#Even if it’s buried down within years of pain

[fandom-ash]

Maybe she’s right - perhaps people do deserve a chance to change. Even if they were twisted by a daedric prince…

[luvsavos]

i am once again apologizing for my lack of activity/responsiveness

my childhood cat passed away a few days ago which has just been more stuff on top of everything else for me to deal with to stress me out and upset me

i'll try to get back to stuff. Eventually. as soon as i can</3

[robo-writing]

NSFW Alphabet - Logan Howlett Edition

Pairing: Logan Howlett/Reader Warnings: AFAB pronouns, breeding mention, pet names, bodily fluids, p in v actions, no protection, overall horniness, 18+ MDNI. Author's Note: This man is renting space in my synapses, send help.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He is so gentle with you, it almost makes you feel like you’re made out of glass. He prefers to hold you close once you’re thoroughly satisfied, enjoying how your body folds into him to be as close as possible.

If you ask him for water and snacks he’s gone within the second, bringing you whatever you need, and then immediately putting you back on his lap so he can feed you. Don’t argue with him on this, he won’t take no for an answer.

You collapse against the sheets with a sigh, legs still shaky from Logan’s excellent bedside service. You’re practically boneless when he pulls you onto his chest, the dark hair tickling your cheek as he cages you in his embrace.

“Logan, I’m sweaty—“

“Do I look like I give a damn princess?” He grumbles, his hands reaching down to smooth over your hair. “Just let me take care of you, alright?”

Your whining is just for show and he knows this, a small part of you feeling guilty because he always treats you with such respect. He’s not sure what kind of assholes you’ve been dating before but he’s damn certain he’ll be the one to teach you how you should be treated.

You melt in his arms, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of his large hands running down your back. His voice cuts through the silence, far more gentle than you’re used to. 

“Need anything else doll?” He asks, to which you shake your head. 

No, tonight you just need him. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He’s an all around man, asking him that is like asking a man to choose between air and food to survive.

He loves playing with your tits, loves biting at the swell of your breasts before sucking on them, loves burying his face in the valley of them—

He loves using your thighs as an anchor when he eats your pussy, rolling his eyes when they squeeze around his head—

He loves the sight of your ass bouncing back when he fucks you into the mattress, the sound of your combined hips ringing loudly in his head—

He really just loves you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

It only took one time for him to be utterly addicted to your pussy. He refuses to cum anywhere that isn’t inside you at least once, just the sight of it falling from your abuser cunt has him going back for seconds. The sloppy sound of your juices and his cum as he thrusts into you is like asmr.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Masochist to the extreme. You kind of had a feeling with the way he shrugs off pain but you didn’t know how bad it was until you scratched him just a bit too hard while getting your guts rearranged. 

Your nails dig into the meat of his arms, a deep-seated groan erupting from the back of his throat at the feeling. Immediately you look down to see the angry red marks left behind that heal within seconds, an apology on your lips interrupted by his voice growling in your ear.

“Do that again.”

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

The man is over two hundred years old, he lays down pipe like a master plumber. Knows all your spots better than you do, knows exactly what gets you going because he can practically taste the arousal in the air. Those senses of his are no joke.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary so he can see your face, doggystyle so he can fuck a hole into the mattress and breed you. 

Prefers missionary normally if only for the fact that when he puts even half his full weight on your body you’re forced to lie there and take it, unable to so much as squirm while he fucks you within an inch of your life. Enjoys doggy when the beast inside needs to scratch a particular itch that only seeing you ass up with cum dripping down your thighs can reach.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

A wholesome 50/50 of being love-struck and horny, he has his moments of laughter but they’re almost always immediately followed by pure lust. You’d think he’d be super serious all the time but he’s surprisingly gentle. He prefers to watch you enjoy yourself, he’s much more of a service top in that regard.

Want him to eat you out until you’re pushing his head away? Want him to fuck you nice and slow, keeping you right on the edge? Whatever your flavor is, he’s down for a taste.

That’s not to say he doesn’t have his rough moments as well. It’s very easy for him to lose himself so he tries not to go overboard for your safety, but if you ask him to let loose he’s not going easy on you. Just remember when you wake up unable to walk that you asked for this.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Not groomed at all, just an overall hairy man. He’s got the prettiest happy trail from his navel to his dick that makes his eyes roll when you drag your nails across it. If it made you uncomfortable he’d make an effort to trim.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Very intimate, wants you to know just how much you mean to him. Even when he’s being rough with you he makes sure that your comfort is priority. Talks you through it.

You’re face down, ass up, just the way he likes it. Your thighs tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm, pussy practically drooling for him as your slick dribbles down the plushness of them.

It’s a sight that Logan could never get tired of. 

His fingers rub soothing circles around your sensitive clit, gathering your wetness between two fingers and listening to your breath hitch when he replaces them with his cock, lightly prodding at your entrance.

“How we feelin’ princess?” He asks, coating his length with your juices. 

You mumble praise into the pillow, and sure he can hear it with his enhanced senses, but that’s not the point—he wants you loud and clear.

Gently he lifts you off the bed, a strong arm around your waist as he rocks himself between your swollen folds, lips trailing at your ear as your head rolls back.

“Come on doll, I need to be able to hear you,” he breathes. “Tell me what you want.”

Your hands grab at his arm, a desperate whine on your lips. “Fuck me, please.”

His chuckle reverberates in your ear. “That’s my girl.”

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

When he was younger and still learning how to fight his animal instincts, absolutely. Nowadays he doesn’t really think about it, but occasionally Logan will struggle with keeping his thoughts off of you, especially when you’re wearing something nice and he doesn’t have the time to drag you back to the bedroom. 

He’d prefer if you were the one touching him, but his hand will do for now, if at the very least to hold him over until you get home.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Praise - Like mentioned before, adores talking you through it. Favorite nicknames for you are princess, baby, and sweetheart, and his voice in your ear is like heaven.

Pain Kink - BIG masochist. Use him like a scratching post, he loves it. He’ll never admit it but if you bite his lip hard enough to bleed he’ll moan like a whore.

Primal Play - Come on now, the man is an animal at the best of times and downright feral at the worst. This extends beyond the bedroom too, he’s very protective of his mate girlfriend and would move mountains for her.

Breeding - This is an extension of his primal play, he adores filling you up with his cum, whether or not you get pregnant. Something about the sight of it just screams at him like a claim that only he can give you. It’s his cum that paints your pussy, and no one else gets to have that honor.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Ideally the bedroom but he’s one of those people that couldn’t care less, if he wants you he wants you. It’s going to be up to you to be the voice of reason, and if that fails? Better learn to keep your volume down.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Domestic acts, making him feel like a normal man rather than the weapon the world wants him to be. 

Making him breakfast? His hands are playing with your hips the whole time, whispering sweet nothings against the skin of your neck, swaying to the imaginary rhythm he sets. Cleaning the countertops? He drapes his wide frame across your back, pinning you to the cold granite while he tells you how good your ass looks in your pants, heavy hands making it known just how much he appreciates your attire. Bring him breakfast in bed in nothing but an apron? He’s pulling you into the sheets and not letting you go until you’re screaming his name.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

As much as a masochist he is, the last thing he’d ever do is hurt you. The most you could ever convince him to do is manhandling you or spanking, but the moment he senses anything but enjoyment he’s on his knees apologizing.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Y’all remember what Doja Cat said about big noses? 

If he passes out between your legs he’ll die smiling, if he makes you pass out then he’s never going to let you hear the end of it. Very likely to overstimulate you until you’re pushing him off you, only to pin your hips down and keep on going. Enjoys palming your thighs and burying his face as far into your pussy as he can, his philosophy is if you can still speak he’s not doing well enough.

As for him, he becomes so submissive when you suck him off. It’s the only time he’s guaranteed to let you take the reins, he prefers watching you work rather than taking over. Tucks your hair back, strokes your head, whispers how good you make him feel and how your mouth feels like heaven. When he cums he’ll ask you to open your mouth before swallowing and the sight of your cum-stained lips gets him hard like nothing else.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Normally very sensual, can easily change with the drop of a hat. Long, deep strokes that reach all the right places and make you see stars. Massive service top vibes, one of those lovers that always knows what you need at the moment (he totally can’t hear your heart pounding in your chest, no sir.)

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Yes, and proud to admit it too. Always promises that he’ll be quick, but it never is. He can’t help it, y’know? You make him feel too good.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Yes, but the catch is you have to tell him. You can throw him every hint in the world but he won’t so much as touch you until you use your words. Logan likes hearing how desperate you are, he’s a bit mean like that.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Why would you ever bother asking that? His limit is when you decide to tap out, if even that. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Didn’t really understand and thought you were insulting him at first by offering to use toys in the bedroom. It wasn’t until you gave him a show that he realized just how much he was missing before.

If anything, he doesn’t feel the need to use them on you, but loves watching you use them on yourself.

The small toy buzzes in your hand, the sound of it ringing loudly in the four walls you call a bedroom. Soft sighs accentuated by needy whines, baby pink sheets snaking around your soft thighs, the muffled sounds of your moans when you bite your lip—

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Logan says, mesmerized at the view, eyes glued to where the vibrator meets your swollen clit. He palms at the tent in his jeans, cock twitching when your back arches off the bed with a cry of his name.

He can fucking smell it—your arousal, your need—it makes him drunk, intoxicated off your pleasure. It makes his throat go dry, makes him want to crawl over you and keep you locked beneath him, greedily wringing out every last bit of it.

Your voice cuts through the fog of carnality, a gentle distraction from the beast that threatens to break loose with every passing second.

“Enjoying the view?”

He can only bring himself to nod.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He’s such a fucking tease it’s unreal, but he’s also very impatient. It leads to moments where you’ve been edged for so long that tears are brimming your eyes, and when you look at him with those puppy-dog eyes he can’t bring himself to hold off any longer, all previous plans discarded in favor of folding you in half and exposing your puffy cunt to his hungry gaze.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He gets louder and louder the longer you go on as his animal side overpowers him. He’s no stranger to noise but when he’s deep inside you he can’t help but resort to grunts and growls of your name, makes it known just how good you feel wrapped around his cock.

I personally like the idea that because of his mutation he follows mating rituals like real wolverines do, so if you’re into that he’s extra loud during mating season, to the point that he has to bury his face into your neck or else the whole building will hear him.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Likes it when you wear his clothes because they smell like you afterward. Encourages you to do so, and maybe hides your shirts during laundry day as an excuse (but he’ll never admit it.) When you’re not around he’ll even hold the fabric to his nose and take a deep inhale, imagining it was you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

As mentioned before, an overall hairy man. Strong muscles with a healthy layer of fat, likes to laugh at you when you bury your face between his tits because they’re nice and soft.

When it comes to his dick he leaves nothing to be desired—it’s heavy, like real heavy. Nice and girthy with a fat tip that makes your breath catch in your chest every time he glides it in, the slap of his balls against your ass soon following suit. A nice pretty pink with a couple of veins running throughout.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Always when he’s around you, but trained enough to know there’s a time and place. If he had his way you’d never leave his house, but that’s also his protective nature talking.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Likes watch you fall asleep first to make sure you’re safe and sound—a bit paranoid and overprotective in that sense, but he can’t really help it. You’re the best thing that’s happened to him, so it calms him down to know that you’re not going anywhere. Once he’s sure you’re alright he’ll go to sleep, preferably with you on his chest.

[malfoyscoffee]

call me theo ౨ৎ theodore nott

pairing theodore nott x fem!slytherin!reader about fluff, angst | 1.7k words | exes to lovers warnings mentions of time skip, use of y/n, and a dumb theo

“Friends?”

“Friends.”

That marked the end of your two-year relationship with Theodore. As he said his final word, you turned away, walking down the winding steps of the Astronomy Tower, holding back the emotions until you returned to your dormitory.

The night blurred into a haze of tears, finding comfort in Pansy’s shoulder as both of you nestled on the dorm floor. Hours passed in a cocoon of sadness before Blaise, Mattheo, Lorenzo, and even Draco appeared with snacks and muggle movies, trying to lift your spirits.

Wrapped up in your distress, you didn't think to ask how they found out about your breakup. Unbeknownst to you, amidst his own pain, Theodore asked his friends to comfort you instead of him.

Three weeks had gone by since the breakup. As promised, you and Theodore went back to being friends, just like before, merely two friends within the same tight-knit circle. But beneath the surface of friendliness, your friends noticed the underlying tension between you and Theodore, silently wishing for a reunion.

It was a random morning in the Great Hall when you announced to your friends that you would be occupied before dinner to take on the extra credit assignment for Herbology. Your friends looked at you strangely, the assignment was unnecessary for someone with such high marks, but inside you wanted a distraction from everything. 

Back in the common room, the attention shifted to Theodore, the elephant in the room finally about to be addressed. 

“So, what led to the breakup?” Blaise relaxed in his chair while Theodore sighed, looking at the ceiling. 

“She didn’t say why, but she mentioned that you initiated the breakup,” Draco said casually, trying to hide his interest in the situation.

“I told her she deserved better.”

Silence.

Suddenly, Lorenzo burst into laughter.

“Salazar, Enzo,” Pansy stood, disregarding Lorenzo's reaction. “So, let me get this straight,” she pointed her finger at Theodore, “You're saying the reason the group has been down is because you decided she deserved someone better?”

Mattheo set aside his cigarette, “Didn’t expect you to be so naive, mate.”

Blaise nodded, “Thinking that's an explanation. Y/n adores you, where will you find a girl better than her?”

Theodore’s face paled, “She’ll find someone better and eventually leave me. I couldn’t handle that.”

Draco stayed composed, “So you ended it first. Well done, Theo.”

Theodore buried his face in his hands, letting out an exasperated groan. “You all know she has a promising future after graduation. Why should she stay with me and be held back?”

“Did you talk to her about this, or did your insecurities make the call?” Lorenzo’s words made Theodore freeze, lost in thought.

Pansy packed up, checking the time. “Dinner’s soon. Let’s go.”

The boys followed Pansy, leaving Theodore alone, contemplating if his decision was right for your relationship.

"I got the job!"

Strolling around Hogsmeade with Blaise and Pansy, you stumbled upon a new place—a wizarding coffee shop. Your liking for muggle coffeehouses sparked your curiosity, pushing you to ask about potential employment.

Excitement bubbled as you shared the news with your friends in the Great Hall.

“We’ve got a place to visit now.” Lorenzo grinned, aware it might bring some joy after a while.

Pansy nudged Draco, "Let’s study there. OWLS are coming up and some muggle coffee might help."

Draco glanced at Theodore, who sat in silence, unsure of what to say. “That sounds like a plan. I could use some muggle coffee.”

They all knew Draco was convincing Theodore to join.

"When do you start?" Mattheo asked between sips of hot chocolate.

You remembered your upcoming schedule, “Next week, Wednesdays and Saturdays? Once I’m trained, next Saturday, I’ll treat you all to some amazing muggle coffee."

The group agreed, planning to meet at your workplace next Saturday.

“Five cups of regular iced coffee, please.” You operated the muggle machine, engrossed in fulfilling the order.

“Oh, hey, Theodore. Are the others here?” You looked around, causing Theodore’s shoulders to slump slightly.

“They're at the big corner table. Enzo insisted the natural sunlight would help with studying…”

A soft chuckle escaped, “You can go back, I’ll bring the drinks over when ready.” Theodore nodded, returning to the café’s corner.

Blaise grabbed the first cup but stopped when Pansy teased him. “Don’t hog! Share!”

“How does it taste?” you asked, turning to your friends.

“Y/n, muggle coffee is amazing.” Mattheo praised, soon followed by Blaise signaling he finished his drink.

“I should tell my father about this place,” Draco chimed in, and before you knew it, all the cups were empty.

“I should get back to work, see you at dinner.”

“What time do you finish?” Theodore's sudden interest surprised everyone.

“Y/n?”

"I'm done around six," You said while feeling a bit overwhelmed inside.

Theodore nodded, indicating your return to work.

Numerous customers kept you busy. Though you didn’t need money, the experience was enriching.

While your friends left at five, Theodore stayed. He moved to a quiet spot facing the counter where you worked.

Ignoring his shift, you focused on the new customers who walked in.

“Y/n, it's six, you can leave,” your boss said, offering a pastry.

“Thanks,” grabbing your coat, you started to leave the kitchen.

“Are you done?” Theodore was poised by the counter, waiting for your response.

“Theodore, did you wait?”

Signaling to walk together, he said, “I had a few assignments that I wanted to finish early so I stayed longer.” His nervous fidgeting gave away his lie, his habit you remembered from your past relationship. 

You hummed, touched by his waiting. 

“I might visit often. I didn't mention earlier, but the coffee’s great.”

Walking back to Hogwarts, feelings for Theodore surfaced since the breakup.

How could you move on when he acted this way?

For two months, Theodore kept his promise, visiting the café every Wednesday and Saturday, bringing schoolwork, and leaving with you.

You felt the emotions returning but you were scared to get hurt. After all, he initiated the breakup, right?

Your friends noticed Theodore’s absence on your workdays, understanding where Theodore was without verbal explanation. 

“One large iced coffee, please.” You prepared a cup, “And your name?”

“Theo.”

“Oh,” You looked up at Theodore. “One large iced coffee for Theodore.” You repeated his order and placed the cup down. 

“Why don’t you call me Theo anymore?” His disappointment was evident.

Meeting his gaze, you explained, “Because we’re just friends.”

Theodore observed the cup, then you.

“You know what, I think I forgot something at my dorm. I’m going to go.” His tone was sharper than he meant, leaving the café abruptly.

“Now you're the clueless one. Salazar, why do I have two of them?” Lorenzo dramatized, earning an eye roll from you.

Theodore disappeared after the café meeting. Unaware of his whereabouts, your friends gathered in the common room, waiting for his return.

“I mean, Y/n, Enzo's right,” Pansy said, sipping the muggle coffee you brewed for the group.

