#like I know in my heart they’ve fucked but I want closure

[preciouslandmermaid]

cold heart, warm hands (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 2/2 

Hi, welcome to part two. My name’s blue. I’ll be your author this evening. Please stay seated for the entire presentation. Thank you. (and yes, I know ~canon~ says Ghost changes his mask at the end of the campaign but I don’t care!!! I like how much you can see his eyes! I like the paint/fabric peeling!)

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader!Assassin  

Rating: Mature/Explicit (18+)

Fic warnings: Smut! (p in v, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, m!oral receiving, switch!ghost b/c i wanted to make him whiiimper, slight choking kink/some roughness, knife kink if u squint, lots of eye contact) sparring and knives as a form of foreplay, a smidge of jealous!ghost with a sprinkle of yearning. no beta/barely edited, i wrote this in 3 days.

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, though no other descriptors are used. 

Summary: It’s been three months since Ghost handed you off at the border to your American contacts. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d see you again. And then you waltz into the barracks, smiling, with Price announcing you’re joining the task force. 

READ ON AO3 || 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three Months Later…

He’s thought about his time with you on the fringes of St. Petersburg more than he cares to admit. The extraction took longer than planned after your insane plan to crash the snowmobile and fake your death. Or at least the death of the woman you were pretending to be for the past three years. He recalls your face awash in flickering, orange light and gripping that shiny, golden necklace. He doesn’t know its meaning. You left it behind intentionally. And your tone darkened whenever you mentioned Petrovich–your target, your mark, the man who left at least one scar (that he knew about) on your firm, muscled body. 

When you left, your smile was radiant and grateful. The details of whatever you endured undercover he could only assume. He imagines it meant something to destroy your persona before leaving. A sense of closure, perhaps? Or a sense of control? He doesn’t know. And he’ll never ask. He thinks you’d roll your eyes at him if he did. He remembers the color of your eyes. And surprises himself with the memory of your laughter. 

So, yeah. He thinks of you. Often. He does his best to push it to the sidelines.

He’s no good to anyone acting like a fool, acting like you were ever going to cross paths again. He had his task force. And you worked for intelligence agencies, focusing on espionage and covert operations. Your worlds weren’t going to intersect. You’re a spy for Christ’s sake. He’s sure the CIA is eager to drop you into your next life, your next persona, your next target. Ghost numbly shakes his head to himself and joins the others. 

They’re all gathered in the training room to run drills. Ghost runs it. He puts them through the usual bout. There’s cardio, strength, and seeing how fast they can dismantle and rebuild their weapons. It’s going swimmingly until Price enters. Not because he says anything, or stops them, but because of who is following him.

His heart slams into his boots in a freefall. No parachute. No survivors. You smile warmly and make introductions as Price explains you’re the newest recruit (technically you’re on temporary loan for an upcoming mission in Spain). He’s never been gladder to stand outside the circle while his teammates crowd you.

They’re all mooning after you. Pitiful sods. 

Yeah, yeah, you’re fucking fit. You’ve got a nice smile and you’re wearing a white tank that shows off the toned, defined musculature of your arms and shoulders and your collection of scars. But they’ve never huddled next to you in a snowstorm under a snow-packed shelter. They’ve never seen your eyes squint when it was your turn to collect kindling. They don’t know you mutter in your sleep. They don’t know you twirl something (usually your knife) between your hands when you’re thinking with your eyes dewy and distant. He doubts they know about your past and how your codename “volchitsa” - or she-wolf - was given because of your inclination to bite people during training. 

“Sparring?” Your voice perks up. “I’m afraid I’d wipe the floor with you.” You settle your hand on your hip and ooze with easy, warm confidence. Whatever ghosts and shackles that weighed you down in Russia are gone.

Gaz grins. “I’ll take that bet.”

You stretch your arms over your head and Ghost notices a slip of your exposed midriff.

You ask Price, “is arrogance a prerequisite for the task force?” 

Ghost averts his gaze from you, but he can feel your attention on him. He suspects you remember everything from the evac mission as he does. His stomach clenches at the memory of you bathed in firelight, your lips parted and your gaze traveling like an electric livewire across his skin. Fucking hell. He can’t be bothered with this.

“I’ll go easy on you.” Gaz offers before stepping onto the mat. You laugh. It’s the same laugh that has echoed inside his dreams for the past ninety days (not that he’s counting).

You step onto the squishy training mat. Ghost considers leaving for a half-second, but then you slide into a fighting stance, and he’s rooted to his spot. He needs to see how this plays out.

