#making this purchase... begrudgingly.....

[dimitrescs]

the way i'm sighing and rolling my eyes as i hit checkout on the shopping cart containing ea werewolves gamepack as if i have no say in the matter and physically have to buy this pack.. all i have to say is this: today the furry community won... 1 point for the furries.. 0 for the rest of us.. a sad day indeed..

[nthewriter]

You and Simon are married, mostly by convenience.

His team, except Captain Price, was shocked to learn that Ghost was married. He casually mentioned it once, on a ride back to England. Something about how the missus was going to fuss over his fatigues being all ripped.

Shock sustained in the helicopter. No one talked for a few minutes. First, Ghost had a wife. The emotional constipated man had a wife. The silent shadow had a woman back home. Second, Ghost had a wife who knew his life. This was against the accord they all signed to not reveal anything about their military lives and what they were doing. So, why did Ghost went against those terms?

Because you had been part of a similar unit, long ago. Except, your own Task Force had been ambushed. You and Ghost were the only survivors, taken away, tortured. They slashed your face, burnt it with acids. Ghost? They locked him ten feet under the ground with the corpses of his own friends.

When you both got away from this hell, and you were honourably discharged, Ghost had come to see you. Made you his proposal. You accepted.

Was it love? No. It was companionship. It was Ghost seeing your face, your trauma and couldn’t comprehend how you would survive alone. And he couldn’t survive without you. Two same sides of the same coin. You needed each other to live, to be alive, to feel alive hell.

So, you took care of the small cottage home you both purchased. You knew how to make his tea. He knew how to cook your favourite meal. You mended his fatigues while chastising him by reminding how the government funding was declining. He left notes around the house to make sure you drink water and take your medication. You begrudgingly agreed to take in the military dog that failed his exam. He begrudgingly have to leave you all the space in the bed.

Not a marriage of love. But one of understanding.

[juniferyw]

𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝. [costco misadventures]

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐬: it costs nothing to be kind. so you leap at your chance to do a good deed for a clearly irate stranger and in return you’d feel a warm, self-righteous feeling in your heart knowing you’re a good person—though you start to question the depth of your kindness when said stranger asks you for a favour you should, by all logic, refuse.

masterlist | ao3 | mdni | take heed: simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader, afab reader, domestic au, pretend relationship, fake marriage, size difference, love at first sight, dubious consent, obsessive behaviour, possessive behaviour, fluff, angst, stalking, manipulation, dark romance.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐢. | prev

The manifestations of your ingrained doctrine proves itself to be true time and time again. 

The financial savings you made last week in courtesy of a most generous, yet notoriously reticent, stranger has caught up to you in the form of extensive misfortunes. It is almost comical. The amount of bad luck that has come your way is uncanny—you had never experienced so many consecutive mishaps that you believe it is fated by design. 

You picture some big, angry man in the clouds pulling the strings and slapping his knee at his own bad-humoured joke at your expense—

But perhaps you’re just being dramatic; it is easier to blame some nebulous, cosmic order for your own hardships rather than it just being life itself—though that still doesn’t justify the means for you to stay perfectly composed.

Your car, without even the slightest warning from the dashboard, has decided to start shaking abruptly and billowed out three huge smokes in the middle of the highway. You couldn’t even accelerate past a thousand rpms in the process. The drive back to the garage was brutal. You could only be grateful you made it home in one piece from the metal death trap.

Once you returned back to your unit, you learned that your gas stove refused to ignite. Aside from your worries of carbon dioxide poisoning from a possible leak, this prompts another list to add on your notes of things to sort. 

The water is another problem in and of itself. Your showers are now performed with gritted and chattered teeth for hot water is practically not an option for you in the middle of winter—and not to mention, when your quarterly water bill arrives, you are indignantly puzzled by the excessive charge.

Your nights are lately spent calling your family and friends over the phone of your domestic troubles—though they are too far or unfit to be of any help, their reassuring words work at least some wonders to your aggrieved mental state. 

The next incessant calls would be made to your property manager, then to your nearby mechanics, then your local water authority for a metre test. It’s been rough sleeping through the nights with a lot on your mind. Such is the life of your poor, local metropolitan girl.

You can continue feeling sorry for yourself and order in takeout with ridiculous service fees for the nth time, or you can start focusing on things you can control. Like for example, keeping a positive attitude—and also, purchasing a portable butane stove top.

After days of cold cut sandwiches, cold showers, and colder walks to the station—you fear you might die of hypothermia before the season ends. 

And so here you are after work, pedantically looking over the warranties and reviews of a gas burner at the first hardware store you see. You think of the many hot meals you can make out of this thing—perhaps even heat some water up for your shower; though you mournfully think about the painstaking time that would require. 

A shadow encompasses your being from your left side. You shift advertently to your side to give space, but the person remains close. 

‘How entitled,’ you think begrudgingly. 

You hold your ground but the moment lingers too long for it to be respectable. You lift your gaze up to the corner just to see what kind of person they are before you take your leave—but their brown eyes meets yours expectantly. 

You fix your face quickly. 

“Simon,” you breathe out a laugh. 

What a coincidence; you are lucky to remember his name for all the stress that’s mounting on your desk, you had forgotten all about your brooding encounter with the biggest man you’ve ever seen. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” Though it’s just what people say in passing to make small talk, it wasn’t an entire lie. You’ve been so on edge waiting for him to call in his favour that never came; you begin to think that you’ve been talking to a ghost. 

But here he is; alive and well—you suppose. 

“Goin’ somewhere?” he pointed gruffly towards your sleek black, shiny stove in your hands. 

“Oh—I think there’s something wrong with my gas line. My landlord’s looking into it,” you say, trying to sound as inconvenienced as possible. “In the meantime this is my substitute for the next week or so.”

He hums lowly. 

You guess he is the same as you saw him last—maybe a bit more tired, and dressed accordingly to the weather. You try and not to take notice of the bolt cutter or the heavy-duty zip ties he has on his person, lest you make a bad joke he might not appreciate. 

“Mind letting me ‘ave a look?” 

You blink at his offer and shake your head profusely. “I don’t want to trouble you more than I already have.”

“Rubbish,” he interjects roughly. “Just let me know the time, and I can swing by.” Simon grabs some butane canisters, engulfing you around him for a split moment. You think of his arms around your waist; the memory is scored into you, you can still feel the phantom weight of it. 

Your eyes immediately search for anything else other than him—silently praying he’s not some mind reader. Politely taking a step back from his space, you concede and nod in small. 

“Alright, thank you. I appreciate it.” 

He follows you to the register, a scene all too familiar for your liking. Simon lets you go ahead first and while you ready your phone to tap on the point-of-sale system, you eye him covertly and hold out your arm as if to block him in jest. He seems to find it amusing.

A lazy smirk appears on the corner of his lips. You think you prefer him this way rather than his impassive manner. Efforts to engage in more one-sided conversations seem a bit easier now—only because you know you’re about to separate ways again. You wait for Simon to finish up and before you could even take a step further from him, he stops you. 

“You’re walkin’?” 

The wind whips your hair against your cold cheeks when you look back at him.

“Yeah,” you reply. “It’s not far from home.”

“An’ where’s home?” Simon crosses his arms. There is a strange feeling that he isn’t going to like your answer either way. 

“Just three blocks or so down the road,” you say apprehensively. “It’s not bad—I quite like the walk.”

He nods lightly but seems to disregard it all the same.

“Get in,” Simon says offhandedly; his keys clinks as a black Hilux flash in the distance. “I’ll drop you off.”

“—You don’t have to.”’

“I ain’t askin’.”

You’re about to protest some more but he’s walking back to his truck as if he knows you’ll follow—which you do but that’s besides the point. It reminds you of your first impression of him; a mix of coarse manners. It’s as if he doesn’t know his actions to be kind.

He opens the door to the passenger side for you as you give him a sheepish thanks. When the door closes and he tracks around his car, you clandestinely feel the outline of your mobile in your pockets. You figure you know him well enough, though you remind yourself to be vigilant should anything happen. 

“Righ’, your address.” He asks as the engine comes alive. You answer accordingly, getting ready to tell him the way back to your building. He seems to know your location the moment you mention the street name with the way he scoffs out a mutter, “three blocks my arse.”