“He ended things months ago. I don’t see why you're all on his side.” Frowning, you didn’t grasp their empathy toward Theodore.

“Y/n, listen,” Blaise interrupted, “Regardless of who initiated the breakup, Theodore has come to your café twice a week for months, just to spend time with you.”

Draco echoed Blaise’s sentiments. “OWLS were done a month ago, yet he still visits. Give Theo credit for trying.”

You sighed, “I care for him, but I don’t want to be hurt again. He should just tell me. His actions are misleading if he doesn’t want to reconcile.”

Lost in thought, the warmth of the common room enveloped you, the crackling fire providing a soothing ambiance.

As evening approached, your thoughts circled Theodore’s sudden exit from the café, leaving you unsettled, your mind in disarray.

Unnoticed, the common room door creaked open. Theodore entered, visibly anxious. His eyes met yours, a blend of hesitation and resolve painting his expression.

The room fell silent as Theodore approached you, a mix of emotions playing across his face. Without a word, you got up and led him out of the common room.

The two of you reached the Blake Lake, facing each other, as the tension filled the air. Theodore struggled with his thoughts, torn between holding back and speaking up.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he started, a hint of regret in his tone. “I didn’t mean to leave abruptly. I've been struggling, Y/n.”

“Struggling? With what, Theodore?”

Gathering his thoughts, he spoke earnestly. “With everything between us. The breakup wasn't about not caring about you. I was scared.”

“Scared?” Your voice softened, understanding blooming within.

Theodore nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “I was scared that you would realize I was holding you back and leave me. So I thought if I let you go, you would be better off.”

Your heart ached, his honesty striking a chord with your own doubts. “But, Theodore, you never gave me a chance to choose. You made that decision for me.”

“I know, and I regret it every day.” Remorse filled his words, and his vulnerability was evident. “I visited the café because I wanted to be near you. But I understand if it’s been confusing for you.”

Silence hung, emotions swirling like a storm.

“I never stopped loving you,” you whispered, emotions stirring within.

He met your gaze, “I don't want to lose you again, Y/n. I want us to start over, I'll do everything to make things right.”

“Let's take it slow, Theodore. Start over and let's see where it takes us.”

A soft smile appeared on his face, relief in his eyes. “I promise, I'll do everything.”

"I've missed this," Theodore confessed softly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of emotions.

You gently squeezed his hand, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Me too. I think we both needed this time to figure things out."

Theodore stopped walking, turning to face you with resolve. "I want us to try again, to be together, properly this time.”

Your heart skipped a beat, warmth spreading through you at his words. You looked into his eyes, seeing a depth of sincerity that reassured you more than any words could. "I want that too, Theodore. Let's give us another chance."

With that shared agreement, a sense of relief and joy washed over both of you. Walking hand in hand, Theodore smiled for the first time in months.

“Now, will you call me Theo?”

[sttoru]

‘toji doesn’t know how to properly give aftercare — nor did he care to do so before. but, meeting you changed his ways of thinking.’

☀︎｜toji fushiguro x female reader. suggestive; fluff, comfort, angst. established relationship. hint of an age gap between toji and reader. mention of virgin!reader. mention of toji’s previous / past wife. grumpy sad dilf toji who learns how to love again t_t. reader gets called ‘doll, little girl’. self indulgent? yessir.

toji grunts and his exhausted body collapses to the side, careful not to crush you underneath his burly figure. he drapes one arm over his eyes with the other resting near his side. his eyelids felt heavy — clearly needing some rest after hours of continuous bodily satisfaction.

he had gone a bit overboard this once. even toji himself was feeling the aftermath since his muscles were aching and his brain was telling him to go to sleep. the assassin was about to, however his ears picked up on a little muffled whimper sounding from beside him.

“mmph,” you sniff. your face was still buried in the pillow below you — your tears and drool staining the material. your limbs were trembling and you were completely and utterly spent. you couldn’t even turn around to lay on your back; it was all just too much.

toji watches you with an unchanging expression for a second. normally for him this would be the part where he’d get the money, dress himself back up and leave through the front door with a small ‘thanks for your time’ comment.

but, that was his past. that was after the death of his wife and before he had met you — that was a dark time where he sought money in any kind of way to ease the hidden guilt and pain in his body. he’d sleep with women for a pay check. and maybe also to simply forget about his miserable life.

toji thought that he wouldn’t ever love himself nor another person again after his life went downhill. though, that thought was proven wrong by you.

you were a girl whom he had met on numerous occasions by accident to the point you decided to exchange phone numbers. you had also eventually started to help toji with his son - megumi - during tough times.

a sweet young woman: that’s what you were and still are in his eyes. maybe you were the change toji needed. the miracle to heal from his past and get himself together.

“hey,” the dark-haired man speaks up in a gruff tone after taking in your weak state. he felt a faint twinge of guilt deep within him since he was the reason you ended up like that. perhaps he took it too far.

you looked up at toji through half-closed and watery eyes. all you could do was tiredly hum in response, “mhm?”

silence follows. it’s not really awkward, but there was a barely noticeable sense of insecurity radiating from the assassin. for the first time in a good while.

toji’s eyes dart around the room in hopes of finding or seeing something that would remind him of what to do in such a situation. aftercare; he knew how important that is after sex, but had forgotten how to properly execute it. he hadn’t done so in a good few years.

that could also be an excuse. maybe he was simply afraid to show any kind of affection to someone again. maybe.

despite all of it — despite all those complex thoughts and feelings — his body moved on its own command. toji shifted closer to your side, rough hand slowly reaching out to give you some head pats. that’s the best he could do for now.

“heh.” you chuckle, yet felt extremely happy that toji had shown any type of affection toward you in such a vulnerable moment. his fingers massaging your scalp gently, over and over, was enough of a sign for you. a sign that he cares.

you knew all about his hard life; past and present. you accepted toji for who he was and what he has done and does. one of the only people who’d stay by his side throughout it all.

“thanks, toji.” the words that left your lips made the older man silently nod. his touch grew a bit more confident after your positive reaction. his hand traveled down to the nape of your neck and over to your shoulder, turning you around so you could lay comfortably on your back.

toji couldn’t help but let his eyes wander across your gorgeous skin. even if it was sweaty and covered in other bodily fluids, it still was one of the most beautiful sights he had seen in his entire life.

“you okay?” he asks to which you give a weary nod. she’s far from okay judging by the looks of it, toji thought to himself.

he hesitantly leans his head down to plant a quick kiss on your shoulder. that did feel a bit awkward, though it turned loving the more you positively reinforced him with your verbal reactions.

toji sighs as he tries his best to keep you as comfortable as possible around him. his hands grab you by your sides and he hoists you up onto his lap, gently pushing your head against his chest; “c’mere my little girl.”

you happily accept the affection toji gives you. it wasn’t often that he’d do this after sex and you understand why. it takes a lot to heal from his previous wounds and you were there to support him throughout that journey. the fact that he was trying was enough.

“you’re nice ‘n warm,” you murmur, eyes droopy as you snuggle against toji’s bare chest. the older man chuckles at your comment and his big hands come to rest on your back to hold you in place — to give you a sense of security.

you didn’t have any regrets about tonight nor about any other night spent in bed with him. toji was the only man whom you were content with showing your body to. he’d never judge nor hurt you in any way, unlike the other more immature men in your indirect environment.

plus, you remember how unexpectedly gentle the big and scary looking man was with you during your first time a few days back. he was the perfect man for you in your eyes—in his own way.

“y’r real pretty. like a doll.”

the sudden compliment forces you awake. you blink thrice, trying to make sense of what you had heard. was it your imagination? no, it definitely sounded like toji. that deep and now almost groggy voice.

you lift your head up and lock eyes with the assassin. he was looking right back at you whilst the pad of his thumb delicately wipes some drool off your right cheek. you quietly stared at him for a good while which makes toji raise an eyebrow in confusion.

“pfft.” you let out a short laugh. you were both embarrassed and amused at the loving words that the older man had told you out of the blue. it made you feel tingly all over in a good way.

“what? did i say somethin’ weird?” toji questions as his hands slowly roam all over your body like they usually would, squeezing and rubbing longer in some spots, “i jus’ said what i observed.”

there was no hiding that lopsided grin on toji’s lips. the soft sound of your laughter was enough to make his entire body relax and give in to the warmth of the moment and the love that radiates between you two. you really were meant to be with him.

“no, no.” you shake your head after giggling. your lips find a spot on his chest to place a kiss upon in response, “it was cute.”

toji huffs at being called cute. no one had ever called him that. it didn’t really hurt his pride or ego — you could call him anything you wanted to and he wouldn’t mind. his rough hand does however give you a light smack on the ass after that.

“y’re lucky i love you, doll.” he grumbles and nuzzles his nose into your hair. the words left his lips before his brain had processed them. it was probably said subconsciously since toji doesn’t realise that he uttered the three words. the three words he usually hesitates on saying now flowing off the tongue so naturally.

you weren’t going to ruin the moment by teasing him about it. you were just happy that toji didn’t think twice before telling you that he loved you this time. it was a huge step forward in your relationship.

you simply giggle some more before placing a kiss on his lips that he instantly reciprocates.

“i love you too, toji.”

[rxmxa]

pluto observations

(pain �� power) 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 I've been thinking about my pluto square mercury aspect and how in a previous post I stated that I felt like with that square I used this aspect in a way where it would make people uncomfortable (like talking about sex in the middle of a dinner or cursing at my professional office job LMAOOO).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 Squares will always cause friction and its about redirecting the energy (my pluto is square sun as well and also my ascendant). But in general, I realized that the power pluto holds is in timed SILENCE and that's where there's a difference between making someone uncomfortable versus them being intimidated in a way that is producing respect.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 think about how we all stand up in SILENCE when a judge walks in or how the CEO sits at the head of the table in meeting. Pluto aspects are all about commanding attention through action (and mere presence) rather than words FIRST. And then when it is time to speak, it makes that even more significant if its well-timed and carefully thought out.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-mercury aspects can gain respect through this deliberate pause, almost as though waiting for others to catch up to a deeper level of understanding. Instead of talking so much in my relationships and interpersonal interactions (mercury in the 7h), I forced my mercurial ass to STOP and OBSERVE and listen and most importantly, slow down. and that drastically changed the way I interacted with people (especially my coworkers) with my pluto in the 10h.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 in terms of redirecting energy, think about it like this: pluto is where you take your power back, where you exude that power. The planet is how that power presents itself (venus, in relationships, mercury in your words, sun in your personality) and the houses are where the energy is going to be present the most.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 For example, if you’ve got Pluto in the 3rd House conjunct Mercury, it’s not about overpowering (pluto) with words (mercury). it’s about channeling them with intention. Instead of letting that intense truths dominate the convo, you can use it to become a voice that challenges, empowers, and heals. Maybe you grew up feeling unheard or silenced (common Pluto 3h themes) But now, instead of staying quiet, you use that to fuel you. You dive into the taboo, bring hidden truths into the light, and transform discomfort into power. Your words become a force for change because they come from a place of raw honesty.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 It’s about harnessing that Plutonian depth through Mercury’s words, Venus's charisma, Mar's drive, Neptune's spirituality etc and knowing when to speak and when to hold back. Use that energy intentionally, so it doesn’t control you. you control it.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 its about balance because I've said before that with pluto-sun aspects especially, you feel like you're transforming so frequently, its like your old self sheds over and over not in the span of a year, but in months, in weeks you might have drastically altered (pluto) the way your leadership, ego, will power, creativity, vitality, purpose and identity (sun) function. It's all about deciding who does and who does NOT get to see all the multifaceted sides of you. Not everyone deserves to see your passion, your art, your ideas on full display!

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-moon and it's all about transforming (pluto) your responses, habit patterns, feelings, receptivity, sensitivity, the way you nurture (moon). Its about deciding who does and who does NOT get to get a reaction out of you. Make your emotions (moon) carry fucking VALUE (pluto).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 Pluto is said to rule all that is hidden, unseen, or buried, including secrets, undercover work, strategic planning, and the roots of plants. think about the value of the unseen, the way we see the end result and the roses are blooming but we don't see the roots stretching and growing and making space. Think about gold deposits nestled within rocks or scattered through riverbeds. To extract either, you have to be willing to dig below the surface, undergo intense transformation, and maybe even navigate through darkness.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 Think about the value IN SILENCE. Think about the how things (people, plants, plans) grow in silence, how we pray and reflect in silence, how we pause in those spaces of silence, how silence sometimes can be the best reaction and answer. think about how hurtful the silent treatment feels? how it hurts? thats the power of silence.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 That pause can create intrigue or even foster respect if you have pluto aspects to your personal planets. Instead of making people feel uneasy (when we use the energy poorly), our silence draws them in, making the conversation both challenging and magnetic (when we utilize its power).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 When we hide things its usually because it deserves some form of protection or value, no? So people with pluto aspects, why would let you just anyone see you mad, just anyone see you upset, why would you lash out at any little comment? Why why why why? That is your fucking energy and you can make it PRICELESS (think about the gold buried beneath the surface, would you so easily offer that up?). You think beyonce is sitting there responding to every hate comment in the comment section? No baby she is getting PAID!

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-ascendant and it's all about transforming (pluto) your outlook on life, outward behavior, self-awareness, self-concern, build, health, appearance, individuality (the 1h). Who are you gonna give the time of day to? you need to STAND UP.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-mercury and it's all about transforming (pluto) your rational mind, thinking process, all forms of communication, the way you move in your neighborhood and local spaces, the way you travel throughout spaces. It's about deciding who does and who does NOT get to hear what you have to say. It's about deciding and trusting your gut on when it's best to sit back and observe or take advantage of that split second pause in the conversation to circle back to you. It's about deciding on how you will react when someone talks over you..

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-mars and it's all about transforming (pluto) your aggressiveness, assertiveness, initiative, independence, the way you pioneer your ideas, the way you compete (mars). Accept that those themes in your life will be CONSTANTLY shifting. And that doesn't make your flaky or wishy-washy or indecisive, it's what you were meant to do. TO be AND to act and start over! and to do that over and over and leveling up every time you do. (that's also why in synastry/composite, I feel like when there is a mars-pluto aspect it gives off those vibes of those couples who post before and after pics and they look so fucking sexy, strong and just good as fuck together after).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-venus and it's all about transforming (pluto) your forms of affection, attraction, aesthetics, desires for beauty, contracts, balance, values, harmony, relationships (venus). You can't be out here dating just anybody! You are especially prone to energy vampires! You better mind your pussy (lmaoo, but no I'm being so serious... people with this aspect will walk into someones life and level them up and then the other person will just take and take and take)

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-jupiter and it's all about transforming (pluto) your perspective on growth, philosophy, your relationship with higher education, long distance traveling, communication, expansion (jupiter).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-saturn and it's all about transforming (pluto) your structures in life, your definitions on your values and limits in life, restrictions (external and internal, self imposed and imposed by others), your perspective on time, the use of it, your maturity, your authority, your relationship to authority itself (saturn).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-neptune and it's all about transforming (pluto) your imagination, psychic sensitivity, confusion, fears, spirituality, your artistic side.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 pluto-uranus and it's all about transforming (pluto) your uniqueness, individuality, hopes, wishes, your humanitarian causes, your social circle, groups you are in, your ideas on what revolution truly looks like, on what reform looks like, on upheaval in your personal life and also the collective.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 there will be signs/ triggers when its time to transform. It can all feel very subconscious until you actually pay attention. For example, I have a 10h pluto square 7h sun aspect. Every time something major was about to shift with my career or professional title (10h) there was a disruption (square) in my relationships (7h), usually a break up, whether a friendship or romantic connection. And it wasnt until later when I was looking thru pics that I noticed that my hair would be cut or dyed right before any big changes (that sun in the 7h , and also my sun at a libra degree= beauty, aesthetics).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 now that I know that, I know that whenever I have the urge to change something drastically about my image or there's change in my public life there is going to be an effect on my relationships, beauty and aesthetic and me knowing it will not stop it but with the square I can do what I can to make it be less abrasive, for example: taking preemptive steps that are transformative but gentler, so if know these areas are gonna be impacted, then making sure im checking in more with my relationships (7h), already thinking ahead of smaller less drastic changes in my beauty routine that will still make me feel good, owning the change in general, knowing that the ways I was working before will no longer apply in the next version of myself im stepping into <3

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 And sometimes there is no time to be catching people up! like to you it will feel natural because its always been like that but then people around you might be like damn they're acting brand new all of a sudden tf? LMAOOO but its not a facade! Its just this constant cycle of of transformation. That's why you have to SHOW people how you are to be treated. DON'T expect to just get it. How different do you think people would react if a judge walked in cracking jokes or with poor posture or with a timid voice? NO. they have to be in control (pluto) of their presentation (sun).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 and thats not me saying force a different personality, thats not me saying pretend to be someone you're not, thats not me saying to talk to people crazy or be an asshole. Work with your own energy. I am a very loud, energetic and talkative person. But when I was like that with everyone when I was younger and just blurted what came to mind I was not feeling respected and rightfully so bc why would someone pay attention to someone who has a comment for EVERYTHING... When I realized that people had to earn to see that diff side of me, that it was special to share that curious, eager side of me with my close friends and loved ones, with people who I feel safe and already have a connection with BUT that in general in other settings there was a time and place where I had to finding that sweet spot between leaning in with the direct intensity of pluto-mercury and knowing when to step back, letting a little silence do the talking.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 and I am not saying it's going to feel nice or be easy. It’s not. We know Pluto isn’t just intense stares across the room. It’s also about trauma, change, death, the ugly shit that happens behind closed doors that no one wants to talk about or look at. Pluto-Mercury and yes, people are going to be thrown off, might give you shocked glances, or Pluto-Ascendant and yes, people are going to see you in ways they never anticipated, shaken by the sheer force of your presence. They might look at you and wonder, What are they holding back? Or What is their fucking deal?