“Aye, give ‘em hell, lass.” Soap says, crossing his arms and grinning.

 ~~~~~~~

 The sweat dripping from your forehead burns your eyes. Your muscles throb with a familiar, tingling strenuous pain. Gaz is a formidable opponent. He’s got stamina, but you’re faster. You’ve managed to either dodge or misdirect his offensive attacks. He hasn’t attempted to go on the defense. And that’s his biggest mistake. One that you intend to make him pay for. You dance backward away from his strike, grinning, and use his barreling momentum against him as your leg collides with a sharp crack along his jaw. Gaz stumbles sideways, cursing, and cradling his mouth.

“First blood.” You announce after noticing his split lip. “I win?”

“Jesus.” He says emphatically to Price, “where’d you find this one?”

“They found me as a baby in a cardboard box outside the CIA.” You joke. 

Price chuckles low in his chest, “not far off from the truth.”

“You alright?” You peer at the rosy smudge of blood on his lower lip, “I might have a tissue.” You dig into the pockets of your baggy beige pants.

He brushes you off. “S’alright.”

“Let’s wrap it up,” Price orders. “Debrief in ten minutes.” 

There’s a chorus of ‘Yes, sirs’ that you forget to join. You’re not accustomed to the military style of the task force. You’re not familiar with working in a unit. Being a team. Hell, you’ve hardly given yourself time to digest the fact that Ghost, aka Simon Riley, is your superior. He’s the lieutenant. He’s also the man who rescued you from a frozen lake and then stripped you bare to prevent severe hypothermia. You can compartmentalize all of it. You have done so for the past three months. You twist the bottom hem of your shirt between your fists. But it’ll be different, you think, now that he’s in the same room. He is no longer a memory or a fever-induced dream. He’s real. He’s close enough to touch. 

While approaching, Ghost says, “that was hardly a clean fight, she-wolf.” 

Fuck. You hadn’t realized much you missed the warm and deep droning of his voice, the way it caresses down your spine like a rough, calloused hand. Your pulse flutters in your jaw.

“I wasn’t aware I had to play fair.” You quip. He’s wearing a different mask, a black balaclava with the jaw painted onto the fabric, his eyes visible and surrounded by dark, smudged paint. He never took his mask off when you traveled together. And you never asked him to. You assumed it was for protection, to hide his identity during the mission, but he wore it–even among his teammates. Which meant whatever Riley’s reasons were, they went beyond anonymity. His dark t-shirt stretches across his well-defined chest. If you squint, you think you might be able to count the lines of his abdominal muscles, carving them with your eyes the way someone would carve a cake. Your blood hums with exertion and adrenaline. 

You smile easily. “I’m open to a rematch.”

“I mean no disrespect to Gaz, but he’s not a match for you.”

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Ghost.”

“I’ve been known to give them when they’re deserved.” He cocks his head to the side. His eyes, although darkened by the makeup or paint, are easier to perceive than they were in his original mask. His massive, hulking frame consumes every inch of your perception. His eyes are dark and guarded, but they follow the sweat glistening down your neck and pooling between your collarbones. His gaze snaps up to yours.

“Are you a match then?” You ask your tone breathier than intended. “Or am I to be woefully unchallenged in this task force?”

“I might be.” He replies in a cocky, husky tone that makes your heart flutter like a moth’s wing. You clench and unclench your fists at your sides. You’re talking about sparring, but you’re an expert in subterfuge, adept at reading between the lines, and your training has never led you astray before. Ghosts’ tone and body language scream with weighted and intense physical attraction. You’d bet all the money in your account that Ghost isn’t solely interested in sparring. The mouth can lie. The body cannot.

“We’ve got ten minutes.” You say breezily. 

Ghost scoffs. “You think you can take me down in ten minutes?”

Oh, he’s definitely smiling beneath the mask. You bite your lower lip to stop your grin from spreading Cheshire-cat wide. You remember the church. The cemetery. You saw so little of Ghost in action. You are hungry and eager to see him perform without witnesses, without interruptions, and without the risk of death. 

“I know I can. But, for the sake of our reunion, let’s make it interesting.” You lift your pant leg at the ankle and unsheathe your knife. “First blood wins.” The blade flashes beneath the bright, blue-white fluorescents. Ghost’s brow shifts beneath his mask. You suspect he’s raising an eyebrow at you. 

He says, “don’t get pissy if you lose a finger.”

“I’d love to see you try.” You reply.

You circle around one another like hungry sharks, like lions fighting for their pride, like two koi fish swimming in a pond. You need to take him down in one move. His eyes regard you with a calculated coolness and you suspect his thoughts are similar to your own. There is a real, hefty threat of injury with your naked blades shining below the lamps. You’re trusting him not to slip up and accidentally kill you and he’s trusting you the same. His reach is longer, but he’s not going to make the first move because that would open him for a counterattack. However, time is ticking. You smile to yourself. You assume Ghost is acclimated to fighting soldiers. But you are not a soldier. You flex your fingers on the knife grip and dive into the first attack. Ghost shifts sideways, making himself a smaller target to hit, but you’re not interested in hitting him. Your knife deflects his with a sharp, shrieking sound like nails on a chalkboard. You drop, and your leg strikes outward and sweeps, catching Ghost off-guard. His spine hits the mat, but he rolls immediately onto all fours. He pounces on you. The breath in your lungs whooshes forcefully from your chest. Your heartbeat pounds inside your eardrums. A heavy ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. His offhand snatches your wrist and slams it against the mat. On impact, your shoulder joint pops, but you don’t release your knife from your grip. He holds your knife-hand down. You grin. His weight is crushing you, heavy and hard, pinning you to the mat, your hips pressed together, your legs caged around his waist. Your freehand touches the edge of his mask, Ghost grumbles harshly, and wrenches his face away. It’s what you wanted him to do. His flinch backward has created an opening. You curl your fingers over his knuckles, your arm and elbow trembling and straining as you hold his knife at bay.

He rasps, “playin’ dirty, are we?”

You say, “I just want to win.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve already lost.”

“Let me up and we’ll see about that.”

He arches his spine forward, forcing your elbow to bend, though you’re still able to keep his knife away from your skin. Ghost looms over you. His chest brushes against yours with every inhale and exhale. Your clothes suddenly feel too tight, too constructive, and there’s a low, pulsing heat blooming between your legs. The nape of your neck tingles with warmth. Ghost pushes your hand–God, he’s strong–and your muscles squeeze with effort. 

His eyes drop from your face to your clavicle. His gaze smolders on your skin. His eyelashes flutter and then his attention lifts to your face.

“Did you mean it?” He asks, “about first blood.”

If it had been anyone else, any other man, or anyone else on the team, this would be the moment where you backed down. But this is Ghost, this is Simon. You trust him. And his check-in is proof that your trust is well-placed. He remembers your scars. 

“I did.” You gasp, breathless. Your grip relaxes until you're merely holding his wrist, feeling his pulse thrum like a wild storm beneath your fingers.

The cold, biting tip of his knife kissed your jaw. A pinprick of blood wells beneath the blade. Your eyes widen, not only because of the sharp, blooming pain but because of something else pressing into your body. At the juncture between your thighs, you feel the swelling, hard length of him. Your parted lips soften into a sly, smug smirk. You shift your hips, a subtle and teasing grind, and his diaphragm jolts against your ribs from his surprised inhale. 

“Cheeky.”

You shrug, “playing dirty, remember?”

He withdraws his knife into the strapped sheath at his hip. But he makes no move to get off you (not that you mind. You’ve been dreaming of how he might feel on top of you ever since you saw him half-naked). Up close, you can count his long eyelashes and observe how his pupils have swallowed the rich, coffee color of his eyes. 

He applies pressure to the tiny wound with his thumb. His eyes hold yours like a lifeline, like driftwood in a storm.

You murmur, “come closer, Ghost.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to give you something.”

“And what’s that?” His voice rumbles all the way to your core. Your thighs tighten around him and your inner walls clench. He’s no fool. He must know the effect he has on you. It mirrors the effect you have on him. You want him buried deep inside you, you want his hands on your body, you want his mouth–if he’ll give it. This job with his task force is temporary. It’s a blip in a string of chaos, a merciful offering from the godforsaken universe, a respite before you return to the agency and become someone else. But here and right now? You are fully and completely yourself. He is sharing your breath, your sweat, smearing your blood into the whorls and spirals of his fingerprint. You want to share this miracle with him. You want to selfishly enjoy the upcoming few months before you’re assigned to another country, another corrupt diplomat, or another unstable regime. You want him. You want Ghost. You want Simon Riley. 

You respond nonchalantly, “a kiss.”

He breaks eye contact to roll his eyes. “You’re trying to get me to remove my mask again, aren’t you?”

You shake your head. “My whole life involved powerful men showing their faces but hiding their true intentions. You hide your face, but I’ve never doubted your honesty.”

“Give it time.” He huffs. There’s a snag in his tone that you pick up on, a thread of self-loathing, and your heart softens like melted wax.

“I want you as you are,” you reply and then whisper, “Simon.” 

He tenses. You feel it on every pressured weight of his body leaning into yours. His eyes roam across your face, seeking dishonesty, but there’s none to find. The words you speak are the truth ripped asunder from your soul. He leans closer and his warm breath fans across your chin, muffled faintly by his mask. Your blood hums, electric and sparkling through your veins, and you instinctively tilt your jaw.

The sound of heavy footsteps carries down the hallway. Ghost springs agile and swift off you and to his feet. You stop the moan in your throat, missing his firm solidness, and the delicious sensation of his cock pressing into your clothed, pulsing cunt. While getting to your feet, you inhale deeply through your nostrils to calm your racing heart. You can feel the tension between you and Ghost like a living, breathing creature. It prowls through your attention span, demanding you to look at his veiny arms or admire the muscled, hard line of his shoulders.

Soap appears in the doorway, “debrief is about to start.” He looks between you and Ghost. You wonder what Soap sees beyond the shiny sweat on your face. Thankfully, he doesn’t make any comments. He offers to show you the way to the debriefing room. Technically, Price already showed you. 

However, you’re restless from your fight with Ghost. Your blood boils with anticipation and desire. And for the sake of your sanity, you smile and agree to follow Soap.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 He watches you go. His jaw is clenched. Nothing ever goes to plan when you’re involved, does it? You strike into his life like a viper, disappear, and then return like a thunderstorm that threatens to tear his house apart. He groans under his breath. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin. He is meant to be unattached, cold, and distant. You aren’t even teammates. You are on a temporary loan from the agency and will return to your proper life once this business in Spain is done. Yet, his resolve crumbled like a cheap biscuit when you muttered his name, breathless and sweet, and the sultry sound went straight to his cock. A fantasy flooded his mind: you, pinned beneath him on the mats, grinding your cunt into his cock until you cum inside your pants. Ghost forcefully pushes the fantasy into a dark cabinet. He can’t focus on the debrief if he’s thinking about the expression you might wear when you orgasm. Focus. He’s a special operative. He’s a killer. He’s got men relying on him. He can’t let himself get distracted. And he can’t let himself get comfortable. Your presence in his life is temporary. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Your mission to Spain arrives in sweltering heat and blazing, white sunshine. He tracks your movements through the scope of his sniper. The street below thunders with car horns and civilians chatting, their conversations rise from the sidewalk to his sniper’s perch like a hum of bees. You effortlessly weave through the crowds. 

Your voice croons through his comm, “got your eyes on me, Lt?”

He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked into the barracks two days ago. 

“Affirmative.” 

“Wonderful!” You chirp, “I’ve got eyes on our target.” 

There isn’t a single ounce of nervousness or fear in your voice. He shouldn’t be so impressed by you, but Goddammit–he is. You were betrayed by your contact in Russia, yet you were willing to join the task force, and give your trust to a handful of strangers with a common goal. You played poker with Soap and Price. You laughed with them. And he can’t get your laugh out of his fucking head. He goes to bed at night, hardly dreaming, but your laughter still follows him. You didn’t spar with Gaz, but you showed him the basics of your own moves. Gaz tends to follow you around like a lost puppy. It’s embarrassing. He wants to tell him to get a grip, but he holds his tongue. You’ll be gone soon. 

You never seek him out for a one-on-one conversation. But Ghost gets the impression that you’re waiting for him to make the next move. He adjusts his position. The scope hovers near the curve of your shoulder and is aimed at the heart of the man now sitting across from you. He watches over you less like a guardian angel and more like a 6ft mass of exhaustion and sexual frustration. In a brief moment of respite, you tilt your face toward the warm sunlight, and he notices the edge of your smile in his scope. Your shoulders tremble when you laugh.

“He can’t be that funny.” Ghost mutters to himself and is surprised by his own annoyance.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re going to split apart at the seams. The heat and salt of Spain clung to your skin and your body buzzed with the feverish sensation of a job well done. There was something heady and unexplainable that traveled through your nervous system as Ghost watched you while you completed your mission. You can’t eat, you can’t think, and you realize you need to see him. Talk to him. Before your time is wasted like sand slipping through your fingers. Maybe Ghost is rejecting you, or maybe he’s trying to be a gentleman about it, but you won’t know until you have the conversation. 

You disappear from the cafeteria while the others are eating and find your way to Ghosts’ room. Upon arrival, you expected all the operatives would need to share a room for team building or whatever. But that wasn’t the case with the Task Force. You rap your knuckles on the door.

“Hey, Ghost.” 

The door opens a sliver. It’s dark behind him. He’s wearing his mask. Did he put it on before answering the door? Is he brooding in there? Shouldn’t he be celebrating? 

“These are my private quarters, she-wolf.”

Your heart jumps into your throat at the old nickname.

“Ah,” You lean your forearm onto the wall and drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You must be busy reading dirty magazines.” You tease with an easy-going smile. Ghosts’ eyes narrow slightly.

“You should find me if you want to experience the real thing instead of a glossy photoshop with her tits out.” You push away from the wall. His door opens and his hand grabs your arm, pulling you into his room, and he shoves you against the closed door. Instinctively, you lift your knee to block him from crowding your space. 

He rasps, “you trying to play games with me?”      

“No games.” The single desk lamp behind him hums with light. “I’m being rather transparent about what I want.”

“What is it you want then?”

He’s either playing dumb or wants to hear you say it. You decide to indulge him. 

“You.”

You drop your knee, snatch the front of Ghosts’ shirt, and pull him toward you. You press your lips firmly against the painted teeth of his mask. The fabric is rough and scratchy along your mouth, it tastes faintly of salt, and little white flecks of paint and black fibers cling to your lips. Ghost kisses you fiercely, his lips pinching and rolling the mask between your mouths until it grows wet with your joined salvia. His hands squeeze your hips, and your thighs, and then push beneath your thin t-shirt. He glides along your abdomen and your ribs before shoving underneath your sports bra. You whine into his mask. You’ve wanted him to touch you for days. You should’ve come to his room sooner. He kneads your flesh with his rough, large hands, squeezing your breasts and causing your back to arch. Your brain has fizzled and destroyed all coherent thought. There is only sensation and feeling. There is only his hand and the rough play of your mouths kissing against the barrier of his mask.

He breaks away, his chest heaving, “you’re full of bad ideas, did you know that?”

“My ideas have consistently saved our lives.” You reply, boastful.

“Are we countin’ the one where you tried ice fishing?”

“Yes.”

Ghost unfastens the front of your pants, “I’m inclined to disagree.” His fingers are warm and skim the waistband of your underwear. “May I?”

You nod. “Yes, absolutely, yes.” 

You are not ashamed of your eagerness. To you, it’s more than simply sex or pleasure. Ghost - Simon - is someone you’ve trusted with your life on more than one occasion. He didn’t balk at your scars or demand their stories. He met you on equal grounds and few could claim to have your level of skill and talent. And with him, you are yourself. Fully, completely, and effortlessly. You can laugh as loud as you want. You can tease, flirt, and challenge. You can breathe. Your instinct of paranoia doesn’t disappear around him, but it does soften. He’s earned the precious and rare gift of your complete, golden trust. 

He slides his palm down, into your underwear, and cups the front of your sex. Your head thumps into the door and your eyelashes flutter. His index and middle finger run along your folds and coat in your arousal. Ghost lets out a pleased, deep hum from the depths of his chest.

“Should’ve expected you’d be soaked.” He says “, especially after our sparring match.”

The memory of it ignites another wave of pleasure. His weight, his touch, his size, his lethal abilities, the depth of his eyes.

“I wasn’t the only one hot and bothered.” You quip before his fingers rub a circle over your swollen clit. Your hips jerk into his palm.

“Mhm.” He nudges his knee between your legs and forces them wider. His other hand cups your breast, fingertips digging into your side, while his thumb strokes idly across your hardened nipple. The light, teasing touch sends sharp, short shockwaves straight to your core.

“Did you get off?” You ask, genuinely curious, “thinking of me?”

Ghosts’ fingers plunge into your wet cunt. You gasp, feeling the delicious stretch, feeling his rumble of appreciation against your chest. You cling to Ghost with a keening, desperate sound that would embarrass and fluster your neighbors.

“Might’ve.” He replies, his voice dark and husky, like crushing black velvet into your chest. You imagine Ghost in his room, squeezing his cock, thinking of you. Your body quakes. He’s unraveling you. He’s pulling you apart piece by piece. His fingers slicken and deepen, his pace quickening, and your toes curl inside your boots. 

“Oh god, oh god.” You pant, lost in the delirium of pleasure and chasing the rising crest of your orgasm. 

“Name’s Simon, sweetheart, or have you forgotten?” His mask scrapes along your earlobe from where he’s buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Is that what you want?” Your nails dig into the corded muscle of his biceps. “Gonna have to - ah, fuck!” Your words are cut off in a whine, and you manage to knock two brain cells together to finish your sentence “- hear you say it. Wanna hear you say it.”

“You tryin’ to give me orders?” 

“I’m trying to come.” You smile briefly. 

His finger crooks and you see stars. “Trying to boss me around as well.”

It’s a small mercy he hasn’t stopped touching you, slick and obscene, his fingers thrusting in and out of your weeping cunt. Your hips erratically chase his touch, and your clothes are restrictive on your skin. You want to touch him, feel his sweat, lose yourself in him. Your walls squeeze around his fingers. 

He orders, “look at me,” and his other hand carefully squeezes around your throat. The pressure is perfect. It’s enough to make your blood pound, but not so harsh that he’s restricting your airflow. 

“Atta girl.” He says when you meet his eyes, your gaze is heavily lidded and lustful. 

“Say my name when you come.”

You gasp. The edge of your orgasm pounds at the apex of your thighs. Your abdomen muscles clench and tightness wounds at the base of your spine. He presses the heel of his palm into your clit, grinding in a small, circular motion, while his fingers shift inside you. Somewhere in the haze of desire, you realize he is kissing the side of your neck through his mask. The tension finally and wonderfully snaps.

“S-Simon!” You cry as your body twitches and your orgasm hits you like a flashbang. It’s disorientating. Your ears start to ring. You blink slowly until the world comes back into focus. 

He speaks into the shell of your ear, “gonna be thinking about this for a while.”

“Oh?” Your frazzled brain and heavy tongue cannot summon any other grace or intelligence to your response. Ghost slowly withdraws his hand from your core. You exhale shakily like a baby fawn testing its legs. He pushes the front of your shirt toward your breasts, and you wordlessly lift your arms (there is some humor in the fact that this is the second time Ghost has undressed you). He peels off your sweaty sports bra and your skin prickles with tiny bumps as it's exposed to the cool air. Ghost is looking at you with pure, dark hunger in his eyes. He could swallow you in the depths of his eyes.

He touches your neck, close to your scarred collarbone, and gently lifts the charm dangling from your necklace. 

“This is new.” He regards it. “What is it? A butterfly?”

“A moth.” You correct him. “It’s a reminder.” 

“For what?” His tone is genuinely curious, and a tad surprised. You swallow. The truth of the necklace is another demonstration of vulnerability, of trust. Yet, offering it to him is as simple as peeling your clothes away. 

You explain, “to go towards the light. ‘Cause moths always go to the light.”

He grumbles softly and releases the charm from his fingertips. “They end up dyin’ most of the time, don’t they?”

“You’re a pessimist, Riley.”

“I’m a realist.” 

Your hands skim along his waist, fingertips dragging teasingly across the hard muscles of his lower stomach and his happy trail tickles the pads of your fingertips when you ghost over it. Your hand dips lower. You lick your lips, and his eyes track the flit of your tongue.

“Sit.” You tell him while palming the front of his pants across the impressive and weighty bulge of his straining, hard cock.

“I prefer to stand.” His thumb runs across your lower lip, pulling down and revealing the line of your gums. “Easier to watch.”

“Bit of a voyeur, are we?” You tease before pulling his thumb into your mouth and suckling softly. You can taste yourself on him. Though, you wish you could see more of his expression beyond his darkening, intense gaze. You release his digit and subdue your moan. His zipper sliding is somehow louder than the blood pounding in your ears. You push his trousers and boxer briefs down and are rewarded with the sight of his cock. Your inner walls twinge.

He yanks his shirt over his head once you kneel before him. He is uniquely beautiful in his lethality and raw protection. He is corded, with tight muscle and pure, chiseled strength. His thighs, his legs, his chest–you feel as if you can sink your teeth into him. You encircle his engorged cock in your palm. And he is girthy and warm in your palm. You tentatively squeeze him, working your hand from the base to tip, and Ghost hisses through his teeth. You drop sweet, open-mouthed kisses across the hardness of his thighs and the line of his hips. You suspect your jaw is going to ache later if you take him into your mouth. But fuck it. Life is short. You want to enjoy every second he gives you. 

You flatten your tongue along his base and swipe upward. You play over him with your tongue and your lips and his cock twitches beneath your ministrations. He is so quiet. His breath shudders. You think you may have enchanted him.

You open your jaw and bring his tip into your mouth. Ghost - trained military operative, excellent at what he does, and feared by his enemies - gasps deeply. The sound is like he touched upon divine revelation. His palm settles on top of your head. He doesn’t pull or grab you. The weight and pressure are simply there. You inch your mouth over him, tongue massaging his pulsing vein, and draw him as deep as you can. Your eyes momentarily roll into the back of your skull. He’s big. There’s no other way to describe him. Your saliva drools out of the corners of your mouth and glistens in stringy ropes when you pull away. You swallow him once more, wrapping his cock around one hand and following the trail of your mouth, your grasp slick and slippery. With his cock inside your mouth, you imagine what he might feel like inside of you. How deep, how good it would feel. 

Your cheeks hollow out. And Ghost whimpers from above. 

Fuck. Your thighs rub together in an attempt to add friction to the building arousal and tension at your core. There is something insanely, deeply erotic about the filthy, sweet noise you just coaxed from his lips. You want him to do it again, and again until it’s all you hear. 