The heating from the air conditioning system is immediate, you’re relieved to feel the blasts of warm air hitting your cool skin even from beneath the layers of your clothes. 

The conversation is light as he pulls out from the parking lot. Simon makes a casual remark about you wandering around in sub-zero temperature at night. It was at this time that perhaps you might have overshared. 

You begin to tell him all about your car issues, then your gas line, then your water boiler and how you’re lodging an application to get your water meter tested for leaks. Despite the negative circumstances you find yourself in, you couldn't help but laugh at your own predicament. Talking animatedly at such length to the quiet man who doesn't seem to mind your prattling. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” He drawls when you finish. You hum and stare past the street lights. 

Simon moves his gaze surreptitiously from the road to you. He wonders why you stopped talking, he wanted to hear your voice more—wanted to hear those laughs that sounds like bells to him. He wants you to continue to tell him how awful your life has been, and how he can make it better.

In the past week he wondered why it was easier to overfill your engine with oil or mess with your unit systems instead of just shooting you a text. There is a definite guilt in his conscience when he looks back at his actions; nothing proud of the things he did to get your attention—but regret? Nonexistsent. 

Because where he’s at right now, driving you home in his motor, it makes it all worth it. 

“I can see about it,” He brings it up as he turns the corner to your street.

You stare at him incredulously. It’s hard to believe this man who seems so detached and devoid of any sentiments could be so courteous and generous with his time. 

“You’ve done so much for me already.” You shake your head gently. “Besides, I’m already in the process of calling around. It should be all in order–”

“How much they chargin’ you?” he puts the vehicle in park, leaning back slightly as he looks ahead before moving lazily to you.

“Umm.. “ You trail and grimace when you reluctantly say a four figure amount, knowing you’re just proving his point—indicative with the increasingly smug look on his face. “But I’m paying for convenience aren’t I? And it can't be helped, I’ve done my research—unless you know someone who does it for cheaper–”

“Yeah,” he cuts you off gravely. “Me.”

You bite your lip and drop your hand in defeat, “I still haven’t gotten you back for my groceries last time.”

“You still goin’ on about that?” He raises his brows at you, as if it was odd for you to hold onto something that was so insignificant. Simon exhales and regards you with his brown eyes.

“So what’s it gonna be?”

You practice fiscal rectitude ever since you moved out—can’t afford anything less. You do your due diligence, keep a spreadsheet when things get complicated, you make sure your credits and savings are on track. So when you make your round of calls, you know you can’t accept any first quote—but here he is, proposing a much nicer offer. 

The last thing you want is to take advantage of someone; more so, be in more debt with a high compounding interest rate with someone like Simon. As kind and considerate he seems to be, you are highly suspicious that he is doing so purely out of the goodness of his heart—a case in which you hope that you’re wrong. 

However after living in the cold, big city, you learn that everyone here has a motive. Not to mention, it would be a lie if you said that his appearance doesn’t unsettle you in the slightest. You’ve never really rubbed shoulders with people—or more specifically—men like him. And as disgustingly classist and discriminatory as it might sound, it comes from a cautious place.

As a woman on your own, you now live alone; far from the immediate support of your family. Should anything happen, you need to figure it out and help yourself. 

So you do what you think is best; you give him the benefit of the doubt. You surmise the pragmatic warnings in your head are just disguised as bigotry, and you are above that. 

Instead, you let him in. You expect him every few days or so after six in the evening—ten in the weekend morning. Simon’s frequent visits to your apartment fits seamlessly to your schedule. The sight of him working away at your engine and your unit systems is beginning to be a familiar one. 

He takes his coffee black; his tea with a splash of milk. There’s no music when he works away, so you fulfill it with useless chatter. You’d like to believe he appreciates the noise pollution from your side—there is never any protest from him when you do anyway. 

One afternoon, you almost leap into him with joy when he calls you to your bathroom, and you feel the warm water hitting your palms from when he twisted the handle. You imagine finally crawling into bed without shivering now—which is a huge plus since you feel a cold catching. 

On top of that, he has fixed the issue going on with your water bills, and your gas stove. You feel light as a feather with each problem he fixes, feeling as if you finally have control over your life. 

Much to your chagrin, Simon takes no reimbursement, not even a charity meal—which is upsetting because you feel as if you’re exploiting the poor man. He comes and leaves without so much as uttering a word of himself, making him remain more or less a stranger to you. Your efforts to learn more about him is met with a curt one-worded answer:

Does your family live close by?

No.

Do you have any siblings?

No.

What’s your last name?

Riley.

Do you have a football team you support?

Man. U.

What do you like about them?

Nothin’.

There is no inclination that he is willing to give himself away anytime soon; this didn’t bother you in the slightest—

Until one late night, a sudden haze of paranoia takes over your senses. Your rhythmic heartbeats run a little faster; your mind is restless with a nonsensical impression that you’re being tricked—but by what? You don't know yourself. 

The laptop emits a glaring blue light in the dead of the night. You bite your nails as you search up his name. Nothing. Typing his name on every social platform you can think of and clicking each profile with the alliterations of his name—zero results. 

Your fingers hover over the keyboards as you hesitate your next search—fearing as if he, himself is in the room with you. After a few moments of stillness, you proceed anyway. Much to your simultaneous relief and defeat, his name doesn’t appear in any offender registries. 

You sigh and rub your hand down your face before closing your laptop; leaving you to sit in the dark and contemplate your ill suburban-like preconceptions on the goodwill of an innocent, yet seemingly, ghost of a man. 

An email notification from your phone distracts you from your moral conundrum, pulling you from your pensive reflection. It was a reminder for your five-week cooking class a friend recommended when you attended her end of year dinner. In the midst of everything the past week has thrown at you, you’ve forgotten all about your long-awaited cooking courses. 

Checking the time and venue for the first class, you make a reminder on your phone in the case another series of unfortunate events occurs. 

Simon is still working away at your car; he tells you all the issues going with your engine and how much time it will take for him to repair. It sounds pretty serious when he talks you through it—but really you’re just grateful he’s even looking at the piece of junk, even while he adamantly refuses for you to take it to the shop, claiming he can do better. 

With your car still out of commission, you’re left with no choice but to rely on public transport.

Giving yourself ample time to take into account delays, you head out to your door in a rush right after you clock off from work. Before you could even step outside the threshold of your home, Simon unexpectedly appears before you; hands curled into a fist by his chest as if he is about to knock on the door. 

“Oh!—Good evening,” you chirp, flashing him a smile. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to come today.” Pulling out your phone, you frown and look over any misread texts you might’ve missed from him.

“I was just ‘round,” he responds in indifference. “Thought I’d drop by, sort your car out.” Simon eyes your handbag and the keys you have clenched in your hand. 

“Where you off to?” 

“I just have this cooking class I signed up for about a month ago,” you say eagerly in the pretense of containing your unease when he looks down at you with his arms crossed. “I’m so sorry, Simon. I have to get going, bus leaves in five and–”

“Didn’t think t’ ask me, then?” 

You look up at him, as if contemplating the words he uttered is sincere or not. “I’d hate to impose and waste your time..”

“Tellin’ me how to spend my time?” His bite of a question reduces you to a flustered mess, copiously denying any negative implications he might have. 

Simon can’t help but scoff and twist his lip at the sight. Honestly, how you get by without him all your life is something he can’t wrap his head around. Luckily for you, your life expectancy just went up now that you’re with him—albeit, he admits, he is still a lesser man—though he promises hell would freeze over before he sees you with a better, deserving man.

“Relax,” he says with a brusque reassurance. “Go on—give us the location.”

It takes you a moment to register his words before you weakly trail after him. You figure asking if he is okay to take you would just be a waste of your breath. So you acquiesce and follow him to his parked truck, let him open the door for you, and pretend that you didn’t feel the graze of his fingertips against your back. 

Once Simon settles into his own and turns the key, he covertly adjusts his blind spot mirror until you come into view. He watches as you fuss with your seatbelt then to your bag, knowing just how anxious he makes you feel.