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 For trines and sextiles, this energy may feel less harsh or happen more naturally, but it is still very strong. With Pluto in a trine or sextile to another planet, people want to be around you because theres this strength in a quiet way. they may see your Plutonian traits as strengths instead of threats.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 on the other hand, squares create tension, and there is a mix of curiosity and also discomfort. People might feel drawn to you yet uneasy at the same time. Some ppl might see you as a force for change or a force to be reckoned with, but then other ppl may feel challenged or intimidated, its like you're revealing truths that are both enlightening and a bit unsettling. its basically like, they just don't wanna see it, they want pluto out their face LMAOOO.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 When Pluto's energy comes to the surface through conjunctions, it can't be avoided at all. People may either be impressed by how smart you are or feel defensive around you because you seem to show them secret parts of themselves. You show them the shit about themselves they want to ignore or see as "taboo" This can make people admire you or feel uncomfortable, depending on how they react.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 and that's why you have to be able to command respect and learn how to protect yourself because even though you can't control how other people react completely you can get them to second guess themselves and think before they try to hurt you or come at you. you can get them to think about they should approach you versus just a rash and sudden reaction (which is what people usually have to anyting plutonian, whether people or pluto ruled things like blood, power, secrets, intense emotions).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 That's why it's so important to be confident and set clear limits (instead of leaving people wondering, oh I wonder what she would do if I did this? leave them thinking, "oh I know for sure that I will not get a reaction I like if I do this.")

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 And I don't mean this to be a bully or an abuser and have people scared of your reactions! bc plutonians know what it feels like to suffer at the hands of others. All I am saying is that when Plutonian energy is present, people are less likely to behave impulsively when you command respect. you can influence others to think twice before responding hastily, as this energy already tends to elicit powerful emotions. It's all about projecting an air of seriousness that makes people around you pause and think before they dare to challenge or undermine you (and again, I mean this in situations where your emotional, physical, and mental safety is at risk).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 tw: sexual harassment. For example, my cousin has a pluto-mars conjuction in the 8th house and she has been sexualized all her entire life for her body type. As kids/teens when we would go out together I use to be the one to stand in front of her and tell grown ass men to fuck off. She would have guy friends that would always crack jokes that she would let slide and then one day he tried something when they were alone and she was shocked, betrayed and angry. He felt comfortable enough to do that and she was still very young and unable to be in her full power. But her now? A friend kissed her without her consent once when they were at the club and she slapped the fuck outta him and cut him off. She is QUICK to check any disrespect and it makes people second guess. Her energy shows she is prone to extreme reactions (pluto) on matter related to her body and sexuality (8h) mixing with the desire and lust of others (men), especially men.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 Another example, my friend has Venus in the 10th house trine Pluto in the 2nd house and she naturally attracts a lot of attention (10h) for her beauty and charisma (venus). But in the past she has gotten in relationships with partners who are jealous of that attention she is getting, who desire to control her (pluto) bc of her beauty but also shame her for it and it really affected her self worth and her perspective on her own values (2h). Unlike squares or conjunctions, it felt easier or more natural to redirect that energy once she transformed all the venusian themes of her life. Did she get hurt? Yes. but she bounced back in a diff way. She had a big change in how she saw her own worth and what she deserves when Pluto's power was reclaimed in her 2h. Relationships that were bad for her and tried to control how she looked had caused her a lot of pain and made her doubt her worth. But Pluto is also the key to getting power back. She had to handle these shady and sometimes scary situations, which made her stronger and helped her learn more and care more about herself (2h) than what other people think of her and her reputation (10h).

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 its not going to be pretty or fun when you have to transform into someone new. There is a lot of grief and mourning, but trust me when I say you will be so proud of yourself. When I think about the pluto-sun aspect in my chart, the pluto-ascendant, pluto in the 10h, and how it had manifested for me: my loving father dying when I was 7, other loving and safe father figures like grandfathers and uncles dying years after, having an abusive stepdad, pushing my mattress against my door when he was home because my door didnt have a lock and he was crazy, having to stand up to him in court, defending my mother, getting scolded by authority figures, getting scolded by the judge LMAOOO and telling me he was gonna have me removed from the room pls, getting shushed, getting told to be quiet, getting told my needs didn't matter. When I think about ALL OF THAT SHIT and how I took all of that I used that to drive me, to push me to study, to get a degree, to move out, to learn how to defend myself.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 on days where there are power struggles (pluto) in my job (10h) and im getting riled up i have to stop and be like why am letting this one person, an acquaintance, someone I honestly dont even respect lol, get a reaction outta me? out of all of the fucking shit I went thru u think im gonna give u the satisfaction of seeing me crash out? FUCK NO.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 and that's really what it is. where is pluto in your chart? How are you reclaiming your power? How are you making sure you don't become another hurt person that causes another hurt person? How are you going to break the cycle? How are you going to make sure that your pain doesn't define you and that the trauma you went through doesn't control how you act in life? Where are you giving your power away? Where are your words of wisdom?

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 It's about putting together the parts of yourself that other people have tried to break and making them strong. Fears, anger, and a sense of helplessness are all parts of the shadow that you need to face and decide that they will no longer rule you. For me, was about standing up to people in power who tried to silence, to my own self-doubt, and to a home that seemed to tell me I didn't matter. But now? No one can make me feel smaller than them. Confront what makes you uncomfortable and take your power back.

[cazshmere]

12th House Sign in the Natal Chart and How you can Heal and Find Closure from Past Wounds 🩵

materialist🔖

DISCLAIMER : healing is a journey, not a destination, and everyone moves at their own pace. these tips are here to give you a nudge, not to create pressure or perfection. if you’re reading this and some things resonate, that’s wonderful :) take what feels right and leave the rest. and remember, there’s no one right way to heal or find closure. it’s okay to stumble, feel lost, or take a break. trust that every small step forward, even the tiniest ones, are part of the process. be kind to yourself along the way; you’re doing the best you can 🩵

🧩 aries in the 12th house

1. you’re bold in action, but sometimes hesitant in introspection. reflect on fears you might avoid and tackle them directly, like you would any challenge.

2. pent-up frustrations weigh on your subconscious. try activities like boxing, painting, or writing letters you’ll never send.

3. give yourself time alone without needing constant action. Silence and stillness help you get in touch with buried emotions.

4. reflect on times you acted quickly and accept that growth often means making mistakes.

5. indulge in something silly, like playing a game or watching cartoons. It helps you reconnect with yourself. watching your comfort movie with your favourite snacks will surely help

HEALING TIP : try journaling with a twist : write letters to yourself from different ages, like your 5-year-old self or your future self, to see your emotions from new perspectives. this could be super cathartic for you and help you move through the hard feelings holding you back also try meditation that is targeted towards inner peace

🧩 taurus in the 12th house

1. learn to release your hold on past pain. Healing for you often means loosening your grip on comfort zones, even in memories.

2. reflect on areas where you’ve felt unappreciated, finding self-worth from within rather than external validation.

3. you resist change, so make small, gradual adjustments to your daily life that invite healing over time.

4. practice acceptance of things you cannot control or predict; even small, symbolic acts like letting go of a token can help.

5. revisit an old hobby that once brought you joy, like gardening, knitting, or cooking. it’ll remind you of your inner peace.

HEALING TIP : try a sensory grounding exercise: touch something soft, listen to calming music, and smell something grounding like lavender to soothe your mind and body. also something that can temporarily help is watching a super scary movie or just eating spicy food, it can help you distract yourself from your thoughts, at least momentarily

🧩 gemini in the 12th house

1. your mind runs fast, but your 12th house challenges you to slow down and acknowledge buried insecurities.

2. release old narratives, whether it’s past gossip, harsh words, or regrets, let go of thoughts that weigh you down. Practice rephrasing past stories with kindness.

3. try creative outlets that let you express emotions without words, like art or dance, to connect with deeper feelings.

4. when you socialize, make time for connections that feel supportive and honest, without intellectual posturing.

5. quieting your inner monologue helps you access the quiet truths below the surface. Breathing exercises can help here.

HEALING TIP : try recording voice memos on your phone when you feel overwhelmed. Sometimes saying things out loud can help you make sense of them faster than writing.

🧩 cancer in the 12th house

1. you tend to tuck away your deepest fears. Make time to reflect on past emotions without judgment or the need to ‘fix’ them.

2. address any unconscious attachment to people or situations that no longer serve you, knowing it’s okay to need change.

3. offer compassion to yourself, revisit times when you felt misunderstood or unsupported, and give your younger self the love they needed.

4. learn to let go without feeling abandoned. Spend time nurturing your sense of self apart from your relationships.

5. forgive old wounds, allow yourself to release grudges or hurts, understanding that they don’t define your future connections.

HEALING TIP : write a letter to someone from your past you’ve never fully moved on from, then release it (you don’t have to send it).

🧩 leo in the 12th house

1. step back from needing validation, explore who you are outside of praise or recognition. spend time with yourself, just being rather than performing.

2. acknowledge areas where you might have felt rejected or unappreciated. practice self-love that doesn’t rely on others’ feedback.

3. try activities where you’re a beginner. learning something new can help you find power in vulnerability.

4. let go of ego-driven fears, focus on what makes you feel genuinely fulfilled, not just admired. reframe your goals around personal joy rather than approval.

5. reclaim your authenticity by exploring what brings you joy outside of an audience, like a private creative hobby that brings you peace.

HEALING TIP : try visualising your inner child, close your eyes and picture yourself as a child full of hope and joy, and send love to that younger version of you.

🧩 virgo in the 12th house

1. acknowledge that some things don’t need fixing. practice letting go without feeling the need to control every detail.

2. practice self-compassion, allow room for mistakes and honor your efforts without focusing solely on flaws. embrace your progress, not perfection.

3. stop overanalyzing (ik it’s hard but your overthinking is what causes majority of your problems, the more you overthink the more power you’re giving to those unwanted thoughts) give your mind permission to take a break. activities like meditative gardening or painting can help soothe the inner critic.

4. connect with your intuition, trust your instincts rather than rationalizing everything. allow yourself to simply “know” without overthinking it.

5. embrace the chaos haha, let things be messy or spontaneous without judgment. Flexibility helps you grow beyond rigid expectations.

HEALING TIP : try writing a list of what you’re grateful for, it's a simple but powerful tool to shift your focus from worries to abundance.

🧩 libra in the 12th house

1. find comfort in solitude, learn to enjoy your own company, separate from others’ opinions or companionship. practice inner peace.

2. let go of past people-pleasing, allow yourself to address buried feelings of resentment that may stem from overextending for others.

3. balance your inner harmony, focus on inner alignment rather than external harmony. Journaling or meditating on your needs helps you center.

4. heal relationship wounds, reflect on past connections that left an impact. release blame, knowing each taught you something valuable.

5. set boundaries with yourself, give yourself permission to say “no” without guilt. embrace your inner balance, free from others’ demands.

HEALING TIP : you can try a heart-centered meditation to connect with self-love and release neediness for outside validation or try a balance-focused yoga routine, it can be both grounding and soothing, helping you connect with your inner equilibrium.

🧩 scorpio in the 12th house

1. embrace your emotional vulnerability, lean into your feelings without fearing loss or control. Sharing emotions helps relieve hidden weight.

2. release grudges (ik this is something hard for you but letting go is better than holding on to the things that cause you problems - forgive but don’t forget perhaps), practice forgiveness as a way of releasing old hurts that drain you.

3. face your darkest worries with courage, knowing they don’t define you. Write them down and let them go.

4. reclaim personal power, you’re literally THAT bitch don’t forget that queen, focus on how you can empower yourself from within, instead of seeking control externally.

5. trust others with your feelings when it feels right; vulnerability can be deeply healing.

HEALING TIP : you can try shadow journaling by exploring both light and dark thoughts to understand yourself more deeply or if you want something fun instead try listening to a mystery podcast or an immersive story app where you can dive into thrilling narratives. this helps you tap into your emotional depth while being entertained, offering healing through mystery and intrigue.

🧩 sagittarius in the 12th house

1. look inward for meaning, sometimes answers lie within, not in new experiences. find fulfillment in self-reflection rather than escapism.

2. explore spiritual grounding, sagittarius craves meaning, so find practices that connect you to a sense of purpose, like guided meditation.

3. release judgment and let go of self-criticism about past “mistakes.” accept that growth is a journey, not a fixed outcome.

4. embrace introspection by giving your adventurous mind permission to slow down and find contentment in stillness.

5. cultivate patience please (so so important) you may be prone to quick fixes; practice patience with yourself and your journey to healing.

HEALING TIP : start a personal travel vlog (even if it's just to document your local adventures) or use digital journaling apps to record your thoughts, dreams, and philosophical insights. It’ll allow you to process your emotions while in a fun way <3

🧩 capricorn in the 12th house

1. release pressure to always be “on”, let go of needing to achieve every moment. It’s okay to just “be” sometimes, without a goal in sight.

2. forgive your past mistakes, address any old guilt you’re holding onto. you’re allowed to grow beyond your old decisions and learn without punishment.

3. embrace vulnerability (very important) being open about your feelings doesn’t weaken you; it strengthens your ability to understand and trust yourself.

4. trust life’s timing, not everything has to be perfectly planned. lean into moments of uncertainty and find peace in simply experiencing.

5. reflect on your worth beyond productivity, spend time exploring who you are outside of what you “do” or “produce.”

HEALING TIP : try weekly self-check-ins to connect with your needs and desires, away from the hustle of daily demands.

🧩 aquarius in the 12th house

1. embrace your quirks and shadows, you have a unique mind, so allow yourself to be different even in your struggles. reflect on hidden fears and accept them.

2. let go of needing to understand everything, release the need to overanalyze or intellectualize every emotion; trust that some things are just felt, not solved.

3. balance independence with connection, don’t isolate yourself too much. healing also comes through genuine human connections.

4. explore spontaneous introspection, give yourself the freedom to meditate or journal in unconventional ways, like painting or singing.

5. lean into self-compassion, you may be hard on yourself for being “too different” or processing wounds and hurts “differently” but learn to embrace that unique perspective as your strength.

HEALING TIP : try creative expression exercises that bring your thoughts to life, like freeform art, dance, editing, posting stuff online (blogs, reels etch) or sound journaling helps too.

🧩 pisces in the 12th house

1. set healthy boundaries with emotions, your empathy can pull you into others’ feelings. spend time differentiating between your own emotions and theirs.

2. give yourself closure without finality, understand that sometimes closure isn’t perfect or neat, and let go of needing every question answered.

3. create a soothing retreat, build a healing environment, like a cozy corner or blanket fort lmao, where you can escape and connect with your inner peace.

4. release victim mentality, move beyond past hardships by reclaiming your personal power and seeing yourself as a survivor, not a sufferer.

5. TRUST. YOUR. INTUITION. you’re naturally in touch with the unseen. lean into that gift by tuning into your feelings without judgment.

HEALING TIP : create a healing playlist filled with calming music, or even soothing ASMR sounds, to help you unwind and feel safe in your own space.

© cazshmere 2024 [All Rights Reserved]

banner & pic credits to the rightful owners <3

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Fishbowl Bones

Jason Todd regrets a lot of things in life. He regrets how he hurt others in his Pit Madness and how he made Tim's eyes turn weary, filled with unease, like the younger boy is watching a bomb timer tick down.

Regrets how distant he feels from his family and from his friends like the part of him who knows how to socialize stayed buried in that blasted grave.

Regrets that his stupid teenage decisions lead him to his death.

Sometimes, in the darkest corner of his heart, he even regrets being taken in by Bruce. Hewonders what life would have been like if he had stayed on the streets, if he had lived as a regular unfortunate boy.

An earlier grave, maybe, but one that didn't have him come back broken like this. He would have just been another lost soul in the city, forgotten and remembered by no one, but free of the torment of fighting all his life.

It's not good to think like that, he knows, but Jason can't help the thoughts from racing through his mind on the roughest of nights. When the smell of gun powder, copper and sweat cloat him, as screams ring in his ears.

When his soul is soaked in blood.

It's hard not to think that.

Jason has so many regrets that when he stumbles across the Bracelet of Reverse on a mission in the Infinite Realms, he slips it on without second thought.

He knows the myth surrounding it. Apparently, it belonged to the old Ghost Queen, the unfortunate wife of the old Ghost King, who abused her for years with his ring of Rage and Crown of Fire. She created it to flee to a world the King could not reach.

This is a world in a timeline similar to the moment of her biggest regret—accepting Pariah Dark's proposal. She could correct the moment and live a whole new life in that timeline, trapped in a fantasy as Clockwork closed her in, caging her within her new life.

The time god made it a punishment for her overstepping into his domain, cutting that world off from the multiverse and letting it float in its solution.

"You gain what you wanted." The Ancient of Time said, "But you will lose what you had and could have had."

No one knows how her new world went—if Pariah was sealed or not, seeing as the Queen was the one to gather the Ancients in all other timelines—but the idea of correcting the biggest mistake of one's life was tempting enough that people scrambled for her bracelet, even if the world was a trap.

The very same one Jason stumbled upon. He uses the same one, ignoring the cries of his brothers, who watch helplessly as Jason slips it on.

The bracelet picks up the regrets from the darkest corner of his heart, and in a flash sends him away. Jason blinks, from one moment to the next, his world shifts and he finds himself a homeless child with a tire iron in his hand.

In front of him, rest the Batmobile all wheels ripe for the picking.

Jason stares, the weight of his choose, hanging in the air before he turns and runs. He runs away from his future, from the pain, from his salvation and damnination in equal parts.

He eventually stops running. Surprise, his feet take him to his Red Hood safe house. Right now, it's still the broken-down and condemned arcade because it's years in the past. Because he's there is no Red Hood, defender of Crime Alley, just a lonely, underfed boy standing in the middle of the room.

Outside, he hears the Batmoible race down the street, revving its powerful engine and fading away in the distance like his fading future.