You draw him out of your mouth momentarily, “say my name.” You glide your tongue along the side of him, “when you’re about to come.”

“Fuck me,” growls Ghost.

“Oh.” You smile, your lips tingling. “I’d love to.”

“Think you can take me?”

You moan around his length in a muffled, throaty, “mhm.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.” His hand squeezes the nape of your neck. Your head bobs, drawing him in, letting him hit the deepest part you can handle before pulling away. Your wet fingers twist and squeeze as your pace increases and you manage to get Ghost to whimper again. Through lidded eyes, you see his thighs twitch and his stomach flex. You moan and feel the vibration through your mouth. Ghost mutters a string of filthy, debauched curses. Unable to resist or ignore the building tension, you push your free hand between your legs and rub at your soaked core through your underwear. You peer up at him through your eyelashes. He holds eye contact and roughly proclaims your name.

You suddenly release his cock from your mouth and hand, “Ghost, I want to fuck you.”

He grabs your elbows, pulls you from the floor, and nudges you to lie on his small bed. His large hands grab your hips, fiercely tugging your pants off and your boots thump loudly onto the floor. He prowls over you, his hands on your knees, but you scramble back, and your head lightly hits the wall.

You say, “not like this.”

“How then?” His voice is tight with constrained, desperate desire.

“Lie down.”

To your immediate relief, Ghost does as you ask. You swing your leg over his hips and hold the base of his cock, lining him up at your entrance. Your spine trembles with anticipation. 

“You said you like to watch.” You grin. You sink yourself swiftly onto his waiting cock and Ghost’s neck arches back to reveal the straining shape of his tendons. You can’t read his expression, but his hands communicate more than enough. He kneads your ass and squeezes your hips or thighs.

“There, yes, like that–” You gasp, drawing yourself up and down over him, feeling the wonderful stretch, the wetness that builds on your inner thighs. He lets you keep control, letting you choose the depth, the speed, while his hands greedily roam the expanse of your skin and tenderly trace the outlines of your scars. There is not a single inch of your skin that Ghost hasn’t touched. 

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so good. You feel so good.” You whine quietly, cognizant that the others could return from dinner at any moment. Your hands splayed across his muscled chest like two perfect stars. His thumb finds your clit and rubs in tandem with your thrusts. The world goes hazy, blurred, and perfect. Everything melts beyond you and Ghost and the smooth joining of your bodies.

Ghost says, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

It’s a struggle to open your eyes with the onslaught of sensation. His cock is buried inside you, rubbing against your walls, and his hand is playing with your clit while the other clutches your ass. If you open your eyes, you’ll shatter. You’ll lose yourself. You’ll fracture into a thousand tiny stars and be remade in the depths of the cosmos. 

“Can’t.” You choke out.

“You can.” His voice is breathless, panting, and your ego swells with pride. You can make Simon whimper. You can make him breathless. How many others could claim that same honor? Very few if you had to guess. You pry your eyes open with sheer willpower. Ghost is staring at you through the darkened paint. He watches you with hunger, with admiration, with lust, respect, and perhaps–even–a touch of possessiveness. Ghost lifts his knees, planting his feet, and thrusts into you. You cover your mouth to muffle your sudden, bitten-off cry. You squeeze your fingers into your cheek and feel the ridges of your teeth. Your walls flutter around him, trying to pull him deeper, and your bodies shine with sweat. 

“F-fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.” You admit hurriedly. His cock pistons in and out of you, drawing stars at the forefront of your vision, and you clamp your hand over your mouth again.

“Keep lookin’ at me, she-wolf. I want to watch. I want to watch you come.” His gravelly voice tears any stubborn resolve to ribbons.

You hold onto his gaze for several more strokes, his fingers moving in firm concentric patterns across your clit, and then your orgasm takes hold. Your eyes squeeze shut, your body spasms, and you toss your head back in wanton and wild abandon. Ghost fucks you through it. His hands are on your waist. His cock is drenched by your arousal. Your body goes limp, and you feel akin to a ragdoll as Ghost rolls you over and pins you to the mattress.

“Fuck.” He rasps, bottoming out, and your hands grip the sheets and your legs twitch and kick wildly. “It’s like you were made for me.” 

He rocks into you, deep and slow, savoring every inch with low, warm grunts. Your over-sensitive nerves pulse under his touch. Yet, despite the inevitable soreness, you buck your hips into his and groan. You want to remember this on a tactile level. You want to walk sideways for the next three days because he’s ruined you. You reach up, toward his face, and Ghost does not flinch away. Your chest swells with some unidentifiable emotion. You lightly grip his neck and sense his rapid pulse beneath his jawline. You apply soft, constant pressure to his throat. His chest rumbles with enjoyment and low, deep praise. 

“I’m not your grandma’s teacup, Simon.” You tease.

“I rather like that about you.” 

“Oh, you like me?” 

He mutters, “I like you screaming.”

Ghost spreads your thighs wide. Your hip flares at the awkward, yet firm pressure of this angle. But then Ghost is moving again–not slow and deep anymore–but fast, and pounding, and your chest hiccups with lost breath.

He huffs, driving into you all his wiry, solid strength, his cock slamming into your cunt with ruthless efficiency. He maneuvers your legs to perch upon his broad shoulders. Your brain shuts off. You turn into a blubbering, gasping mess of clenched fists and quivering muscles. Ghost watches you, staring into the depths of your eyes, drinking in every single sound you make, every expression, everything. The sound of your skin slapping together fills the room.

You press your lips together, breathing hard and rapidly through your nostrils, trying your damnedest to not scream at the top of your lungs. The absolute last interruption you need is the rest of the task force barreling into the room. Your cunt squeezes him. Another orgasm rises from the root of your spine like a phoenix. Your clit throbs with oversensitivity. You can’t come again, can you? will you? You grab Simons’ wrists for the sake of an anchor. He is panting your name over and over again under his breath. 

You keen, “fuck, Simon - ah - fuck.”

“That’s my girl,” He praises, voice scraping like sandpaper against every dark chamber of your heart, “you can come for me one more time.” 

His hand slaps sharply against the swell of your ass. It is a heady combination of his timbre, his words, and the sight of him thrusting, his mask damp and the painted jawbone stark and shifting in the dim light. And you come. You trap your scream behind both hands, pressed to your mouth, and salty tears blur your vision as you gush and convulse around him. Your blood roars, a wild lion in your ears, and your inner walls flutter and pulse with the aftershock. Above the din, you faintly hear Ghost release a restrained and reverberating groan. You watch with fascination as his lower abdominals tense up. His cock slips wetly out of your throbbing, sore folds. He grips his fist around his cock, sliding easily and squeezing, before his cum spurts onto the bedsheets and smears onto your inner thigh. His shoulders quake and his breath hitch into a soft, elongated moan. The paint around his eyes is smudged and rivulets of his sweat have revealed parts of his face like glimpses of the sky through fluffy clouds. 

His massive, sweaty form drapes over your body, arms caged around you, face tucked near your neck. He’s your very own weighted blanket with a pulse. And his heart hammers into your chest. Neither of you says anything. Your fingers lazily trail along his sides, catching ridges of his scars, gliding across his muscles and the swooping curve of his ribs. You sigh, content, exhaustion, and satisfaction tug your eyelids.

“I’m never going to be able to spar with you again.” You announce.

Simon chuckles. The sound vibrates against your chest and travels like thunder across your skin. It feels like a gift. His thumb is stroking one of your scars, the one near your hip, in a surprisingly tender gesture. It’s as if he doesn’t want to stop touching you. 

He says, “I like this better than sparring.”

You slide your hands along his chest, savoring how his muscles ripple, and your hands wrap around his strong neck. His pulse pounds beneath your palms and fingers. You watch his eyes. They flutter and darken as you apply light pressure. You want to kiss him. You lean upward. 

“Wait,” says Simon.

His thumb wiggles under the edge of his mask. Your heart gallops, breath seized in your lungs–is he really going to show his face? You don’t try to hide your awe-struck expression. Simon tugs the mask toward his nose, enough to reveal his mouth and chin, but no further. His lips are full and chapped, dark-blonde stubble shadows across his chin and jaw. 

He drops his mouth onto yours. You groan breathlessly into him. He sucks your lower lip between his, nibbling softly, and you might just drown in the focused intensity of his kiss. You push your tongue into his warm mouth, claiming, seeking, your kiss desperate and filthy and smearing saliva across your chin and upper lip. Your fingers twist the hair at the nape of his neck, worshiping the short, soft strands, and idly wondering about their color. He is an enigma, but he has given you more than you ever expected–more than you deserved. 

Your mind will replay this moment a thousand times in the days to come. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, a sweaty and whimpering mess, panting, repeating your name like it’s his prayer to salvation. You wish you could find the courage to explain how he makes you feel. The safety, the belonging, the respect, and admiration. You told a white lie earlier. Your necklace charm is a ‘Death’s Head Moth,’ and the specific creature has a vaguely human skull-shaped pattern on the thorax. The charm is your own private, secret tie to him. A delicate skull motif to mirror his mask. A reminder of your time together and your time apart. 

His mask presses and scratches roughly against your cheek and nose. You don’t mind. You whimper, suckling his tongue, a distant far-off voice that doesn’t sound like your own begs for “More, please.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

At your honeyed little plea, Ghost gives all he can. He kisses you, though he logically knows it’s a piss-poor idea to deepen your connection, to give you what you want so willingly and without consequence. His hands firmly hold your hips, travel greedily along your firm thighs, and cradle your jaw in a possessive, squeezing grip. He doesn’t want to let you go. This is the exact reason why he shouldn’t have gotten close to you. 

You writhe below him. Fuck it. He pins you deeper into the mattress, appreciating how your mouth opens for him, and the needy little sounds that he pulls from your throat. You are muscled, scarred, and firm but beneath his hands, you are soft and pliant, and you mold into his touch like you were built for him. He isn’t afraid of touching you, isn’t afraid that he might break you, or that you might become terrified of him. He’s read your file. He knows you’ve got plenty of demons in your own closet. You gasp into his mouth and latch your teeth around his lower lip. A burning sensation travels down his chest, straight to his gut, and reminds him of fine bourbon. His lips travel across your jaw in tiny, brief kisses, his stubble tickling your sensitive skin. His teeth and tongue find your pulse, suckling your skin between them, making your spine arch and your thighs clamp around his hips. He doesn’t leave a mark despite his desire to do so. A mark will lead to questions. You don’t need to endure any nosiness or gossip from his teammates.

Ghost sighs, drawing his mouth regretfully away, and rests his forehead against yours. Your eyes are glassy, face damp from tears and sweat, and his pride combusts like the fucking sun. He did that. He put that dazed, fucked-out expression on your face. How the hell is he going to cope with you walking around the barracks? His soft cock twitches between his legs.

“Have they given you a title yet?” He asks. 

You shake your head. He suspects the others will grant you a nickname or codename soon (unless you come up with one on your own).

“Hm.” He presses his lips together. Your eyes drop to his mouth, not lustfully, but in appreciation and wonder as if you’re memorizing the shape of his lips. Your thumb reverently slides along the thin scar that travels over his upper lip. 

He says, “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

A spark of light enters your eyes, and your smile cuts a fresh laceration onto his cold heart.

“I will veto any suggestion you come up with.” You say with that damned cheeky smile of yours. He thinks that smile is going to be burned onto his retinas. He thinks it’ll be the last thing he sees before a bullet or blade finally manages to meet his heart. His laugh is low and rumbling, and scratchy inside his throat from disuse. Your eyes widen. You glow from within. Ghost covers his lips over yours, smothering your smile, trying to ignore how you pull his heartstrings taught and threaten to snap them. He can feel your exhaustion in your kiss, the sloppy roll of your lips, and the lazy swirl of your tongue. He wants to applaud your stamina, to reward it, but the best reward would be rest. No one will disturb you here. No one will harm you, either. You are safe.

He rolls off your body and tugs his mask back down before propping his head up with his hand to watch you. This is familiar. He watched over you dozens of times when you escaped St. Petersburg. You turn your face, and the tip of your nose is pressed into his collarbone. You inhale deeply and slowly. Your necklace rests in the valley between your breasts and the little charm glows faintly.

“Lux.” He murmurs. 

“Hm?” Your response is from somewhere deep in your chest, your tone sleepy and subdued. 

“My suggestion for your codename.” He explains. 

It’s the Latin term for ‘light.’ He’s not sure why you seek him out if you've always meant to ‘find the light.’ But he decides not to question it. Maybe this moment is his calm before the shitstorm. The world is offering him one final, precious gift before you’re ripped away. He traces an almost fatal scar near your heart. He shouldn’t care about who will watch over you once you leave the task force. He does, though. It would be messy, complicated, and risky if you stayed, but a selfish and smothered part of him wishes you could. 

You grumble, “I suppose that one isn’t too terrible.”

“My next suggestion is PIMA.”

“Pima?” One of your eyes squinted open.

“Pain in my arse.”

You laugh loudly, your belly trembling beneath his palm, and Ghost shushes you. He doesn’t need his teammates asking questions about why they heard you in his quarters. You were quiet when he fucked you, but somehow–sharing his bed, telling jokes–it feels like a deeper sense of intimacy. It feels sacred and secret. In his eyes, you don’t follow the light. You are the light. And he’s going to blind himself like a tragic Greek hero, going to melt his own wings like Icarus flying too close to the sun. He’s already doomed, already cursed, so he might as well enjoy the ride. He draws his blanket over your naked bodies and pillows his head on his arm.

“I’ll smuggle you out later,” says Ghost.

You roll over, half-asleep, and curl into his warmth. He prepares himself for the inevitable pain of your departure. He watches the steady rise and fall of your deep breath. He traces the curves and angles of your body with his gaze. He commits the minuscule and remarkable pieces to memory. The shell of your ear that holds his whispered voice. The lush shape of your mouth that murmurs his name. The crescent moon of your nails that dig into his skin. The bumpy ridges and knobs of your knuckles, your elbows, your spine. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t. He lightly strokes his fingers down the middle of your back and hardens his heart. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two Years Later…

 You scramble through the city with smoke and sand scratching your lungs. The ground beneath your feet trembles and a shrill whistle cut through the air. The dusky air tastes of dust and gunfire and acrid terror. Your pistol is gripped tightly in your hand, your ammunition is low, and your left arm is drenched in blood. A rush of civilians surge past you like a school of fish fleeing a shark, they bleat like sheep, and they see your gun and your blood and give you a wide berth.

A swirl of white spots dances in front of your vision. A helicopter whirls loudly above and kicks up another storm of loose trash and sand. You stubbornly keep moving. Another whistle, another vibration at your feet, and you collapse behind the cover of a dilapidated market stall. The hours of daylight are slipping through your fingers. 

You should’ve gotten out sooner. But there’s no time for regret in this line of work. You can only roll with the tide, keep your head above water, tread the storm and pray you aren’t tossed against the sharp rocks.

After checking if it's clear, you run down an adjoining alleyway, and your heart pounds in time with your feet on the pavement. A chorus of gunfire bellows from behind you like an angry, destructive beast. You flatten against a building corner and peer around the edge. Your lungs freeze. A small retinue of soldiers is moving down the street. You swallow. You taste ash, smoke, and blood. Your fingers flex on your pistol. They’re carrying heavy artillery, equipped in tactical gear, though they’re too far away to ascertain if they’re friendly or not. You can’t risk it. You’ll need to sneak past them. 

You lean back against the wall. A forearm suddenly slams into your throat and rips the breath from your lungs. You panic for a fraction of a second, body tensing, ready to fight, but then you recognize those warm, toffee eyes surrounded by dark paint and the chipping, paint-flecked skull mask. Ghost's chest heaves with labored breath and his eyes study your face like a starved man before a buffet. You lick your dry, chapped lips as a sense of relief floods you. If Ghost is here, then there’s a good chance that the soldiers are friendly, and you can extract yourself from the warzone.

You grab his wrist, “steady on, Ghost.” You say, repeating the first words he ever spoke to you. His eyes drop from your face to your neck, where your moth-charm necklace intimately rests in your bosom. He notices your wounded arm and a droplet of blood falls from your middle fingertip.

“You should’ve evacuated with the rest of the civs.” He lessens his pressure on your throat, “a helicopter is 2 klicks east of here.”

You nod. “Got it.”

“Avoid the fountain,” you say, “there’s a sniper in one of the buildings. I couldn’t get to him.” Your eyes flick to your shoulder. Either the sniper isn’t very good or you’re very lucky, but you have zero intentions of returning to that section of the city. You will not try to play hero or act beyond your skill set. Ghost relays the intel through his communication device and takes a step backward.

“Get out of here, Lux!” He admonishes. A crescent sickle-shaped moon rises slowly from the twilight blue horizon. There is no time for reunions, farewells, or good luck. You spare Ghost a brief, ash-tinged smile and follow the light, toward the moon, and toward your rescue.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 You stare at the bland, white tile of the infirmary ceiling. Your left arm is wrapped and pinned to your chest in a sling. The air still smells like smoke, and blood, with an undercurrent of a stringent alcohol antiseptic. You close your eyes. The world fades to a muted, muddled gray. When you open them again, the room is dark, and there is a hulking black shape sitting in the chair beside you. 

Your voice is dry and cracked, “you again?” You can’t believe he’s here. He came to visit. What did that mean? 

“You ought to be sleeping.”

You roll your eyes. “I literally just was.” 

Your fingers twitch on the blankets. You wish you could reach out, touch him, and confirm his realness and solidness. Ghost fills a paper cup with water and offers it to you. You fight the urge to guzzle it down and sip it slowly. This isn’t your first time in an infirmary bed and it won’t be your last. You feel Ghosts’ eyes on you. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” You ask while crushing the paper cup in your palm.

“You should be dead.” He observes.

You shrug and bite back your wince. “I’ve heard that before.”

The silence stretches. Ghost doesn’t even fidget in his seat. You stare at him in the blue-black darkness and wait for the mirage to vanish. You recall rejecting pain medication, but maybe they gave you something that induces hallucinations. Your hand twitches again.

You ask quietly, “Ghost, can you come here?”

“Why?” He replies, gruff and suspicious. This is either an incredibly accurate and vivid manifestation of your subconscious desire or it’s really, truly him.

“Because I want to see if you’re real.”

He huffs and leans closer. You sit up slowly. Your heart thumps wildly. Your trembling hand settles on his cheek, on his mask, and you sigh–a broken, relieved sound. His eyelashes flutter. You have dreamed of him, thousands upon thousands of times. But your dreams are mere shadows, trickster illusions, a paltry and pathetic excuse in comparison. 

“We can’t keep running into each other like this.” Your smile wobbles at the edges. His hands are clenched into fists on his lap.

“Got any mad ideas then?” asks Ghost.

“Not this time.” You laugh weakly and the sound rattles inside your ribcage.

He sighs. “Pity.”

“You never said goodbye.” You say unexpectedly, “when I left the task force.” Everyone else did. They shook your hand or clapped you warmly on the shoulder. You kept foolishly hoping he’d show up at the last second for a private farewell. Your thumb caresses the painted molar teeth on his mask. When Ghost doesn’t reply, you release a burdensome sigh and drop your hand away from his face.

He catches your wrist before it hits the bed.

“You don’t get goodbyes in this line of work.” His fingertips press firmly into your pulse point. His eyes are tired and hollow when he holds your gaze. He’s right. There are no farewells, no funerals, no mourners. You’ve come to terms with this. When you meet your eventual end, you’ll become a classified and closed document in the file cabinet. Or maybe they’ll burn your record. There are no happy endings. There is no quiet, civilian life for you. You are a honed weapon. You serve a purpose. Your time with Simon, brief, beautiful, and bright, is something you’ll cherish until your final breath.

“Well, then… it sounds like this is my last chance to say it…” A hot, prickly sensation tickles the back of your throat.

“Simon Riley…” You say with some difficulty, “goodbye.”

He bows his head, breaking eye contact and obscuring himself, but you feel his fingers tighten around your wrist. He brings your joined hands toward him. His lips, covered by his skeletal smile, press into your knuckles. Your nostrils flare in a shuddering, warbly inhale. Death is easy, you think. It’s quick. It’s the goodbyes that are difficult. Everything unsaid weighs around your neck and wraps shackles and chains around your heart. You hoped you’d feel better with this closure. But you don’t. 

His chair squeaks when he rises. You turn your face away and stare at an empty spot on the freckled and shiny green-gray linoleum. You blink back your surprised tears and attribute them to a combination of exhaustion and receding adrenaline. 

Simon’s gloved fingertips cup your jaw, and he guides your face to look up at him. The pale moonlight glowing through the window and the various neon-green flashes of medical equipment paint his mask in an otherworldly hue. His eyes are shadowed and fathomless and dark. They bore into you and erode every defense you’ve crafted.

His low, rough, and accented burr replies in a tender; “Goodbye,” he finishes the farewell with your name. He leaves the room with no evidence of his arrival or time shared with you. A ghost ‘till the very end. You watch the door until a reddish dawn creep through the slates in the window shade and you’re pulled to sleep. 

You dream of ghosts, of warm and calloused hands, and a voice that pours like smooth whiskey through your veins. 

( Part 3 )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(tag list:  @anonymousmay22 //   @urisu //  @sodbos //  @confuseddipshit ) sorry if i missed anyone who wanted to be tagged LOL 

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley fanfic #ghost x you #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon riley x reader #cod fanfic #call of duty mw2 fanfic

[mikeysw1fey]

interview

pairing: mikey madison x female reader

warnings: none other than a shitty boss and some tension

“Hurry up they’ve arrived.” My boss struts into my office, face screwed up into a scowl as always when seeing me. Tapping my desk, she gestures to the door. “Well don’t keep them waiting or you won’t have a job anymore.” She snaps banging her fist against the desk.

Flinching slightly, I nod apologetically, standing up and avoiding the woman as I exit the room ignoring her snarky “Fucking lazy,” comment as I head towards the interviewing room.

Inhaling deeply, the anger and sadness fuelling my mind being shoved down deep as I open the door, a smile now placed on my face. Mikey Madison and Jenna Ortega both turn my way at my entrance.

“Mikey, Jenna, it’s great to have you here.” I chuckle heading towards the pair with my hand outstretched. “Thank you for having us.” Mikey smiles, her voice instantly setting off butterflies in my stomach. Her eyes find mine as we shake hands, a blush setting in on my cheeks, and if I’m not mistaken hers too.

“Yes, thank you.” Jenna smiles, my eyes snapping to to the other woman, the two of us shaking hands. “Are you guys ready to get started? Do you need anything before we begin?” I ask finding myself stuck gazing at Mikey a lot more than I should’ve been.