You’re a good girl and he hates that you know it too. Carrying yourself just a little high but never stooping low enough to condescend. You play nice; give him the time of day—but he knows you would rather send him on his way should you be given the choice. 

That’s why it makes it all so difficult for him—knowing you know your worth to be hanging around a man like him. Simon can’t ask you to bend over so he can fuck you stupid in the backseat of his truck. You’d probably turn your pretty nose up and slap his face like the proper princess you are. 

And worst of all is that he’d take it; he knows he’ll still have the affection to chase. Like a lurcher tracking blood, sweat, piss—you can go anywhere you like and it’ll never be far enough. For it to be called an exaggeration on his part would be a lie. It is still a viable option reserved for the worst, but you'll probably do something smart and get the police involved. 

Which is why he’s on his best behaviour. So that you could possibly see the vestiges of goodness in him and think him fit to be yours. Simon will never know if he’s the kind to ever settle for marriage; nothing of the sort ever crosses his mind when he thinks beyond the present—always assuming something between a proper burial or a carcass rotting away from an MIA.

And yet with you, he finds himself curious. 

Curious of what it's like to have the whole white picket fence. What's it like for you to call him ‘love.’  What it would be like to have you love him unconditionally; the kinds of arguments you’ll have, and how devastatingly sweet you would be during the make-up sex. Simon will go on further to toy with the idea of a couple of brats crawling around your feet— 

He figures he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there. 

Nonetheless, it’s irrefutable. His nihilistic tendencies subsides when he thinks of you. Simon is daring to change the narrative for himself, and he needs your help to achieve it—because in all honesty? Simon has declared a silent proclamation on the day you called him your husband that he will not accept a life where it isn’t realised. 

Soon enough, the building you’ve checked over a dozen times finally appears ahead. Simon pulls into the lot and just as you’re about to thank him, he tells you to wait as he steps out of the vehicle. 

Your hands pause at the buckle as you follow him walking around the hood of the car, blankly staring before it registers to you that he’s to open your side of the door like a gentleman. Keeping a bashful smile, you thank him in quiet—almost embarrassed that he’s gone through the trouble for the kind gesture. You peek from behind to see him follow you into the lobby—but not before pushing the door ahead from beside you. 

A blonde lady with a neatly tied bun warmly greets at the sight of you two walking in. “Are you two here for the cooking session at six?” 

“Oh, just me,” you clarify as she instructs you to sign your attendance form. 

“Apologies, it’s because couples have a special two for one deal.” 

As if you’ve both been stricken with the same thought; Simon’s eyes meets yours when you whip your head up at him. 

“Do you.. ?” The question never fully leaves your lips as he rubs the side of his chin in contemplation. Simon almost has to contain the smug look on his face when she advises the offer. He never truly believed in some kind of divine intervention—but this surely has to be some kind of providence sent from his manifestations. 

“You always sayin’ that I needed to ‘elp out more ‘round the house; weren’t ya, love?”

The lady behind the desk lights up at his inclination to join before fetching a registration form for him to sign. Meanwhile, you look at him with uncertainty—as if you can’t believe he would willingly choose to spend his Friday night learning how to sauté and blanch vegetables and proteins. 

“Are you sure, Simon?” You ask in a whisper. “I can find my way home. You don’t have to accompany me.” 

“Always meant t’ learn anyway.” He regards you nonchalantly. “You was goin’ on about payin’ me back; think of it as this way of doin’ that.” He signs the waiver and she gestures to the double glass doors to the right. 

“You’ll just ‘ave to pretend t’ be my wife again,” Simon murmurs before opening the door for you. “Hope you can stomach it.”

You’re ready to refute him with a flurry of excuses—that you’re humbled by his kindness, and that you’re grateful to have met someone like him; you can leave out the part where his attention and threatening disposition makes you nervous. But in the end, you would never reproach him when he’s shown you nothing but consideration for your poor situation. 

Instead, you hold his hand and squeeze thoughtfully. 

“I’m happy you’re here.” You smile softly, hoping that your sincerity reaches him. 

Simon looks down at your small hand around his; your fingers outstretched around his palm that you’re unable to close. And for the first time in his life he doesn’t have any smart quips in his arsenal, only settling for a subdued hum. He doesn’t actually quite believe your words—not yet at least; but he would settle for this and take what you’re giving him for now. 

You both take your spots at an unoccupied kitchen island. The ingredients are neatly laid out along the left side of the table, and by the looks of it, you’ll be making an elaborate roast for your first lesson. 

Taking out your pen and notebook diligently from your bag, you wait patiently for the culinary mentor to start. Tapping your fingers, you glance around the room and notice Simon is one of the few men here—endearingly sticking out like a sore thumb; looking entirely out of place. 

The people around are starting to notice the six foot something guy with a hardened mien that’s attended the class; suppressed giggles and glances his way are natural—for you yourself would never admit that you actually find his fair lashes against his warm, brown eyes so, so pretty.

He catches you looking and you regret pretending not to, like you justified what you did was wrong. That sudden insecurity you had when his arms were around you creeps back in. You can’t afford to feel something—not when you’re still figuring out what he meant to you: a passing acquaintance? A friend?

..

You refuse to entertain the idea he was anything more than that.

The thing is, you’ve never been the one to start things without intention—loneliness persists in your day to day life but you can’t see yourself settling for the first person to look your way. And with how convenient he slots himself within your schedule, you refuse to be romanced by proximity. Besides he doesn't see the type to want to win your parents over or even the one to want a serious, lifetime connection. 

Thankfully, the mentor, vetted by prestigious culinary experience, finally begins—distracting you from your thoughts. It continues without a hitch, you follow along easily and Simon is surprisingly cooperative; washing his hands and spatchcocking the chicken with such ease that it earned a commendation from the chef herself.  

His sudden popularity among the teachers and your peers has you simmering with a longing,  envious admiration. You catch one of the mentors passing by to comment on your potatoes. You deflate once she dismissively approves without a second glance. 

Simon gives you a condescending look as he washes the carrots. 

“Don’t patronise me,” you state half-heartedly, resuming your mash with a little too much force. 

“Ain’t said nothin’.” He drones smartly in response. 

Simon cuts the tomatoes beside you and you’re reminded again just how overwhelming he is against your whole being. The knife in his hand could easily be passed off as a butterknife with how comically small it is when he uses it. The tattoos peeking from his sleeves—you don’t know why you’ve bothered to notice, but the motifs he has painted on his skin is rather grim.

You know better than to shrink into yourself around sharp objects—and yet, your mind couldn’t help but wander; call it feminine intuition, but you can’t help but feel as if he likes you. 

Truthfully, the idea of it hasn’t left when his lips touched your fingertips.

Could it be absurd to think so? Too self-absorbed? With how nonchalant he presents himself to be, his actions lead you to believe he might be into you. You are highly suspicious of his game; the theory that his benevolence might be a quid pro quo. 

The thought is onerous—what if you’re to refuse him? What would he do then? Whatever it is, you certainly couldn't stop him.

It sits heavy in your mind, the expectation for reciprocity. You feel burdened by his kindness, his attention—as welcome as they may be, they’re unwarranted. Simon doesn’t look like the type to struggle with attention from anyone, so why does he chase what he can’t have? 

Doesn’t he see what kind of person you are by now? A good, every day samaritan who is far too boring to enjoy unlawful adrenalines. Surely he can tell by how tongue-tied you are by his dark humour, or how his antisocial disposition upsets you whenever you try and make a connection—so why does he continue?

Perhaps you’re to send a subliminal, so that he can see that you are a friend to him.

There really is no ego when considering his possible, romantic attachments. In fact, you might even go as far as to say that he can do better. This is not you demeaning yourself in the slightest way, but forecasting the future ahead; you know that it’s not fair to surmise the kind of values he has, but you think you’ve got a pretty good idea. 

The needs you want in a partner, you don’t think Simon can deliver. You don’t doubt he’ll be good to you, but the discrepancies are already too stark to miss. There is a distant vision of you both fighting; you frustrated at him that he’s nothing like the man you made up in your dreams and him aggrieved at the expectations you set for him on top of the constant faults you point out. 

Without his knowledge, you made his choice for him. He's to look elsewhere because he can’t be what you need him to be; he will surely resent you in the process if you ask him to. 