Jason Todd, age thirteen but soul twenty-five, is no longer a Bat.

Life goes on, and he learns to survive the streets again. He trains his body to move as he used to, using his skills to not be a hero but a survivor, stopping crimes if they happen in front of him.

He never goes looking for danger.

Nightwing leaves the city, and Batman no longer has his bright colored shadow. There are times Bruce gets hurt when he shouldn't have because he was supposed to have back up there to help him.

Jason ducks his head and pretends to not see.

Then, one day, Robin returns because Bruce never learns. Jason expects it, having been counting the days as they move on. He's been in this world for two years and has built a reputation for being forcefully neutral.

He won't join any gangs, but he won't let them push him around. He steals from the stupid rich with the hacking skills of his past and sends it to himself as a false insurance claim for his mother. He bought the old arcade with it- under the table in a shady deal for far more then the place is worth- and slowly build his old safe house.

He's armed to the teeth, living nocturnal, only leaving his safe haven at night. Some street kids think he's a vampire, which is amusing. Jason doesn't try to go back to school. He has the money but none of Bruce's resources.

He can't fake grades or proof of guardians. CPS is a genuine threat again, and he refuses to give them a chance to try and drag him to those houses working as fronts for trafficking or, worse, the Court of Owls recruit centers.

Jason doesn't have a plan or goal to work towards. He has no friends, family, or even small connections. He sometimes goes to cafes with TVs, watching the news while drinking coffee. He also reads the newspapers, trying to keep up with whatever mission Bruce is working on.

Crime Alley citizens are weary and dismissive of him in equal parts. They know he's little Todd, but they don't know anything else, which scares them.

How is he surviving? Where is he getting the money? How does he move like that? No one knows, but they can see it—the skills of his past life resting just underneath his skin, waiting for anyone to test him.

Jason doesn't bother reassuring them. He doesn't bother with much besides the occasional food run, laundry mat visits, gas station travel centers with showers, and TV viewing in public spaces. He stays inside his arcade- still looking bad from the outside but homey and comforting inside- filling his days with books and building machines.

He just wants to survive—nothing more, nothing less.

The entire time, he wonders when Tim will finally snap and force Bruce to take him in. It makes sense to him that the only Robin who actively makes himself a vigilante would eventually become the next Robin. Tim knew Bruce's real ID for years before his death forced him to act.

This Bruce isn't that close to the violence he was when Jason died, but he's getting there. He is becoming reckless. Tim will be forced to act sooner or later, and Jason makes bets with himself on what night will be his debut.

He is not expecting someone else completely different being the new Robin.

Jason is shocked to see the hero re-appear, rescuing Tim Drake on TV, and realizes he doesn't know who this world's Robin is. Worse, his costume starkly differs from every Robin he's known. Jason risks exposal by breaking into the Batcave, having to avoid traps never before placed and hack the Batcomputer.

When he finds Robin's file, he is even more confused by what he reads. It makes no sense, especially for Bruce to bring to this level, for a Robin to have so little information.

Even Tim's clone friend Kon-El had a bigger file when he was first found.

All he gets is a name, an age, and a meta confirmation. (Even if the word meta isn't used yet in this timeline.)

Who is Danny Fenton, age fifteen, and why does he have Clockwork's amulet on his Robin costume?

Jason prays it's not because of him. He never asked for a rescue, and he won't go without a fight. He logs out, and slips though the back caves, mentally planning on hacking Lex once more to upgrade his home against "Ectoplasm" since that what this Danny's powers are based on.

Worlds away, the Waynes wait for the Ghost King outside a swirling portal. He went in to save Jason from a fantasy world before it could trap him in his worst nightmare. Before it made him forget his real life.

He may have to follow that world's rules and play whatever role the world needed him to, but the King swore he would find Jason and bring him home.

[chewingcyanide]

𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — secrets are best kept buried, just like your tangled relationship with your best friend’s older brother.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — unrequited love ( that heart wrenching shit ), cursing? weird mentions and descriptions of blood, cursing ( lots of it ), yelling / arguing ( LOTS of it ), heavy angst with a dash of laughter, kind of OMC x reader but not too much, jealousy, kinda possessiveness ( from jack… had to do it ), emotional distress and all that good stuff

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — jack hughes x f!reader , OMC x f!reader (briefly), best friend!luke hughes x f!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — i’ve returned from a million year hiatus with this BIG BITCH and i’m sorry for it. may write a pt. 2 w a happy ending bc i’m a slut for them. anyway, enjoy! request if you’d like. love you guys.

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You had existed within the world of Jack Hughes since your freshman year of high school.

Existed. Not an integral part, nor a spoke on the wheel of many friends he already had. Truthfully, you were only acquainted with him because of his younger brother, Luke; your freshman biology lab partner, and eventual best friend. Years had passed since you first met Luke—no longer were you the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old crossing the threshold from child to near-adult. Now, you were an adult. Twenty, with two more years of college stretched out before you, seemingly everything had changed.

Well, except for the lead weight chained to your ankle—the fundamental and inexorable truth that you were still in love with Jack Hughes.

It started as most consuming things do: a small idea, watered by brief looks, a brush of heated fingertips against your hand, or arm, or waist—or anywhere, really. A head rush that sent you meters under waves of excitement and anticipation. Loving Jack was like having a fever that never broke; it persisted, a dull ache that squeezed your skull each time he was near. Even now, five years later, the flashing of blue eyes—never brimmed with what you knew was embarrassingly reflected in your own—was enough to make sweat bead at your palms.

It never grew into more than a hope, a wishful desire. But wishing seldom got anyone anywhere, and it surely hadn’t helped you. When the months turned warm and spring faded into summer, the overwhelming ache of freedom that came with warm weather and the end of the hockey season drew Luke and his brothers to Sanibel—a beach so wrought with memories of youth and foolish memories that the idea of going another year made dread settle like steel in your bones. They’d bought it after a vacation there a few years ago, and the rest was history.

But, of course, Luke—the youngest of three—never took no for an answer.

“You can’t miss this year,” he had insisted. The Devils had their hopes cut short once more—this time in an second round exit to Carolina. Ergo, the expected departure time had been bumped up significantly. Vancouver had missed the playoffs altogether.

You stood silent, tearing away skin from your nail-beds as Luke leaned against the kitchen counter. The cold metal of the fridge pressing into the bare strip of skin on your back was the only thing keeping you present in the conversation.

You hated how Luke did this—he’d take your silence over text as an invitation to barge his way into your apartment, destroying the barrier of safety and excuses a phone provided, and ask you face-to-face. And how could you say no? You never had before, and look where that got you. No closer to removing hooks branded with the name Jack from your heart.

“Luke…” you sighed, only dropping your hands when blood bubbled to the surface of your torn skin. Pain rippled down your fingertips, but you ignored it. The dread that quickened your pacing heart was too overwhelming a sensation. “I don’t know—maybe I should—”

“Skip out?” Luke rounded the kitchen counter and came to stand in front of you. “No way, Bells. You have to come. Otherwise I’ll be alone all summer.”

You could have scoffed if you cared more. Bells. That dumb nickname Jack had given you years ago—according to him, it was because you were such a silent walker, you required a bell to be heard. Aside from the embarrassment you got from being called a childhood nickname even now, it reminded you that your existence was always going to be tied to Jack. A piece of him carried with you, a cage keeping your heart from beating without him; the bright red ribbon tied around your wrist that screamed I Love Jack Hughes!

No matter what, it would always be him. You tried; God, did you try. Hearing stories of his hookups, the life of a single, superstar hockey player should have been enough to send your stupid childhood crush to its grave, but as if cursed by a necromancer, the mere mention of Jack brought it right back to life. It was a cruel cycle that just wouldn’t end. And you knew going to that damned beach house would only prolong the life of the indestructible feeling more.

Jack was tarnished jewelry, rubbing your skin green and raw and wrong, and yet—you could never seem to take it off, even when it made you look foolish.

Silence fell like thick fog. Luke’s eyes roved along your face, as if trying to read a book with the letters smudged. “C’mon, Bells. You have fun every year, and I don’t want to have a summer without you.”

“Jack and Quinn will be there,” you said, voice low. Pathetic anxiety swelled in your chest like the forecast of a hurricane. Even saying his name tightened your veins. “Trevor, Alex, and Cole, too—I don’t need to go, Luke. Won’t it be weird?”

An unamused look graced Luke’s face. “You go with us every year. Why would it be different now?”

You wanted to curse Luke for being so persistent. Part of you wished you could just scream that you loved his brother, but couldn’t. You never could. Loving Jack ensured you lost someone—Luke, who would never get over the thought of you potentially sleeping with Jack; and well, if that failed, you also fully lost Jack. Unrequited love confessions made fools of ghosts.

To Jack, you were a ghost. Haunting his life, disrupting some times, but never there long enough to be seen. And even if he did, he convinced himself you weren’t there, that you didn’t even exist. Maybe it were best if you moved on and let yourself rest. Ghosts haunt their murderers, but Jack hadn’t killed you, you’d killed yourself—hoping, wishing, praying he would take a moment to believe and see you. But he never did. So you floated through his life until the moment you were no longer confined by unfinished business.

And maybe that was what you needed. Closure, the severing of a tie that was only hurting you to hold on to. And maybe, closure would come this summer. To look on Jack and not feel your heart race, but settle into a quiet murmur, a healthy pace—to free yourself from the confines of this painful love and finally move on. Haunt the graveyard no longer; sitting by and hoping he would place flowers by the grave.

“Okay,” you said quietly, glancing down at your sweater. Crimson marks stained the white fabric. You’d accidentally wiped your fingers on the cloth. “You win.”

Maybe this would be the summer you let go of Jack Hughes.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

The cry of gulls and gentle breeze of salt-bitter air welcomed you back as the car breezed past the Welcome to Sanibel Island! sign. It felt like a taunt, as if you were passing into the circus, the main star of a show you never signed up for. With Sanibel came Jack, and the potential end to a love you’d clawed onto for dear life for the last half-decade. It felt strange, almost wrong, to imagine a world where Jack Hughes didn’t exist as the basis for all romantic interests. To hold someone’s hand and not compare the texture to his. To lose the anticipated blush that warmed your face each time he glanced at you. Because losing Jack was like losing a piece of yourself—all your life you’d associated love with him, and what would there be afterwards?

Sandy beaches rolled endless at the horizon, dotted with the figures of vacationers and locals alike. You glanced to Luke, his hand working the steering wheel as he drove the long-winded path to the beach house. Strands of your hair were roused by the invisible hand of the wind, no doubt knotting it, but you were too enraptured in what ifs and a potential future to much care.

“Are you excited?” Luke asked, looking to you. Elbow leaned against the doorframe, you managed to work your mouth into a smile. Even if it was twinged with apprehension.

“Of course. I love it here. I’m glad you guys were rich enough to buy it.”

Luke laughed.

And that was true. Summer here felt endless. Nights spent on the beach, the tickle of warmth from a stick-lit fire cradling you against the rush of cold blowing off the ocean. The bitter rush of alcohol that stung your veins. Hair made wet by the sea, drying beneath the warm fingertips of sunlight. Skin richening into a burn, soothed only by aloe vera and a cold shower. Laughter between friends and the restless nights talking. All of it was perfect. For you, summer was Jack. Brief and sweet, the thing you looked forward to seeing each year. But it never lasted long enough to truly feel, something you could never touch.

You wondered if you made it obvious. If Luke suspected, or Quinn; the eldest Hughes was always the most perceptive. Any time Jack said something that made your teeth clench with hurt, Quinn glanced at you. A reassuring smile. The extended hand in the dark. But if he knew, he never commented on it.

“Who’s already here?” you asked, eyes catching on the brightly colored houses lining the beach. Blue, pink, the odd green, melding together as the car breezed into the strip of land the beach house rested on.

You almost dreaded the answer. “Quinn and Jack,” Luke responded, voice a little distant—his eyes scanned for the house, too focused on his task to much care for the cringe you gave at the mention of Jack’s name.

You shouldn’t have been surprised, really. It was his house. Yet you found yourself hoping you’d at least beaten him here so you could mentally prepare for his arrival. As it were, you had about five minutes to do that.

Tires crunched against sand as Luke pulled into the driveway. Lead solidified in your bones until you felt as though you were going to sink straight into the earth. A deep breath expanded your chest, and you watched as Luke took out his phone—presumably to text that he’d arrived. Escaping the car, Luke stared at you expectantly. Your body pressed against the doorframe, eyes glanced out at the horizon. Smeared like a painting across the sky, a myriad of colors—oranges, pinks, yellows—foretold the coming of night. Maybe you could stay in here until everyone was asleep, to sneak past Jack and not have to—

The door to the passenger side opened, and there stood Luke, a hand on his hip. Making grabby hands like a toddler, he motioned for you to come. “What’s up with you, Bells? You’re so… quiet.”

You snorted. “That’s not news.”

“You know what I meant,” retorted Luke, grabbing your elbow with a gentle grip. “What’s got your head off to sea?”

Your brother! you wanted to scream, but found your tongue bolted to the bottom of your mouth. Offering instead a smile, you allowed Luke to help you out of the Jeep. Soft sand caught your feet, cushioning the drop. It felt strange to be back here again, but somehow, you knew it wouldn’t be the same. A rueful feeling ached your bones. This would maybe be the last time you’d ever come to the beach house. If your closure went as you intended… there would be no more summers in Sanibel. No more late beach nights. No more salt air creating a stick sheen on your skin. No more Jack Hughes.

“Just thinking about summer,” was all you said.

Like everything, its temporariness was what made it special.

Together, you and Luke began to unpack the bags from the trunk of the Jeep. “Any fun activities planned this summer?” you asked, hoping to alleviate the tension making your head pound.

Luke gave you a backwards glance as he practically leaned his whole body into the trunk. “New bar opened on the strip,” he told you. “I think we have to go.”

Your eyebrows crinkled. “We’re twenty, Luke. And this is a tourist town, they’re going to ID.”

Luke only smiled, clearly not thwarted by your pessimism. “Lucky then that you don’t have to worry. I’ve got it all figured out.”

You didn’t want to ask how, so instead you sighed, hauling your bag onto your shoulder. “Whatever. But I am not ending up in jail because you want to underage drink in public, Luke.”

There was no response to that. Slinking past you with elegance you thought his large frame incapable of, Luke began walking up the driveway and towards the beach house. It looked exactly the same as it had last summer—a gentle gray exterior, like the storm clouds that sometimes brewed over the sea, and a darker roof. White wood bordered the many windows, some with their own balconies. Rust spotted the metal of the garage, slowly encroaching from the outside. A simple wood fence enclosed the sides of the house, leading to the back where you knew a pool hid. Everything was exactly the same, yet so different. Last time you were here, it all felt so unknown, like the end of the summer would make or break the rest of your year. You’d hoped then that maybe Jack would notice, that it would finally be the year he looked at you as more than Luke’s best friend. You’d packed your cutest outfits, the bikinis your friends said would make any man double-take, yet nothing worked. It had been the same as every year before. Jack was nice, but indifferent. Friendly, but inattentive.

However, this year wasn’t like every other year. You didn’t come here with starry eyes and a child-like hope that Jack would pick you after years of oblivion. You came here to finally let go of him, to move on, to bury a love you’d kept on life support for years and years, in the hopes it would come back to life.

Feet making indents in the sand as you walked up the driveway, you saw Jack’s car—a silver Mercedes-Benz—parked a bit ahead. You hated the stutter in your step when you saw it, and you hated more the stoppage in your heart when you heard laughter rounding the side of the house. There was two voices, interwoven and nearly indistinguishable, but you’d know his laugh anywhere, know it blind. All the feelings you’d shoved aside in favor of an aloof disposition crawled their way out of shallow graves. A shaky breath, the fluttering of your eyes, and suddenly—there he was.

Trailing behind Quinn, soaked black swim shorts clinging to wide thighs, a bare chest coated in droplets of water, tousled hair styled by the unconscious hand of water. He smiled, maybe at something Quinn had said, you weren’t sure, and it all came back. How could you get closure when he incited such a deep, profound longing in your soul? When he tugged you towards him the the moon to the tide?

You’d stopped walking. When, you weren’t sure. Time became an endless thing as Jack’s eyes flickered to you. Those blue eyes shot through with something you weren’t sure how to describe, but he grinned—at you—and then he was walking towards you. All at once you wanted to lob a rock at Luke’s head for making you come, and then kill yourself for even thinking for one moment closure would be remotely possible when you still were in love with Jack.

His presence was all-consuming, like stepping to close to the fire. Fingers worn by years of use brushed your own when he took your luggage, carrying it with ease. Even older than you, Jack never lost that youthful sense of delight you’d seen on kids when they got a new toy. He’d always been the sun. For you, and for everyone around him.

You’d never deluded yourself into thinking you were the only one who loved Jack, or wanted him. But it didn’t stop you from wishing you were the one he’d choose.

“Bells,” Jack greeted, warmth oozing from his words, so much that you wanted to yell at him that he wasn’t being fair. How could he expect you not to want him? How, when he was so nice to you, yet so indifferent? “How was the trip?”

Blinking, you allowed him to gathering your luggage and begin walking back to the house. Water transferred from his body to your tote bag, but you found yourself not caring. He could ruin everything you’d brought and it wouldn’t matter. They’d at least be stained with his touch.

“Good,” you managed, trying to keep your feet even on the lumpy sand. Why they’d decided not to install an actual drive way would never make sense to you. “Not a lot of traffic. Luke didn’t kill us, so that’s a plus.”

Jack laughed. It rumbled through his chest and echoed like a victory trumpet in the air. “He’s a shit driver,” he said. “Shoulda convinced him to let you drive with me.”

Tar filled your lungs. Words failed you, and so stupidity, you said: “But you drove with Quinn.”

Jack quirked an eyebrow. Readjusted your bag on his shoulder. “Quinn’s a big boy. He can travel alone.”