The two of them glance between themselves before shaking their heads. “We’re good.” Mikey replies sending me a smile that causes my heart to beat even faster.

Heading to my chair in front of the two women, I can’t help but glance at Mikey who I catch already watching me as I sit down. Clearing my throat both to sound somewhat professional and to make sure I don’t choke on my words in front of Mikey and Jenna I signal to the camera crew to begin.

“So what has this Scream experience been like for you? Is it everything you thought it would be?” I ask directing my question at both of the women although my eyes somehow manage to slide back to Mikey as she stares at me, a cute smile on her lips.

“I think I went into the movie not really having any expectations other than just wanting to, you know, like throw myself into it and give one hundred percent of myself and just do the best that I can do, um, so I think like, everything has exceeded any expectations that I’ve had by like ten times over.” Mikey explains glancing from me to Jenna.

My eyes drift towards her hands as she talks wishing nothing more than to relieve her anxiety, a feeling I know all too well, but as she finishes talking I have to refocus my brain, looking up at Mikey with a kind smile as Jenna begins, agreeing with Mikeys statement.

Listening to Jenna’s comments on my question is hard when my eyes continue to drift towards the other woman. Sneaking a glance towards her, our eyes connect, her smile growing wider as an obvious red tint coats my cheeks. Her fidgeting stops for the minute as we continue to lock eyes, her stare almost daring me to say something or do something about the tension between us.

“And yeah, like Mikey said my expectations were very much blown.” Jenna shrugs. Her closure snaps me back to reality. “Well thank you girls for coming, I really appreciate it honestly.” I smile, my rapid blinking and red cheeks causing both women to chuckle. “You seem flustered.” Mikey teases in her soft tone, a cheeky glint in her eye. “You know maybe you should stick to answering my questions rather than teasing me.” I retort, the same glint in my own eyes.

“Talk like that to our guests again and you’ll be out of a job, and lord knows who else will hire a shit show like you.” My boss stalks into the room chuckling and glancing at both Jenna and Mikey as if encouraging them to laugh too.

My mood drops, tears pooling in my eyes. I turn my gaze to the floor in hopes of avoiding more torment from my boss or even the women before me. “Is this how you treat all your employees? Because that’s a horrendous thing to say to someone who has just given me the best interview of my life.” Mikey’s calming tone lures my head back up, her light frown and rigid stature causing my boss to freeze.

“No no of course not, it’s a joke, we have a running joke don’t worry Miss Madison.” My boss smiles condescendingly. I don’t say a word, a simple glance in Mikey’s direction enough to convince her of the lies. “That’s not true.” Mikey replies, Jenna’s head nodding beside her as she too frowns at my boss.

“I think it’s time for you all to leave.” My boss chuckles gesturing for the door. “I agree.” Mikey nods standing up and dusting off her pants. She smiles, walking towards me and extending a hand. “Come with me?” She tilts her head slightly with a light scrunch of her nose as if worried I would say no.

Placing my hand in hers, warmth spreads over my entire body almost like a safety net. “Let’s go.” I inhale glaring at my boss.

Jenna pats my back gently before leading the way out the building. “You leave this building and your done. Don’t think about returning.” My boss sneers.

Mikey’s grip on my hand tightens. “Then I quit.” I smirk with a shrug following Mikey as she gently pulls me towards Jenna.“I’m sorry if I ruined your job, or you wanted to stay.” Mikey cringes letting my hand go to play with her rings once again as we make our way outside.

“Hey, no, I wanted to thank you. That woman’s been like that for years, I’ve never said anything in fear of being called dramatic. So thank you. Honestly you didn’t do anything wrong.” I reply tentatively reaching for her hand to stop her habit.

Mikey let’s her hand fall into mine, a large smile on her face. “This means you’ll be free for a date now at least.”

hey guys :) if you can’t tell i’m currently obsessed with the scream 5 cast. i love them all. but have i watched the movie… no because i’m a pussy. i will eventually i promise but like… anywayyy love amber love mikey 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

#wlw post #lesbian #amber freeman #mikey madison #mikey x reader #jenna ortega #fluff

[jeonqkooks]

supernova | jjk (02)

series masterpost / playlist ; moodboards

"When the stars align, I'll meet you then."

Another Life - Surf Mesa ft. FLETCHER, Josh Golden

pairing: jungkook x reader

rating: PG

genre/warnings: idol au, exes to lovers, fluff if you squint??, angst !! with a happy ending thank fuck, not very edited bc this is me we're talking about!!

word count: 5.3k

note: ahhh so the supernova people can speak lmao this is my only fic where the characters have only had approximately 2 lines of dialogue 🥴 anyway i can't believe supernova has ended up here!! from what was supposed to be an angsty as hell oneshot, she's blossomed into - well, whatever this is bc i don't wanna spoil anything :')

— as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

When the bakery owner – Jiwon is her name, as you’ve come to learn – informed you that she would be closing the place in a month, you could not help but sink.

One month. It feels like a countdown to your ending all over again.

You didn’t tell her that the reason you stayed loyal to the humble pastry shop wasn’t because of their impeccable treats, though they were certainly a huge plus.

You didn’t tell her that this place had become a safe haven for you, somewhere you could always seek refuge in whenever the world became a little too much to handle and all you needed was to reminisce on happier days.

When the smell of cherries on danishes oddly meant apricots and the universe. When stars weren’t just luminous spheroids made of hydrogen and helium but were housed in a pair of dark brown orbs, twinkling even in the presence of the sun. When home was not an apartment with four walls, scattered with crooked picture frames but a person with a bunny smile and a permanent tiger lily on his arm. When love was everything you needed and that was enough to conquer anything at all.

“It’s not easy closing this chapter of my life, but hopefully I’ll be moving onto bigger and better things!” she had told you with a bright smile on her face, eyes crinkling with sheer excitement for happier days in the future, oblivious to the way your poorly bandaged heart started to bleed again.

Your friends, family, and even this middle aged woman who is practically a stranger to you, have carried on with their lives. They’ve all moved onto new chapters, perhaps even onto new books altogether but you’re still here, rooted to the spot on the same page even after all this time. A novel that no one wants to read anymore, tucked away in a corner of a dusty old shelf, hidden from the light of day. Sealed away to be forgotten…

What a terribly lonely place it is.

You tried to mimic that cheery smile and offered her your kindest sentiments – wishing her good luck with her future endeavors, hoping that she will succeed in whatever chooses to do next – but it’s sad that you know you didn’t mean them, not really.

You couldn’t even if you wanted to. All rational thoughts were out the window the second that Jiwon announced the imminent closure of your most treasured place.

The tapestry gets pulled apart at the seams. Another puzzle piece that will inevitably chip away until the perfect picture of you and him will revert back to the blank canvas it once was.

What will you move onto?

You didn’t talk to Jungkook for months after your worlds shattered, not until the boys achieved yet another milestone that you had to text him congratulations. There were, of course, many things to be considered before you finally had the courage to send that one simple line.

Thank you, he had replied then, we all miss you.

You were thankful that he opted for a neutral “we”.

Even after that first message, the texts only came every time a birthday or a major holiday rolled around, or whenever something happened in either of your lives that was monumental enough to revisit the perpetually fresh wound of your break to share your excitement for the other’s successes. Mostly Jungkook’s, and mostly because half of his life was on the news anyway. You, on the other hand, never took the initiative to share anything significant in your own life, not unless he asked.

There’s this thing he always did that you think might have been deliberate, but you couldn’t really be sure; maybe you’d have to ask him in another life.

It’s silly to mull over messaging etiquette like you were a teenage detective and your crush’s texting pattern was the single greatest casefile you would ever solve, but he never leaves you on read.  He never lets you be the one to send a message last. Even after you both have bidded your goodnights and there is no more small talk to be had. Even when the last thing you sent is a mere lol in response to a stupid comment he made after goodbye, he would still tack on at least a smiley face afterward.

Jungkook could easily chalk it up to his hectic schedule and leave your messages to hang in the dead space of your phone, but he doesn’t though, and you never know how to feel about that.

Sometimes, you’re curious if he’s found someone else yet – a new love to take your place and be everything that you couldn’t be for him – and feel your heart twisting in your chest at the possibility that maybe he has. You’re in no position to care about this; you forfeited the right when you asked him to let you go, but nonetheless the human mind is a funny paradox, and the heart is full of nostalgia.

On nights where you’re brave enough to welcome that familiar ache with open arms, you entertain this possibility. It always starts with a woman, faceless but undoubtedly beautiful beyond words. You want her to be kind, you want her to be gentle, you want her to hold his hand while he’s sleeping and kiss his cheek when he wakes up. You want him to be loved and to be happy regardless of who it’s with, and regardless of how much you wish it could be with you instead.

No matter how much the mere thought of it kills you, you hope she fills his heart with so much joy that he forgets the pain of your departure. You’ve always known that eventually, he’ll have to forget all about you.

Jungkook is the sun to your foolish dying Icarus. You were truly in over your head to think that you could ever fit into his world.

Somewhere down the line, you hope there will only be happiness, and smiles so big that they make his cheeks hurt. It’s the kind of happiness that you had with him, where every moment felt like being on cloud nine and where his name was synonymous with every single wonderful thing that you could ever imagine.

It still does – and it forever will, no matter how hard you try to burn him from your daily routine and fail miserably every single day – but even then, it’s colored with shades of melancholy, every letter tinted blue.

Jungkook means the same thing as love, happiness, complete and utter euphoria, your safest haven. Holding hands with a loved one. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on a crisp autumn morning. The magical first snowfall of the season. Feeling the sun shining on your face.

And Jungkook means the same thing as sadness, regret, your greatest heartache, your sweetest downfall… The sudden pang of grief that hits you right in the center of your chest when you pass by a familiar street or hear a bittersweet tune. 

It’s hard to comprehend that a person can single-handedly rewrite your entire vocabulary, but he has managed to change you in ways beyond this too. 

It took you a while to familiarize yourself with what life was like before Jungkook. You forced yourself to do things that you usually wouldn’t, just so the discomfort of doing things you hated could overshadow the discomfort of missing him.

Black coffee at 9AM had to taste more bitter than not receiving a good morning text, one that’s littered with smiley faces and kisses.

Morning runs and the burning sensation in your limbs had to ache more than coming home to an empty apartment and crawling into an empty bed, knowing that he’s somewhere out there in the same city, only a drive away from you.

Over time, you got used to it.

Over time, you got used to the absence of him.

In this new life of yours, nothing looks and feels the same as it once was. Colors have all desaturated, though not by much but it’s still enough to throw you just enough off balance. Some days, everything is completely black and white.

Black and white, save for the golden key around your neck. The key to the box of memories he gave you that you still have, tucked away in a soft corner at home.

All of your what if’s, your could’ve been’s, your maybe’s… they all lead back to him. There’s no other solution to this equation; it’s just him. 

Jungkook has altered the very foundation of your life, wedged in between every crevice of your being, left pieces of himself in every facet of your world. Even when he’s gone, his presence still lingers, sometimes like a ghost, sometimes like the remnants of a tattoo you can never fully get rid of. 

Oftentimes, in instances where you don’t have the luxury of being distracted by work, by the hustle and bustle of the city, by just about anything at all, you ruminate on that decision. The one decision that broke two hearts. The one decision that’s still killing you inside.

You aren’t someone who tends to dwell on their past actions, because what’s done is done. No amount of regret or overanalyzing can change what has happened. Life is sometimes cruel like that, and the only thing to do is accept it and move on, learn from your mistakes and try to do better next time.

But Jungkook isn’t a mistake. He isn’t a lesson that you needed to learn because neither of you did anything wrong. It wasn’t wrong to love him, and it wasn’t wrong to leave him either.

Perhaps, the only thing you’re guilty of is getting the timing wrong.

You wonder if you should message him now, to tell him that where your love first bloomed will soon be gone. You wonder if he still remembers this place, if it still holds the same meaning to him as it does to you.

It’s terrible if it doesn’t, and it’s terrible if it does.

Before you know it, the end is here.

As you enter the bakery for the last time, your nostrils are instantly filled with the pleasant smell of freshly baked goods. Jiwon smiles warmly at you from behind the counter when you give her a small wave. The other patrons here move on with their day as usual, paying no attention to you, like they don’t even care that this is the final moment all of you would be spending here.

You grab a pair of tongs and a small tray as you browse through the selection of pastries, looking for your favorite cherry danishes to pair with the hot chocolate that you’ll order at the counter. You pick up a cinnamon roll and a few macarons too, to take home with you afterward.

You hope, in vain, that Jiwon sees it in the way you’re just a beat slower than normal, drawing things out as much as you can, as if it would somehow make her change her mind and keep this place open. Let you live in this bubble for just a while longer.

It’s the finality of leaving. It’s the finality of being left.

Somewhere behind you, the doorbell chimes, announcing a new customer. You don’t notice the person’s sigh of relief as they escape the cold into the nicely heated shelter of the shop, nor the way they take a couple steps and then stop for a minute before their feet continue to carry them to where you are. You don’t care about any of it, until…

A soft voice revives your heart.

“I hear apricot danishes are much better.”

As cliché as it sounds, you freeze. You almost drop everything in your hands, having been rendered immobile while life goes on around you. Chatter continues like nothing has changed. To the people in this bakery, nothing really has changed. They’re sipping on their lattes and catching up with friends over shared blueberry muffins and banana breads, exchanging mundane tidbits in their daily lives and smiling, laughing, drunk on the cozy atmosphere in this wonderful little haven.

“Oh,” you breathe, paralyzed by the many paradoxical emotions running through you at once. Shock, joy, resentment, relief, sorrow… Even though all of it only comes out in the form of a starstruck Hi, but you have a feeling that he understands.

Your voice is small, timid, like a deer caught in headlights, as if he isn’t someone you once knew better than the back of your hand.

His chocolate eyes lock on yours, and he graces you with a warm smile. You’ve missed the simple quirk of his lips. “Hi,” he parrots.

The bell chimes again, and a couple of strangers filter in. You move along to not hold up the line.

“How– what are you– what are you doing here?” you stutter, heart in your throat just at the sight of him. You try and fail at not thinking about the universe bringing him back to you. Because it’s not. This isn’t a cosmic realignment. You two just happen to be in the same place at the same time, and if you were alone right now, you would probably cry.

“I heard they were closing,” Jungkook answers easily. When you look confused, a silent question dancing on the tip of your tongue – How on earth would you know that? – that you don’t know if you should voice, he supplies, “I saw the announcement a couple weeks ago. I still stop by whenever I have time. ”

He puts a hand on your back as if on instinct, when a woman almost bumps into you on her way out. It’s a miracle that you’re still standing upright.

You clear your throat and inhale. “Oh, you do? I’m here almost every other day. Funny how we never ran into each other.”

“Yeah. Funny, isn’t it?” he agrees, smiling at you fondly. It’s a little bittersweet too. “We must have kept missing each other.”

Your mind goes to a dangerous place before you could stop it. Your stupid brain digs into the hidden layers of meaning that might not even be there at all.

We kept missing each other.

I kept missing you.

You don’t trust yourself to say anything, so you gloss over his words, only returning his smile albeit tightly, and continue to move on. Jungkook grabs a tray like you did some 15 minutes ago, and picks a similar danish, foregoing the apricot ones that you tricked him into getting a long time ago, just so you would be able to get your favorites. The cherry danishes that you both have on your individual trays are the last ones. How symbolically cruel.

He hides half his face in the thick wool scarf he’s wearing as you step closer to the counter. When you ask him if the danish is the only thing he’s getting, he nods; and when you tell that you’ll buy him a drink to go with it, he refuses and says he’ll get both of yours, because lord knows he has the money. But you never once gave in, never let him buy you things that you are more than capable of paying for yourself. You don’t this time either, so he relents.

In the end, you pay for the pastries and two hot chocolates, one with extra marshmallows. Once you have your goods, you wonder if he would bid you goodbye and leave, go back to his busy life that demands him to be on the go 25/8. 

If you head outside right now, you two would probably part ways. But you came here today with the intention of burning every little detail of the bakery into your brain for one last time. Having Jungkook here isn’t going to derail your plan. You could pretend that things are fine for now, but then what? You’ve already lost him; you won’t let this place slip through your fingers so easily too.

You head to a spot in the corner where barely anyone can see you but you can observe everything, and to your surprise, he wordlessly follows you. If you were a little braver, you would throw him a cheeky I didn’t invite you to join, even though that’s all you want.

You both take a seat at the small table and talk about your lives and everything that happened in each other’s absence. Like you’re just old friends, catching up after forever apart. You keep waiting for the ball to drop, to see if he would mention a new lover and inevitably ask if there’s anyone special in your life too, but he never does.

It’s been years since you last saw him, and a while since he stepped a little further away from the spotlight that he once called home. Jungkook is still so caring – the occasional texts have already told you as much, and you wonder if it’s because he’s talking to you or if it’s just in his nature to be kind to everyone around him.

The cherries taste sweeter today, and the hot chocolate too. But the aftertaste is painful, knowing that your unexpected and limited time is running out.

At one point, you just sit in silence, watching the people leave. You notice that every time a customer exits, Jiwon’s gaze would linger on the door. You feel like you should’ve brought her something today, like a small houseplant or a bouquet of flowers, as a thank you or a goodbye present. After all, this place has been there for you a lot these past few years.

You try to take in as much as you can. How the wooden table feels under your hands. How the bell sounds when it chimes. How the printed logo on the takeaway cup feels when you brush your fingers over it. Their incredible recipes that always make you feel like you’re taking a bite of heaven. All the photos on the wall of Jiwon and her staff throughout the decade that this bakery has been on this street corner. You can still pinpoint the exact spot you stood at when you first saw Jungkook.

You want this to last a little longer, but you don’t know if you should ask. You want to be selfish just this once and drown yourself in his presence, because this might very well be the last time. 

When the danishes are gone and the beverages are nearly finished, he asks if you have a minute to spare, to walk around and enjoy the last bits of sun for the day.

“Okay,” you say and watch his face light up. A smile graces his lips again and you suppress the shiver that tries to run up your spine. You can still read him so easily. He wants this as much as you do, and it’s absolutely devastating. Just two people who love each other and a casket full of things unsaid.

Once you’ve collected your things and gone outside, leaving behind your second home for good, Jungkook tips his head somewhere to the right with a question in his eyes, and you know what it means instantly. 

You head down a small, hidden street filled with quaint houses that you both used to love. You haven’t been down this road in forever; it feels surreal that the first time you revisit it in ages is with him, and on today of all days. Cosmic realignment.

No. Stop that.

The two of you walk alone down the narrow street, save for the few times that a student in uniform walks by, eyes glued to their phone as they head home after school, or an older woman hurrying past with her bags full of groceries. He lets his arm brush against yours as you stroll and marvel at the way the colors of the sky reflect in the old windows, shifting from blue, to purple, to pink all in a matter of minutes. Ribbons of clouds unravel in the same way you do.

Eventually, you end up at a small park by the riverfront when cement turns into grass. There’s more people here; people walking their dogs, parents and children enjoying hot snacks on nearby benches, couples with their hands in each other’s coat pockets, trying to stay warm. You’re envious of the last ones that most.

Jungkook must have seen you watching them, because his knuckles touch yours tentatively and a long forgotten habit kicks in. When you instinctively pull back and mutter a quick Sorry, it hurts two hearts at once. 

Back then, every time that he let you go when there was someone else around, someone who wasn���t privy to knowing about you, you would apologize even though it wasn’t your fault that you were a secret. He would always lightly scold you, telling you that you had nothing to be sorry about, but he could never remedy this. It wasn’t possible back then, and Jungkook never found a way to not make you feel like a problem to be dealt with when all you wanted was to hold his hand.

No one is even looking now, but you guess it’s just muscle memory, even after all this time.

You clutch the paper bag holding the pastries, feeling awkward that you just jerked back like he had burnt you. Eyeing an empty bench, you ask if he wants to sit down. As you cross the short distance over there, you realize that it isn’t big enough for you to comfortably put some space between your bodies. The regret is almost immediate.

You sit down next to him with your thighs touching. He’s close enough that you can spot a fallen eyelash on his cheek, but your hands remain in your lap, busying themselves with smoothing over your bag of treats, fighting the urge to brush your fingers against his face.

You focus on the river in front of you and how the water paints a shimmering picture of the setting sun. On the other side of the bank, cars faintly honk at one another as traffic piles on, a cacophony of noises seemingly so far away from your little bubble right here. You feel Jungkook’s eyes on the side of your face, but you don’t dare look at him.

All the times that you have spent, caged in the solitude of your bedroom, wanting to call him and knowing that he would be there for you in a heartbeat, no questions asked. He would be there, and he would hold you until the sun rises, until you stop shaking and crying, until everything feels like it’s going to be okay again even though you both know it isn’t.

Because missing him comes in waves. And why more often than not, you want nights to last longer and days shorter, you want the sun to sink under the horizon faster so darkness can embrace the sky. Because when the stars come out, it feels like being wrapped in his warm embrace again, feels like staring into those twinkling eyes again, feels like he’s right there with you as if you don’t carry him in your heart everywhere you go. You started dreading summers and relished in harsh, long winters – it’s ironic how the cold can make you feel such warmth.

Jungkook is right next to you, and you still miss him.

Some say watching the sun rise over the Grand Canal in Venice is the most beautiful sight one can ever hope to witness. Others say the most wonderful experience is to take in a sunset from Piazzale Michelangelo, Florence, with a glass of wine in hand.

