, watching your eyes lift up from your place on his chest, scorching into his. “…They didn’t have a person, Simon. Not one. No Ghost. No Helen. Not this… Not that we’re each other's person. Not like how I mean.”

“How do y’mean?”

Your eyes tilt down, and he wonders if you can hear his pulse.

“I have no one to alert that they’re dead. Not a wife. Not a husband. No children. A parent, yes. But… not a person. They died without…”

You lift up, his fingers falling to your chin, feeling your lip quiver. Tears in your eyes, making them shimmer—a single tear hanging from your lash, dangling, waiting to drop.

“It’ll be the same when I die… no one to legally inform. No one to...”

Then it drops. The tear.

Falling and cascading down your cheek before it lands on his chest. It bleeds out, mixing with the dried sweat and forgotten kisses you’d left before.

And then, like all downpours, more follow suit. Dancing down your skin, too many for him to catch even if he tries.

He’s ashamed it takes him a minute.

Wondering what the hell you even mean until he realises—no one knows. Not officially. Not even fucking unofficially. A secret, one which flickers inside of him and inside of you. Something shared in quick looks and private moments, but never where else.

You shake your head, lifting up from your position on his chest, wiping your cheeks as you try to put on a smile. “I’m… ignore me. Just being daft.”

You’re not.

But he doesn’t say that.

He says nothing, eyes falling to his vest in the corner before landing back on you, watching you shimmy and shift to the end of his bed.

“I should shower,” you mumble, hand brushing hair from your face as you stand.

His hand wants to lift, to take your wrist and pull you back to him—to kiss you, to tell you so many things. But his throat goes dry, silence filling the space his voice should be.

It’s odd, what the two of you have.

Far more than a situation, and way more than convenience.

It’s trouble, difficult—often the hardest thing you could have chosen to do, and you stitch wounded soldiers for a living.

But it makes sense.

He didn’t seduce you. Wasn’t the best out of a bad situation.

He was dry and dark humour and had beautiful fucking eyes that you’d suspected were meant to strike some fear in you, but you’d weathered worse storms than him. You’d first kissed him because you had to—a niggling feeling inside of you that had to know if his lips were soft or whether they just looked it. You’d kissed him again because he stopped you from thinking, from crumbling.

Simon made you feel like you were falling, happily.

His hand taps on your door, clicking your pen as you look up at him. He’s all casual, a sight to fucking behold. Dark grey joggers and a long-sleeve tee—and from the look in his eyes he’s on his way to training which only sparks more sinful thoughts in your hectic mind.

Initially, way back when, it had been about sex.

About providing to yourself you could take him, having felt him, having felt how heavy, thick and long he fucking was. Then, it wasn’t.

Now it’s something big—bigger than his cock. It’s feelings and need, it’s desperation and imissyous wrapped in something you’re not sure you can live without. Now it’s about everything else, it’s about the small things and the fact you can feel yourself wanting to smile just because he’s here.

“Lieutenant, what a surprise! How can I help you?”

You wonder how often he smiles behind the mask.

His reputation of being cold, difficult and sometimes an arsehole—depending on who you ask—is widely known. But you know a different person. One who washes your hair when you’re too tired to stand, one who brings you the milkiest tea on cold mornings, ‘Because you’re fuckin’ bitch without a tea in y’, Helen.”

It still surprises you when he holds it up. It shimmers, sparkles and gleams between a bare thumb and his index finger.

“For this situation, I think you should be callin’ me Simon.”

You narrow your eyes, even if your heart is already pounding. Panic. Dread. Your mind racing, unsure what you’ve done—half-worrying if you’d lost one, even if you never wear jewellery. Not here. Not on base. Suddenly questioning whether you’d drunkenly told Soap to buy you something again, a dare gone wrong.

You hum.

Hiding as best as you can that you’re lost, and confused.

“Are you going to call me by my name?”

“No.”

Snorting, you fold your arms. “Didn’t think so. You going to explain why you’re holding a ring?”

“I think you know.”

“Humour me.”

Because my brain is running away from me.

He’s not romantic in terms of red roses and sweeping you off your feet. He’s romantic in ways like tapping your arm twice, letting you know he’s missed you. Letting his eyes land on you across briefing rooms, nodding—you got this, Helen. You can do this.

Ghost is sweet in ways others don’t see. His hand on your lower back when he can tell you want to leave somewhere, a silent offering to walk you back; bringing you a thicker pair of socks when snow is landing on the sill of your office, knowing you hate being cold.