Before you could stop yourself, the words flew out of your mouth, “So you think I’m a little girl?”

Jack paused. Glanced over at you. The meeting of two sets of eyes holding extremely different emotions. After a moment, he cut the tension with another laugh. “You are two years younger than me.”

“So is Luke, and last I checked, he was the tallest,” you retorted, offering up a chuckle yourself. You didn’t want to give more, to give in. You had to keep that wall, even if there was already so many holes in it.

With his free hand, Jack tussled your hair, wiggling your head around. You batted him off, feigning annoyance, when really, you wanted him to keep touching you. You could have groaned. God, you were pathetic.

Entering the beach house was like entering freedom. It was typically decorated, that seaside aesthetic Ellen had done herself the first year the boys bought the house. Fishing net and shells in jars, accompanied by hanging hammocks and white coral displays hadn’t moved, and you felt the air greet you, blowing in from the open back door that looked over the pool—and the beach. Salty air snaked up your airway, a welcome sting. A missed one. You weren’t sure if you’d miss Jack or the beach house more.

Luke disappeared with Quinn, the latter offering a gentle smile—perhaps a little pity twinged in. That left only you and Jack, standing in the wide mouth of the living room, the sunset sky bathing your skin in those candle-light oranges you so loved. Beside you, the gentle pat, pat, pat of water dripping off of Jack’s shorts was all that was heard. You took a moment more to enjoy the feeling of peace you got from being here, before Jack snapped you back to the current with a throat clear.

“Want me to bring your stuff to your room?” Your room. The one you’d claimed all those years ago. A room that—after this summer, perhaps—would bo longer be yours. You’d spent hours decorating it, little trinkets imposed with sentiment covering the room. The sea blue sheets. The balcony overlooking the ocean. All of it would be gone.

You had to inhale to stave off the melancholia crawling up your throat like bile. “Yeah, thanks.”

It was hard not to look at Jack. He was always the center of attention—on the ice, off the ice; in his personal life, in the eye of the public. He just was. Never asked for it, always had it. Girls wanted him, boys wanted to be him. You imagined it got tedious after so many years, but at the same time, you wondered what it would be like to be that loved. So adored you could have anything and anyone. You found you’d trade it all for him, for Jack, if he simply asked. You knew he wouldn’t do the same. Why give up freedom for a small-town girl that his brother had dragged around for longer than he probably should?

Up the stairs, through a hallway, and there your room was. You tried to revel in it, in the finality of it all. Convinced you were never coming back here. That Jack would never carry your luggage for you again, making a mess of the floors just to help you out. Inside, you saw the bed was made just like how you left it. A small whale plush—affectionately named Hershey for the chocolate it had been holding when it was won at the arcade—was sat just before the pillows. You hadn’t left him there. Hershey was a cherish piece of history; Jack had won him for you, two years back. Whales were your favorite animal, a gentle giant, the crown of the sea. He knew it, and he had gotten him for you. Maybe that was what kept your hope alive, the little things, the moments where he was more than just an unreachable deity you prayed to repeatedly just for him to notice you.

You glanced over your shoulder as Jack placed your luggage down with a thud. He rubbed his hands together. “Found him downstairs,” he said, gesturing to Hershey, “figured I’d bring him home.”

Home. A word that made your gut turn. His home, but never yours.

“Oh, yeah,” you said lamely. “Wouldn’t want to lose Hershey. You tried so hard to win him.”

Jack scoffed. “I was playing against Trevor. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t win.”

“Don’t talk about Trevor like that,” you teased with a smile. Finding yourself slipping back into the dynamic. You’d try to make him laugh, just to make him smile. Just to make him see you could make him happy.

Jack only rolled his eyes. You attempted to side-step him, only for your foot to catch his own. A hand immediately came to your rescue, steadying you. A hot flush pinkened your cheeks and slid down your spine. His breath fanned over your temple, a catalyst for every single one of your nerves fraying. You hated that he could do this to you, without trying, without caring, when you tried so hard to avoid falling back into him like a fool. It wasn’t fair—but when was love?

Jack pulled his hand away, the phantom of his fingers imprinted on your skin. Marked. Just like you’d always been. “Sorry,” you muttered, embarrassment eating at you.

His laugh was a reward. “It’s fine,” he responded. It was always fine with Jack. Never hard feelings. You didn’t think he had a aggressive bone in his body, even after years and years of playing physical hockey. “Even after all the years, you still can’t stay on your feet.”

A reference to your clumsiness. Which wasn’t clumsiness. It was just Jack. You never stumbled around anyone but him. “Yeah,” you bit out, probably harsher than intended. “Guess I haven’t changed.”

But you had. And you needed to find a way out of the hole that was Jack Hughes before you were buried alive.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Letting go of things has never been easy. Marked with scratches and tears, everything you’d ever relinquished never left the same. How could it, when you’d spent so much time loving it, cherishing it, only for it to be cruelly ripped from your grasp? Letting go had never been easy, because you’d never been ready to lose what was taken, because it was never ready to leave you either. That’s why it was so easy to reason with yourself about finally moving on from Jack Hughes.

It wasn’t mutually assured destruction. There would be no blowing out of stars and creation of supernovas when you finally put the love to rest. Because it was you. It was never him. He didn’t love you—hell, he didn’t even know you loved him. Perhaps there laid the foundation for burial, a tomb within the dunes, marked with a single shell. When the time came, no claw marks would mar Jack’s skin. He was never yours to mark.

Two weeks had since passed. Settling in had always been easy, but this time, it felt like a final meal before execution. A good thing before the inevitable end. Nights spent by the pool, the reflection of the water a perfect mirror of Jack’s eyes. Drinking and laughing and talking—a chosen family, but one you’d soon depart. You’d always have Luke, the last cord of the fraying rope, unbreakable and timeless. But never again would you tug on that rope, just to see the other end. To move on from Jack would be to forget him, as much as you could.

The summer sun blistered overhead, biting your skin until red bloomed. Splayed out on a beach towel, you opted to suntan while the boys enjoyed the water. You’d get in, eventually, preferably when Jack was not in. You didn’t want the distraction of his body to further make you doubt your ability to handle change. Back facing the sun, you remained entranced by the book in front of you, instead imagining your love life was as explosive and beautiful as the story written for you. When you went to flip the page, something hit your back—a ball, you guessed, from the feeling of impact—making your already sunburnt skin sting like hell.

“Shit,” you cursed, placing your book face down in order to stand. Glancing to the side you figured the ball bounced off to, there sat the culprit: a black-and-white soccer ball, covered in patches of sand.

You heard some shouting, and opted to be a good samaritan and grab it. As you bent down to pick up the sandy ball, another pair of hands invaded your vision and brushed your own. Rightening, you saw a tall man—your age, presumably—who immediately began spewing apologies of all kinds.

He had that youthful look to him, the same as Jack. Golden curls fell around his eyes, slightly sandy, a bit wet, but gleaming like rays of sunlight. Familiar eyes, the blue of the sky after a storm, peered at you with a mixture of concern and apology. He was beautiful, in an artful way—a hand-sculpted effigy, lain in the town square to be worshiped. You figured with age and maturity he presently lacked, he’d be all the more beautiful.

But he wasn’t Jack.

“I am—so sorry!” he spewed words like bullets, hoping one apology landed. You bit down a laugh at the desperation leaking into his voice. “I wasn’t watching where I was kicking. Sorta shanked it—scratch that, really shanked it. Are you okay—I meant to ask—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off, sparing him. As endearing as his apology was, you could see red rising to his face—you knew what it felt like. “Although I don’t recommend you shoot for the Premier League.”

Upon realizing you weren’t angry, the boy relaxed. “Yeah, as if,” he laughed, tossing the balls back and forth between his hands. “You are okay, right?”

Your eyebrow quirked. “Unless you’re secretly the Hulk, I don’t think you kicking a ball at me could do any serious damage.” Your fingers grazed the spot the ball struck. “Might have a weird mark on my back, ‘s all.”

Goldie Locks, as you’d taken to calling in him your head, circled around you and bent at his knees. His fingertips grazed the small of your back, rattling your spine into a shiver. You heard a subdued sound—something between a giggle and a sharp exhale of air through his noise—and twisted to look down at him.

“It looks dumb, huh?” you said, trying to feel the patter marked on your back with your fingers.

Goldie Locks shook his head. “You wear it well.”

“I better, or I’ll give you a matching mark,” you teased. He stood up, imposing. “Really, though, I’m fine…”

He caught on swiftly. “Jackson. Or Jack.”

You could have cursed the Gods and Fate and her trifling ways. Of course the first cute guy you find has to be him, but not be him. The great irony of life, you supposed it was. Finally ready to move on, and your tugged right back to square one.

A tight smile made its way onto your face. “Jackson.”

Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but the voice of the man you quite literally could not escape interrupted him. “Bells? You okay?”

You thought briefly of faking fainting.

“I’m fine,” you responded, without looking at Jack. You couldn’t. But you wanted to. “He just hit me with a soccer ball and was apologizing.”

Jack imposed into your vision anyway. Jaw working, the rapid flex of his muscles that told he ran to you. Suddenly, the sweltering heat was no longer the cause for your sweating. “Hit you?” he repeated, glancing to Jackson with a raised brow.

Shoved into an unwanted spotlight, Jackson immediately backpedaled. “Accident. Didn’t mean to hit your girl.”

Your girl.

Your girl.

Your girl.

Those two simple words repeated like a scratched vinyl in your mind. Jack’s girl. His. It was something that would have made past you puff your chest. It made present you feel sick. Another pull towards him. Another lock trapping you inside of the room. In the past, you wouldn’t have said anything—wouldn’t have fought it. You’d have waited to see if Jack would deny it; he always did. Another nail in the coffin. How many were needed until you finally understood?

But you were now actively trying to fight the feeling seemingly hardwired into your blood. The instinct that told you to love Jack. “Oh, we’re not dating,” you told Jackson. Blue eyes flittered to you—was he surprised? For once you denied, distanced. Was he confused? “He’s my best friend’s older brother.”

You didn’t know why you added that part. It wasn’t necessary—Jackson didn’t care about your relationships to Jack past the words not dating. But here you were, petty pride swelling in your chest at finally getting to stick it to Jack. Finally being the denier instead of the denied.

“Oh,” Jackson quirked his brow. Glanced at Jack; he said nothing. “Is it okay if I have your number?”

That shocked you. And it clearly shocked Jack, as well. His shoulders tensed, eyes darting to you. Gauging your response. You would have said no before. Would have made some dumb excuse. If you accepted, you distanced yourself from Jack, showed indifference. Past you couldn’t have that.

Present you could.

“Sure,” you said.

This summer would be different.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been on a date. Michael Neely in eleventh grade, but that was in major part because he looked entirely too similar to Jack—didn’t act like him, however. Didn’t smile like the sun’s envy. He just wasn’t Jack. For as long as you could remember, no one had been. Isolating yourself for years because of the off chance Jack would finally admit it, as if he’d been pulling a big joke on you and had actually wanted you back. But he never did. And you couldn’t wait around forever hoping he would. He never asked you to.

You went through your hair with a brush one final time before deeming yourself presentable. A knit green tank-top paired with denim shorts, warm vanilla perfume—one you’d used since Jack had offered a compliment on the scent—and a smile that you hoped appeared genuine. For once you were excited, not thinking of Jack, measuring Jackson up to him. You let Jackson be himself, undeterred by the ghost of your unrequited love.

The downstairs of the beach house was alive with loud laughter and conversation—you hated you could still pick out Jack’s laugh, could imagine his face when he did; the gentle scrunch of his nose, the squint of his eyes. You wondered if it would ever go away, that sixth sense. If you’d ever be truly and unapologetically free.

Rounding the corner, you were met with the sight of the three brothers playing what looked to be Chel, their eyes fixated on the large TV in front of the couch they were splayed on. You debated slinking out of the house, silent as they’d always teased you for being, just to avoid the awkward conversation you knew would come from the knowledge you—Bells, infatuated devotee of Jack Hughes—were going on a date with a boy you’d known a week.

Fiddling with your fingers, you stood at the back of the couch. Not wanting to interrupt their game, you went to simply tap Luke on the shoulder, hoping he’d eventually pause it. He wasn’t the one to do it, however. Luke and Queen groaned in annoyance when the screen paused, glancing over to the only person who could have done it. Jack didn’t spare them a glance. His homely blue eyes were on you, eyebrows furrowed. Following his gaze, Luke and Quinn gave you a once-over.

“Hell are you going all dolled up like that, Bells?” Luke asked, flicking you on the wrist.

You didn’t really think you were dolled up. “I have a thing called a date, Luke.”

That incited the expected awkward silence. As if drawn by a unbeatable force, you found yourself glancing to Jack. White-knuckled, he gripped the controller with such force you were surprised it didn’t break on him entirely. You briefly wondered what his issue was before Quinn spoke.

“With who?” Surprise laced his question, and you hated it. Hated that he thought you were incapable of moving on from Jack—or maybe he didn’t think you incapable, just averse.

“That guy from the beach, right, Bells?” Luke piped up, turning his body on the couch to face you. “What was his name? Jack?”

You ground your jaw. “Jackson.”

Luke shrugged. “Same thing.”

It wasn’t. You really hoped it wasn’t.

You turned to leave, intent on scurrying out like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, when a voice called you back. Always calling you back, just when you tried to leave.

“Bells,” Jack spoke, voice drawled. You didn’t turn. “Where are you going?”

You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “On a date…?”

“Where?” You figured it could have been a growl if he were less careful. Luke and Quinn glanced at each other. You fought back a scream.

Why do you care? Why now? When I’m about to move on? I spent so much time waiting for you. I’m done.

You wanted to scream those words at him, but of course, like most confessions, they went unsaid.

“The cove,” you humored him, eyes flicking to your fingers. When had they started bleeding? The cove, of course, was as it sounded: a small chunk of land past the rock barrier at the beach, cornered in by mangroves and hidden away from sight, Jackson claimed it the perfect place for a seaside picnic. You weren’t one to argue.

When Jack made no effort to respond, you finally left. Jackson wasn’t even there yet, but you couldn’t stay inside anymore. Indecision and confusion were eating away at your gut, turning your mind into a war zone. You didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. Years spent in the shadow of Jack Hughes had taught you to fear the light, that if you even for a second let the rays touch you, came the consequence of losing the shade forever. And you’d tossed those fears aside, let yourself into the light, and that only made the dark come back in full force.

It wasn’t fair. Why weren’t you allowed to move on? To finally break the bonds that you yourself had made? Jack had never kept you near, and yet now he didn’t seem to want to let you go. Like a child unwilling to relinquish a toy just because it was theirs.

You tried not to dwell on it. Not when Jackson pulled up, his 4Runner breaking the noise of gulls calls and rumbling cars. Not when he led you out to the cove, picnic basket in hand, like an old-timey romance your mother used to watch. You tried, but just like everything concerning not thinking about Jack, miserably failed. Jackson was attentive, sweet, he did it all right. And as much as you hated yourself for thinking it, it was true: he wasn’t Jack.

“Are you a local?” Jackson asked you. Your mouth closed around a strawberry, staining your fingertips red—better than blood, you supposed.

The tide lapped gently at the sand before your feet, spanning out from beneath the quilt laid beneath you and Jackson. Always coming close, but never quite enough to wet your feet. Gnarled roots of mangrove trees split the sand, boxing the little cove in. You remembered coming here with Jack once, when he was trying to make up for throwing you in the pool with your phone in your back pocket. He hadn’t set up a picnic, only sat beside you in the sand and offered you Hershey. A silent apology. One you never forgot.

Trying to build over that memory was like trying to filter the salt out of the sea. There was too much to ever fully get rid of it.

A breeze tickled your legs. Sand parted between your toes. Everything felt normal; normal, you realized, wasn’t always right.

“No,” you responded after some time, tossing the strawberry head to the sea. “I come here every year with my best friend, his brothers, and their friends.”

Jackson nodded. “The guy from the beach, the one I thought you were dating—” You fought the urge to cringe, “—that was Jack Hughes, right?”

Always the icon. Beloved, beautiful Jack Hughes.

You glanced at Jackson. He smiled. “Yeah, I’ve known him for years. His brother is my best friend.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying that,” he laughed, a whimsical sound. Off-key; pitched too high. You didn’t think you’d be able to differentiate it in a room of others. “How’d that even happen?”

You grinned. Memories of freshman year. Restless nights spent studying in Luke’s room. False trips to the bathroom just for a chance at a glance of his brother. “Luke and I met in our freshman year biology class. He absolutely sucked. Had to tutor the poor kid so he wouldn’t fail.”

Jackson shook his head, the mess of golden curls crowning him danced with the movement. Raising a finger, he wagged it at you as if apprehending a naughty dog. “Hold on now. Biology is damn hard, cut him some slack.”

You giggled. Almost cringed. You felt like a schoolgirl again, trying to slow time as a cute boy walked past. “Maybe if you’re a loser.”

More time passed, the sun’s rays dulled to a warm orange instead of a blinding yellow. The sea calmed. Unseen birds chirped and sung their tunes, never to be understood. Jackson asked questions, answered some. He indulged, dug deep, hoping for treasure. It was strange, to fix your hair and bat your lashes in the hopes of impressing a boy who wasn’t Jack Hughes. Stranger yet you were enjoying Jackson, even fantasizing about a second date. The cold fingers of the wind rose gooseflesh in its wake; your arms rose to combat it, folding against your body in hopes to retain heat. Jackson peered over.

“Cold?” he asked, presumptuous and forward and hoping; one arm already out of his cardigan.

You nodded, murmuring a thanks as Jackson draped his sweater over your shoulders. At once the smell of salt and secondhand smoke snaked up your nose, invaded your airways. It was so different from the warm amber you imagined your skin would faintly smell of if Jack made you his—he smelled like heartbreak and sleepless nights and longing, something you feared was permanently smeared on your flesh. You found yourself heating at the scent, blushing, a slight twinge of excitement at the thought of being claimed by another boy. Foolishly, maybe, you thought it could purge Jack from you, draw over the marks he’d made all over your flesh.