Jungkook has done it all – Rome, Paris, London, all the most marvelous cities to have ever existed. He’s been all over the world and witnessed the endless beauty that it has to offer, but you’re still the most breathtaking thing he’s seen by far. 

Here, holding a bag of baked goods and leaning against a backdrop of cotton candy clouds. The wandering sun casts a golden glow upon your profile, though he would think that you look ethereal regardless.

It’s a sight that he’s too familiar with. He’s seen it many times in his dreams, but the last time he got to have you like this was years ago. 

“Do you ever…” Jungkook starts and then stops for a bit, like he’s deciding if he should go through with the question. “Do you ever wonder… what could’ve been… with us?”

All the damn time.

“Do you?” you ask instead, eyes still on the water, how it ripples when the wind blows. The cold nips at your skin, making you shiver.

“Every single day,” he answers earnestly, like you had expected him to. “You’re not someone I can forget about that easily.”

Some kid throws a pebble into the river. Your heart, like the pebble, sinks to the bottom. The sun sets eventually, to give the sky to the moon. 

You don’t know what to say to him next, so you just hum softly. One of your hands rubs absentmindedly between your collarbones, where the key rests under your sweater. You trace the outline of it over the fabric, hoping to soothe the ache you feel.

Jungkook continues, saying something that you wish he hadn’t.

“I’ve missed you.”

Your eyes well up and your chest feels impossibly tight. It’s getting dark now, but the moon is starting to peek through. There’s not a lot of stars tonight, though you can never really see them in the city anyway. You want to tell him to stop, to tell him that neither of you can take this anymore because wasn’t it enough the first time around? It doesn’t matter if you still love each other. It doesn’t matter that you’re both a little older and wiser, and have thicker skin now to weather heavier storms, because the world hasn’t changed. It’s still rooting for your demise at every turn.

But… all that comes out of your mouth is this, cracking foolishly at every syllable: “I’ve missed you too.” I’m missing you right now.

Jungkook nods slowly, mostly to himself. It’s so cold now without the sun, and especially when you’re sitting right by the waterfront. The wind is so cruel, picking up speed when it knows you just want to reach out for his warmth. You want to go home.

“What if we give it another try?”

A tear escapes. You lick your dry lips. “You know we can’t,” you tell him.

“Why not?” he asks, a sense of urgency in his voice now. “I love you. I’m still in love with you, and I know you feel the same way. Don’t even lie to me.”

You frown, not even bothering to wipe the moisture from your face. “Because love is not enough! I don’t fit into your life. It’s never going to work. We’ll just end up here again.”

You feel his shoulders sag against yours, and when he speaks next, his voice is considerably more quiet, deflated, “You are my life. I haven’t been myself ever since you left.”

“Don’t… don’t say that,” you whisper. “You have your dreams. I’ll always get in the way of that.”

Jungkook twists the rings on his fingers, a nervous tick. The conversation pauses, and you think now is probably a good time to just get up and leave. You’ll get nowhere arguing with him about this. It’s been a long day.

You will your legs to stand, already thinking if you should walk a safe distance away from him and call an Uber there, but he tugs at your coat, standing up too.

“I don’t care,” he says.

“What?”

“Nothing is fucking worth it if there’s no you. Why do my dreams matter if you aren’t there? I regret letting you go all the time. I regret always putting my dreams before you.” Jungkook stops to chuckle bitterly before stepping closer. His eyes, filled with all the resolution in the world, pin you to the spot. “I was too stupid to think that I could have it all. But I would leave everything behind if you’re willing to give this another go.”

You’re only aware that you’re crying because he reaches up to wipe the tears away.

“You don’t mean that,” you say.

“Yes, I do. I’ll let everything go if you say yes.”

You utter the same words as you did back then. “You’ll resent me one day.”

“No,” Jungkook says, water pooling in his own eyes as he tells you, “I won’t. Because I’m with you. I’m still with you.”

He takes one of your hands, timidly at first, lacing your fingers together, and your eyes widen slightly, blinking at his face in surprise. You’re looking at him, really looking at him, maybe for the first time today.

And… he’s here.

He’s still the same Jungkook you knew.

His eyes are still the stars. His smile is still the sun.

There’s no love lost here, only found.

He looks so sure of himself, like he believes so ardently in you and him that it makes you want to believe too. That things will work out this time around, that you will never have to lose each other ever again.

Stop, is what you would tell him if this were a phone call, or a text message, where you don’t have to feel his skin on yours or look into his eyes, so full of conviction, or be able to clearly hear every cadence of his voice as he promises you a future where you don’t have to hurt.

It’s what you would say if you were capable of thinking with your head right now.

But in the end, all you have is a heart that loves him.

“Okay,” you say, and Jungkook actually does cry. You wipe at each other’s faces with freezing hands, not caring that people might think you’re a couple of weirdos, crying in the middle of a park in the cold. You notice that the wind has calmed, like it’s stopping to watch how the story unfolds.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.”

You’ve never seen him like this before, with the weight of the world no longer on his shoulders.

You think back to the start of your relationship, when a silent question arose in a bout of insecurity. It’s a question that would cross anybody’s mind when they’re merely mortal, a speck of dust compared to the entire Milky Way. 

You could have anyone. Anyone at all. Why is it still me?

You didn’t have the courage to voice it aloud, but he understood. It’s funny how he always understands the thoughts in your head that you never have the strength to speak into the universe. Jungkook took your hand then too, just like how he’s doing it right now. He turned your head to look at him, into those starry eyes that he made sure you knew shone just for you.

He utters the same sentiment that he did way back when. The last time you heard it, the statement – however true it might have been – was merely a bandaid over gaping wounds. It had appeased you in the moment and managed to calm your raging sea of anxiety and heartache for a split second, but you saw how that turned out to be. You both know that ending all too well.

This time, for some holy reason, his words feel just right as they nestle within your ribcage and settle next to your heart. The meaning behind his simple declaration holds you together and patches up the parts of you that were shattered long ago – infinitely small pieces of your heart and soul – into a mosaic worthy of being loved and adored by him.

Jungkook is the sun, yes, and Jungkook is the moon. He brings light and love into your life just by existing. He breathes, and your world is better for it, endlessly so.

Jungkook is, and always will be, your entire universe.

Cosmic realignment.

I want you, is what he tells you. I’ve always wanted only you.

all rights reserved © jeonqkooks. reposting, translating and modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 12.11.22]

#jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook fanfic #bts x reader #bts fic #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenarios #bts imagines #btshoneyhive #btswritingcafe #bangtanbathhouse #btscarnivalnet #clubzerooclock #52hertz #fic: supernova

[justanormalfangirlx2]

Sing A Little Song For Me Pt. 3

nobody asked for it, but here’s a part three i thought about 🫶🏼

three years later…

wilbur was miserable. he let the love of his life slip away just because he was afraid of commitment and being a bad husband. he was scrolling through instagram, liking random pictures and memes, not even realizing he scrolled to y/n’s profile and frowned, clicking on their profile picture, wanting to see what they’ve been up too. he sees a new guy in your life now, apparently, and frowned. he realized the girl he loved, no, still loved, moved on and had a new boyfriend it seemed like it. damn, it hurt. he wipes his eyes and calls his friend, phil and tommy.

“hey guys, i just found y/n’s instagram again and it’s making me feel like shit.”

phil looked at wilbur, worried and frowned. “wil, don’t succumb yourself to sadness that isn’t necessary.”

wilbur gasped. “PHIL! I LOVED THEM! I CANT JUST NOT UNLOVE THEM? WE WERE TOGETHER FOR OVER 7 YEARS!”

tommy sighed. “mate, you’re fucking miserable when you’re sad.”

wilbur groaned. “how do i move on though? i need some sort of closure or something.”

tommy looked innocent. “I have her address?”

”why the fuck do you have her address?” wilbur fumed.

“I um.. uh.. am partners for a project with their daughter?“ tom questioned.

“and why didn’t you mention this to me?” wilbur said, scarily calm.

“because i didn’t want to make you rip off the bandaid? or because i secretly have a crush on their daughter?”

wilbur held the bridge of his nose, sighing. “you better give me the fucking address now.”

phil looked on, watching, waiting for wilbur to blow up.

”here! her address is 2523 Rd 173 Grover Hil, OH 45849. Just don’t do stupid shit.” Tommy said.

wilbur grinned. “no promises! now bye!” he hung up the phone and visually mapped out his response to her in his head.

TIMESKIP

wilbur went out the next day, saw the house y/n was living in and grasped the ring he was carrying. he made his way to the door, sighed and knocked. and knocked.

a little boy opened the door and yelled. “mum! there’s a hot guy at the door!”

he heard a “alright, wilbur! let me get the door.” and then a perosn came into view and his heart stopped. (yes i named y/n’s child wilbur, sue me)

it was them. y/n. and god did they look amazing.

he cleared his throat and said, as any normal ex would do, “I missed you.”

the person at the door shooed wilbur away and closed the door behind them. “why the fuck are you here?”

will started to get down on one knee when jarred arrived, greeting his wife with a kiss. “hello dear, who is this?”

they kissed Jarred back and put their right hand, the one with the ring on it, towards wilbur, on his chest and smiled up at him. “just somebody that i used to know, dear. nobody really that important.“

wilbur. still on one knee frowned. “i was going to give you the world, y/n! i came here today to make you my wife! instead i find you with him.”

y/n frowned. “you had that chance a long time ago. i’m a different person now. at least i have somebody who loves me and respects me as i am, and we’re on the same wavelength with our relationship, unlike you and i. and me, i’m as happy as i can be, which is suprising after what you made me do. i have 3 amazing kids, an amazing and loving husband, and where are you? still eating ramen out of the same dish?”

wilbur scoffed and threw the ring at Jarred. “You can have the bitch for all i care.”

wilbur peeked out of the door. “mum, what’s a bitch?”

y/n stood there stunned. “well honey, a bitch is this guy here. but in the future, don’t use that word, alright, sweetheart?”

he nodded. “okay mum!”

Jarred turned to wilbur. “you better move the hell outta here before I call the cops, you bastard. and don’t come back!”

wilbur stood up and ran towards y/n gave them one last kiss on the lips and ran off. “i had to do that, at least once.”(I HAD TO QUOTE GALE FROM THE HUNGER GAMES)

y/n sighed and leaned into Jarred. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how he found me or why he decided it’d be a good idea to approach me.”

Jarred stood there, shocked. “As long as you’re here with me, it’s all that matters, dearest.”

you hugged him. “that’s all i’ll ever be.”

THE END

#dream smp #dsmp #fanfic #oneshot #wilbur soot #wilbur soot x reader #mcyt wilbur #wilbur soot fic #tommyinnit #dsmp wilbur #qsmp wilbur #wilbur #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur soot x reader smut #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x you #wilbur x reader #wilbur x y/n #wilbur x you #wilbursoot #will gold

[whentherewerebicycles]

ok just tiny bit of processing under the cut sorry

my brother and SIL just did a very small little gender surprise thing and sent the video out to the family group chat and everyone is so excited and discussing names and I’m just like. I don’t know. I’m obviously so excited to have a baby in the family but I don’t know how to not feel crushingly sad about it. I want to feel normal and happy for them but god I just feel crushingly sad. why did we have to get pregnant at LITERALLY the exact same time? of course it still would’ve been hard if we had been on different timelines, but I feel like it might have felt a little less raw. every time they announce they’ve hit some new milestone, I’m forced to think about how I would also be experiencing that right now if things had been just the tiniest bit different. I feel like before they told me about the baby I was getting to this good place of like, closure and acceptance and getting ready to move on. but now it’s like I have to experience this phantom pregnancy alongside theirs, where as we hit each milestone, they get to celebrate having a healthy baby and I have to experience that sense of wrenching failure again. I feel like I failed. I feel like I fucked up carrying a baby, fucked it up so badly that I lost both the baby and a piece of my reproductive system, and now I feel so much awful wracking doubt about whether I’ll ever be able to do it successfully. and it is just hard to be reminded over and over again that my SIL didn’t fail. she didn’t fuck it up. she’s married and she’s skinny and blonde and pretty and they’re rich and they own a nice house and they made a baby for free on like the first fucking try and their baby is healthy and my parents will move out here so they can dote on their first grandkid. and I just fucked up, you know? with my busted reproductive system and my aging fat never-quite-feminine-enough body and my sad little attempts to do it on my own because I don’t have a partner and whatever.

I know that’s not right, I know that’s not how I really feel about her or about myself, but that’s the ugly mean little shame voice whispering in my head. I just feel kinda bad. I just wish they could have had this experience six months from now or something instead of at the exact. same. fucking. time I would’ve been having it. I keep thinking about how sick at heart I felt that whole long weekend in mendocino, so afraid that something was going to go wrong, that I was going to fuck this up somehow. so terrified to let myself feel the joy of it cleanly. checking the stupid miscarriage risk calculator four hundred times a day. praying for my boobs to hurt more, for my uterus to keep cramping, for my nausea to keep intensifying. just praying for my body to do this one thing for me. I never let myself feel the joy of it cleanly, but I’ve felt the gutting grief of it in so many ways. I feel like as their baby becomes more and more real, mine becomes less and less of a thing that ever mattered to anyone or anything. I don’t need the baby I didn’t have to be the center of everyone’s attention and energy and care. I don’t want that! but I don’t know how to handle this feeling that watching their pregnancy is forcing me to keep carrying mine, long after I needed to gently, grievingly put it down.

#IUI tag #grief

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

Uzui angst😩😩

I love angst idk y

bro I could cry at the very thought.

uzui is just prime material for that sad shit, and i am here for it.

u didn’t ask for this but i hope u like these ideas 😭

this is very long so put on your seatbelts man. idk.

⚠️: sad shit, poly relationships, mentions of pregnancy

like being married to all of them, but seeing the person you thought you’d marry, like the first person you’ve ever dreamed of a life with and getting all nostalgic about it. an they just know everything about you and share all these memories with you an have a cute nickname for you like ‘peaches’ or sumthin. tengen has never feared you leaving, but seeing you talk to the first person you ever considered marrying, the first person that broke your heart, the first person you could have lived out a happy life with— he’s fucking terrified and reading more into it than he should.

what if they don’t give you enough love? what if they aren’t enough for you? will you leave with your ex-partner? would you be happier with them? you seem happy with them here now, and he swears your smile is brighter, but almost bittersweet and you never look at them like that and FUCK, you’re going to leave them. you aren’t though— you’re just trying to get closure from the person who left you like??? ahifkiejsja.

just wait until you have the heart to heart with your ex-partner and your now spouses are snooping on the conversation and it’s one of the most heart-wrenching things they’ve ever heard. like you’re ex-partner just, “you ever think about us?”and you’re shocked by the question, but answer truthfully, “of course i do. you were my best friend.” and it’s just a long conversation about how the timing wasn’t right— about how the two of you just would never be ready for each other, it just isn’t meant to be.

and your ex-partner just, “even if we aren’t together— you’ll always be my girl.” and then you’re ugly sobbing because this person was your best friend too, and you’ve never got to have this conversation with them and you always wanted to know if you did something to drive them away. it’s such a relief to you that you don’t even notice the bushes vibrating.

now makio is ready to fight— they made her wife CRY. suma is prolly crying because you’re crying and also because you’re HER girl— how DARE they call you that. hina feels like she could throw up at the thought of you leaving and tengen is waiting for your response with baited breath.

you say, “I deserved a better goodbye.” and now your spouses are just hoping this means you’ll stay here, with them.

————

(the next two are based on this post)

or like bouncing off the idea of being his first love and leaving him when he starts a relationship with his now-wives, right?

like you just fuckin end up marrying one of the other hashira so you live in the compound all pretty an happy and just out of his reach and tengen literally gets sick to his stomach every time he sees you and your spouse because that could have been him. that should be him. he should be parading you around and holding your hand and being the one you look at like that. but he isn’t, and he just has to watch from the outside as you love them the way he wanted you to love him and you have the family he imagined having with you, minus him, and I could throw up!!!!!!

bonus points if it’s giyuu (literally polar opposites) because tengen is bitter that he got to marry you— he barley has a personality. you can’t possibly be happy with someone like giyuu, but the way you cling to tomioka tells a different story— the way you smile when he looks at you, the way you pack him lunch everyday, the way you stand out on the porch of your shared house at the ass crack wrapped in his clothes to get one last goodbye in— tengen knows you used to do those things for him.

tengen shouldn’t dislike tomioka because he has you— but he does. tengen knows what it’s like to be loved by you, and he hates himself for thinking it— but tomioka doesn’t deserve you. he doesn’t deserve to listen to you laugh, or hold you at night, or just be in your very flamboyant presence.

just tengen being fucking bitter that you’ve moved on and are HAPPY with someone else kekekekeee

————

orrrrrrr still bouncing off the idea above— tengen knocks you up on your last shared night together, so you have to go back. (think ab it man, your baby deserves the best and tengen can provide that— you could give them a mediocre life on your own, or you could go back and the child would have everything they needed and more.)

your logic is simple, and tengen wouldn’t leave you on the streets with his child in your stomach. so you pack up, and show up on his doorstep— literally with your tail between your legs like!!!! hajajdjksnfjij. tengen is overjoyed because you came back to him. OMG DOES THIS MEAN YOU DO WANNA MARRY HIM??? but why do you look so solemn, and when you say the words— he could literally pass out, “uzui— I’m pregnant.”

and he’s just in awe, because whatever gods there are took mercy and you’re here now, where you belong— with him. there’s a moment of joy shared between the two of you, one where he’s touching at your stomach, murmuring about, “it’s our baby— and you’re sure? the tests were all positive?” it’s like a dream, almost, until you catch sight of three shadows peeking around the corner and your dream smashes like a broken mirror.

you still refuse to be his wife, and tengen is respectful of that. but when you mention you want your own house, likely still on the property, but you don’t want anything more from him— his heart is breaking in his chest rn stop playin with him like this man wtf. tengen refuses blatantly. he wants to be able to be there for you, wants to give you everything you need, so he comprises— you will get your own wing of the house, and they won’t come near you unless they have your permission.

but now it’s hard for both of you because you can hear him and his wives laughing and loving each other from your room— the way you wanted to. and all tengen can think about is how close you are, but how he still can’t have you. literally just your own circles of hell.

you’re stuck in a house with the man you loved, still love, and his wives. it’s like some fucked up fever dream that you can’t wake up from. you watch them run around the grounds that you used to— you watch tengen and makio train suma— you can hear hina humming softly in the kitchen. it breaks your heart. you’ve never felt so alone in all your life.

pregnancy hormones are a bitch and they’re making you more emotional than you’ve ever been. one night you decide to leave, but tengen catches you this time, you’re swollen and not as spry as the first time— you expect him to let you go, but he doesn’t. the sound hashira gets down onto his knees, and he holds on to the hem of the expensive dress he bought to accommodate your growing stomach, and begs you not to leave him again— he can’t handle letting you walk away from him another time, “please stay, tell me what i can do to make you stay.” it’s kind of a turning point, and you let tengen see you under the moonlight again, you let him touch the parts of you that have grown heavy— you let him hold you, let him make love to you like you’re his wife. then you let him tuck you into your bed, and he wishes he could climb in behind you, keep you safe while you sleep— but he doesn’t. leaving you alone in that room is one of the hardest thing he has ever had to do, and he doesn’t show it, but he hears you sobbing after he leaves. he’s sitting just outside the closed door, curling into himself— he wanted to make sure you fell asleep peacefully, but now his heart is in shambles— he thinks about busting into the room and curling up behind you anyways, holding you, like he used to.

he just wants you to love him back, accept his love again, like you used to.

you tell him the next day you’ll stay— but you won’t let him touch you like that again. you aren’t, and will never be one of his wives.

after that night tengen finds himself hovering in the hallway of the room you’ve retired to, watching you sleep, wishing he could comfort you— praying that you’ll change your mind and just let him hold you again. (little does he know that you would, if he asked— you could never say no. you’re all talk, but he’s too respectful to go against your wishes.) he’s watching you grow and swell up with his— your— child, the child that came from your love for each other, but you still aren’t his. he still can’t have you.

(there are multiple ways this one could end— you could end up falling in love with all of them, and getting married; you could end up marrying all of them because you’re worried for your baby’s future, or you could find someone willing to accept that you have a child with a man who is still wholly in love with you (likely that unflamboyant village boy with the pretty eyes that tengen has had to scare away from you since the beginning of your complicated relationship)— if i ever write it, it would literally be your guy’s choice.)

#send me asks #yes yes yes #someone stop me from #writing ALL OF THESE #tengen x reader #demon slayer #tengen uzui #HURT OUCH #tengen uzui x reader

[cunninghamschrissy]

I wrote my polite “angry about Vol 2” post earlier, now get ready for my not-so-polite version starting NOW…

Man, fuck the Duffers. This feels like lazy writing at this point. It’s the same formula over and over: introduce the new character and then kill them off so you still get the emotional impact on the fans but you don’t have do anything to the OG cast because you don’t want the backlash of what happens if you do. 🙄

Hear me out: this was the perfect season to finally break the pattern and kill off one of the OGs (and for real, not this repeated fake-out death shit). They had hyped it up that it would be colossal, we had gotten teasing about Steve dying, a lot of the fans were even expecting it, a new character was brought in that could have filled Steve’s role after he died…only for them to do the same old fucking thing they’ve done every other season and kill off the new character and give one of the OGs a fake-out death.