So, this… him standing holding a ring, could mean many things.

“C’mon, Helen.”

You pull a face, shrugging.

“Be my person.”

Your brows furrow, eyes frowning.

Your mind explodes with a sea of things, darting, trying to remember, thinking of that exact phrasing. It takes a second, and then…

His eyes have that shimmer, that fucking obnoxious twinkle. Likely having watched you come to the same realisation—letting you take your time, proudly standing in your smile and glittering eyes.

“You want me… to be your person, person?”

“Be the one they tell. Yeah.”

It would be easy to get ahead of yourself.

It could be a formality, something small. A gesture but not the actual question.

“I know you liked what I did with my tongue last night, but I didn’t know I was that good at giving head—“

“Helen.”

It comes out warningly.

It makes your lips clamp shut, looking down before meeting his gaze—his fiery, intense fucking stare.

“Look, I know I was upset, but you didn’t need to go steal a ring for me.”

“I didn’t steal it. I had it made.”

“What?”

He shrugs.

He fucking shrugs.

“When?”

It comes out high-pitched. The tone surprises you. So much so, you clear your throat. Repeating it, in a more normal and appropriate volume as you stand, gesturing to close the door behind him as you look at him.

“Does it matter?”

“I think it fucking does.”

“Last time I went home, home.”

You glare.

Wishing you could see his smirk, already imagining it there all the same.

Your fingers take it from him, looking over it as you admire it, feeling how warm it is. He’s been holding it, likely pressed into his palm on the walk over here. Your fingers turn it, feeling the ridges of it.

Mostly, you’re trying to recall when he went home.

The last time, you two had both been released home at the same time. Having half-joked that you’d combust without his cock, that he’d have to visit you, come ruin the countryside with you—only for him to offer to come with you. Come home. See your place—ensure you didn’t die from lack of being fucked senseless.

Your fingers won’t do shit, Helen. Not now, anyway. You’re a cocky shit, Riley. And you’re a whore for my cock.

His hands are buried in his jogger's pockets, questioningly staring at him as you hold it. This little thing, that means something big.

“It’s made from a bullet. One you took out of me.”

Your lips part.

“Not sure if you remember? You told me to keep it as a reminder of what good hands feel like.”

“I remember…” you lick your lips, unable to stifle the way your heart hammers into your ribs—pretty sure he can hear it, the entire base for that fact. “I also remember you showing me how good yours were.”

“Enough.”

You silently apologise, looking at it again before meeting his eyes. “You’ve really had this the whole time?”

“In my vest.”

He says it so plainly like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

As if your mouth shouldn’t be falling open in surprise again, that you shouldn’t be staring up at him in the way you are.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s you and me, Helen. Sometimes we’re the only thing that makes any fuckin’ sense.”

“You know what giving me this means, right?”

He nods—fucking formally at that.

“Ghost—“

“Simon.”

You smile, lips tight. “Simon. Does this mean what I think it means?”

“If you think it means that it needs to go on your finger on your left hand, then yes.”

He’s looking at you, pleadingly.

“I think you should ask.”

“I just fuckin’ did!”

You laugh, watching his large chest rise and fall in annoyance.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re a pain in my arse—“

You say your name.

Sharp, but sweet. Watching the parts of the mask around his nose flex in and out as he snarls and sighs.

“Simon… out there, I’m Helen, I know. But, here… holding this, I think you should say my name too,” you whisper, more fragile, quieter than he’s likely known you to be for a while.

And then he nods.

Taking the ring from your palm, sliding it over your fingernail, on that hand, on that finger—hovering it close to the knuckle.

And he asks—using your name. Will you be my person?

#simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost riley #ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost x reader smut #cod ghost x you #ghost x helen #simon x helen #ghost helen world

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uhohwhathaveidone · 1 year

Text

The Little Things (S.S)

When did it become 4am? Idk. Ghost files was playing in the background so I blame Shane and Ryan for distracting me.

No warnings for this, it’s all fluff. Maybe angst if you look super closely but jokes on you, I tricked you. Maybe a part two because I definitely didn’t finish it but it’s on a pretty good cliffhanger. I listened to Artic Monkeys for the three hours it took me to give you a 2.9k fic, dedication. Snap Out of It is playing rn, life is good. Anyway Hufflepuff gn reader again becasue i said so (im sorry that was mean) Good night

Ominis sat on the couch in the common room of the Slytherin house, listening carefully to his friend Sebastian. Due to his own disability, Ominis had no idea what most people looked like, and he never really cared to ask. But he was becoming close friends with the new 5th year student, a Hufflepuff who somehow became integrated into the group. He found their voice calming and would laugh if they said something funny or a quip at Sebastian over something. He didn’t want to ask his new friend about their looks, he thought it would be weird, so instead he asked Sebastian. Sebastian had joked about it at first, saying that you had a face full of ugly scars and moles all over your face, but after he saw Ominis quirk an eyebrow and sigh in annoyance, he settled down and gathered his thoughts.