A sigh absentmindedly leaves your lips; the irony of playing house despite the complexities you feel for the man. 

You didn’t know it then, but with your thoughts endlessly preoccupied with dozens of hypotheticals; you unknowingly drop the freshly cut and very wet potatoes into a pot of hot oil instead of water. 

Simon reacts before you do. You gasp at the sight of oil bubbling over, making sharp, crackling noises and spilling over the countertop. His hand closes around your side, critically setting you aside as he reaches for the handle—unconcerned with how the searing oil splashes onto his forearm with a nasty hiss. Simon wrenches the pot away from the stove and drops it promptly into the sink. 

“Are you okay?”

Immediate guilt wrenches into your stomach. You’ve been assassinating his character in your head when he’s placed himself in the frontline of danger for you. 

Shaking your head you retort back, “are you okay?” 

Two of the mentors came by to check in. Luckily, aside from a few drops of oil on the floor, the damage is minimal. Simon brushes you off when you try and point out how he might’ve been burned in the process—he won’t hear you; you sink further into guilt. 

The remainder of the lesson passes with you leaning close to him, fretting over his hand. Again and again you whisper of his wellbeing, the same quiet questions into his ear; each one he dismisses, as though your concern were nothing more than a nuisance. 

You sit in the passenger seat with a warm, manila bag resting on your lap, the savoury smell of roast filling the car. A slight frown tugs at the corner of your lips as you look towards him. His hand is now red, and you are unrest with the lack of consideration he gives it. You suggest stopping by a hospital, a GP, the chemist—anything. 

He ignores you and takes the route directly to your home. You don’t get out of the car unless you see to his burn—this he inclines all too easily. 

Simon is now perched comfortably on your sofa, making himself at home with his head against the backrest and his legs spread apart. 

You sigh as you gather your supplies under your arm. Padding through the hallway, you crouch before you sit on the floor, placing the items onto the low wooden table. Setting aside the teas and biscuits you haphazardly made for him, you gesture for him to hold out his hand—in which he wordlessly obliges. 

It is a nasty sight; bright, red, angry, shiny patches. You wonder as to why he’s so vehement in tolerating the pain instead of treating it straight away. Male ego—you suppose. 

Applying a generous dollop of the burn-aid gel, you soothe the area gently so as to not irritate it further. Unfortunately, the gel only came in travel-sized tubes from the first aid kit—and you’ve squeezed it dry knowing this burn will continue to singe. 

Which is why you’ve brought out your high-end aloe vera gel from your vanity that you use explicitly for your aesthetics. It’s not meant explicitly for a superficial injury such as this, but you are confident it’ll soothe his skin and alleviate the pain. 

“Keep applying this throughout the next few days,” you advise, offering out the sleek, verdant cube with slight gold accents. 

Simon scoffs as he waves away your vetted, topical treatment that eats up your savings, mumbling out an affronted line claiming it’ll heal on its own. Your brows and lips are downturned at his petulant attitude. 

What is it with men and medical attention?

“Why are you being so difficult?” you finally say, exasperated.

“Difficult?” he repeats.  “I’m sittin’ ‘ere like a proper patient, ain’t I?” You have nothing to say back; only a scolding, pleading look. Simon concedes with a roll of his eyes. 

“Alrigh’ fine. Give it ‘ere”

He gives it a look over before raising a light brow and setting it beside him. 

“You’re posh.” Simon comments unwarrantedly. 

“And you ain’t livin’ right.” You quip smartly, slipping into a hint of his cockney accent. Unravelling and cutting a loose fitting gauze, you carefully apply it to his forearm all the while he watches you from above. When you’re satisfied that it’s secure, you begin to pack the supplies back into the kit. 

Simon glances over your work before lazily tossing his arm to the side. 

“What?” he grunts. “You not gonna give it a kiss better?” His tone is dry, but you know it was his poor attempt at a joke.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes despite the slight smile playing on your lips. Your hands suddenly slow before deliberating into a complete stop as you look back in hindsight of the day—no weeks, that had transpired. 

“I’m very sorry, Simon..” You feel so small at the apology; not daring to look at his face lest he gives you a look that sinks you further into shame. 

“Wha’ for?” 

“For everything.” Your eyes widened slightly at the statement. “I think I’m bad luck on you.” 

This he laughs at. “Yeah, maybe.” He thinks it’s funny; but you are sincere. 

“You’re really kind.” You finally have the courage to face him when you say, “Truly; I don’t think I deserve all your help, but you insist anyway—and for that I’m really grateful. I mean it. If there’s a chance for me to repay the favours, you just call and I’ll come running.”

Simon is silent for the longest time, long enough for you to wonder if you’ve said something out of line. You’re about to break the stillness but he beats you to it.

“Wha’ if I told you I wasn’t?” 

Like a stone cast into a sleeping pond. 

“That I’m a selfish man; an angry man; a righ’ pissed geezer. Would you regret lockin’ in your door with me inside then?” You don’t know why Simon is trying to scare you but you call his bluff—not because you don’t believe his words, but out of something akin to survival rather than courage.

“I find that hard to believe.” You shut the kit down with a sharp clip. “And I only regret to have caused you so much trouble.”

He hums at that before adding, “guess you have.”

“You’re supposed to say the opposite.” You admonish playfully, giving him a slight glare. You laugh lightly, deciding the banter is more comfortable than his usual brooding silence—even if his humour isn’t exactly to your liking. 

“Thought honesty’s the best policy.” He shrugs—and you don’t know why you feel just a little hurt by that. 

“Then why do you do it?” the question slips before you even think. 

Simon looks into the distance before responding simply, “Maybe I’ve got too much time on my hands,” He sighs as he stretches lazily. “Comin’ over around yours like I lived ‘ere—that it’s dead sad seein’ you struggle like that, like you ain’t got a clue what you doin’.” His gaze drifts back to consider you once again.

“Or maybe I just like you.” He snags a twisted, cynical smile when he scoffs out, “God knows; wha’ do you think?” 

You don’t know if he’s making fun of you or if he’s genuinely being honest—you don’t like either possibility. 

“I think it’s getting pretty late.” Your reply is soft and ambivalent, avoiding his stare as you get up to excuse yourself. You didn’t exactly lie; it’s well past midnight and where you should be huddled under the covers—you’re tending to a poor man’s wounds for the past hour, entertaining conversations that could be misconstrued as something more.

His words find themselves in your heart. Instead of brushing them off like the dust on your shelf you wipe before placing the box back in their place, you’re immediately confronted by the need to answer. 

You are sure he’s a good man—not the sort you’d usually find yourself wanting—but no reasonable cause for you to turn him down either. And thus, the feeling you have is horrible. You don’t know why this man is insistent on you. While whether his intentions are borne out of pure kindness or to leverage himself in your heart is unclear, you do know you don’t feel anything for him. 

There are certain qualities you imagine yourself with, characters in which he seems to fall short in. Simon is a great man; a better friend, in fact. You’re torn with the chance of losing him altogether—and perhaps what he would do should you refuse him. 

Treading lightly back to the living room, you are surprised to find Simon completely knocked out on your couch. He sleeps upright with the side of his face resting on one side, chest rising with a slow and deep ebb and flow. 

“Simon..” You whisper, hesitant as you approach closer to his being. “You can’t stay here..” 

Looking at the time, you purse your lips and decide that the pity you have for him weighs far too heavy than the boundaries you’ve set up. Quietly gathering a spare fleece blanket, you dim down the lights and drag your heater closer to the couch. 

You head to your bedroom, pausing only to glance over your shoulder at Simon’s sleeping form before softly closing and locking the door behind you.