I mean, I get it, I’m an Eddie fan so naturally I’m pissed off and distraught that he died, but I’m more pissed and distraught because of how cheap and lazily written the whole thing seemed. If I didn’t know any better, I would think they pulled random writers off the street to write the last two episodes of the season because that was how out of character some things felt and how a lot of the plot development of Vol 1 just felt ignored. Why didn’t we see anyone else’s reactions to Eddie’s death? Weren’t Lucas and Erica close with him too, and hell, even Steve? Dustin and Uncle Wayne being the only ones mourning Eddie just seemed so wrong to me. And Mike?? Mike literally grew out his hair and got the Hellfire shirt specifically to model himself after Eddie, someone he clearly looked up to and admired! Why weren’t we shown his reaction to Eddie’s death? Why are none of Dustin’s friends around to comfort him after he’s held his friend/older brother figure in his arms while he died obviously been through something incredibly traumatic? And don’t get me wrong, I bawled my eyes out with the scene between Dustin and Uncle Wayne, because at least he got closure about Eddie (unlike Barb’s parents), but you can’t tell me that someone like Nancy, who KNEW how much Wayne cared about Eddie, didn’t try to do something herself too to tell Eddie’s only living relative what happened to him? I get that it made since because Dustin had been with Eddie when he died, but it also seems like no one really gives a shit about Eddie except for Dustin?? At least that’s what the writing made it feel like.

Even taking Eddie’s death out of the equation, there were other things about Vol 2 that just felt off to me. For starters, the last episode felt rushed, which, for being over two hours, I wouldn’t think this should be the case, but I definitely feel like I came out of it feeling like they crammed too much in. There were instances of dialogue that just felt off (“you’re the heart” was sooooo cheesy, I’m sorry but it was) and Steve and Nancy just STANDING there when Robin got grabbed by vines until she screamed for help?? I don’t buy that shit for one bit. Steve would have been trying to get her loose immediately and Nancy would have been right behind him. I don’t care how shocked they were with the situation, that characterization was soooooo off.

And last by not least, that fucking time jump. WHAT was the point of that “two days later” bullshit? I felt it cheapened Eddie’s death and took away from what happened with Max. And leaving Eddie’s body in the Upside Down? I don’t buy that either. Eddie wasn’t a big guy, Steve and the rest of the group definitely could have gotten him back through the gate, especially after seeing how distraught Dustin was over his body. I don’t buy for a single second the fact that everyone just willingly left his body in the Upside Down. More characterization I felt was very strange.

Anyway, sorry for the rant. I just really had to get this off my chest. Hopefully I’m not the only one who felt this way.

#stranger things #stranger things 4 #eddie munson #st4 #stranger things season 4 #joseph quinn #joe quinn #dustin henderson #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #fuck the duffers #duffer brothers #suffer brothers #matt duffer #ross duffer

[king-of-kaoss]

the interpersonal narrative in the middle of wotp is living in my head rent free, in this essay i will

describe the story i hear told across the songs: Won’t Stand Down, Ghosts, You Make Me Feel Like it’s Halloween, Kill or Be Killed, and Verona.

WSD

I've opened my eyes and counted the lies And now it is clearer to me You are just a user and an abuser And I refuse to take it 

...

I've opened my eyes, I see your disguise I will never see you the same I know how to win, before you begin I'll shoot you before you take aim

This is abt the anger of someone realizing they’re in an abusive relationship, deciding to stand up for themselves and essentially deciding to fight fire with fire and turning their abuser’s mind games back around on them. They leave.

Won't stand down I'm growing stronger Won't stand down I'm owned no longer Won't stand down You've used me for too long Now die alone

Ghosts

Lost in my head There are unsolved feelings that haunt me It's too late to heal I'll lay them to rest

Grieving, not having closure, and pining :: in the narrative it’s about missing the loving person the abuser used to be >> being unable to heal, move on or bring [that version of] them back.

How can I sleep with this coldness beside me How can I sleep with this coldness inside me I know I can't bring back your love

Halloween

Are you the poison, are you the cure? I'm not so sure

They go back to their abuser and it’s even worse than before. fear and paranoia mount yet they’re addicted and can’t escape.

You cut me off from my friends You cut me off from my family I'm in misery (I'm your number one fan) Each day I fall to my knees I see the writing on the wall Now I'm in withdrawal

I'm shackled, there is no way out (there's is nothing I can do to escape) I can't escape

I see your eye in the keyhole I feel like it's Halloween (Halloween) It's Halloween (Halloween) Won't rest until I'm possessed You make me feel like it's Halloween (Halloween) It's Halloween (Halloween)

KobK

Cornered, I'm exhausted with fear Our love and compassion dissolved And demons, have materialized in me Can't fight them, they're taking control

The only way out is to face their abuser. They become ‘possessed.’

Fate, is driving me insane It's forcing me to face I must kill or be killed

They've driven a stake right through my heart I'm growing so cold and detached

Verona

Can we kiss With poison on our lips Well I'm not scared

Can we touch and taste forbidden bliss They can't stop us now, I won't let you be alone I am coming for you Keep us apart, it's too much to ask

Take off your clothes and take off your mask

Romantic as hell, right, except i mean the more you look at the lyrics [in the context of this story] the more it’s about   fucking,,, *first degree murder-suicide* but yknow, loving, without the fear, cold and mask/disguise from earlier

You and me Throw caution to the wind And I will risk everything just to feel the warmth And the voltage of your skin If this is my last day on Earth, I just want to be with you You are all that's true

We will kiss, with poison on our lips Well I'm not scared We will touch and reach forbidden bliss They can't stop us now, I won't let you die alone Because I love you so

#muse #will of the people #wotp #won't stand down #Ghosts (How Can I Move On) #you make me feel like it's halloween #kill or be killed #verona #kobk #lyric analysis #from 'now die alone' to 'i won't let you die alone' #it's like anger -> sadness -> fear -> exhaustion -> surrender/destruction/acceptance/love #it's blowing my mind i had to write this out do u guys see this shit im #muse band

[whotaughtyougrammar]

For the writer asks! 1, 3, 18, 20

I’m sending good vibes for 1, that it flows smoothly soon based on the writer memes.

Thank you for the good vibes 🙏🏼🙏🏼 And thank you so much for the ask!

1) Tell us about your current project(s) – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

OH BOY WHERE TO START LMAO

I’m working on a few things right now, which is funny because I used to be a one project at a time sort of person, back when I didn’t write as often but putting pen to paper was paradoxically easier.

The “first” (technically second, you’ll see what I mean) big thing is:

A “multiverse” story. This sounds like something that I came up with after watching Everything Everywhere All At Once, but I’ve been working in this since before the movie came out 🤣 Of course, Daniels had thought of the concept for this movie long before this was even a blip in my mind, but I digress.

I think I mentioned this before, but I kind of like the idea that out of all the families, the Close/Streeps/Freemans are just… utterly mundane and non-magical (not really the case anymore eyeroll ¯\_(ツ)_/¯), but I still wrote a ficlet where Morgan basically implies she knows the gender of her child through a dream. I took that and spun it off into, “Morgan visits her alternate selves through her dreams and is comforted and finds closure in the choices she’s made in her life,” (or something like that, I don’t usually like to deal too seriously in themes and prefer writing vignettes or scenes) I mostly just wanted to write down some of the AU ideas I’ve come up with without committing to several fics at a time because as much as I love my AUs, and as much as I like writing fics, there’s only so much time and energy I can put into them without ignoring basic necessities 😅

I have a basic “prologue” done but not much else. What I want to do next is figure out which AU I want “featured.” As big as this idea sounds, I really do want this to on the shorter side (if it exceeds Heart’s wordcount and is not considered done by then I may cry lol) and I’m not including the completely outlandish universes like the bodyguard AU or the figure skating AU. I definitely want to include Morgan Foster-Freeman, and mercenary Morgan from my Monsters and Mommies AU, but other than those two I’m still in the planning stages.

The “second” big thing I’m working on is:

A Glenn and Morgan love/origin story that I’ve been working on on-and-off since fucking 2020 (!!) I have a few scenes fully written out and even an old outline of what I wanted to happen (it’s so old I was still calling Morgan “Michel” or “Mysterious Significant Other”).

I have a lot of problems with this one lmao.

One is it takes place over a pretty long period of time—I specified they’ve been dating around 5, almost six years in “Everyday Words Seem to Turn into Love Songs”, and they didn’t immediately like each other when they first met (I’ve always been pretty firm with this bit of headcanon), so the timeline for this one, tentatively titled “You’ve Got a Pulse and You Are Breathing” would have to span at least 7 years, and maybe even longer.

Another problem I had was formatting. I was having trouble deciding if I wanted this to be one long document/short story (my preferred format) or if it should be split up into chapters. As I went on, I was even starting to doubt whether I even wanted to do such a comprehensive “origin” story that went from point A to point Married to point Canon, and considered doing it in semi-related short ficlets like “In A Sentimental Mood,” or as a 5+1 format, specifically something like “5 times Glenn had a shitty date, and 1 time Glenn still had a shitty date but it led to something infinitely better” (a lot of “Pulse” involves Glenn’s dating troubles, not only from being a pan/bi Asian man in the 90s and 00s having to deal with biphobia and racism, but also being aspec and not being able to put into words why certain parts of dating don’t appeal to him without sounding like he’s stuck-up or a “freak” or like there’s something wrong with him.)

But I think the biggest problem I am having right now is simply the fact that I think I psyched myself out 🤣 I wrote “Everyday Words” in… a day? Maybe two days? It was simple and cute and so easy to do, one of the few times I just wrote first and edited later, that I figured I could write up a “But how did they meet,” story in maybe a week, and now it’s two years later, the campaign is over and it’s on to the next one for a majority of people, so many scenes written that may not even make it into the final product and the only thing I’m sure on is the title, and even that might be changed for the final product 🤣

I still have so much love for this fic, it feels like my baby basically lmao, that I feel nothing less than perfection will do it justice. It would be very funny but also poetic if the first meeting of Glenn and Morgan ends up being my last fic written for the fandom, but I don’t see that happening—I still have plenty of ideas left to write!

Smaller things I am also working on (that I have actually started and are not just ideas I want to write eventually) are: A Carol and Morgan bonding thing that will hopefully segue into some sort of Carol/Mercedes thing, and a social media fic of fans speculating on Glenn’s love life (Single? Straight? Dating? Bi?? Secretly married??? Something else?????), Morgan’s general cryptidness (Dancer? Actor? Pianist? All of the above? None of the above? No really, how does one woman hold so many jobs at one single time?), and generally being weird and parasocial. So you know, just your average day on social media.

3) What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

There is a scene that I’ve never written but has always stuck out in my head in my abandoned Glenn in mourning fic, where after the funeral, Glenn is accosted not only by Bill, (obviously thinking that now that the ol’ ball and chain is in the ground Glenn is suddenly OK with having his father around again), but also by Morgan’s side of the family, either by her sibling (who I think was her sister and not her brother at the time I was thinking of writing this) or her actual parents, who are basically threatening to take Nick away from him.

Bill is handled fairly quickly and easily, but a legal matter is something else entirely, and in a panic, Glenn goes to see his mother and basically starts verbally whaling on her once the shock of what happened wears off and lets her have it, demanding/screaming that she help him because, according to Glenn, she owes him for never being an adequate mother and treating him like an inconvenience until it was too late, but eventually his rage subsides and his grief takes over and he begs her, much more plaintively, to help make the problem go away, swearing that he’ll forgive her for all her past transgressions and never bring them up again if she helps him with the custody problem. She agrees, and he never hears from Morgan’s side of the family again. (which sounds ominous written like that, but everything was dealt with legally I swear lmao)

18) Do any of your stories have alternative versions? (plotlines that you abandoned, AUs of your own work, different characterisations?) Tell us about them.

I recently reread “Everyday Words” and though I consider is part of Musicverse canon, a part of me feels like it’s a completely different ‘verse, simply from the amount of (implied) boning that happens 😂 I came up with the idea of Ace Glenn very early in the series run (my series and canon series) but it wasn’t in my head when I wrote this evidently (it was probably while I was writing “Pulse” did the idea firmly plant itself in my head, which was basically immediately after I finished this). Chalk it up to being away from each other for extended periods of time, Glenn being (generally) sex-favorable and sex being an easy way of establishing intimacy.

A lot of the story beats in “Heart” were originally going to be part of other things (Glenn mentioning that his mother taught him guitar was originally going to be part of “Pulse”) or were going to be smaller ficlets. The bit where Morgan gets sick in Heart was originally going to be its own short ficlet, and so was the scene of Glenn talking about his failed “date”/realizing something was “up” with him irt sexual attraction (it was originally a morning after scene), so I’d consider all those plotlines I’ve abandoned, or more accurately, merged into one.

My friend also made a throwaway joke about an AU where the meet-cute is both of them dumping bodies into the Gowanus and their eyes meet, which isn’t an AU of my adult store AU per se but it is a joke I can see Morgan making as she’s trying to puzzle out how much she wants to say about her occupation .(“So how are you going to introduce me to your friend’s kids?” “I don’t know, I’ll just tell ‘em we met when we were dumping bodies into the Canal. They’ll get a kick out of that.”)

20) Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

I have a few, but the one that sticks out for me is probably the headbutt. The scene of Glenn headbutting Bill in “You Send it All Back to Me” is a call-back (call-forward?) to a scene in “Pulse,” where Glenn attempts to punch somebody and gets punched back for his troubles. Morgan fixes him up while criticizing his technique and advises him to go for a headbutt next time instead for a variety of sensible reasons. Glenn is skeptical and is in the process of “Well, Actually”-ing her when she surprises him with a headbutt to demonstrate—not hard, just a sudden forehead touch that stops him in his tracks and forces him to reconsider his talking points and also realize that Morgan’s eyes are not black like he originally thought but brown, and that this close he can see how they sparkle when she’s amused and how deep and dark and mesmerizing and beautiful they actually are and—oh no.

#thank you again! i love seeing your asks lol #dndads #dungeons and daddies #dndads odyssey #dungeons and daddies odyssey #musicverse

[dahliasanddimples]

What is closure? Is it hearing directly from someone that it’s absolutely completely fucking over? Is it someone just straight up telling you they hate you, they’re disgusted with you? Asking your friends for advice doesn’t work bc “closure” is so different for everyone. My closure is getting my last words out to you. But obviously waiting a day or two to think it over.

I feel better just getting it off my chest. And I think it’s easier when you don’t expect a response back. Like okay here are my last words. And maybe it’s easier bc it was a break up piece. But omg was I crying the entire time I was writing it! Like yes it fucking hurts still are you serious. What break up doesn’t. Like my poor little fucking heart. But wrapping it up did make me feel better and I don’t know if it’s bc I knew it was doomed to end or that maybe I did deserve better or maybe the fact that I am in my prime and I was ready to move to the next step and they just weren’t? I think writing it down just felt good and getting my last message across is my closure. Like I love you but I don’t think it’s working. I love you but I really do think it’s the best that we end things. I love you I don’t have it in me to leave but I have to. Honestly I just hate the whole ignoring each other thing. IT EATS ME UP. It’s like I have so much to say but can’t say it? I have so much to say I just have to let it out. And maybe that’s why we didn’t work. Bc he likes to keep it to himself and maybe it’s a guy thing and it takes a lot for me to speak up first but I’m a grown ass woman and I don’t wanna play a who cares less game. Mf I care! And I thought you did too. I care and I wish you cared as much. But for some reason I just feel so much better getting all of that off my chest. Maybe bc it wasn’t an angry text it was just I love you but we want different things. Maybe I feel better bc we didn’t end on such a sour note. I know I said I wasn’t waiting for a reply but I kinda am lol maybe I should go back to blocking him. It helps with mental health bc then you’re not waiting on anything. I’m a lover girl and I need a lover boy. Just hearing his friends say, with their entire heart, that all they’ve ever wanted to do was get married and start a family made me realize there are MANY amazing men out there and realizing who his gf is made me realize I really AM one in a million lol like wait. I’m actually really fucking smart and I’m really fucking funny and it just makes me WITTY and I can carry an entertaining conversation and I’m fucking GORGEOUS and I’m a hot bitch! Like wait. Maybe he was taking from my shine. I’m a Leo rising and everything just makes sense. And he really was taking from my aura and he was ultimately not an honest person which ultimately makes him not a good person. Ultimately we really did want different things in life. And maybe I should just be single for at least the rest of the year.

Idk what it was or what it is but God really has my back. Sending that piece and saying my peace got me feeling like THAT BITCH again. Thank you thank you thank you. I think I can finally just move on

#breakups

[thew0und3dheal3r]

I know I did my best. I might not be perfect and I know I still have my own weaknesses and mistakes but I know I did my best in loving and caring for you.

Yet I got treated this way, got disrespected, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, in simpler terms- I was ghosted.

For 10 months we talked every single day. Until I noticed for a week they were replying less. They said they had family problems and need time so I was patient and kind. I respected their need for space. Then they disappeared without a trace. For a week of no contact, then they messaged again but still replying less than before… then again they disappeared. Last message was good night and they had no reply to previous messages. They’ve been gone for almost 2 months now.

They left me in the dark. They left me hanging. I don’t think I deserve that. I don’t need to know the whole story. I respect their privacy but I wish they had the decency and respect for me to say even in just short words that they need a ton of space and wanted to end whatever it was what we had, and not leaving me hanging, clueless and feeling like a fool.

They asked me once, why I always think people hurt me. Well this. They did it to me too. I never would have thought she would ghost me like that because we talked about it before and expressed our contempt for such people.

Communication and clarity. Basic things that anyone needs in any kind of relationship. Yet they didn’t respect me enough to give me either.

My heart is still broken. I know I’m never going to get the closure I want and I need. And I need to learn to move on without asking for them anymore. Such is life. And people just suck. I was fine on my own.

People bring chaos in my life. I didn’t even ask for you- and yet you came in my life unexpected. You started it all, I wasn’t looking for anything and then you end up LEAVING me the exact way the previous person left you suddenly. What a hypocrite. You were deeply hurt with that and I was also angry for you that that person left you like that, and I can’t believe you did the same thing to me. The last person I would expect. Well surprise!

I wasn’t even looking for anything. I was peacefully happy on my own. Why do people fuck everything?! Can people just leave me alone now. I don’t need anyone.

Things like this reinforces that in the end, the only person I can trust is my fucking self.

I’m obviously still angry. And that’s okay. I just didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

I know I need a lot of things I need to work on too, but god damn. I know I did my best in this relationship. I had the same triggers but I’m proud of myself for responding differently.

Sigh. But once again, my anxious attachment style and fear of abandonment are reinforced and strengthened. Why do people make it hard for me to heal and to trust again. Trust issues are getting worse again. It’s painful to trust again. I can’t do this anymore. :(

#personal #relationships

[cerealmonster15]

they... they fucked right?? This has been haunting me for days, they have to have hooked up at least once at some point ya?? Do we ever get lore on how they met and/or how they made a pact,,, and how did Solomon get in a pact with barbatos.... that one haunts me even more ,,,,

(If there’s actually answers to these in main story shh don’t tell me I’m still on lesson 14 shhhh)

#anyway I’ve been thinking about this for days #like I know in my heart they’ve fucked but I want closure #obey me #anyway I love them #let me be bffs with Solomon plz #human being duo makin pacts one thot at a time

[contemplativepancakes]

sunsets for somebody else

Daphne runs into her long lost husband arguing with another man in the grocery store. Things start to take a turn when she realizes they're married.

The bottle of bleach drops from Daphne’s hand into her cart, landing with a sloshing thud as she takes in the scene in front of her, frozen in her tracks. Emmanuel is standing right in front of her, arguing with another man about cleaning supplies.

Wearing a beige trench coat for some inexplicable reason—it’s almost 90 degrees outside—Emmanuel listens to a man who’s explaining in minute detail how to clean an oven. They’re both wearing wedding rings, and Daphne’s heart swells for a moment before she realizes it’s a different ring from the one she gave Emmanuel all those years ago.

“Dean, I don’t think this is safe for Jack. This is going to create noxious fumes,” Emmanuel says, squinting at the ingredients of the cleaner apparently-Dean had thrust at him.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, and Daphne squeezes the handle of her shopping cart harder, feeling faint. It’s not every day you come across your long lost husband at the Stop N’ Shop.

“I think the kid can take some fumes,” Dean says, plucking the bottle out of Emmanuel’s hands and putting it in the cart. “We wouldn’t even have to worry about this if someone didn’t let the pizza fall onto the bottom of the oven.”

“The directions said to put it directly on the middle rack!” Emmanuel protests, and Dean rubs a hand down Emmanuel’s back in a familiar way that makes Daphne’s stomach roil.

She’s not jealous, she’s not. She was just helping Emmanuel when she found him, after all. Their marriage was simply one of…convenience for Emmanuel. It’s not like he had a birth certificate with him, or a social security number. What did Daphne get out of all this? Well. Daphne looks at his cheek bones wistfully, her gaze dipping down to his strong forearms his trench coat is rolled up to reveal.

Dean rolls his eyes fondly, and then he tugs Emmanuel into his side, kissing him on the temple. Daphne jerks her stare away for a moment before returning it, noticing now that their wedding rings match.

“Emmanuel?” she chokes out, against her better judgment.

For a long second, she doesn’t think Emmanuel heard her, but he turns around. “Daphne?”

Daphne nods, her words forsaking her. She doesn’t miss the way Dean clutches possessively at Emmanuel’s hip.

“I…thought you were dead,” she finally says. “I filed a missing person report.”

Dean squints at her, before something like recognition passes over her face, and now that she thinks about it, Daphne recognizes him, too. He’s the one who showed up right before everything went to shit. Horror stories of Stockholm syndrome flash through her mind.

“Emmanuel, are you…happy?” she settles on.

Emmanuel gives her a smile, leaning harder into Dean. “I am.”

“Good. That’s. Good,” she says, a strangled look on her face, she’s sure. “Would you want to catch up some time?” she asks before she fully registers what’s coming out of her mouth.

Emmanuel gives her a warm smile. “I’d love that.”

As they set up a time to get coffee, Daphne tries to ignore the glare Dean levels at her throughout the whole conversation. He insists that their meeting be tomorrow, since apparently they won’t be in the area for long. Daphne tries to ignore the warning bells in her mind that tell her she’s about to get murdered and takes solace in the fact that at least they’re meeting in a public place.

Besides, even if Emmanuel’s husband is a serial killer, surely Emmanuel won’t let him murder her, right?

-

The next day, Daphne hems and haws as she debates what to wear. Whatever this is, it’s the exact opposite of a date, anyway. She knocks on the door of her foster child, Alex, to wake them up before she goes into the bathroom to do her hair and makeup. Really, she’s just doing it for herself. She’s allowed to want to look nice!