He had the clearest image of you in his head, as if you were standing in front of him. He took a breath, “Well, you already know that they’re nice, of course. Their face matches their personality, I think. Their eyes are like jewels of the brightest colour, and their eyebrows really match their face? I don’t know how to explain it.” He went on, describing you to Ominis in as much detail as possible, not leaving out a single characteristic, down to how long your eyelashes were and how tall you were.

“What else?” Ominis asked, smirking to himself as he listened to Sebastian blabber on. “What? You want to know more?” He asked, earning a nod from Ominis. Sebastian thought to earlier, when he glanced over at you during Herbology. Professor Garlick had been talking about a rather confusing subject, Sebastian wasn’t even quite sure what it was about, but he knew it had something to do with magical plants. In his own confusion, he had looked over at you to see if you were understanding any better, only to be met with your squinting eyes as you tried to make sense of the words. You had done this a lot whenever you were confused, and Sebastian secretly found it adorable, though he would never tell anyone. Sometimes, if you were really confused, he would watch your nose scrunch up as well and a small frown dawn on your lips. When the class had ended, you had trotted up to him and elbowed him in the side, sighing. “Ow! What was that for?” Sebastian had asked, pushing you to the side and away from him. You shrugged in response, letting out a dramatic sigh. Sebastian raised an eyebrow, knowing that you just wanted him to ask you what was wrong. “Ok, fine. What’s wrong?” He eventually asked, pulling onto your robe to make sure you didn’t get separated from each other. He watched as you tried to hide a smile, replying. “I didn’t understand a word she said. I felt rather dumb.” Sebastian nodded his head and brought a hand up to pat you on the head. “I could tell, you’re not very good at keeping a straight face. But I didn’t understand anything either, so I suppose that makes up two idiots together, yeah?” You snorted in response, shaking his hand off your head. “I’m still smarter than you, so don’t get any ideas.” Sebastian quipped a quick “yeah right” and walked along side you, thinking about how soft your hair had felt for a moment. He never understood that, how you managed to always have soft hair.

Ominis only continued to smile as Sebastian talked about the faces you made and what had happened that day. “Do they make those faces when they fall asleep during our study time?” He asked. Sebastian hummed in response as he remembered how you fell asleep at the table the three of you were occupying in the library, your face pressed against a book as soft, slightly muffled snores left you. “Yeah, their nose twitches a bit.” You had been studying charms for a test the next day, and you had brought the book up close to read the small writing that was in the corner. You scrunched your nose up then, too. Sebastian had been too busy explaining a concept for a charm to see you lay the book down on the table once again and try to stifle a yawn. When he asked you a question and waited for your reply, he heard a soft noise. Looking over, you had laid your head down and used the book as a pillow, a hand brought up to your face to rest against your cheek. He watched for a moment, taking in the details of your sleeping form. He recounted the details to Ominis now, mentioning how your eyes had shifted a bit under your eyelids, and how you twitched randomly and caused hair to fall into your face.

Ominis didn’t even have to speak anymore, Sebastian just kept talking.