You’d had boys like you before, liked them back—felt the head rush that accompanied youthful yearning. None had ever compared to Jack. Like a stain on your favorite shirt, he’d never come out of your heart, a scar that pulsed every so often, a reminder that he was still there. That he’d never go away. You realized now, looking at Jackson—the soft lines that sprouted next to his eyes when he smiled, a mess of curly blond hair that seemed to fall perfectly in front of his eyes, catered specifically to his beauty—that the memories of wounds weren’t always bad. They weren’t just reminders that you’d been hurt, but that you survived.

Before your mind could conjure any wishful images of you and Jackson, he spoke, “Tomorrow night, there’s a beach bonfire.” His finger extended, curled a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. “Something the locals do every year to kick off summer.”

You smiled—genuinely smiled, not just a flash of teeth forced in order to hide a grimace. Not the smiles you got so used to giving Jack. “And you’re telling me this because…”

Banter. He could tell you knew where he was getting, yet wanted him to spell it out anyway. “Go with me? I think you’d enjoy it,” he said, voice gentle over the lap of waves against the shore. You could almost feel the world hold its breath, awaiting your answer. Would you cling to a hope and dream, or go with what was sitting in front of you? “Plus, having a pretty girl with a perfect personality on my arm wouldn’t hurt too bad.”

“Hmm…” You faked contemplation, tapping your chin. When Jackson flicked your forehead, you scoffed, batting at his hand. “Well now I’m reconsidering my answer, ass.”

Warm fingers wrapped around your wrist, caught it midair, a fish hooked on a line. Feverish, a heat you’d only associated with one person your whole life rose to your head as Jackson’s eyes met yours. Not blue, green. Your mind didn’t even attempt to paint over them, to erase his color, to make him him. Lips wet by eager tongues, a mutual desire. When had you last even considered another man romantically, sexually?

The answer was: not since Jack Hughes barged his way into your life and trapped your heart behind a wall, tossing away the key.

Before anything could be realized, before you could experience your first kiss in what felt like forever, a dull vibrating ripped the moment to shreds. Annoyance flashed in your heart, and a part of you told you to ignore it—but you couldn’t. What if something had gone wrong? Apologetically, you tore your eyes away from Jackson and dug your phone out of your back pocket.

The name flashing on the screen had your heart clenching.

Jack.

“Yes?” Confused, clipped. Why was Jack calling you?

“Oh, uh, hey,” came Jack’s voice—you frowned at his tone. He sounded as if he didn’t even know why he was calling. “I was just… calling to see when you’d be home tonight.”

A scream bubbled in your throat. This is why he was calling you? “This could have been a text.”

Jack laughed dryly. “Guess so. Figured you wouldn’t have seen it.”

You didn’t want to admit he was right. “It’s what…” You took your phone away from your face to look at the time. 8:43. “8:43? I’m not sure, Jack. We’re still at the cove.”

Shuffling on the other end. Your eyes darted to Jackson; he seemed intrigued at who was calling you. “Right, well… Luke wanted to know, so…”

You frowned. “Then why didn’t Luke call me?”

“Playing Chel,” was all you got in response.

Pettiness whirled in your chest like a maelstrom. For once you had the upper hand; cards hidden against your chest, not splayed out for all to see. Maybe with the right move, Jack would fold after so many years of winning. It was childish, you knew that, but the child in you who’d hoped and hoped and hoped only to get turned down every single time awoke—wanted Jack to feel the burn she’d felt when he’d sunk his hooks into her heart.

“I may not come home tonight,” you told him, relished in the pause. Jackson’s eyes flickered to you, curious.

“What?” Jack asked, voice darkened with knowing and other terrible emotions. “What do you mean?”

He knew very well what you meant.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You resisted the urge to recoil at the scorching flame simmering in Jack’s tone; he rarely ever spoke to anyone like that, least of all you. “You met him this week, Bells. If you aren’t home by 10:30 I’m coming to find you.”

Rage flared. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because you could pretend like he cared. As if he had any right to tell you when you had to be home. “So what? Now I have a curfew?” You didn’t want Jackson to overhear the spat, but it’s clear he was watching, listening, picking apart the conversation. “Forgot the part where you were my mother, Jack.”

“You’re staying in my house,” he retorted sharply. “10:30. I’m not kidding.”

After that, the line went dead.

Fire lashed in your veins, threatening to burn your being to ash. How dare he? Just as you inched out of the cage, he tries to drag you back in. Why did he care now? Why couldn’t he have before?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Tears taunted you. Tried to slip past your eyes. You had given so many tears to Jack, expected him to bottle them and place them on a shelf, a reminder to never hurt you again. He never did. The moon’s rays were a solace, an extended comfort from who knew loneliness better than anything. Soft fingers touched your arm, didn’t push—only rested there, a reminder of consolation.

“He’s like an older brother, huh?” Jackson tried to alleviate your melancholy, revive your playful spirit like a necromancer.

It only made you sadder. If only Jack were like an older brother, if only your heart hadn’t chosen him to beat for.

“Yeah,” you chuckled dryly. “Let’s be glad he won’t be there tomorrow.”

A bright grin tugged on Jackson’s lips. “So you’re coming?”

You smiled.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

10:15.

The bright light of your phone screen cut through the darkness as you walked up the sandy driveway to the beach house. The departing rumble of Jackson’s 4Runner interrupted the ballad sung by the cicadas and crickets, a sound that followed you all the way to the front door. Sliding your sunflower-adorned key out of your pocket, you fiddled with the lock before finally managing your way into the house. The biting cold of the summer night was promptly chased away by the inviting warmth, but you found yourself unwilling to remove Jackson’s green cardigan. Plastic buttons twirled between your fingers, a few stitches unraveled. Well-worn, loved—smelled like summer nights and escape. You smiled to yourself.

The hum of the TV, along with its vibrant glow startled you as you crossed into the living room area. Despite the somewhat early time, you hadn’t expected anyone to be awake. But there Luke was, curled up on the couch, watching Grease. You could have laughed if you weren’t more aware; Luke had always had a major small crush on Sandy, his guilty pleasure movie, one that came with summer nights and hours talking into the AM. Rounding the foot of the couch, you plopped down next to Luke, startling him out of what appeared to be oncoming sleep.

“Back already?” he asked groggily, clearing the gravel out of his throat. He straightened, blinked a few times. “I take it you didn’t get laid.”

You glared at Luke, silently cursed his teenage-boyishness. “Not everyone fucks on the first date, dick,” you retorted, smiling. “Someone here gave me a curfew. Said he’d come looking for me if I didn’t come back in time; I wasn’t too keen on testing him.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Cockblock,” he muttered. “Which of them was it? Quinn? He seems like the type.”

“The other one,” you corrected, earning a confused look from Luke. “Exactly! That’s what I thought. Also, did you ask Jack to ask me when I’d be home?”

“No,” Luke drawled, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I?”

That son of a bitch.

Was he just dead set on denying you happiness? Why couldn’t he just admit to caring even a little about you? Why dress up good deeds as the requests of others? Nothing about Jack made sense; it never had. You supposed that was part of the appeal, the mystery of it all. A puzzle gathering dust on the shelf, tried and forgotten for its difficulty. You’d always had a knack for choosing the hardest games.

You waved Luke off, not wanting to hear his conspiracies tonight. Maybe tomorrow, when you didn’t have the weight of a thousand unanswered questions close to caving in your chest. “Nothing,” you said. “Are Quinn and Jack awake?”

Luke eyed you. He saw through you—always had. Yet, for the sake of your dwindling sanity, chose silence. “Quinn isn’t, no,” he told you. “Went to bed like an hour ago.”

“Old man,” you commented, earning a laugh. “And Jack?”

Luke’s eyes flickered to the door leading to the back porch. A warm orange glow was visible through the drawn curtains. “He’s in the pool, I think.”

You nodded. Came to a resolution in your withering heart. “Right,” you murmured, standing. Before departing, you pressed a kiss to Luke’s cheek. “Night, Luke. Go up to your room, if you fall asleep here, I won’t be able to carry you to your bed.”

Luke rolled his eyes, nudged your leg with his knee. “How unfortunate.” Then, he stood, and disappeared up the stairs.

Dread swarmed in your stomach like a tornado, wrecking every defense you’d built up these past weeks to keep out a certain boy. You feared damage control wouldn’t be enough this time, that you couldn’t rebuild if Jack shut you down now. But you had to confront him, had to at least tell him to stop controlling you if nothing else. This summer was meant to be your closure, the final chapter in a book you never thought would end. It felt more like the procession to the grave, not the closing of a door.

What if losing your love for Jack lost you him?

The back door swung open with a squeal, piercing the once thick silence. With your presence swiftly outed, you forewent attempting discreetness, and eased out onto the pool deck. Fingers of frost grabbed for your exposed skin, only combated by Jackson’s cardigan. Bones rattling, you wondered why on earth Jack was going for a swim right now of all times.

You heard the lapping of water, roused by movement, before you saw him. The fluorescent underwater lightning cut through the darkness and reflected on your face, a myriad of whites and blues that was distinctly Jack. When you came to the pools edge, your eyes focused on him—clad in nothing but a pair of blue swim shorts—floating ok his back, eyes closed, as if imagining himself in a different place. You almost felt sorry to ruin the fabrication of his mind. Remembering your anger, you pushed aside the feeling. Why should he be given peace when he’d never given you any?

Before you could even open your mouth, his eyes opened, as if sensing you. He adjusted, treading water, as you merely assessed each other. Waiting. Who would draw first? You. It had always been you.

“I’m home now,” you bit out, your leash gone; Jackson wasn’t here to judge you. “Happy?”

Water lapped at Jack’s collarbones. You almost envied it for being able to touch him so freely. His eyes darted around you, then stopped on the cardigan. Forest green, like Jackson’s eyes. You knew he knew; you hadn’t been wearing it when you left.

“Cute,” he commented, sarcastic and dripping with cruelty you’d never heard from him before. He parted the water with ease, as if he expected everything to bend to his will.

Jack stopped where you stood at the edge. You looked down on him for once, a prick of pride stinging you as for once you had the high ground. For once, he wasn’t able to confine you with his overwhelming presence and being. Fingers curled around the edge of the pool, his hair dripping tears of chlorine-tainted water down his face, Jack merely watched you, waiting a scolding, the tantrum of a child who had what she wanted torn away.

You thought if unfair someone could be so beautiful, especially when he could never be yours.

“What is your issue?” you snapped finally, folding your arms, protecting your glass heart from his insults he’d fire like arrows. “I asked Luke, he said he never asked you what time I’d be home. Was it fun for you? To ruin my date?”

Jack scoffed. Arms corded with muscle flexed, rose from the water; a heave and he was on his feet in front of you, your leverage lost. Water bled off his body like a torrent, soaking your shoes. Droplets flicked on Jackson’s cardigan, the water staining through. You stepped back instinctively, throat tight. You hated how, even now, he had an effect on you.

“Ruin?” he echoed, eyebrows creased. “Don’t be dramatic. It wasn’t like you were planing on staying out with him past 10:30. I was doing you a favor, giving you an out.”

Classic Jack; thinking he knew better than everyone else. “You weren’t, actually,” you hissed. “I didn’t need an out, Jack; I was enjoying myself. So much so I’m going out with him again tomorrow night.”

That was unnecessary to say, you knew. A bite only given to wound him, to prove you were capable of rising from your knees and tearing down the shrine you’d devoted to him for years. Because if Jack Hughes was no longer your sun, you didn’t need to revolve around him—shine only when he was near. Pathetic and driven by childish need to probe yourself, you wanted Jack to hurt—even if you knew he never would, that he couldn’t care less about who you loved and who you were with.

You just wished that he did.

A flicker of confusion. A frown, and then, “What?”

“Jackson invited me to the beginning of summer beach bonfire,” you told him, watching Jack’s jaw tense. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t—he’d always been so encapsulating. “It’s tomorrow night.”

His presence invaded every defense you’d placed up. Chin tipped to look at him, you felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if boxed in—everywhere you looked was him. Deep breaths made each muscle of his chest flex and tense, well-sculpted from years of punishing activity. You hated the flush that almost burned your face. You hated the thunder of your pulse that drowned out any noise but your racing heart. You hated the effect he had on you.

“You aren’t going,” he said simply, as if he had any say.

You frowned. “Yes, I am.”

Jack’s lip wrinkled. Condescension dripped from his voice. “No, you aren’t.”

You could have strangled him. You really could have. “You aren’t my father, Jack. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m going.”

He smiled at you. Smiled like he thought you opposition was funny. “You met this guy this week, Bells,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Not only that, you have no idea who’s going to be at this bonfire. What if something goes wrong? You think Golden Boy is going to play the white knight?”

Ignoring what Jack had called Jackson, you turned to leave. You were absolutely not having this argument with him. Not when it was ultimately your decision and your life. Before you could even make it a step, a wet hand clamped around your arm, fingers closing around you like a vice—Jack spun you, unsteadying you. In an effort to save yourself a trip straight down, you threw up your hands, connecting palms with the rigid plane of Jack’s chest. Heat rose to your face, a feverish high sinking the logic of your brain. All of a sudden, you were sixteen again hoping Jack would come out of his room while you were in the hallway.

Breath deepened, you searched for an out—a way to defend yourself. The sword lying at your palms was cheap, but effective, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

But you did know better. And you knew he wasn’t; you just wished he was.

Jack smiled. Predatory. “Of Jackson?” Fingers loosened—you took the chance to escape, pulling yourself free of Jack’s hold. “If you’re going to try and make me jealous, maybe do it with someone who doesn’t have my fucking name.”

He breezed past you, disappearing inside like a shadow.

You looked down. Eyes grazing the cardigan. A wet handprint stained the arm. Jack’s handprint.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Smoke thickened the air into a husky, palpable haze. Dozens of conversations overlapped into one massive dissonance, drowning out the harsh crash of waves upon the shoreline. Bathed in an amber glow provided by a massive fire housed upon a hearth of triangularly-laid sticks, the beach was alive with drinking and laughing and dancing. Sand cushioned your feet, sandals dangling in your hands. Jackson haunted your side, keeping close. He led you in deeper, parting throngs of people like the Red Sea. Greeting a few of them, introducing you.

Excitement turned your blood hot. Rebellion made it all the sweeter. Despite Jack’s vehement opposition against your coming here, you’d done it anyway. When the boys had decided to get a few drinks at the new bar that opened up, you feigned sun sickness as a result of a day at the beach. Whether or not they believed you didn’t matter much—they’d left, which allowed you the chance to be here.

All you had to do was be home before them, which shouldn’t have been difficult. They’d be home in the early hours of the morning.

Mingling with Jackson was simple enough—people didn’t much care who you were. Just that you existed. Beers were handed to you, drank quickly. You wanted to have fun, to let yourself exist without the shackle that was Jack Hughes dragging you back from any romantic venture. A heated hand slipped in your own; Jackson smiled at you. Stomach knotted in a ball, you downed the rest of your White Claw and grinned back.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asked, bending down to better carry his voice to you. The proximity of his face warmed your chest.

“Mhm,” you hummed, relishing in the head rush. Being drunk wasn’t something you did often, what with being underage. There were parts you hated, parts you sought. Like the current buzz of warmth that whispered false confidence through your bloodstream.

The confidence that made you lead Jackson to the water’s edge, hidden from the glow of the fire, shadows outlined by the light of the moon. Rosy-cheeked, you tossed your arms around Jackson’s neck and peered up at him. Although his countenance was lost in the darkness, you could make out blown pupils overtaking his eyes, parted lips lightly doused in alcohol. Water lapped at your feet, danced around your ankles. You didn’t care. Everything in your mind was screaming at you to just do it—kiss him and get it over with, get over with Jack.

Jack.

You hated that even in a moment like this, your mind went to Jack.

It was then—arms tossed around Jackson’s neck, the waves kissing your bare legs—that you realized you’d never let go of Jack. You couldn’t. He was too well in your heart, the patchwork of two souls. If you could, you would turn tail and run, find happiness on the road of abandonment. You wouldn’t have to worry about being alone, isolated simply because people found a piece of your life more interesting than the whole. You wouldn’t have to rebuild your shattered heart when another summer passed by without Jack loving you. You wouldn’t need to remind your heart not to give in to his toothy smile and infectious laugh.

But then, you wouldn’t have Jack. His smile, the devil’s disguise, a shot of oxytocin to the system. Touching of skin, unintentional yet entirely wanted, setting ablaze the wildfire that burned down your castle of wood. Nights spent by the pool, his face illuminated by the glow of underwater lights. The way he made your heart break and mend all at once, the high of a drug that you could never quit. Every time, you relapsed, reminded yourself why you loved Jack—why he was your favorite love, your only one. He didn’t want you for anything, he didn’t even want you.

And maybe it was that; the hypothetical, the possibility. The construct you’d built inside your head, trying to fit into the narrative every summer, but never getting the part.

“Jackson?”

He looked down at you. Green, not blue. Never blue. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think—”

All at once, your arms were falling, cradling empty space as Jackson was ripped away from your touch. A splash of water sent droplets launching into your skin and clothes. You shrieked, stumbled, looked for the culprit. And of course—there Jack stood, huffing, as if he’d run to you. You could barely make out his face, but you didn’t need to; you’d know him blind, by touch alone. Your eyes went down to Jackson, body engulfed in the shallow water. You pieced it together, came into the frantic understanding that Jack had pushed Jackson.

Immediately, you went to help Jackson, only to be tugged back by your elbow. “Jack! What the hell?”

He didn’t grace you with an answer—didn’t even look at you, actually. Those stormy blue eyes were on Jackson, murderous and heated. He shoved you behind him. “What are you doing, huh?” he barked. “Did you know you were giving a minor alcohol? She’s twenty, you fucking idiot!”