When she finally deems herself as ready as she’s going to get, she goes back to Alex’s room to make sure they’re actually up. To her pleasant surprise, they’re sitting on the edge of their bed putting on their socks and almost ready. “Excited for school today?” she asks.

Alex makes a face at her. “Never,” they say, but their voice at least has the edge of a smile to it.

They’ve come a long way since they were first placed with her, and even though Daphne knows she shouldn’t be getting overly attached, she can’t help it. She walks down the steps and into the kitchen, deliberating for a moment on breakfast before putting frozen waffles into the toaster. If she’s about to get murdered while Alex is at school, she can at least make sure the last thing she made for them wasn’t cereal.

Alex tromps down the steps, dragging their bookbag behind them, and Daphne hides her smile behind her glass of orange juice. Alex lights up at the sight of the waffles, disturbingly easy to please, as always. They inhale them, as teenagers do, before putting their dishes in the sink. Daphne cracks open her laptop as they wait for the bus, attempting to get some of her work done for the day since she’ll be taking a break later for the coffee. She really hopes her boss doesn’t try and call her while she’s out.

Or, maybe she does. She’s not sure she’s prepared for the level of awkwardness that she’s about to go through, but maybe it won’t be as bad as she thinks. She really wants to know what Emmanuel has been up to for all of this time. She’s still…embarrassingly hung up on him, and it would be nice to get some closure.

The bus pulling up in front of the house jerks her out of her thoughts, and she gives Alex a wave before they race off to get on. She watches them settle into a seat with one of their friends, and smiles at the fact that they even have friends now.

In the end, Daphne doesn’t manage to get much work done before she clambers into her car and drives to the coffee shop they agreed on. She doesn’t really think she needs caffeine with the way her leg is bouncing already.

Emmanuel and Dean are already there when she walks in, Emmanuel with a cup of black coffee he’s dumping sugar packets into and Dean with something with whipped cream and chocolate syrup drizzled on top. She gives them a tentative wave before ordering hot chocolate for herself, settling herself delicately in the seat across from them.

“So,” Dean says. “You were Cas’s wife?”

She squints. “Cas?”

Emmanuel speaks up. “After I regained my memories, I remembered that was my name.”

“Oh.” Smiling weakly, she tries to reconcile that. “You have them all back now?”

Emman—Cas nods.

“Just forgot about me, though?” she tries to ask lightly, but it comes out a little garbled.

“You took advantage of him!” Dean explodes from the other side of the table, making Daphne flinch. “Who the fuck finds someone naked with no memories and marries them?”

“Dean,” Cas chastises, his arm shifting like he’s putting his hand on Dean’s thigh under the table.

“I was helping him,” Daphne says hotly. “Would you have just wanted me to leave him there?”

Cutting Dean off before he can say anything else, Cas looks at Daphne and smiles in a way that makes her heart flutter. “I’m very grateful. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to let you know I was alright.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, taking a sip of his sugar monstrosity. He comes away with a whipped cream mustache, and it’s hard not to laugh as he wipes it away in total seriousness.

“So,” Daphne says. “You two have a kid? Jack?”

Scowling, which seems to be Dean’s automatic reflex, he exchanges a glance with Cas before softening. “Yeah, we have a kid. He’s four.”

Daphne thinks maybe Dean should have been a little bit more concerned about the fumes of cleaning chemicals if they have a four year old, but she keeps her judgments to herself. Cas beams. “He’s very bright.”

Returning the smile tentatively, Daphne asks, “How long have you two been married?”

“It’s almost our one year anniversary,” Dean says gruffly.

Daphne tries not to let it affect her, even if that’s more time than she ever got with Cas. “Practically newly weds, then!”

“It’s been an adventure; that’s certain,” Cas says, smiling serenely even as Dean elbows his ribs. “Tell us about you, Daphne. What have you been doing?”

Daphne shrugs a shoulder. “Oh, not too much.” Mourning the man I pulled out of the woods and saved and married, she doesn’t say. She knows Emmanuel never felt the same way about her that she did him. “I got approved to be a foster parent, so I’ve had a few kids come through.”

“Helping people has always been your calling,” Cas says softly.

Daphne takes a few minutes to gush about Alex, and her previous kids before them, before she notices Dean’s not actively glaring at her anymore.

“That’s…nice,” he begrudges when she finishes.

“What do you do, Dean?”

Looking like he just dropped something on his foot, he stammers before he hastily says, “I work construction.”

Daphne squints at him. She has the feeling he’s lying to her, but she has no idea why he would be.

“And what about you, Cas?”

“Oh, I mostly just take care of Jack.”

“You’re a stay at home dad?” she asks, the thought making her stomach twist into knots and heat rise to her face.

“Of a sorts,” Cas agrees.

God, they’re making it impossible to carry on a conversation with them. Daphne keeps a smile pasted to her face. “What do you two do for fun?”

“I’m convinced Dean thinks fun is superfluous,” Cas confides, even as Dean splutters at him. “But I like to drag him to thrift stores with me. Dean likes to bake, also.”

“I work on cars, too,” Dean says, and Daphne can feel his desperation to maintain his facade.

She tries not to quirk a smile at his discomfort. They chat for a while longer, Dean getting increasingly dodgy about the questions she asks before she finally excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She shuts the door behind her and looks down at the dank floor. Is she getting what she wanted out of this? She has no idea what she even imagined happening when she asked to catch up. Emmanuel running away with her? Maybe in her wildest fantasies. Taking a deep breath to ground herself, she looks in the mirror and checks her makeup, rubbing at her under eye circles before walking back out of the bathroom.

Cas is at the counter ordering another drink, for Dean, by the sound of the sugar content, and she walks over to him. Hesitating before she bites the bullet, she asks, “You’re not…like, being held against your will, right? That Dean seems,” she pauses, “interesting.”

Cas laughs warmly, putting a hand over Daphne’s. “No, nothing like that. This is a choice of my own free will, believe it or not. Dean is much more caring than he lets on.”

Well, Daphne’s not sure she believes it, but. At least he’s happy, and in the end, that’s all she’s ever wanted for him.

#supernatural #destiel #castiel #outsider pov #daphne allen #the born again identity #contemplative writing

[getlostsquidward]

The gaps in your hearts (Part 2)

Lou Miller x fem!reader

A/N: You asked for part 2, and I shall deliver. I hope it's worth your wait!!

Summary: After your departure, an unexpected circumstance had you arriving back at the loft, back at Lou. Will the gaps in your hearts only become wider or will they be finally filled?

Part one

“Oh, bugger. Baby? I’m home.”

“Nice place.”

“Try heating it.”

“There’s a room for you upstairs. Your stuff’s upstairs too.”

Lou called your name a couple of times but she got no answer. Maybe you went out and got something from the store. She furrowed her eyebrows at the notion that you didn’t let her know you’ll go out like you usually does.

She can’t wait for you to meet Debbie.

The sun has set down and you weren’t at home yet. Lou was growing worried each minute that passes. She’d left you text messages, she tried to call you several times, but all of it went to voicemail. Where did you go?

Debbie had returned from her closure meeting with Claude. She had bought takeout for dinner but Lou wasn’t in any mood to eat. She was antsy but keeping it down so her friend won’t notice. Maybe you were called in at work? Maybe you went out with a friend and forgot to send her a text. The blonde knows you can perfectly take care of yourself but she can’t help but be worried.

“Where’s your girl?” Debbie asked, reminded of Lou calling someone ‘baby’ when they arrived earlier.

Lou just shrugged her shoulders, not really knowing what to answer.

“Maybe she hit her head and woke up from the truth,” the brunette joked.

Lou glared at her friend. “Not funny.”

“Tell me about her.”

The blonde started to tell her friend everything. From how you met, the ups and downs of your relationship, and how loving and wonderful you are. You were patient and understanding; you were perfect in every way and she hated how she’d managed to hurt the one person that did nothing but love her.

The day you moved out of the loft was the most devastating day of her life. It was way much worse than when Debbie left before.

She knew that you were checking in on her through Matt, and she was wracked with guilt. Even after what she’d done, you still care for her. Lou unconsciously checks her phone to see if you left a message but to no avail. You really honoured your word that you’d give her time, and she was thankful for that.

In your two-month break, she really had thought about it all. She used the time to sort out her feelings. Hell, she even opened up to some of her other friends for help, something she rarely does even with those who know her. Unearthing her feelings.

Lou had feelings for Debbie. She didn’t know if it was romantic or if it was just a deep affection. She didn’t really think much of it. Debbie was one of the few of the persons she knows she could trust with her life and in the conworld, such a person was like a rare gem. It was hard to find, and if you do, you’ve got to treasure it. And so she did.

“Maybe you’d mistaken the concept of love and affection. You told me you really didn’t think anything about it and that explains it. The moment you felt that that person was dear to you, you immediately equated it to romantic love.”

The words mentioned had hit Lou, hard. Once she realized that, she promptly had to find you. She called you, but you didn’t answer. She didn’t know where you were staying so she asked your friends, and that’s how Lou found you drowning in liquor in some alley.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Debbie berated, feeling rather guilty about how she was probably the reason you left for the second time around.

“I do. No need to remind me.”

“I’m gonna tell you to go find her, but I also need you to focus on the job. Can you do both?”

“Of course,” Lou sighed. She won’t know what she would do if she were to lose you for real this time.

-

You were feeling rueful for leaving Lou without a word. You knew she’d be worried sick, but it was the best for the two of you. Once again, you fell into your routine. It was incredibly helpful that an event was coming and you can spend all of your time at work. Though this time, the constant drinking was out of your to-do list.

Your mind often wandered to Lou. She said something about a job, maybe that’s what they’re doing right now. Has she been thinking of you too?

The messages and missed calls Lou had sent you were not in your knowledge as you’d let your best friend hide your phone, and bought a new one for you. At first, you thought that it would be ridiculous and childlike of you but maybe she had a point. The worst-case scenario would be Lou filing for a missing person’s case, but you knew she wouldn’t dare cross paths with the police.

-

“Oh my god, you guys. This party is nuts. I’m not kidding! If your dress is ugly, you can’t wear it, no shit! They will bower your wardrobe!” Tammy rambled and rushed to get into the loft where she got everyone’s attention.

“I love that!” Lou quipped.

“Oh I gotta pee,” Tammy continued to ramble. “Every table cost a quarter-million dollars that if they allow you to buy one! I mean not just any $250,000 check will be approved, I mean they literally have to tell you whether or not they’ll take your money, it’s crazy!”

Everyone was standing outside the bathroom, still listening to Tammy rant about the Met.

“And then you can’t bring anyone, that you clearly go by yourself. They spend a hundred grand on food and apparently no one eats, it’s really crazy,” the blonde finished as she went out, kind of out of breath from the continuous rambling.

“Did you get the seating chart?” asked Debbie.

“The what?”

“The seating chart.” Tammy handed the special glasses she was wearing to Debbie.

“If I haven’t said it, it’s really crazy. This one person that I’m working with maybe is the only saving grace of that place. Thank goodness for Y/N,” the blonde sighed, capturing the attention of Lou.

She shared looks with Debbie, hoping that it was you their friend was talking about.

After discussing the seating chart, they approached Tammy and straightforwardly asked about you, if you were the same person she’d mentioned. Apparently, you quit your last job and had started few weeks prior to Tammy. Lou asked if you’re doing well, and almost cried when she nodded. When Tammy asked why they are curious, Debbie answered. “Lou’s girl. Left because of this dumbass right here.”

The blonde had a surprised expression on her face, a bit amazed at how small the world is. The person they’ve been looking for was only at their reach this whole time.

“She’s sweet. If you’re planning to get her back, which I know you would, you better not mess up.”

Since that day, Lou was itching to contact you but inhibited herself. She’d finish the job first, then she would have you back. If she was lucky enough to be given a second chance, which she wouldn’t fucking waste, she can finally go to California riding with you on her new bike like you always wanted to do.

Finally, it was the first Monday in May. Lou was still in the van with Nineball, preparing food for her. She remembered you telling her she would look good in a chef’s uniform. She wasn’t actually a chef right now, but she still owes you a hundred bucks.

What if you weren’t gone? Maybe you would be in on the heist too, and you would be the most beautiful woman in her eyes, everyone else in the Met is damned. She knew you would have loved and drooled over the green jumpsuit she was wearing.

The heist was successful, and the ladies were lounging at the loft. Their dillydally was halted when an unexpected guest has stormed the loft. Daphne Kluger.

“You guys are fucked,” the actress huffed. “Wow, nice place.”

“Excuse me, you are trespassing-”

“No, we asked her to come,” Lou cut Tammy’s accusation.

Debbie started to explain how Daphne might have gotten a sense of what they were doing, so they roped the brunette in. Daphne then asserted how she was the one who was saving everyone from insurance fraud. Another revelation had caused panic to those who didn’t know, scared that they might be busted and imprisoned.

“We will not be the prime suspect.”

“Then who will be the prime suspect?”

Lou listed several people like the security guys and the busboy. Their attention was focused on Daphne that they didn’t notice another person coming in. You quietly opened the door in purpose, glancing at each of the women inside. You’d heard the last bit of their conversation and captured their attention by announcing your presence.

“The shady guy who put Debbie away,” you casually commented, walking towards everyone.

“Wow,” Daphne chuckled. “The boyfriend.”

Everyone but Debbie and Daphne was shocked, for the third time around. They didn’t really expect guests today. Lou looked like she had seen a ghost but didn’t take her eyes off you.

“Yup. If they were gonna be looking for somebody, just had to make sure it wasn’t one of us.”

You whispered a “Hi, Tam” to your coworker, and took a sit in the middle of her and Daphne. “The precision, right?” the actress turned to you. “The attention to detail, a little grace note that really makes something sing.”

While she was blubbering about how well-thought the job was, she scooted closer to you and put a hand on your thigh. Lou raised an eyebrow at the action, jealousy bubbling in her chest.

“Why are you doing this?” Tammy asked, referring to Daphne. “And Y/N? You were in too? How?”

You let the brunette answer first and when she finished, Debbie had answered for you.

“She was our other mole in the Met, aside from you and Nine.”

“Oh, you were an angel, Y/N. She made sure I was okay after hurling my guts out. Much much better company than my date,” Daphne preached, leaning her head on your shoulder. You rest your head on hers in return.

Lou’s jaw was gritted, it was too much for her and she couldn’t look any longer. She looked at Debbie and gave her a perplexed look, asking for further explanation.

The brunette just shrugged her shoulder, knowing it was up to you to talk to Lou. After all, it was the reason she approached you. At first, she had only talked to you about Lou, but later called to ask if you were willing to join in the job. You’d said yes right away.

That night, you saw Lou sitting near the shore. She was staring straight ahead as you sat next to her.

“Lou?”

“You know, I planned to talk to you after we got the money. But you got to me first,” she whispered.

“You have to thank Debs for that.”

Lou chuckled, “Debs? What, you’re on a nickname basis now? She doesn’t even let me call her that.”

“She told me everything. And, I- I’m sorry, Lou. I shouldn’t have left like that, left you worried though you had a job to focus on-”

Lou cut you off as she pulled you in for a hug. “No, Y/N. I should be the one apologizing.”

Her hand was running up and down your back, the touch soothing all of your troubles. You can finally feel at peace. There was no snarling voice at the back of your head, no heavy feeling. You feel like a sailor in the middle of a calm sea.

“I’ll make it up to you, for real, this time,” Lou pulled back, giving you a smile. You nodded in return.

“Although you may have to explain first what was that earlier,” her smile faded, and glared at you playfully.

You were about to ask what she was referring to when you suddenly remembered. You told her how you may or may not have told Daphne that you were on a rough patch and she volunteered to help make Lou jealous. Both of you shared a laugh as she commented on how effective it was that she had to restrain herself from tearing you apart from the actress.

There was no time to waste, you thought as you pressed your lips against Lou’s. The kiss was slow and passionate, the both of you pouring all your feelings out. Her hand entangled itself on the base of your skull as she deepened the kiss, tongue swiping on your bottom lip asking for entrance. You let her dominate you, a soft moan coaxed out of your mouth.

The only thing you could focus on was the feeling of Lou’s lips; your hammering heart and the waves lapping gently at the shore.

“I love you, baby,” Lou murmured, both of you breathless.

“I know, Lou. I love you too.”

#cate blanchett #cate blanchett x reader #lou miller x reader #lou miller #ocean's 8 #ocean's 8 fanfiction #debbie ocean #tammy #daphne kluger

[chainofclovers]

Ted Lasso 2x11 thoughts

For an episode that ends with a journalist Ted trusts but has (understandably) recently lied to warning Ted that he’s publishing an article about his panic attacks, it was fitting that this episode seemed entirely about what all of these characters choose to tell each other. And after most of a season of television that Jason Sudeikis has described as the season in which the characters go into their little caves to deal with things on their own, it turns out they are finally able to tell each other quite a lot.

Which is good because, um, wow, a lot is going to happen in the season finale of this show!

Thoughts on the things people tell each other behind the cut!

Roy and Keeley. I absolutely loved the moment during their photoshoot in which they bring up a lot of complicated emotional things and are clearly gutted (“gutted”? Who am I? A GBBO contestant who forgot to turn the oven on?) by what they’ve heard. We already know that Keeley and Roy are great at the kinds of moments they have before the shoot begins, in which Roy builds Keeley up and tells her she’s fucking amazing. From nearly the beginning of their relationship, they’ve supported each other and been each other’s biggest fans. But their relationship has gone on long enough that they’ve progressed from tentative arguments about space and individual needs into really needing to figure out what they mean to each other and how big their feelings are and what that means in relation to everything else. Watching these two confess about the uncomfortable kiss with Nate, the unexpectedly long conversation with Phoebe’s teacher, and—most painfully—the revelation that Jamie still loves Keeley didn’t feel like watching two people who are about to break up. (Although I could see them potentially needing space from each other to get clarity.) It felt like watching two people realize just how much they’d lose if they lost each other, which is an understandably scary feeling even—or especially—when you’re deeply in love but not entirely sure what the future holds. Not entirely sure what you’re capable of when you’ve never felt serious about someone in quite this way, and are realizing you have to take intentional actions to choose that relationship every single day. I’m excited to learn whether Roy and Keeley decide they need to solidify their relationship more (not necessarily an engagement, but maybe moving in together or making sure they’re both comfortable referring to the other as partner and telling people they’re in a committed relationship) or if things go in a different direction for a while.

Sharon and Ted. I’ve had this feeling of “Wow, Ted is going to feel so intense about how honest he’s been with Sharon and is going to end up getting really attached and transfer a lot of emotions onto the connection they have and that is stressful no matter how beneficial it has been for him to finally get therapy!” for a while now. And Sharon’s departure really brought that out and it was indeed stressful. But the amount of growth that’s happened for both of these characters is really stunningly and beautifully conveyed in this episode. Ted is genuinely angry she left without saying goodbye, and he doesn’t bury it some place deep inside him where it will fester for the next thirty years. He expresses his anger. (I also noticed he sweared—mildly—in front of her again, which is really a big tell for how much he has let his carefully-constructed persona relax around her.) He reads her letter even though he said he wasn’t going to, and he’s moved. I don’t think Ted has the words for his connection to Sharon beyond “we had a breakthrough,” but Sharon gets it, and is able to firmly assert a professional boundary by articulating her side of that breakthrough as an experience that has made her a better therapist. And is still able to offer Ted a different kind of closure by suggesting they go out before her train leaves. No matter how you feel about a patient/football manager seeing their therapist/team psychologist colleague socially, I appreciated this story because IMO it didn’t cross big lines but instead was about one final moment in this arc in which both Ted and Sharon saw each other clearly and modeled what it is to give someone what they need and to expect honesty and communication from them. I liked that Ted ends up being the one saying goodbye. (The mustache in the exclamation points!) I like that whether or not Sharon returns in any capacity (Sarah Niles is so wonderful that I hope she does, but I’m not sure), the goodbye these characters forge for themselves here is neither abandonment nor a new, more complicated invitation. It’s the end of a meaningful era, and although the work of healing is the work of a lifetime, it’s very beautiful to have this milestone.

Ted and Rebecca. So, maybe it’s just me, but it kinda feels like these two have a few li’l life things to catch up on?! (HAHHHHHaSdafgsdasdf!) I really adored their interactions in this episode. I maintain that Biscuits With The Boss has been happening this whole time (even when Ted’s apartment was in shambles, there’s biscuit evidence, and I feel like we’ve been seeing the biscuit boxes in Rebecca’s office pretty regularly too), even if it might have been more of a drive-by biscuit drop-off/feelings avoidance ritual. It was really lovely to see Ted on more even footing in Rebecca’s office, joking around until she tells him to shut up, just like the old days. And GOSH—for their 1x9 interaction in Ted’s office to be paralleled in this episode and for Ted to explicitly make note of the parallel in a way Rebecca hears and sees and understands?! MY HEART. In both of Rebecca’s confessions, she is not bringing good news but it is good and meaningful that she chooses to share with Ted. In both situations, Ted takes the moment in stride and offers acceptance equivalent to the gravity of what she has to confess. And in both situations, he’s not some kind of otherworldly saint, able to accept Rebecca no matter what because he’s unaffected by what she shares. He is affected. When he tells her about Sam, you can see a variety of emotions on his face. Rebecca is upset and Ted is calm, and even if I might have liked for him to try to talk about the risk the affair poses to the power dynamics on the team or any number of factors, I also really liked that he just accepts where she is, and—most importantly—does not offer her advice beyond examining herself and taking her own advice. A massive part of being in a relationship with another person (a close relationship of any nature) is figuring out how to support that person without necessarily having to be happy about every single thing they do. It’s so important that Ted connects what she’s just told him about Sam back to what she told him last season about her plot with the club. These both feel like truth bombs to him, and he is at least safe enough to make that clear. These are both things that impact him, things that shape how he sees her and maybe even how he sees himself. He cares about her and is capable of taking in this information; he has room for it. But it’s not something he takes lightly, and neither does she. See you next year.