[indiewritesxoxo]

pick your player ft. cyberbully!Sukuna x f2p!Reader

cyberbully!Sukuna who probably would've punched someone for suggesting he'd be in the position he was in now - giving a back massage after purchasing processed junk and slushies after an extraordinarily long day of work for his very pregnant girlfriend while you shopped for new curtains for the bigger apartment he already signed the lease for

cyberbully!Sukuna who can't stop thinking about the ring in his pocket when you complain about packing up more stuff, moving boxes already stacked by the door, as if he'd ever let you lift a finger like that

cyberbully!Sukuna who isn't a coward, definitely not, he just hasn't quite figured out how to pop the question, if he should take you out to your favorite park or dress up in some stupid tux to ask you in a ridiculous restaurant

cyberbully!Sukuna who insists on helping you stand every time, a hand on your back when you plop down on your gaming chair, chiding him into getting online to play again together since it'd been so long, but the second he logs in, he sees a new cosmetic item sitting in his inventory

a fucking ring

cyberbully!Sukuna who's once again stunned, but you just giggle, giving him a cute little coy look like you'd been planning this, stealing his thunder yet again, just waiting for him to accept

cyberbully!Sukuna who calls you a brat before begrudgingly equipping it then getting down on his knee by your chair to dig the ring box out of his pocket, popping it open and seeing surprise flash across your face for once, pretty lips parting in a shocked 'o'

cyberbully!Sukuna who knows it's not traditional, but hey, nothing about the two of you had ever been normal

cyberbully!Sukuna who isn't scowling for once when he asks you to marry him, despite the little scoff that scores his blunt question

cyberbully!Sukuna who chuckles at how quickly you say yes, tears in the corner of your eyes when you nodded and eagerly held your hand out for him to slide the ring on

cyberbully!Sukuna who has won a lot of games, but he'd never really felt like a winner until he sees you sitting there, pretty and pregnant and just glowing, the sun to his shade and the light in his life

cyberbully!Sukuna who takes you to sign the marriage license the next day, itching to tie you to him in every way possible, and sure, titles never mattered much to him before, but he wanted to be a husband if he was yours

cyberbully!Sukuna who lets you make the decisions, pick out the furniture and hands over his card when you move into your new place, holds in his anxieties at the appointments when you want to wait to find out what the baby will be when it's born

cyberbully!Sukuna who thinks maybe part of him never fully understood what it meant to have a kid until he's holding your hand and your pushing it out, pale and sweating and silently freaking out, choking on the lump in his throat until he hears the first cry, but he's still focused on you, wiping the tears away from your face and brushing back your hair when they gently place the baby on your chest and announce it's a boy

cyberbully!Sukuna who isn't sure what the feeling in his chest is, pride and affection and an almost disgusting amount of love stirred hearing your sweet voice coo at the small bundle in your arms, how you glance up at him and grin before whispering that that he looks just like his daddy

cyberbully!Sukuna who gets used to carrying car seats and changing diapers and swaddling an infant, even if he sometimes feels an occasional twinge of ridiculous jealousy that he's sharing you with a tiny version of him

cyberbully!Sukuna who watches you fall asleep next to him, head resting on his shoulder while your baby dozes off in his arm, and thinks to himself that at least he'll never be bored again

one two three four five six seven eight

a/n: well this is the end of cyberbully!Sukuna! hope everyone enjoyed! more pick your player chapters can be found here. there will be some bonus content coming in the future <3

[mocha-chocolata]

Star of the Show

summary : dean’s about to make his pornographic debut

characters : black male reader x dean winchester

warnings : smut, recording, fingering, oral ( dean receiving ), dirty talk, sub dean, pet names, handjob, cum swallowing, i think that’s all

Raising his arm to shield his face, Dean hissed as the bright light attacked his eyes.

Y/N laughed as he pointed the at himself, licking his thumb to smooth over his eyebrows as he checked himself out. Despite the protests from the man lying beneath him on the couch, Y/N was absolutely sure the camcorder in his hands was one of the best frivolous purchases he’d ever made.

Being a hunter didn’t pay much— scratch that, it didn’t pay at all. A few odd jobs here and there guaranteed some pay, but for majority of the year, hunters went around killing monsters for the love of the game. Still, the limited income didn’t stop Y/N from forcing Dean to pull over at a Radio Shack during one of their hunts and allow him to run around like a toddler in a candy store.

“Ready to make history, baby?” Y/N asked, grinning as he aimed the camera down at Dean.

Dean stared up at him, defiance oozing off of him as his attempts at modesty were rendered unsuccessful. Y/N panned the camera up and down the naked body of his lover, blood rushing south as he imagined all of the things they did behind closed doors being documented for eternity. Or for however long a $20 video camera kept things stored.

“I hate you,” Dean grumbled. “Can we get this over with?”

Y/N rolled his eyes. He leaned over and set the camera down on the coffee table, ensuring their bodies were still in frame before he turned his attention back to the prize before him.

“Don’t act like you aren’t turned on,” Y/N said. “We get to make our own porno. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to show off these skills.”

“What skills?”

Y/N huffed, poking his chest out as he switched off the usual happy-go-lucky Y/N he was during the day. If Dean wanted a challenge, that’s what he was going to get.

Y/N leaned down, attacking Dean’s neck in a series of quick, consecutive kisses leading down from behind his ear to the nape of his back. Dean’s calloused hands gripped Y/N’s back, heavy breathing mixed with the sound of the rain outside pattering against the motel’s window. Y/N’s hand grabbed Dean’s jaw, lifting it so he could suck on the sweet spot right above his Adam’s apple. That elicited a strangled grunt as Dean’s back arched off of the couch.

“Hurry up,” Dean grunted. “Nobody’s gonna pay to see this.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Y/N begrudgingly sat up, grabbing the bottle of lube from the pile of clothes beside the couch. He had come back to the motel more than prepared for their midnight activities. Plus, Y/N needed to restock anyway. The price of lube added up quite fast when dating a man who never got tired of taking dick.

The original idea of buying a camcorder was purely innocent. Why not document the adventures of three hunters riding around America fighting forces invisible to the average human? But in true Dean fashion, he wrote a check he wasn’t ready to cash.

The words “You trying to make a porno?” awoke a beast inside of Y/N even he was unaware existed. Anyone sane would’ve realized it was just a joke. Hunter weren’t sane people, though.

Y/N squirted a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, gently pressing them to Dean’s puckered hole. He worked his fingers inside slowly, eyes locked in on Dean’s face twisting and turning as pleasure overtook him.

Fingering Dean was his favorite thing to do. Watching as his boyfriend came undone by only his fingers, Y/N felt an immense amount of pride as he worked his fingers in even deeper. Dean’s moans were overpowered by the thunder as Y/N pumped his fingers in and out at a steady pace.

Dean grabbed ahold of his wrist, hooded eyes pleading with him to ease up, even though they both knew that was the last thing he wanted. “Please…”

“You asked for this, remember?”

Dean threw his head back as the tip of Y/N’s fingers brushed up against his prostate. His other hand dug into the cushions beneath him. Y/N had him trained to fight off all urges to wrap his hand around his leaking dick and stroke himself until he exploded everywhere. Even if that’s all he wanted to do in the moment.

“Gonna cum from just my fingers?” Y/N asked, picking up the pace of his fingers. “Come on, baby, I thought you were more of a man than that.”

“F-Fuck you.”

Y/N took that as an invitation to add a third finger, jabbing all three into his prostate at a lightning speed pace. Dean whimpered as his body squirmed. Things only grew worse when Y/N wrapped his hand around Dean’s throbbing dick, stroking him in a pace contrasting the quick one of the fingers going in and out of his ass.

“Oh fuck! Y-Y/N, please, I can’t—“

“Shut up. You wanted this,” Y/N said, grinning wickedly as he watched his boyfriend come undone beneath him. “Ready to cum?

Dean nodded feverishly, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he felt his orgasm rapidly approaching. It felt so good. He couldn’t focus on anything other than the feeling of Y/N attacking his prostate and stroking the head of his leaking tip. Pathetic whimpers fell from his mouth with reckless abandon. The macho man attitude he always carried with him was nothing but a thing of the distant past as he rolled his hips, desperate to feel the sweet release he waited all day for.

“Go ahead,” Y/N whispered, lenient enough to stroke Dean a little faster. “Cum for me, baby.”

With the pull of the trigger, Dean yelled at the top of his lungs as his dick shot out copious amounts of cum. His vision blurred for a moment as he arched his back completely off of the couch. The sensation of Y/N wrapping his mouth around his dick as he continued to jerk his hip upwards, the wettest of mouths engulfing the entirety of his dick, only prolonged the painfully pleasurable experience.