Tears of frustration turned your eyes wet, and air became scarce. You wanted to do something, but what could you even do? Jack was accustomed to ignoring you. Stares nipped at the back of your head. Conversation dulled into a lapse.

“Jack, enough,” you begged, the sheer desperation in your voice normally something you’d hate—you couldn’t be bothered to care now. “Please. I’m fine. It wasn’t Jackson’s fault. He didn’t do anything.”

“Stop,” Jack interrupted, eyes flashing to you, a warning. “I told you not to come. Stay out of this, Bells.”

“I had no idea, dude, I swear!” Jackson responded, pulling himself up from the water. Soaked head-to-toe, and dully embarrassed. “She did it herself, I didn’t offer her anything!”

It soured your mouth he was trying to shift the blame to you, even if he was being honest. Your eyes flicked to Jack, and all at once you were reminded why you chose to love him.

His hair was tousled, worked one too many times by frustrated fingers. Eyes wild and concerned, so raw that you could’ve convinced yourself he was that cut by your situation. You knew it wasn’t you; he was just a good person, an empathetic one. But still, you liked to imagine. You’d spent your life imagining what it would be like for him to love you.

“Jack, please, just—”

“Don’t you dare blame her,” Jack’s voice was strangled, as if barely bypassing a wall of fury. “What the fuck do you think this is? The blame game? I don’t care who gave her the alcohol. You brought her here.”

“Please, Jack, let’s just go,” you pleaded, voice tight—embarrassment crawled up your spine like the cold. Everyone was looking, observing the screaming match you’d unfortunately found yourself a part of. “People are looking.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he hissed, advancing on Jackson. Chest-to-chest. A size up; one you hoped wouldn’t result in traded blows. You’d never seen Jack so angry, so wrought with violence. He’d always been docile—kind.

“Why do you care?” Jackson finally snapped, shoving Jack backwards. You tried to intercede, only to be shut down. “She said she wasn’t your girlfriend. Stop acting like a jealous dick.”

Jack laughed. He turned around, facing you as he spoke. “She may not be mine,” he conceded, “but she sure as hell will never be yours.”

Everything was happening to quickly. Your mind struggled to process the entire interaction, how quickly it had all gone sour. Before you could question Jack, scold him, consider the root of his rage, you were being lifted by the middle, and promptly tossed over Jack’s shoulder.

Air fled your lungs, your head pulsed—both from the swift movement and your consumption of what was likely too much alcohol. Jack’s hand stayed on you, keeping you steady as he carried you through the crowd, cutting through blots of people who all looked just as confused as you felt. Anger sparked then, fanned by embarrassment and anger and frustration.

Slamming your fists into Jack’s well-muscled back, you spewed profanities at him. “Put me down, asshole!” He didn’t. Kept walking, over the boardwalk and into the parking lot. Jackson’s 4Runner taunted you. “Jack, let me go! Jack!”

And he did. Your feet felt unfamiliar as he placed you down with little preempt. He steadied you before you could fall, kept a hand on your arm even after. Your heart felt pulled in a million directions, throat filling up with sand—fossilizing in your own skin, mortification sawing pieces off of your soul. Jack looked furious, pacing in front of you. His silver Mercedes gleamed in the moonlight.

“Bells—” He cut himself off. His throat bobbed, ran a hand through his already messed hair. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Your teeth bared. “Me? And what about you, barging into my night and accusing my date of being a criminal? The fuck is wrong with you, Jack?”

Jack laughed. Mocking, mean. You half-wanted to punch him, felt the itch in your fingers. “Oh, forgive me for trying to help you,” he hissed. “What if cops had busted the bonfire, huh? If they’d got you? Do I have to remind you that you’re twenty, Bells? That’s a felony.”

He was right, and you hated it. “But did you have to do all that? Jackson didn’t even give me the alcohol, why did you push him into the water?”

“I already said I don’t care who gave it to you,” Jack grunted, closing in on you. A step back, and you felt your back press into the cold metal of his car. “He was with you. He let you drink.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to muster up a semblance of control. “He doesn’t know my age, Jack.”

“Then he’s a fucking idiot.”

Scoffing, you shoved him away from you. “Oh, is he? Or were we just on a second date, one that you completely ruined! He’s never going to speak to me again, Jack, so thank you for that!”

Faintly, you wondered how you went from adoring Jack to despising him. Maybe it was always meant to be like this. There was a fine line between love and hate.

Eyes flashing, Jack rounded on you. “A second date you shouldn’t have been on,” he snapped. “I told you not to go.”

“New flash: you’re not my keeper,” you said, feeling the anger wane into something worse—fatigue. You didn’t want to fight. Fighting with Jack felt like fighting a part of yourself. “How’d you even find me? You guys were at the bar.”

Jack paused; he noticed your deflated shoulders, sullen face. “SnapMap,” is what he said. He didn’t expand, and you didn’t ask him to.

Silence felt like the worse fog—thick and impenetrable, falling over you like a suffocating blanket. You didn’t know what to say. What could you even say? Jack would never tell you why he was so upset, you didn’t want to ask—didn’t want to hear another made up story he’d spew just to tear apart the hope in your heart.

It hit you then that maybe Jack did love you—or care about you in some capacity, but he’d never admit it. Dancing in circles, a choreography that never ended, you’d never know what Jack truly wanted; didn’t know if he even did. Probably figured you’d screw it up, would ruin a friendship—his and yours, yours and Luke’s. It was a losing battle either way. Every word he uttered cut to the bone, because it was meant to. When the shift started, you didn’t know. Maybe when he realized you were not always going to kneel at his alter, when you tried to escape.

Maybe then he understood, and still avoided—lied, all to protect himself and his brother. He knew, you knew. One wanted, the other avoided. None of it ended well. Heaven was breakable, and he couldn’t dare threaten his own peace. Not even to have you.

You knew then where you stood.

“Why?”

He shook his head, chewed on his lip. “Don’t.”

“Please, Jack,” you whispered. “You owe me an explanation.”

Did he not believe in love? Had a girl hurt him? Was it really Luke, or something else? Why wouldn’t he just try?

“Bells, don’t.”

Your hand reached out. Hoping, praying—it brushed his shirt-clad chest. He didn’t move back, finally looked at you. “You owe it to me, at least. I’ll drop it, I’ll never ask again.”

“We’d just… we’d screw it up,” he managed out, the blue of his eyes richening into a navy. His eyes darted around your face. “I can’t…”

What did it matter anymore? Everything was being bared. All of it. Your fear disappeared into dust; the yearning for a conclusion to this twisted knot of a love died. Just like it always did with Jack—you’d want him, try to forget him, and fail. A never ending loop. But before there had been no chance, now—now you weren’t sure.

“Can’t what?”

Jack didn’t respond. He dug into his pocket. Grabbed his key. “Get in the car.”

The stark change of situation caught you cold. “What—?” You shook your head. You weren’t going to lose this opportunity. “Jack, no. Talk to me. Please.”

“Get in the fucking car.”

You didn’t budge for a moment, then finally, “Okay.”

The drive was silent, thick with awkwardness. What could you say? You’d been so close to coming clean, to finally—after five years—admitting everything. It seemed like Jack had too, but something stopped him. Something always stopped him. You wished you could pick his brain, lay it all out to see the moment he’d stopped seeing you as a ghost, as Luke’s high school best friend. All because you’d tried to move on, because you’d hoped for happiness beyond his black hole persona. But of course, he always managed to drag you back in.

“It’s not fair,” you muttered aloud, semi-an accident. Jack’s eyes snapped to you, the dark road rolling out in front of you.

He worked his jaw. Adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “What isn’t?”

“You,” you grunted, looking out the window. “I try to be happy, move on. You’ve never wanted me before, I didn’t think it would matter. But when I try, you turn it into World War III.”

Jack didn’t say anything. Barely even moved. You wanted to scream, to leap out of the car, if only to see if he’d care enough to come back for you.

“Why now, Jack? Why not before?” you whimpered. Alcohol made you pathetic, even more so than usual. “What changed?”

“Bells,” he warned, nostrils flaring.

“No,” you protested, swiveling your body his way. “I deserve an answer, Jack. Please.”

Silence still.

“Stop the car.”

Jack looked at you. Up and down, before his focus returned to the road. “No. Stop having a tantrum.”

That nearly sent you into a murderous rage. “Stop the car or I’m jumping out.”

Jack scoffed. “You’re not going to jump out of a moving car.”

You clicked off the lock. Fingers tested the handle. When you tore the door open, the alarm blared; wind whipped your arm as you gripped the door, the darkened road greeting your eyes. Thankfully, no one else was out this late. Jack grabbed you with his free hand, slammed on the breaks and veered off onto the side of the road, just beyond the dunes. Beachgrass surrounded the car, the distant buzz of crickets the only thing you could hear as Jack cursed at you. Unbuckling his seatbelt and slamming the door shut, Jack glared at you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped. You felt something akin to pride; he finally had a reaction to something. Cared enough to stop you.

“You won’t answer me,” you said, eyes darting around his face. The emergency interior lights of the car blinked into existence, lighting up your bodies. Jack’s face was flushed, eyes wild. “Please, just—”

“Fuck, stop saying that,” came Jack’s strangled plead, his head dropping.

You blinked at him. Confusion welled like a storm in your eyes. “What? Please?”

Silence. Jack’s head raised lazily, he looked distressed, mouth parted ever so slightly. A hand ran through his hair, mussed it more. “Fuck,” he cursed, low and gravely. “Luke is going to kill me.”

What was he on about? He looked like he was struggling, his hand gripping the steering wheel which such force his knuckles blanched. “What?”

“You’re his best friend,” Jack said. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “If I… Bells, please…”

You had no idea what to do. What to say. “Jack, what do you mean? You aren’t making any sense.”

“I want to fuck you,” he bit out, leveling you with a furious look, as if he hated himself for that very fact. “But I can’t. If Luke found out, he’d hate you, or me, or us both. I can’t risk that, Bells, I can’t.”

He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than you. The very fact that he wanted to sleep with you sent you into a dizzy spell; normally, you would’ve wept with happiness at the sheer fact that Jack Hughes wanted you, in any capacity, but all you felt now was a resounding emptiness. He wanted to fuck you, to have you carnally, without anything attached. You loved him; not because he could give you brief pleasure, but because you knew how many freckles were on his back, how he drove with his left hand predominantly, how he quoted Camus but never actually read him.

It occurred to you then that this summer was different. Not because you were getting closure, or because Jack Hughes finally loved you back, but because you finally understood that the devotion you’d put in him for years should have been put in yourself.

You looked at Jack, and for once, didn’t feel that biting desire to touch him, to be wanted by him; now you knew you were, but for what? For once night, just to fade into obscurity? Either you had Jack entirely or not at all. You couldn’t tease yourself with a taste only to never be given the full experience. You didn’t think you’d survive the memory of it.

“I love you,” you said. Watched his reaction. The confession felt like the greatest heartbreak and the biggest relief.

He said nothing back.

And you weren’t heartbroken that he didn’t. You were relieved. Free.

[safetypinxtales]

400 years | Azriel

summary: drinking with your best friend takes a turn when you happen upon some of Feyre's art supplies.

words: 3.2k

warnings: steamy 18+ mdni, nudity, sex is insinuated but not described, kissing, alcohol consumption (drink responsibly), reader and azriel are drunk, making out, big dick azriel, fluff, no use of y/n, neutrally described reader/no reader description

notes: happy valentines day, here's some azriel for youuu🤍 I got the inspiration for this whilst reading this fic by @solbaby7 bc who wouldn't want to draw az like one of your French girls?? Frankly there is nothing I would like to do more. Their fic is amazing and you guys should totally check it out if you haven't already! Anyways, I'm sorry for the "shut the door" type ending, but I cannot write smut to save my life so this will have to do. Hope you enjoy!🤍

masterlist

Thud.

The sound of Azriel accidentally smacking his head on the wall as he plopped down on the sofa across from you echoed within the walls of the cabin, and you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of you. Azriel’s own shaking shoulders and scrunched up nose let you know that he couldn’t help it either. 

But that was to be expected wasn’t it? The past hour had been filled with nothing but bubbling laughter from the both of you, giggles from Az, and some very graceful snorts… also definitely from Azriel. 

The reason why he had brought you to Rhys’ cabin in the mountains was long forgotten after the two nearly empty bottles of alcohol on the table in front of you. The heartache of getting stood up on your date earlier that evening buried under a considerable amount of drinks. 

“As long as the glass is never empty in between refills, they don’t count.”

Azriel’s words from earlier came back to you, only fuelling your cramp inducing giggles. 

That had always been your motto in times like these. A consistency that had lasted centuries. 

“I can’t breathe,” you wheezed out in between fits of hysteria, your arms coming up to wrap around yourself. But your laughter didn’t die down, and neither did Azriel’s. Your uttered words only seemed to fire him on as he tipped over on his side, hand landing a slap on the armrest.

Seeing him like this, so free and relaxed, was rare. You could probably count each separate occasion on your hands. He only really let go like this when you needed it. When the urge to drink your walls down and flush the pain away seemed like the only remedy to whatever situation you were dealing with.

It was a very rare occurrence indeed. But one of your favourites. 

Azriel’s carefree giggles, that luminous light in his eyes; you swore it could make budding flowers bloom.

You sat up straight, and the situation stopped feeling so funny as you laid eyes on Azriel’s still laughing frame. The uncontrolled giggles, and the way his wings shook in time with his chest. It was enchanting, the sight of your best friend being so relaxed, so happy. 

The shadows that were usually crowding his frame were nowhere to be seen – with the exception of the lone swirl of darkness slowly snaking its way around your wrist, coming down to entwine with your fingers every now and again.

It took a couple more minutes until Azriel’s laughter had finally seized. You both sat on separate sofas, smiles stretched wide and eyes glazed over from the alcohol you had ingested, and as your breathing started to return to normal a thought struck.

“What?” Azirel asked as he leaned forward on his elbows, a curious glint in his eyes. 

“What?” You prodded back, more confused than curious, blinking a few times to try and rid the alcohol-induced veil that surrounded you. What was he on about? 

“Well,” he waved one floppy hand in your direction, “you just perked up, it was like you grew ten inches,” he exclaimed, before continuing in a slightly lowered, bemused voice, ”and that means you just had one of your ideas.”

The corners of your mouth quirked upwards as you slowly nodded your head. He was right – you had come up with an idea.

“Well, I was just thinking about how Feyre mentioned after the last time she was here,” you stood up from your seat, swaying slightly but quickly finding your balance, doing your very best to not bump into the table separating you. “Something about forgotten art supplies.”

Like a predator sighting a prey, Azriel’s interest piqued in a moment. His razor sharp focus was on your every step as you walked towards the supply closet at the other side of the room. 

The closet was unusually dusty, a strange thing for being Rhysand’s property. He was usually very meticulous when it came to things always being spotless and presentable. But you supposed that a small, rarely used supply closet in the family cabin wasn’t a priority of his. Keeping it clean was not a good enough use of his magic. 

Luckily for you, that just made your quest easier. You just had to look for whatever was covered in the least amount of dust bunnies.

“Aha!” You whipped around to face your friend, triumphantly displaying the sketch pad and charcoals in your hands. 

Azriel’s eyebrows shot up at your revelation, grin still present on his beautiful face.

“That’s your big idea? Drawing?”

“You should know I used to be quite the whiz with the charcoals when I was younger,” you rebutted and Azriel’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. 

“I have seen your penmanship, so I will believe this talent of yours when I see it,” he muttered and you couldn’t help but gasp at the sheer audacity in his words. Your penmanship was not that bad.

Taking a few steps back in his direction with a huff, you flipped through the sketch pad in search of an unused sheet of parchment. You were gonna show him, alright…

You couldn’t help but admire Feyre’s old sketches as you went through the pages. Some you recognised as early-version sketches of paintings you had seen around the river house, and some were–

“Oh!” Your fingers froze as your eyes landed on what seemed to be an anatomical study. A very detailed, very beautiful, anatomical study of – oh my Gods. You felt your cheeks heat up. 

“Is that Rhysand?!”

At the screech in your voice and the mention of his brother’s name, Azriel shot up off the sofa to get a peek at whatever had managed to pull such a reaction from you. 

The warmth of his body radiated into your side as he peered over your shoulder at the drawing of the very naked high lord. 

You noticed him stiffening out of the corner of your eyes and then, like a tether snapping, laughter started to boom inside the walls of the cabin. With a steadying hand on your shoulder he doubled over in giggles so contagious it didn’t take long before you joined in with his hysterics. 

“No way,” he wheezed, “oh Gods – I can’t wait to tell Cassian!” 

The mere thought of how Cassian would react to such a revelation, the look on his face, had you clutching your stomach. Poor Rhys would never hear the end of it.

And by the cauldron, if you don’t wake up with rippling abs tomorrow from the amount of laughter this night had brought….

“You can’t blame her though,” you mused once you managed to get your giggles under control, “I mean, nice job Feyre.” A low whistle left you as you peered down at your clearly blessed high lord.

The laughter quieted down beside you and you raised your gaze to look at Azriel, only to be met with an incredulous look. 

“What, I’m just calling it as I see it!” You exclaimed and raised your hands in defence, charcoals and disrobed Rhysand still in your grasp.

His eyes flicked down to the sketch pad, before slowly coming back up to meet yours, that look never leaving his face.

“Oh, please.” 

The words fell from his lips with such cool confidence your smile faltered momentarily, eyebrows knotting together.

“You can’t be serious?” He asked, and when you stayed quiet he continued, “that’s nothing.”

Nothing?

From where you were standing, respectfully, it looked like everything.

“What? Like you can do better?” 

Your challenge seemed to light a spark in his eyes and time slowed as he took a step backwards, fingers coming down to grip the hem of his t-shirt.