Tumblr user chainofclovers and the TV show Ted Lasso. My brain is going wild thinking about all the ways the next “truth bomb” conversation could go in 3x11 or whatever. Maybe they go full consistent parallel and Rebecca confesses something else, this time about her and Ted or some other big future thing that impacts him as much or more as the other confessions have. (The same but different.) Maybe the tables turn and Ted has something to confess to her. While the 1x9 conversation ended in an embrace and the 2x11 conversation ended with a bit more physical distance (understandable given the current state of their relationship and the nature of the discussion), the verbal ending of both conversations involved voices moving into a sexier lower register while zooming in to talk specifically about their connection to each other, so I have to assume there will be some consistencies in s3 even if the circumstances will be completely different. I don’t really know where I’m going with this and I obviously will go insane if I sustain this level of anticipatory energy until Fall 2022 but I have a feeling my brain and heart are going to try!

Sam and Rebecca. I know there’s been a lot of criticism about whether this show is being at all realistic about the power dynamics and inevitable professional issues this relationship would create. On some level, I agree; I like that pretty much everyone who knows about the affair has been kind so far, but you can be kind and still ask someone to contend with reality. But I also think that in nearly every plot point on this show, the narrative is driven by how people feel about their circumstances first and foremost. (It’s why the whiteboard in the coaching office and the football commentators tell us more about how the actual football season is going from a points perspective than anyone else.) This episode reminded me how few people know about Sam and Rebecca, and how much their time together so far has been time spent in bed. The private sphere. I thought this episode really expertly brought the public sphere into it, not—thank goodness—through a humiliating exposure or harsh judgment but through an opportunity for Sam that illustrates not only all his potential to do great things but how much Rebecca’s professional position and personal feelings are in conflict with that. Could stand in the way of that. I don’t have a strong gut feeling about where this will go, but I do think Sam’s face in his final scene of this episode is telling. He started the episode wanting to see Rebecca (his most recent text to her was about wanting to connect), and Edwin’s arrival from Ghana really exploded his sense of what is possible for his life. If he’d arrived home to Rebecca sitting on his stoop prior to meeting Edwin, he’d have been delighted. Now he’s conflicted, and whatever decision he makes, he has to reckon with the reality that he cannot have everything he wants. No matter what. And Rebecca—she has taken Ted’s advice and is attempting to be honest about the fact that she can’t control Sam’s decisions but hopes he doesn’t go, and even saying that much feels so inappropriate. And I’m not sure how much she realizes about the inappropriateness of the position she’s putting him in, although maybe she’s getting there considering she exits the scene very quickly. I’ve honestly loved Rebecca’s arc this season. I think it’s realistic that she got obsessed with the intimacy she thought she could find in her phone. I think it’s realistic that her professional and personal ambitions are inappropriately linked. (They certainly were for Rupert. It’s been years since she’s known anything different; even if she’s done some significant recovery work to move on from her abusive marriage and figure out her own priorities, she’s got a long way to go.) I know there are people who will read this interaction between Rebecca and Sam as a totally un-self-aware thing on the part of “the show” or “the writers” but what I saw is two people who enjoyed being in bed together and now have to deal with the reality that they’re in two different places in their lives and that one has great professional power over the other. If that wasn’t in the show, I wouldn’t be able to see it or feel so strongly about it.

Edwin and Sam. I really enjoyed all the complexities of this interaction. Edwin is promising a future for Sam that doesn’t quite exist yet, though he has the financial means to make it happen. He offers this by constructing for Sam a Nigerian—and Ghanaian—experience unlike anything he’s found in London. Sam is amazed that this experience is here, and Edwin’s response is to explain to him that the experience is not here. Not really. The experience in Africa. Sam has of course connected to the other Nigerian players on the team, but this is something else entirely. I’m really curious if Sam is going to end up feeling that what Edwin has to offer is real or not. That sense of home and connection? So real. And so right that he would want to experience that homecoming and would want to be part of building that experience for others. But at the end of the day, he went to a museum full of actors and a pop-up restaurant full of “friends,” and is that constructed authenticity as a stand-in for a real homecoming more or less real than the home he’s building in Richmond? (With other players who stand in solidarity with him, and with well-meaning white coaches who say dumb stuff sometimes, and an a probably-doomed love interest, and a feeling that he should put chicken instead of goat in the jollof, and the ability to stand out as an incredible player on a rising team.)

Nate and everyone. But also Nate and no one. Nate’s story is so painful and I’m so anxious for next week’s episode. For a long time I’ve felt that a lot of Nate’s loyalties are with Richmond, and a lot of his ambitions are around having given so much to this place without getting a lot back, and having a strong feeling that he’s the answer to Richmond’s future. But now I’m not so sure; his ambitions have transferred into asking everyone he knows (except Ted, of course), if they want to be “the boss.” But Nate is all tactics and no communication. When he wants to suggest a new play to Ted, he hasn’t yet learned to read Ted’s language to learn that Ted is eager to hear what he has to say. And while Ted has been really unfortunately distracted about Nate and dismissive of him this season, he clearly respects Nate’s approach to football and was appreciative of the play. Nate just can’t hear that. The suit is such a great metaphor of all the things Nate is in too much pain to be able to hear clearly. Everyone digs at him for wearing the suit Ted bought him (including Will, who’s got to get little cuts in where he can, because he’s got to be sick of the way Nate treats him), but when he gets fed up his solution isn’t to go out on his own and find more clothes he likes; he asks Keeley to help him. And then crosses a major line with her...and no matter how kind she was about it, she was clearly not okay. Everything is going to blow up, and I’m so curious as to whether Nate will end up aligning himself with Rupert in some way or if he’s going to end up screwed over by Rupert and in turn try to screw over his colleagues even worse than he’s already done. Or try desperately to make amends even though it could be too late for some. Either way, I’m fully prepared to feel devastated. (And there’s no way I’m giving up on this character. If he’s able to learn, I truly believe he could end up seeking forgiveness and forging a happier existence for himself. Someday. Like in season 3 or something.)

Ted and Trent. Trent deciding to reveal his source to Ted is a huge deal, and I’m torn between so many emotions about this exposé. I’m glad it’s a Trent Crimm piece and not an Ernie Loundes piece. I’m glad that Trent made the decision to warn Ted and let him know that Nate is his source. I fear—but also hope—that this exposure will set off a chain reaction of Ted learning about some of the things he’s missed while suffering through a really bad bout with his dad-grief and panic disorder. The things Ted doesn’t know would devastate him. I wonder if Ted will want to figure out a way to make Nate feel heard and reconcile with him, and I wonder how that will be complicated if/when he realizes Nate has severely bullied Will, gets more details on how he mistreated Colin, etc. I wonder if Rebecca, whom Nate called a “shrew” right before she announced his promotion, will be in the position of having to ask Ted to fire him, or overriding Ted and doing it herself. So many questions! I have a feeling it’ll go in some wild yet very human-scaled, emotionally-nuanced direction, and I’ll be like “Oh my GOD!” but also like “Oh, of course.”

This VERY SERIOUS AND EMOTIONAL REVIEW has a major flaw, which is that none of the above conversations include mention of the absolute love letter to N*SYNC. Ted passionately explains how things should go while dancing ridiculously! Will turns on the music and starts gyrating! Roy nods supportively! Beard shouts the choreography like the Broadway choreographer of teaching grown men who play football how to dance like a boy band. Everyone is so incredibly proud when they nail it. I love them.

I cannot believe next week is the end. For now. I’m kind of looking forward to letting everything settle during the hiatus, but I’ve really loved the ride.

#ted lasso #ted lasso s2 spoilers #ted lasso 2x11 #meta by me #ALL THE FEELINGS!!!! #a lesbian watches ted lasso

[in-ky]

An Old Scent [1] - Negan x Reader (A/B/O AU)

Summary: During summer break, you decide to come back home to visit your dad, Rick. Over the course of your stay, you realize that your dad's friend is pretty hot.

Warnings: Eventual smut, A/B/O dynamics, cheating, age gap, Negan

A/N: yay first fic! this will have four parts! i hope everyone enjoys. this is an au where the apocalypse never happened. 3.2k words

I squinted as I stepped out into the bright Virginian sun. People swarmed all around me, creating the steady hum of airport ambience that I had grown accustomed to over the years. I had just gotten off a four-hour flight home from college and all I wanted to do was shower and curl up in bed. But I couldn't. Oh, no. First I had to endure a fun thirty-minute car ride with my best friend since second grade. I scanned the curb in front of me for her small black car and caught sight of a tall woman waving at me. I grinned and walked forward, tugging along my baggage behind me.

"Ugh, it's so good to see you, Bee." I sighed as I enveloped my friend into a large hug. She let out a laugh and swayed us gently.

"It's good to see you, too," She hummed, rustling my hair "I forgot how short you were." Bee was an alpha; tall, muscular, and very quick to remind me of our differences. Of course, it was in a 'joking with love' kind of way. I was an omega; small, rounded, and very quick to punch her gently in the abdomen.

"I forgot how much of a jerk you are." I quipped, huffing and wheeling my bag to her trunk.

"Oh, come on, babes, don't be like that," Bee laughed, opening the driver side door and waiting for me to walk back to my side. "Now get in, we've got a lot of catching up to do."

---

"How are your heats going?"

"Jesus, that's what you want to start with?" I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. Bee shrugged.

"We don't have to if you don't want to," She clarified, turning out onto the street "I'm just saying, I know they've gotten pretty bad as we've gotten older. Did you try out those tips I sent you?"

"Yea, I did," I said quietly, looking at the trees rushing by on the side of the highway "They worked for a while but..."

"But you need an alpha," Bee sighed, finishing the sentence for me.

"That's the plan for this summer," I agreed "Might finally settle down."

"You know, I'm always here if you need me." She said with a wink. I scoffed at her.

"I'm not that desperate," I laughed, shoving her lightly "Not yet, at least."

"Anyone take your interest back in Colorado?"

"Not really," I hummed, tilting my head in consideration. "There was this one guy. We dated for a few months but towards the end he became a total knot-head. He couldn't keep his hands off me. I thought it was cute at first, but after I started to miss a few classes...well, that shit got old pretty quickly." Bee made a disgusted noise.

"Ugh, men," She grunted, wrinkling her nose "I'm glad I never went through that phase. I'm perfectly happy with chicks, thank you very much. Much less of a pain in my ass."

"Oh, they're not so bad," I smirked "I think it's just alphas in general." She glared at me momentarily and I stuck my tongue out at her. We drove in a comfortable silence for a few moments, just enjoying each other's company. That was always something I loved about Bee. We never had to fill every second with chatter, we could just exist together in the same space and be just as content. She started to hum along to the song that buzzed softly from the radio and my eyes tracked a hawk. Soon enough, we reached our exit and Bee turned the car onto a smaller road, starting the countdown to my arrival home.

"Are you excited to see your dad?" Bee asked, killing the silence.

"Yea, I am," I smiled. We hadn't always had the best of relationships, but the distance that college gave had done wonders for us. A few texts and calls had worked perfectly for us. When he invited me to stay a few weeks during summer I gladly accepted. I wanted to see just how well our relationship had strengthened. Plus I knew he really needed someone.

"How's he doing?" There was genuine concern in Bee's voice. A few months ago, my mom had revealed that she had been having an affair with one of dad's work buddies. She left with him and took my brother down to Georgia.

"I think he's okay. But you know dad, he's not really an emotions guy. He was starting to get some closure but then the divorce papers came in the mail. That really hurt him," I told her, twisting a strand of my hair around my finger. "I just don't know how Lori could do that to him, you know? She won't even let Carl up to visit. The new baby's cute, though. Looks just like Shane." Bee hummed in acknowledgement.

"Well, tell him I said hi, alright?"

"Will do." A few more seconds of silence passed. Until we stopped at a light. Bee looked up and spotted a billboard that sported a very familiar, very handsome face.

"Holy shit!" Bee shrieked, slapping my arm.

"Ow, what the hell?" I hissed, grabbing my shoulder. She pointed frantically at the sign.

"That guy! Isn't that, shit- the hell's his name?" Pulling my eyes from my lap, I let them settle on the object of her excitement. All of the color drained from my face. It was an add for a law firm. There was an old geezer posing proudly on the left, and to his right, was the man who haunted my wet dreams for the majority of high school.

"Negan." I gulped.

"Yea, your dad's hot friend you never shut up about." Bee groaned, pressing on the gas and moving us away from the sign. Negan was a lawyer/make-shift-law-professor and baseball coach at the local community college. He had a sort-of contract with my dad's department. Many times I had come home after school to the two of them puzzling out a case on the kitchen table. Negan was an alpha of alphas, something that got my little omega heart (and other things) pumping until I couldn't breath. His humor and dominating persona made me blush a deep crimson color any time I saw him. Sometimes I would spend hours sitting on the stairs just listening to him talk to my dad. His voice was something else. I had gushed to Bee about him countless times during our times at high school. But I hadn't seen him since my graduation party.

"I wonder if you'll see him again," Bee teased, nudging me again to pull me out of my trance of memories. Then, she did a dramatic gasp. "What if he's your mate?" It was my turn to slap her in the shoulder.

"He's older than my dad!" I squealed, burying my now-blushing cheeks in my hands.

"You're an adult I don't think it matters."

"I think he's engaged."

"Just 'cause there's a goalie doesn't mean you can't scoooore." Bee pulled a face at me and I returned her grimace.

"Whatever, you're lucky we're almost at my house." I huffed, falling back into my seat with my arms crossed over my chest.

"Oh, yea, omega? What are you gonna do?" I rolled my eyes as she laughed off my grumpiness. We rolled to a stop in front of my driveway and a leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks so much, Bee, I really appreciate you," I grinned, popping open the door.

"No problem, babes," She winked, unlocking the trunk "But I swear to the gods, you better fucking call me and give me updates on everything, especially if you run into Mr. Hotcakes." I rolled my eyes once more and promised her I would before closing the door. I retrieved my bag and gave her a wave as she drove down the street. When she was out of view, I took a deep breath and turned around, walking up the driveway to the front door.

I knocked heavily on the dark oak door. While I waited for someone to answer, I decided to look around at the home I had left behind about a year ago. My childhood home had changed now and then over the years, but there were still some iconic pieces of memories in the front yard that could never be forgotten. My personal favorite was Eddie the garden gnome. He was a standard gnome: small and stout with a large white beard that led into a pointy red hat. His eyes were shut and his mouth was curved into a smile. However, he was missing a nose. I grinned as I recalled the unfortunate mishap that caused Eddie to become deformed. I was about twelve, and carl was five. He had gotten a kid's baseball from Negan for his birthday and had begged me to teach him how to play, since I was on the local softball team at the time. I relented and set it up in the front yard. Eddie was our outfielder. Eddie didn't have a mitt. Well, he did, but it was his face. Carl absolutely smashed the first pitch I tossed at him and hit poor Eddie right in the face, shattering his round, pink nose into pieces. Carl bursted into tears and I had to promise him that he did not in fact kill our precious protector of our house. Lori ran out frantically and comforted her son before giving me a thorough chewing out for damaging Eddie. We never used the set again. That she knew of, anyways. Negan always let us play in his yard, though. I smiled at the memory, but the clicking of the lock to the door pulled me from my train of thought. The door swung open and I was met with the smiling face of my father.

"Sweetie, I'm so glad you made it!" He laughed, pulling me in swiftly and squeezing me tight.

"It's good to see you too, dad." I croaked, letting out a small chuckle. I tapped on his shoulder as a signal for him to let go.

"How was the flight?" He asked as he stepped out to grab my bag. I told him it was good but that the screaming kids had given me a bit of a headache. He gave a small laugh and gestured for me to enter. I thanked him and he rolled my bag in behind me. We exchanged a few words but as soon as I walked through the kitchen into the doorway of the living room I was hit by a wall. Not literally, no, but rather a wall of overwhelming scent. It was a delicious swirl of campfire and whiskey, with a hint of cigarettes and leather. I paused for a moment, my eyes forced closed and my lungs taking a deep breath of the intoxicating air. Colors danced across my eyelids. My whole body was flooded with warmth and my toes tingled. I felt safe and calm, and there was something else; something deep within my stomach that I couldn't quite identify, something I never felt before. My eyes snapped open when I felt my father's hand rest firmly on my shoulder.

"I hope you don't mind, sweetie, but I invited company over while I was waiting for you to arrive," He smiled at me. I got a good look at him then. He looked the same, his hair was a bit longer, a bit greyer. But his eyes were different. They were darker, rounder, rawer. I gave a soft smile and told him it was fine. He guided me into the living room. It was then I realized where that deadly smell was coming from. Or, rather, who it was coming from. "Negan, you remember my girl." In that moment, I held my breath as I scanned Negan. He looked fucking amazing, just as he always had. Perfect dimples guarding a charming smile, all surrounded by a gorgeous salt and pepper beard. His hair was longer than it was when I had left, not slicked back, but it still framed his face perfectly. Negan's body was draped casually over the sectional couch, legs crossed at the ankle on the ottoman. His arms were on the top of the couch and his wrists were dangling. He knew he was hot. That bastard. I suddenly became aware of his eyes raking over my form and I shifted from one foot to the other.

"'course I do, Rick," Negan said, voice silky and deep. I couldn't help but let a small shudder run down my spine. All I wanted to do was kneel down in front of him and curl up at his feet. I forced my inner omega down, shaking the thought from my head. "How could I forget the little slugger?" I cringed inside at the nickname. Especially the use of the word 'little'. I begged that he didn't still see me as the kid down the street. Instead as a grown woman. A grown omega.

"Hi, Negan." I greeted with a small smile, swallowing to relieve my dry throat. Now that I was next to him, his scent was clogging all my senses. I gripped onto the couch and lowered myself onto the cushion, hoping to ground myself. It helped, just barely. My heart was pounding, my instincts telling me to submit to this man in front of me. Why, though? Why now? He had never smelled this good before. No alpha had. Was I getting close to my heat? I did have a stomach ache, but that could be from Negan alone.

"Hey, sweetheart. How's college goin'?" Negan asked, sipping on his drink. He kept eye contact with me the whole time. Rick handed me a glass of soda and I thanked him.

"It's good!" I said after taking a sip, thankful for the hydration in my coarse throat "Towards the end it got a little hectic, but I was able to stay on top of everything, thankfully."

"You're studying film, right?" He asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

"That's right," I grinned, crossing my legs to relieve some of the pressure the movement caused to build up in my lower abdomen "You still teaching law?" This caused him to chuckle. Literally music to my ear.

"If that's what you want to fuckin' call it." Negan sighed, falling back to his original position, hands resting in his lap "I talk, the kids kinda listen. I just do it for the coaching job, really. You remember how much I love that damn sport, right?"

"Baseball?" I asked, raising a brow "You mean the only thing you talked about at all of the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners you were invited to?"

"Touché." Negan grinned. Goddamn that smile. Butterflies erupted in my chest, beating hard against my ribcage, begging to throw myself at his chest and bury myself in him. Rick cleared his throat and smiled at me to get my attention.

"I want to know more about your college experience!" He beamed, rubbing a hand through his beard "Any special alphas you've got your eyes on?" I heard Negan choke slightly on his whiskey. A small bubble of pride rose in my chest. I laughed at his words.

"Dad, I don't think Negan wants to hear about my love life."

"Shit, doll, I don't mind," He grumbled "I don't get to hear any drama now-a-days"

"What do you mean?" I giggled, tilting my head "You argue for a living. Your job is to literally deal with drama."

"Yea, but that's complex drama," He growled, waving his hand dismissively "I wanna hear simple, schoolgirl 'he loves me, he loves me not' kind of bullshit."

"Well sorry to disappoint," I snorted, running a hand through my hair "but no, there's no one I have an eye on." Dad's smile turned into a frown.

"Shame." I heard Negan whisper. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to hear it. It was quiet, barely above his breath, and he said it while twirling his whiskey, following the words with a large gulp.

"You really should start looking, dear." Dad said with a sigh "You know it only gets harder as you get older."

"Dad please, I don't..." I cut him off "Listen, I appreciate you trying to understand this stuff, I really do, but I don't really want to talk about it with my father." He looked at me with an understanding smile.

"Sure," He nodded "But if you ever need anything, anything at all, you just let me know, alright." I nodded.

"Well, this sure has been fun, Ricky-boy," Negan grinned, getting to his feet and stretching his arms far above his head. "We do have that big court case in the mornin', though, and I need my shut-eye."

"Big case, eh?" I asked, rising from my seat as well. Dad nodded and excitement sparked in his eyes.

"You should come! It's an open court and I would love for you to see what I do. I know you always wanted to as a kid, but your mom made you wait until you were older. Well, now's the perfect time!" He rambled, grasping my shoulders.

"W-Well, I dunno, I don't want to be a distraction," I stumbled, taken aback by my father's display of enthusiasm. I turned to Negan, as if asking for permission. He just laughed.

"Oh-o, doll, I don't get distracted. Not in there, not anywhere. Don't you worry about a goddamn thing. You should come, Rick seems like he really wants you to."

"Okay, then," I grinned, nodding in commitment "I'll see you there in the morning then." I looked up to Negan and we locked eyes for a brief moment. But in that moment, something within me quivered. He brushed up against me and smirked down at me.

"See you tomorrow, sweetheart. It was nice to see you. You're lookin' great." It took all my willpower not to let out a whimper as he walked past me, taking his glorious scent with him.

My dad said that he should also get some rest, but that I could stay up as long as I wanted to. I was pretty wiped from my flight so I opted to follow him up the narrow staircase, tugging my bag behind me. I hugged him goodnight and stepped into my room. It hadn't been touched since I left last summer. The forest green bedspread was still perfectly tucked into the mattress and two plump pillows were perched at the head of the bed. My muscles ached for the soft release of sleep. I put my suitcase down by my dresser, taking a moment to smile at some old photos of me and Bee as kids. I showered and brushed my teeth before getting into the comfortable bed. I looked up at the ceiling and giggled softly at the glow-in-the-dark stars shining overhead. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I wasn't thinking of anything in particular, but for some reason, all of my dreams were plagued by the sweet smell, sound, sight, feeling, and taste of Negan.

#negan x y/n #negan x reader #negan smith #negan x you #alpha!negan #omega!reader #a/b/o kink #twd a/b/o #a/b/o dynamics