Y/N watched with intrigued as Dean’s body fell limp against the couch. He focused on swallowing the cum inside of his mouth in a few swallows, humming sweetly at the salty taste lingering on his tongue before he pulled off with a salacious pop. Some cum dribbled from the side of his mouth, but he refused to wipe it away. Not until he showed the camera the mess his baby had made for him.

Y/N leaned over and grabbed the camera, smiling like a madman as he aimed it at his face. He was sure he looked like a mess, hair wild with sweat dripping down his face, but he knew it would sell if they were ever to sell it. Probably wouldn’t, as Y/N didn’t want anyone to see Dean come undone the way he did.

“Ladies and gents, that’s how you make a grown ass man come with a few fingers and a little mouth action,” Y/N said, laughing at his own ridiculousness as he turned the camera round.

Dean was as still as a corpse, except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. Y/N panned the camera up and down his muscular body, painted with some of the strands of cum that Y/N didn’t manage to swallow. Once he was satisfied with the shots, he moved down to the star of the show.

Dean’s hole was mesmerizing in person, but to see it through the screen of a camera seemed to ignite something deep within Y/N. Salivating, Y/N got a close up off the puffy hole dripping with remnants of lube, the entrance opening and closing as it tried to recover from the euphoric assault.

Y/N finally turned the camera off, even if he could’ve done with some more close ups of Dean’s body. “You still with us, baby?”

With his eyes remaining clothes, Dean took a few moments before he had enough energy to utter the words, “Shut… the… fuck… up.”

Y/N chuckled. “I think that video alone would make you a star with the gays worldwide.”

Dean’s arms instinctively wrapped around Y/N’s broad shoulders as he laid on top of him, inhaling the mixture of sweat, cum and faint cologne as he buried his face in his boyfriend’s neck.

“But I think I prefer if you stay just mine,” Y/N said, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.

Dean’s mind was still a blur of fuzziness as he nodded, feeling the familiar allure of sleep slowly take over him.

“Always yours,” he muttered.

Then he fell into a much needed slumber.

[pileofboneswrites]

COMMISSION. vol. 1

SUMMARY — you're the weird tillerson girl, your brother's joke that you make billy look normal by comparison, but you don't really care. you enjoy life off the ranch, living in town and contributing to the community. your art studio is your sanctuary, and the day that rhett abbott walks in asking to commission a painting for his parents anniversary, your world flips upside down.

PAIRING — rhett abbott x fem!tillerson!reader

WORD COUNT — 3.4k

WARNINGS — swearing, tillersons?, pining, reader is extremely embarrassed, no mentions of y/n — is referred to as "my girls" (by luke) & tillerson (by rhett), bearly proofread (we die like men)

A/N — i am on episode three of outer range, please be kind to me, ALSO LEWIS PULLMAN,, THE MAN YOU ARE.

MASTERLIST

shock doesn't even begin to cover what flashes through your chest when you see rhett abbott sitting in the front waiting area of your studio. you're sitting in the main office, sifting through paperwork when you feel eyes on the side of your face. you're alone, or you should be. your assistant is out running errands, and you weren't running any art classes today. so, feeling eyes on you, set you on edge. then, you look up, eyes catching on a familiar face. not necessarily an unwelcome one—your brothers might not feel the same—by your standards at least. just, rhett is the last person you'd ever expect to be here. 

you've been staring too long. you stand up, straightening your shirt as you walked through the glass doors, and out into the small waiting area. he stands immediately, pulling his hat off. 

"abbott," you say, "what brings you in?"

he looks almost conflicted for a moment, like maybe he's rethinking his decision to walk in here. you can hardly say you blame him. your families have been feuding for years, long before either of you'd been born. 

"i, uh," he starts, then clears his throat. "i'd like to commission something... if you have time."

now that, surprises you even more. you'd known rhett socially in high school. he'd been friends with some of your friends, and their boyfriends. it was inevitable that you'd cross paths, well, that and you'd lived next door to his family your whole life. you'd been the weird tillerson girl; the quiet one covered in paint, sketchbook like an extension of you, barely rooted in reality. even two of your older brothers had made comments about you making your other brother, billy, look normal. you didn't care about ranching, the politics of it, or the money. you especially didn't care about the money. 

after high school, you'd took off to new york to study art. but, four years later, you returned to wabang. you'd felt like you'd left half of yourself behind when you left, and that had nothing to do with the ranch, or, selfishly, your family. you'd just missed wyoming. wabang was your home. so, begrudgingly, with your trust fund, you'd purchased a building in town, and turned it into an art studio, a non-profit that helped bring art back to your hometown. you'd helped fund the severely lacking art department at your former high school, and helped build a warm, caring community for the next generation of artists. 

you'd crossed paths with rhett and the other abbott's upon your return, but it was different. while before, most people respected you solely for your last name, tillerson's weren't to be fucked with, much less you, the whimsical, soft spot of your down-right scary older brothers. but now? you weren't just the weird tillerson girl. you were an active, loved, member of the community. you stood on your own two legs, not propped up by your family's legacy. you were consciously carving your own path forward. 

the abbott's had always been kind to you, especially cecilia, and later, amy. who frequented your art classes, a trail of questions about shading, technique and many other things falling from her, that you'd answer patiently, and warmly. rhett you'd seen around; nights at the bar, or bull riding. but, this might be the first time he'd looked you in the eyes and actually spoke to you since high school. 

"i've got time," you reply, tilting your head. "why don't you follow me,"

you turn, walking back into the main office. you quickly gather your paperwork up into a stack, and tuck it away. you bend sideways, pulling your portfolio out from one of the desk drawers as rhett settled, uncomfortably in the chair in front of your desk. 

"i don't often get commissions anymore unless they're huge ass murals for the town," you admit, setting the binder down. "what were you thinking?"

"it's my parents wedding anniversary in a couple of months," he says, eyes trained on your hands, which are folded on top of the binder in front of you. "my mom, she, uh,"

his blue eyes flick up to meet yours. 

"y'know those live painting's that they do now adays?"

you nod, "sure, i've done a few of them over the years,"

"i overheard her talking to rebecca, and she'd really wished she'd known that was a thing when she and my dad got married. so i was wondering, if i got the video of their wedding, if you might be able to recreate their first dance or something,"

your eyes light up, "yes. oh i'd love to do it."

he chuckles at your enthusiasm, lips quirking up, "my only concern,"

you know where this is going, "cost?"

he nods, "what's the damage gonna be?"

you take a deep breath and sit back, "that kind of depends on three things. medium; acrylic, oil or water colour. detail. and what exactly you're looking for. i can do mock up's, uh, sketches to give you an idea of what it could look like, but it'll be vague because you won't be able to see how the paint looks."

"sure," he's chewing on his bottom lip as he mulls over what you've said.

rhett is way out of his depth here, you know that, and so does he. so you lean forward, and flip open the binder.

"i can show you some finished examples. again, it'll give you an idea of what it could look like." he nods again, focusing in on your hands ghosting over the plastic lined pages.

you flip to an acrylic painting you'd done years ago, it was actually of rhett. something in your chest flared, embarrassment maybe? at the time, you hadn't realized it was him. you'd been sitting in the stands snapping pictures, and sketching what you saw. you'd gotten home that night, and stayed up until dawn. billy had come into your room to fetch you for breakfast when his eyes landed on the finished painting sitting on your easel. he'd tilted his head to the side, "why'd you paint rhett abbott?" he'd asked.

your eyes had flashed to the cowboy's back, scrunching your face up. "it's not... what?" billy had stepped up to the drying canvas, and pointed to the dark blue shirt, and then to the number. "abbott was the only one wearing blue last night," he'd said it so matter-of-factly that it left your face burning. of course billy of all people would notice that rhett was the only bull rider in blue that night. billy hadn't teased you, he'd just mutter "breakfast" and left, a melody following him as he swept out of your room.

your face is hot, as you flick past the page, settling on a different page. dear god, did he notice that? did he recognize himself? it was a long time ago. hopefully he hadn't. okay, maybe you'd noticed rhett a bit more than you were letting on, but you'd been warned about the abbott's your whole life. so, your pull towards rhett had been shoved down, ignored. you'd broken all kinds of family rules, shattered expectations, but getting close to the abbott's wouldn't break a rule, it would be setting your life on fire, and probably mean losing your brother's in the process. there'd be no coming back from that betrayal.

anyway, who's to say that rhett even saw you. you were strictly off limits in his family too. royal was polite to you when he'd occasionally pick amy up from class, but you could see the distain in his eyes clear as day. it was the same way he looked at your brothers, and father. you can't force your eyes up to see, you just tap the page, and turn the binder so he can see it better. it's your eldest brother luke, sitting on his favourite horse, staring out over one of your family's pastures.