The next day, during breakfast, you seemingly appeared from nowhere next to Sebastian at the table, pushing your shoulder against his own to grab something to eat. It startled the boy half to death, and he was left stuttering out a string of not-so-strong words. “Listen, I know that Hufflepuffs are supposed to be loyal, but you have to warn someone before you just appear, yeah?” He breathed, smoothing down his robes. You only shook your head in response, a piece of toast quite literally hanging from your mouth as you tried to reach for some jam, which was just too far away for your fingers to reach. Sebastian smiled as he grabbed the jam you had been reaching for, showing it to you. “This what you’re after?” He asked, and you nodded in response. His smile widened as he looked you in the eye, and placed the jam father away. The toast dropped from your mouth as you gasped, eyes beginning to squint in annoyance. “Ominis, they’re squinting at me, I might just die.” Sebastian joked, flailing dramatically. You huffed as you got up to fetch it yourself, mumbling. “Typical Slytherin. Oh, you want this? Go get it ha ha.” Ominis heard this and choked on his juice. “What was that?” Sebastian asked, who didn’t quite catch what you had said due to his own laughter. You sat back down and began spreading the jam on your toast. “You’re acting like a dog. A puppy even. Childish, like a Slytherin.” You quipped, pointing the dull knife at him. You continued, “All bark but no bite. Like a Golden Retriever.” Sebastian pretended to be offended as he took a bite of his food, leaning over to Ominis. “If we’re talking about dogs, someone is a Pomeranian.” He said, pretending to whisper to Ominis. You heard this, and wacked him upside his head. “Am not.” You retorted, taking a bite of toast finally. Ominis, thanks to Sebastian describing you, maybe too much, was able to imagine the face you were making as you argued lightly about how you most certainly were not a Pomeranian, but never state what kind of dog you thought you were. “I think you’re just Sebastian’s emotional support dog,” Ominis stated, using his shoulder to push Sebastian away. You titled your head slightly, a confused hum voicing your thoughts. “Well,” Ominis continued, “Everyone just calls you his emotional support Hufflepuff, but it’s pretty much the same thing.” “Hey!”

That night, Sebastian came back to the common room later than usual, but mumbling excitedly to himself as he beelined to Ominis. “You will not believe what I just witnessed.” He started, dropping into a chair next to his friend. Ominis turned to his direction, wondering just what Sebastian could have witnessed. “Y/n. I was looking for them because I grabbed their potions book on accident, which, not my fault.” Sebastian started. Ominis shook his head and smiled, motioning for Sebastian to continue. “Anyway, I found them by their common room, but they didn’t go in for some reason. They were just standing there, swaying kind of?” Ominis began to imagine you in a trance state, just swaying for no reason. Sudden worry fell onto his face. “Were they cursed?” He asked, earning a laugh from Sebastian. “I thought so at first, so I went over to see if everything was ok.” He paused, trying not to laugh as he thought back to what you were doing. He had walked up to you slowly, as if you would turn around and attack him if he went too fast. As he got closer, he could hear you mumbling lightly to yourself, but he couldn’t make out what you were saying. Surely you hadn’t gone crazy, swaying, and mumbling to a wall? He crept closer, wand ready just in case. As he found himself behind you, he peered over your shoulder. “They were swaying, to the moving cactus!” He laughed, clutching his sides. You were, in fact, dancing with the little cactus, entranced by its movement. Sebastian had let out a laugh when he realized what was going on, and caused you to jump backwards, right into him. He had caught you, still laughing as you looked up at him and scowled. “What are you laughing for?” You asked as you pushed yourself off of him and fixing your robes. Sebastian, nearly out of breath from laughing so hard, held his hand up to signal that he needed a moment. You crossed your arms and stared at him, a pouty frown forming on your lips. Sebastian saw this and had to take even more breaths. He mentioned this to Ominis, how you pouted at him. Ominis huffed in amusement, imagining what that must have looked like. Once Sebastian was able to catch his breath, he walked over to the cactus and pointed at it. “Dancing with a cactus?” You puffed your cheeks, not responding. He continued, “I don’t think it’s a good dance partner, it’s got the moves, but a bit prickly, don’t you think?” You kept your arms crossed, “Like you’re a better dance partner.” Sebastian scoffed at the thought of a cactus being better than him, but he still felt his cheeks heat up a bit. “Of course, I am.” He stopped at that, telling Ominis that he had clearly won that argument. Ominis shook his head as he got up, “Sebastian, you’re quite daft.” “What’s that supposed to mean?!”

Ominis found it amusing to hear Sebastian talk about things, he always spoke in detail to give him a better picture, which also meant that he unintentionally spared hardly any details. Ominis had learned a long time ago how to identify what Sebastian was into by the way he described certain things. A bird would get the simple description, while something like the colour or texture of a potion he was making in class would be explained in depth. He noticed this while Sebastian talked about you. Although he knew Sebastian went into detail about what you looked like so he could get the best image possible, Sebastian would give unnecessary details, like if you had a leaf in your hair one day or how your eyes had a twinkle. Sebastian had paid such close attention to everything that you did, it was hard to think that he only saw you as a friend. Yet, Ominis could just feel the oblivious look on Sebastian’s face if it was ever brought up.