"this would be an example of what water colour might look like," you say, wanting to disappear into the floor.

"wow," he mutters, leaning forward to get a better look. "you painted that?"

your chest tightens, "uh, yeah... it was for luke's graduation."

you lift a chunk of pages up, and flip it over, stopping on a family portrait you'd done of your family last year. your mother had been dropping hints about wanting one of all six of you to hang up over the fireplace for months, so, you'd forced your brothers into posing for reference shots, and then for her birthday you'd given it to her.

"this is from last year. i used oil paints. heavier canvas, and longer drying times."

you're barely getting through this consultation, and you're praying that your assistant, ivy would hurry her ass up. at least you'd have a buffer. you can feel his eyes on you again, and you flip to another print, the last one.

"this," you say, trying really hard to keep the nerves from leaking into your voice. "would be acrylic."

his eyes trail back down to the binder, and the silence that stretches has your heart in your throat. you'd just flipped. you didn't look. your eyes snap to the page, and your heart slams into your ribcage. good god. it's a piece you'd completely forgotten about all together. it's... well, you and rhett, and few other friends. an example portrait you showed in your intermediate classes, a group photo. it had been the best photo of yourself you'd ever seen. you were tucked into rhett's side, free arm tossed casually over your shoulder as he tried to make room for everyone.

it wasn't how you normally saw yourself in the slightest; you were smiling big, radiant beside him. if anything, it was how you wished to be seen. your reference photo for this one had been from yours and rhett's senior year. and if you remember correctly, rhett had taken it. a throw away group photo you hadn't thought about in years.

it was early june, you were at a field party your friends had dragged you along to and you'd stood on the outskirts taking pictures for the yearbook, trying to keep it pg. when rhett had snuck up behind you, stolen the camera from your hands and had called over your friends to get in. "you're always takin' pictures tillerson, you should be in some," he'd winked at you. winked. it had caught you so off guard that you'd laughed, and he'd managed to capture that moment. you still had the original photo stuck to your fridge, a small memento of simpler times.

"i remember this," rhett says, finger siding over his face, and then yours. "you were takin' pictures for the yearbook."

you swallow hard, trying and failing to calm yourself again. embarrassed seems to be the theme for today.

"yeah," you mumble, face burning. "uh, anyway,"

you shift uncomfortably in your seat, and then snap the book closed. need to fuckin' strip your portfolio of everything. you'd never been this embarrassed in your life. you'd shown these pieces to everyone who'd ever been interested in your art, and had never. never. felt this way about it. you finally lift your eyes up, and he's already looking at you. you're trying so damn hard to be professional, but you know the minute he leaves you're going to start throwing things.

"what were you thinking? do you have a preference?" you ask, voice small as you tear your eyes away from his, busying yourself with tucking your portfolio back into the drawer.

"i think i liked the oil paint, but you said that was more time consumin' so i'm guessin' that means more expensive?"

you nod, scrunching your face. then you hear a loud crash from the back of the studio, and you're on your feet, all but running, rhett hot on your heels. ivy's standing by the back door... well at least there used to be a door there. now, it's laying flat on the floor just a few inches from the doorway. ivy's got her arms hooked through bag handles, and a cardboard tray of iced coffees in her free hand. 

"shit! sorry," ivy says, staring at you wide eyed. "i just, i tried to open the fuckin' door and it came off it's hinges. 

you sigh, "it's fine. are you okay?"

she nods, "scared the shit outta me, but yeah, all good... uh, who's your shadow?"

she tips her chin forward, gesturing to rhett, who you're now hyperaware is directly behind you. he slips past you, hand brushing your lower back as he goes. you step forwards easing some of the bags out of ivy's grip. setting them down on the counter by the doorway. she flashes you a look that says he's hot. and you just shake your head sending her a pointed, not now look. rhett bends down, in the doorway, and then scoffs. 

"the wood around the frame looks like it's rottin', it's gonna have to be replaced." rhett straightens, picking the door up off the floor and setting it back into place. "it can stay like that, but you're gonna have to use the front door 'til it's fixed."

you groan, rubbing your temples, this is the last thing you need right now. you've got a gallery coming up, and then the town gala afterwards. you've really got no time to be chasing down a handyman or contractor, or whoever you're going to need to come in to fix this until later. and having a back door that falls in when you try and open it, means you're more likely to get broken into. not that the studio has much money floating around, but your art supplies are pretty pricey. especially when you live two hours from the closest art supply store. 

"great," you laugh humorlessly, "just fuckin' great." 

"i can, uh, fix it. for you?" rhett offers awkwardly, clearing his throat. 

your head snaps over to look at him, "seriously?"

"yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

"you do this, i'll wave the cost of your commission." 

his eyes widen, "really? wait— no. i couldn't—"

"rhett, i need this back door fixed, and i really don't have any time to call around and find someone. you'd really be helping me out."

"ok, uh, just, this is gonna take a couple hours, i don't think that's really fair."

"we have other things that are falling apart if you're that worried about fair," ivy cuts in, and you cast a sideways glance at her. "what?"

you mull it over. ivy's not exactly wrong. there's plenty of stuff that needs fixing, tables falling apart, cabinet doors that have long since fallen off. your concern is having rhett this close, for an extended period of time. you can already hear the small town gossip, and the heated arguments at your family dinner table over it. the back door needs fixed. rhett can't afford your services. win-win. sort of. you sigh, against your better judgement you nod. 

"she's right, we can trade. i'll give you a list of shit that needs fixin' and i'll do the painting's."

rhet smirks at you, "i think that'll work,"

you stick your hand out towards him, and he shakes it. 

"you got somethin' to put in front of this in the mean time? somethin' big." rhett asks, and you turn, eyes scanning the room. 

you settle on a paint cabinet, you gesture to it, and he nods. he follows you over, and while ivy scoots out of the way, the pair of you slowly shift it over to be in front of the doorway. once it's secured, you hear your eldest brother luke's voice echo from the front of the studio. damn it. damn it all to hell. what is my fuckin' luck today? you glance at rhett who's smile has disappeared, and you shuffle out to the front, ivy and rhett trailing behind you. he's standing in the hallway between the office and the waiting area. 

"luke," you say, trying to gauge his mood based on his posture. 

what ever mood he was in is instantly soured when his eyes land on rhett.

"what's he doin' here?" his voice is laced with venom, as he glares you down. 

"he's a customer," you snap back, meeting his energy. "he was placin' an order when the back door nearly took ivy out,"

luke relaxes ever so slightly, eyes landing on ivy, "you okay, sweetheart?"

she nods, "yeah. fine."

"what are you doin' here anyway?" you ask, annoyance dripping from your voice as you cross your arms over your chest.

"came to pick my girls up for lunch," he says, and you check your watch. 

it's noon alright. you'd entirely forgotten you'd agreed to going to lunch with ivy and luke. you really don't feel like going now. not when you'd already been dreading family dinner tonight, much less the third-degree you were likely going to get over lunch. you're not hungry now. 

"luke, i have to finish this consult, and honestly i'm not very hungry. you and ivy go ahead," 

he sighs at you, but ivy ducks back behind rhett and then reappears with her purse. she hooks her arm through luke's, sensing the hostility. ivy's always been good at reading your brother, you think that's part of the reason they work so well. she shoots you and rhett an apologetic smile, and mouths "i'll bring you back some fries," with a wink before tugging luke out of the studio to his truck.

you relax, arms dropping to your sides, "fuckin' hell, today's been goddamn interesting."

you sigh, and turn to head back into your office, jumping slightly because you'd managed to forget that rhett was standing right behind you. 