It was some time the following week when Sebastian came across a moment of frustration. You had been a topic of conversation amongst fellow students. You always were. Yet, when some of the boys from his house came up to him and Ominis asking about you, Sebastian became defensive. He didn’t describe you to the boys like he described you to Ominis. This caused Ominis to smirk to himself as he listened in, noting the ting of jealousy in Sebastian’s voice. Once the group had left the two of them, Ominis dug his elbow into Sebastian’s side. “Ow! What are you on about, doing that?” Sebastian asked, holding his side. Ominis continued to try and poke Sebastian, mumbling. “You really like them; the big bad golden retriever Slytherin has a soft spot for the Hufflepuff.” He joked, of course, and he was unable to see the face Sebastian was making. But he knew just how flustered he got when he was unable to form a sentence to combat Ominis, his cheeks a bright red as he froze. Ominis had to explain to Sebastian what he meant, teasing him about how oblivious he was. “You talk a lot. Too much, sometimes. But you hardly spoke a word to them when they asked about y/n. You’re not too subtle, are you?”

You walked in to see Ominis with a devious smile, his index finger still out and ready to poke Sebastian in his side. Sebastian, on the other hand, was frozen in place and red. It was quite a sight to see. You walked over and stood over the two boys. “What are you guys doing?” You asked, a smirk forming as you got a closer look at the scene the two of them had created. Sebastian looked up quickly and stared at you, much like a deer caught alone by a hunter. Ominis’ smile never left. “I was just teasing Sebastian. He’s been acting quite dumb and needed to be told.” Ominis got up and fixed his robes. “Well, I have places to go, so I’ll be seeing the two of you later for a study session for charms. No sleeping this time either.” And with that, he left.

You took Ominis’ seat next to Sebastian, your smile growing larger as you watched him try to form some sort of sentence. “Have you been dumb, Sebastian?” You teased. Sebastian could only narrow his eyes at you. You continued to tease him, “Aw poor baby. Whatever shall we do?” Sebastian’s face got redder if that was even possible. You took notice of this and went to poke his cheek, the warmth almost burning you. Sebastian, still unable to form words, got up from his seat and turned his back and stood there. You took that as you hint to get up as well, and followed him out to the hall. You kept walking beside him, but were unable to see that he slowed down and walked behind you. When you finally noticed, he had run into your back, burying his head between your shoulders and moving to wrap his arms around you. You felt your cheeks flare up now, unable to do anything. “I’m not that dumb.” He mumbled, seemingly trying to burrow further into your back. At first you thought his feelings had been hurt, but you felt a smile grow on your back, and suddenly your sides were being attacked. “Sebastian you cheater!” You yelled, desperately trying to break free of his grasp. The boy wouldn’t let go, not until he tickled you until you were out of breath and falling to your knees. A triumphant step and a happy hum, he knelt with you, lightly head butting you. “Maybe you’re the dumb one.”

“You’re both dumb.” Ominis said as he took his seat at the library table. Even after Sebastian had told him about the attack he launched on you, he didn’t say if he ever confessed. You hadn’t even shown up to the study session yet, and Ominis was already cursing you for your own feelings, had you even realized them yet was beyond him. “Now that’s rude.” Sebastian retorted, pulling his book out. Ominis scoffed, “Not rude enough, it appears. How is it that the two of you have not realized this yet? You think “Emotional Support Hufflepuff” was a friendly term or something?” Sebastian furrowed his brow, “Yes, is it not?” Ominis could only shake his head. “You are impossible.”

A few moments later you had arrived, your book in hand and a quill and parchment in the other. “Get distracted by dancing cacti again?” Sebastian teased as you sat beside him. You shook your head, opening to the page the three of you had left off on. “Sounds like someone didn’t get poked enough.” You mumbled. Ominis let out a snort. The three of you began your study like normal, without you falling asleep this time. Before the library blew out its lights, the three of you left. Ominis had bid you farewell as he made his way back to the Slytherin dorm, claiming that he needed a shower before bed. You were left with Sebastian, who walked by your side and occasionally (and purposely) bumped into you. You gasped as he bumped into you too hard, sending you falling into a wall. Luckily, Sebastian realized just how hard he hit you, and quickly went to grab you before you contacted the stone. He wrapped his arms around you and held you still, muttering a “whoops” into your hair. You huffed, “If you wanted me to fall for you, all you had to do was ask.” You laughed at your own joke, congratulating yourself for coming up with something so fast. Sebastian stayed silent, seemingly holding you tighter. You felt him say something against your head and calmed your laughing down. “What was that?” You asked. Sebastian shook his head, eventually letting go of you and continuing to walk you to your dorm.

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow imagine #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts au #Hogwarts legacy imagine #ominis gaunt #hufflepuff reader #gn!reader #gn!mc #harry potter imagine

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