"jesus, sorry." you laugh, "i forgot you were here,"

"i can see that," he chuckles, as you side step him to go back into the office. 

"so, uh, if you can get me the video before the end of the week, i think i can get you some sketches by mid next week and we can finalize everything before i start. how's that sound?" you ask, sliding back into your seat to grab your planner to start marking your timeline in. 

"sounds good. when do you want me to start on the door frame?" he asks, sliding back into the seat across from you, picking his hat back up and setting on his lap.

"uh, i guess that depends on when you're free. i know you're busy with the ranch and, training?" you mumble, glancing up at him. 

"yeah, usually have a clear schedule around 7-8ish?" he says, his gaze set firmly on you.

"okay, well, i live upstairs, so, whenever you're free you can slide by."

his eyebrows pull together, "you don't live on the ranch anymore?"

you inhale sharply, shaking your head, "uh. no. i moved out six months ago. couldn't handle everything going on with dad, and trevor and luke. besides, i really liked living by myself after i left new york. craved the freedom of being able to walk around no matter the hour without anyone breathing down my neck."

he chuckles at that, "that i get."

he shifts in his seat, and you nod. 

"so, i guess that's everything. unless you have any questions for me?" 

he shakes his head, then pauses, "can i see your portfolio again?"

your blood runs ice cold, as you nod. it feels nervous, it probably looks awkward from the outside as you slip the binder back out from it's spot, passing it over the table. at this point, you doubt you could get any more embarrassed. duking it out with luke wiped out the last of your energy. you can't help but watch him out of the corner of your eye as he flips through the pages. your heart's in your throat when you see see the page he stops on. oh fuckin' christ. he knows. he smirks to himself, and then hands you the book back, and your heart slams into your ribcage. 

his fingers brush yours as you take it back, and snap it closed. then he stands, placing his hat back on his head. he steps around the chair, resting his hands on the back at he looks down at you--towers over you. 

"your number still the same as in high school, or did you change it?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he looks at you. 

you're certain he knows your flustered, you can feel the heat creeping back up your neck as you shake your head. "nope, still the same."

"great, i'll text you when i'm on my way over," he winks at you, fucking winks, before heading out of the studio. 

you wait until the door clicks closed, and drop your head down on top of the desk, smacking your forehead against the glass. you want to scream. 

NEXT

[xinganhao]

🍨 svt spoiling their partner.

★ prompt: how ot13 spoils their partner? 🥹🥹🥹 i am just a girl give me treats c/o @shinwonderful

ⓘ established relationship, pet names, fluff. headcanons under the cut. special thanks to @chugging-antiseptic-dye for helping! ♡

🍨 read more?

seungcheol 𖹭 planning dates. he will refuse to let you lift a finger for your day out. everything will be meticulously laid out, finetuned to be something that you'll enjoy. his goal is to lessen the mental load of decision-making and planning; he wants you to be able to focus solely on enjoying the surprise, and he'll break his back to make sure that happens.

jeonghan 𖹭 'parallel play'. even if the two of you might not be interested in the same things, that's okay. he's happiest to spend quality time with you at home, where the two of you are free to do your own thing within eachother's presence. just being in your vicinity already makes him content, and so he plans everything around the two of you getting to explore and share your respective hobbies.

shua 𖹭 acts of service. need help with your taxes? need someone to fill up your tank? he's already on it. he'll say that these are all 'little things', call it the bare minimum, when it's apparent that he makes it a conscious effort to make your day-to-day easier. his brand of spoiling you comes in the form of quietly doing things that will improve your quality of life.

junhui 𖹭 buying clothes you'll like. he can't help it, really. when he sees an article of clothing that he thinks suits your style? when he finds a local brand that shares your advoacy? he's already pulling out his wallet. he likes the idea of dressing you up. nothing makes him happier than knowing you're wearing an outfit that he entirely picked out for you.

soonyoung 𖹭 daily reasons why he loves you. people always joke that he has a bit of a motormouth, so why shouldn't he use it on talking about you, you, you? he's big on words of affirmation, on making sure you never doubt how he feels for you. he'll point out the little and big things that make him adore you, and it's never the same reason twice.

wonwoo 𖹭 indulging your interests. he may not always understand these trends— blind boxes, must-have fashion pieces, et cetera— but he'll never make you feel bad about it. if there's anything that you want, he's already doing everything within his power to get it. his greatest joy is seeing your face light up once he's gotten you your 'priority' item; it's why he keeps doing it in the first place.

jihoon 𖹭 trying new things for you. there's a long list of things that jihoon never thought he'd do, but then he started dating you. time and time again, he willingly goes out of his comfort zone to accompany you on the little adventures and experiences that you ask to go on. he does these things scared, does them anxious, does them begrudgingly,— does them all for you.

seokmin 𖹭 meals he thinks you'll like. he's the type to have dozens of tabs open for homemade recipes dot com. he knows he's an amateur at this, but he's undeterred in trying. whether it's a trending pastry on tiktok or the comfort meal that your mother makes you, he's determined to learn it so you're always eating well.

mingyu 𖹭 getting-to-know card games. he gives as good as he takes, which means mingyu's way is to listen and remember. a night where the two of you can just have deep conversations with no interruptions is his ideal evening. he will know he succeeded if the two of you end up talking until the sun rises, feeling like the hours haven't passed at all.

minghao 𖹭 postcards from tour stops. he loves art and he loves you. his postcards are pocket-sized reminders of those facts, always packaged with a few choice words that are sweet and sincere. his trinkets are very "i-got-you-this-because-it-reminded-me-of-you" in nature, and you know each one was purchased with you at the front of mind.

seungkwan 𖹭 getting you your favorites. he figures he should put his industry connections to use somehow. he's always amused by how happy you get over a rare photocard, signed album, or concert tickets, and so he keeps it up. buying dozens of albums, contacting other labels, bearing the arduous ticketing. your excitement at the end of it makes it all worth it.

vernon 𖹭 producing songs. he hadn't really pegged himself as the making-music-for-the-sake-of-it type until he met you. now, he revels in getting to send you a track that's for your ears only. all the lyrics just seems to flow naturally when it's you inspiring him, and so he sends you works-in-progress with reminders that you're the only intended audience.

chan 𖹭 at-home massages. he's all too familiar with the aches of an ailing body, so he knows exactly how and where to work on you. he always does what he calls 'the works'— a good bath, scented candles, essential oils. he lets you take your time, and he takes his time with you in helping you unwind.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[sanctuaryrin]

murderbot and its actually decent social skills

something i've been thinking about is how MB has so many unrecognized positive qualities and honestly? good interpersonal skills (yeah that's right i said it) that go beyond its ability to physically kick ass

like it knows how to make people feel safe with it. one of the first scenes we see of it is it trying to ground one of the members of presaux (volescu in the book, arada in the show) when they go into a state of shock after their colleague is attacked. and this sort of thing is reoccurring where it knows to offer its friends a hug when they are scared or how in "home" it knows to send mensah messages those purchase request messages that are simultaneously attempts to check in and also absurd enough to make her laugh while she's under a lot of stress. it begrudgingly makes friends with like any bot it encounters, it knows how to de-escalate situations and be a calm presence (see: the cracker wrapper in the sink incident), and is able to quickly build trust with new humans it meets. also we know it has to be at least a little bit good with kids because somehow it ended up trading media with mensah's kids and that means it has spoken to them about their interests which is literally such a huge part of successfully interacting with kids, and then of course its whole bond with amena and being able to make her feel safe and heard even when they're in conflict and a literal war zone.

I think a lot of people with "talents" like this don't seem them as such--especially coming from the school system. no one gets a trophy or their name on the academic honors list for interpersonal intelligence or being a good friend. but those are still qualities that not everyone has and they are just as important as being a math whiz or a world renowned artist. also key: just because you're socially anxious, or awkward, or neurodivergent doesn't mean you can't meaningful connect with people and provide them with support. this is something so much deeper than being able to strike up a conversation at a party with a stranger without wanting to hurl (who cares about that!) it's about being able to make people feel seen and heard and acting with compassion and if you can do that then you're actually winning at the social situations™️ despite what you may believe about yourself