One swift movement and his shirt was off, muscles rippling under his bronzed skin as he tossed the dark fabric on the floor, his eyes not once straying from yours. 

He kept backing up, step after torturous step, until his legs hit the sofa. The corners of his mouth tugged up in a smirk as he plopped down, arms behind his head, far leg propped up, large wings casually draped over the armrest.

“Draw me then, whiz,” he challenged, using your word from earlier, “let me be your muse.” 

The heat crawling up your neck, scorching the tips of your ears, were not solely from the liquor as you padded over to the opposite sofa. 

No, it was from something very different. Something strikingly sobering, yet oh-so intoxicating. 

You sat down and carefully placed the pad in your lap, flipping through it until you reached a blank page. You moved some hair out of your eyes and tucked it behind your ear, picked up a charcoal and brought it to the parchment – when you felt yourself hesitate. You took your lip between your teeth as you contemplated your next move. The risk. The absurdity. The excitement. 

He was your friend. Your best friend, and yet…

You lifted your gaze to find Azriel’s eyes locked to yours with such focus, such challenge. Like he was sizing up an opponent on the battlefield. 

His eyes flicked down to your hand, if only for a split second, as you gently put down the charcoal. He cocked an eyebrow when his gaze once again found yours. 

“I just,” you took a deep breath, “I just don’t think it’s really fair on Rhys, you know?” The shadow around your wrist flickered, as if sensing what you were about to do. The lines you were about to cross.

You watched as Azriel’s eyebrows drew together, and you fought the twitching of your lips as you continued, “I mean, you are still half clothed.”

With a slight shrug of your shoulders, you watched as your words sank in. How his eyes seemed to darken, the corner of his mouth raised in the smallest of smirks. 

“Is that so?” He mused, and you tried your best to level his stare. To not back down. Not shy away. 

With an incline of your head, you nodded. And watched his hand inch closer to his pants. Down past that dark trail of hair, to the laces tied together at the waistband. Watched as he grabbed a hold of the string… and pulled. 

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t focus on anything other than his hand. How his fingers untied the font of his pants so slowly, so delicately it felt like torture. You were transfixed by his fingers. Loosening the laces, his thumb slipping beneath the waistband…

You snapped your gaze up to his face, to find him still looking at you – studying you. 

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sound of his pants hitting the floor. With your eyes still locked to his, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you wondered what you had gotten yourself into. Here you were, in front of your fully naked best friend – about to draw him. 

Let me be your muse.

His words from earlier echoed in your mind as you tore your gaze from his face and dragged it lower, and lower, until…

Your head emptied. Your tongue felt about as dry as the beaches you had visited in Summer last year. Because the sight that beheld you was breath-taking. 

The length between his legs, standing aroused and proud, really did make Rhysand’s portrait look like nothing. 

A part of you had almost hoped that Azriel’s confidence had just been for show. That it was just his competitiveness shining through, a feat to best his brother. 

The reality?

Monstruos would have been a fitting word had the sight not compelled you so. Had it not caused you to burn for him. Crave him. 

Delicious seemed to be a better word to describe your friend. Beautiful. Mouth-watering. A thing of art.

Which is why you picked up your discarded charcoal and put it to the parchment. 

You studied the planes of his body, the hard lines, the soft skin. The muscles that could have been carved by the Mother herself. You avoided looking at his face though, instead focusing on the various scars that marred his skin, telling stories of battles and fights. Of brawls with his brothers. 

You felt him looking at you, however. He hadn’t stopped looking at you. Not since the sketch pad came into play.

It made it annoyingly hard to focus. 

The scratching sound of charcoal on paper stopped. 

“How long have we known each other?” Your voice wavered, mouth dry. You cleared your throat and raised your gaze to finally meet his. 

Azriel tipped his head to the side, contemplating, “about 400 years.”

400 years. And never before had you seen him naked. Not like this. Not splayed out like a feast, waiting to be devoured. Not with his gaze so burning you were afraid it was going to singe your clothes to ashes. 

“Right,” you mumbled, eyes flicking back down to your hands. They were smudged with soot, your thumb and index finger blackened, that lone shadow still curiously snaking around your wrist. 

That is a very long time.

Azriel seemed to notice how the little confidence you had faltered, for he straightened somewhat from his leisurely sprawl. 

“You okay?” There was only soft concern enveloping his words, a drastic change from the tension flooding the space between you just seconds before. 

It was a very long time, indeed. So why didn’t this feel wrong? 

You let out a deep breath, “yes, I think so.” 

Your answer apparently didn’t settle his worries though, because he raised from the sofa and rounded the table between you. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him as he stopped in front of where you sat. 

Only when he lowered his hand – fingers coming to rest under your chin, tipping you face up – did you meet his eye. 

The heartbreaking concern written all over his face seized your heart. The soft furrow of his brow. The slight dip at the corners of his pouty lips. The brutal softness swimming in those hazel eyes. 

It took your breath away.

“Are you sure?” He questioned, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t trust your voice, not with the vulnerable proximity between you. All you managed was a meager nod. A small up and down bob of your head. 

His fingers tugged on your chin, and as if in a trance, you followed the wordless command and rose to your feet. 

“I need you to use your words here, sweetheart,” his voice was soft, but the underlying command was undeniable, “please.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you swallowed and managed to breathe out “I’m okay.” 

That seemed enough to ease Azriel’s concern, a breath of relief fanning across your face. 

“Good,” he murmured, almost as if more to himself.

His eyes left yours, and flicked down. To your mouth, you realised, as his thumb moved from your chin up to graze your bottom lip.

That intensity was back in his gaze, that predatory focus – all directed at you. His thumb pulled at your lip before letting go, and the shudder that overtook your body could have made the earth shake.

There couldn’t be more than a foot of space between you. 

So dangerously close.

He was your friend. 

Right? 

“400 years,” you whispered, eyes flicking down to follow the bob of his throat as he swallowed. “400 years of friendship.” 

You felt light headed. 400 years, and all could be thrown away as easy as breathing. All you had to do was take half a step.

“Three,” Azriel’s voice grumbled above you as your eyes trailed down to inspect the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

“Hmm?” Your mumble was absent minded, your thoughts being too preoccupied by the male in front of you. What he would feel like. Taste like. The sounds he would make if you dipped your head and licked up the drops of sweat beading at the center of his chest.

“That’s how long I’ve loved you. Three hundred years.”

You froze. 

The thickness coating Azriel’s voice was not something you were familiar with. Nor were the words he uttered.

Your gaze snapped up to his, scanning his features for any sign that he was, for some reason, making the cruellest joke in all of Pythian’s history. But all you found was open, unguarded truth. 

Azriel loved you?

Azriel loved you. 

The rapid beating of your heart was a stark contrast to just how very safe you felt. How right it seemed to take that half step forward. To cradle his face in your hand, the other coming to rest on that glorious chest – right over his own heart. And as you felt that wild drumming beneath his ribs echo your own, nothing seemed as easy as rising up on the tips of your toes and slotting your mouth against his. 

The kiss was tentative, like the two of you were just dipping your toes in – testing the waters. You moved your lips against his, gently, savouring the feel of his pillowy lips. The feel of his body so close to yours. How the scent of him seemed to envelop you. You savoured how easily he took all of your senses hostage. 

He was everywhere.

The sound of Azriel’s wings rustling behind him, the rapid beating of his heart in his chest, the taste of liquor on his lips – it intoxicated you in a way you didn’t know was possible. 

You stayed like that, gently exploring each other's lips, savouring each other's closeness, until you had no other choice but to break away for air. 

You pulled away only a few inches, rapid breaths fanning your faces. The pounding of your heart didn’t seize, and neither did his. You could feel every rapid beat under the hand still planted on his warm chest. 

“Your heart is beating very fast,” you whispered, voice shaky from your breathlessness. 

He swallowed, “It is.”

“So is mine,” you revealed. 

“Yes, I can hear it.”

Oh. 

“Will you kiss me again?” Your voice was so low, you wouldn’t have known he heard you if not for the strangled sound he let out. 

Or for how he grabbed you by your waist and captured your lips with his. 

This time the kiss was less gentle. This time he pressed your body against his as he devoured you. It was all tongues, and teeth, and needy gasps.

His teeth pulled on your bottom lip and you thanked the Mother he was holding you so tightly, for your knees almost gave out. A throaty groan escaped you as his hand cupped the back of your neck, angling your head upwards and deepening the kiss further.

Your own hands found his hair – and pulled. The deep rumbling in his chest and the way he moaned your name into the kiss was your undoing.

This kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative.

It was claiming.

And so you let him claim you. 

Your clothes were quickly discarded as you laid down on the sofa, Azriel’s body on top of yours. And as you crashed together, entangled limbs and sworn promises, you let those 400 years of friendship, of tension, of longing dictate the start of this new chapter.

A chapter of what would hopefully be 400 years of something more.

Want to be added to my taglist?

tags: @missus-shadowsinger

[hookedonhuge]

Coach's Special Massage

Getting your big, beefy pecs groped by your coach was not how you imagined your Tuesday night. 

You were the star player of your team. You were a natural born athlete and you had the body to match it. Every muscle in your body was huge; balloons of cements that were hard as steel and looked ready to burst. It was all thanks to your dedicated exercise routine that you followed religiously for years on end.

But one day, your coach approached you and insisted that you needed a massage therapy session. Something about trying to alleviate your stress after the scandal that came to light. Something about cheating on your girlfriend with other girls. No clue which ones they were talking about. The number ‘three’ kept coming up but your team and coach must have known it was way more than that. 

To be honest, you weren’t stressed one bit, but you weren’t going to turn down a massage, that is, until you found out that it was your coach giving you the massage and not some hot masseuse. Of course, he didn’t tell you that until you were already lying down on the massage table fully naked except for a small towel that barely covered your large package. You protested but your coach was stern, he was, after all, the only person you ever listened to (and that was only some of the time). His deep voice was commanding yet calming, just the right combination to be able to get you to give up the argument. You supposed your muscles needed a good cooldown after your killer workout that day anyway.

You had never met anyone as strong as yourself, and were certain you never would. However, coach was actually quite strong too, and it was perhaps why you showed at least a little bit of respect towards him. However, having your chest fondled by his large, calloused hands was quite the role reversal for you. He pressed deep into your muscle tissue with his thick fingers, uncovering all sorts of knots in your expansive chest. It hurt but it felt amazing. 

After coach had given your pecs a thorough rub down, he moved onto your giant tree-trunk legs. It was when he was massaging your inner thigh that coach pressed down on a particularly sensitive spot in your muscles that made you wince in pain. For the first time during the session you opened your eyes and you met coach’s firm gaze by accident. Sweat dripped from his prominent brow and he was panting from exertion. You never realised how big he was. Those veiny arms, those meaty pecs, those sculpted abs, he was just a coach but he could have passed as an olympian. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that someone as strong as coach was needed to give someone as big as you a proper massage. 

Coach continued to knead your thighs like dough. He was able to make your hard muscles soft, as if he was unlocking some hidden strength inside of them that made them expand. Like a loaf of bread rising in an oven, your muscles were becoming large and fluffy in response to coach’s special massage.

He continued working his magic on your body, as he did his hands made their way further up your inner thigh. Coach’s intensity never waned and his forceful and methodical strokes continued to cause you pain. It was a beautiful, deep, healing pain that exposed a feeling of vulnerableness that was buried within you. It was uncomfortable to feel that vulnerability yet as soon as his fingers released their tight bind a reassuring warmth flooded in to replace it. That cycle of comfort and discomfort, it was overwhelming and at the same time made you completely content. 

By this point, coach was completely in control of you. You anxiously anticipated his every touch, your entire being yearning for his return whenever his hands left your body. Your emotions were connected to his fingers, as if he were a puppet master, and he graciously continued to pull your strings instead of leaving you hanging.

As coach’s hands made their way up even further up your thigh, they reached parts of your muscles that were unbearably tender. Having those spots massaged, it made your skin glisten with sweat and it laboured your breath. You felt like you were burning; you were hot, coach was hot, it was all hot. It wasn’t just hot, it was sensual.

You hadn’t realised, but the towel that was covering your crotch was ever so slowly being lifted up by some great force underneath. It was only when it slid down and landed on your impeccably toned lower abdomen that it dawned on you the effect that coach’s massage was having. 

“It’s only natural.” Coach said to you in a hushed tone. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” It was all the reassurance you needed at that moment. Coach’s hands were so far up your thighs that they were almost brushing against your heavy balls. His massage was reaching a new level of pain, and to accompany it was an equal level of pleasure.

When coach’s knuckle grazed the underside of one of your nuts, it was as if a circuit had been completed. You were electrified. The feeling of pressure on your deep muscle tissue, the feeling of the humid air blowing across your nipples, the feeling of coach’s sweat falling from his face onto your sculpted abs; it was all too much. Your manhood pointed directly to the ceiling, now displaying the full extent of its impressive length and girth.

Coach grabbed it.

His hand, a man’s hand, grasped firmly onto the base of your shaft. It was heaven. Heaven for a sinner. That’s what made it so great. The fact that it was wrong, all wrong, but right, undoubtedly right. Boiling hot skin against boiling hot skin. The fires of hell met the fires of hell, and it was heaven.

He was so slow at first. He wanted you to feel every crease and callus on his hand. Enough time for you to understand the anatomy of his hand; understand the size, power and function of each muscle in it. You learnt how each tiny pore on his palm absorbed sweat and the amazing texture it created. You might have failed biology in the past but at this moment you understood it all.

Then it got faster. It started at the head, the head that was sensitive, swollen, and begging for release. Then down every countless inch, tracking along the thick, serpentine vein that ran its length. Finally, it slammed into the base, pummelling into the spongy balls below and sprang all the way back up. It was one step performed one after the other, and it was also all at once.

Then it got even faster. It was a whole body experience. All the training, all those years in the gym, it led up to that moment. Every muscle working in unison to stop you from exploding. Your breath stopped. Your thoughts stopped. Coach stopped.

The massage resumed. It was his other hand now, and it was your balls. Your balls that were completely filled to the brim, so much so that the skin had no ability to stretch any further. Yet, coach still massaged. He pressed, he squeezed. His thumb glided to one side and the mass displaced into the other side. He was an expert.

“Your past.” His voice. Deep, calming, instructive. His words were all you needed. “Can’t be forgiven, but we can move on from that.” He tightened his grip on your balls. “You are far too good to give up on.” He started stroking the length of your shaft again. “So let’s just put all this girl stuff behind us.” He started slowly. “Instead, focus on your team. Your team of men.” Then he picked up his pace. “Men. Strong men, like me and you.” It became faster. “Men who will support you, fill all your needs.” And faster. “All your desires.” You couldn’t hold it in much longer. “Men.” You were on the very edge of your climax. “Just men.”

For the first time in your life you moaned. You moaned loud and shamelessly. It was completely contrary to the person you were before. Luckily, the person you were before is gone. When you erupted like a volcano, like a burst pipe, like a fire hydrant; nothing was left behind. Your brain had melted into a white, creamy liquid and it was shot out of you. Then it rained back down on you like a tropical shower; hot, humid, and sticky.

You were on a better path now. A path towards becoming a bigger person, both morally and physically. It was all thanks to him. Coach. He showed you the power of men that you foolishly thought you already had. You learnt that night the power of men coming together, and what a wonderful feeling it is.

[vroom--vrooming]

Homelander x Reader

Homelander was told that you were gone, dead, never to return to him again. He just didn't know how big of a lie it was

Homelander stepped through the ruined doors of the lab, his presence an overwhelming force in the desolate space. The facility was a tomb of memories, the walls steeped in the screams of his childhood. This was where they had forged him in fire and agony, a place of sterile white rooms, needles, and cold, unforgiving hands. And it was here, too, where he had lost the only person who had ever mattered to him.

The floors were slick with blood, the bodies of scientists and doctors strewn about like broken dolls. He had hunted them down with methodical cruelty, each one meeting a brutal end under his unrelenting fury. They deserved worse, far worse, for what they had done—not just to him, but to her.

She had been everything to him back then. The girl with eyes that reflected the same pain, the same fear. Her ability to mimic the powers of others had fascinated the scientists, turning her into a living experiment, just like him. Together, they had endured the tortures, finding strength in each other’s presence. She had been his anchor, his one source of light in that pit of darkness.

But then, one day, she was gone. They told him she was dead, and something inside him snapped. That was the day he stopped being the boy with a name and became Homelander, the unfeeling weapon Vought wanted.

Now, all these years later, he was back. The lab was eerily quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of machines still running despite the carnage. He was ready to leave this place behind, to burn it to the ground and let it be consumed by the flames of his vengeance. But then, he heard it—a heartbeat.

Homelander froze, his super hearing honing in on the faint, rhythmic sound. It was coming from deep within the facility, far below the main level, where the most secret and secure rooms lay hidden. His heart pounded in his chest as he followed the sound, a flicker of something strange and unwanted stirring in the pit of his stomach—hope.

He reached a metal door, thick and fortified, sealed with a lock designed to keep out even the most determined intruder. With a single thought, he tore the door from its hinges, the steel groaning in protest before crashing to the ground. He stepped inside, his breath catching in his throat at what he saw.

There, on a medical bed in the center of the small, sterile room, lay the girl he had thought lost forever.

She was still, her body connected to an array of medical equipment. Tubes ran from her veins to machines that hummed with a sickening familiarity, and her skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lights. But she was alive—he could hear her heartbeat, weak but steady, echoing in the small space.

Homelander’s chest tightened, a mixture of rage and grief crashing over him like a tidal wave. They had lied to him. They had kept her alive, hidden away, draining her of whatever they thought she could give them. And he had been too blind, too consumed by his own darkness, to see the truth.

He moved to her side, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch her face. Her skin was cool beneath his fingertips, soft and fragile, and for a moment, he feared she might shatter under his touch. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek, tracing the delicate line of her jaw.

She was still as beautiful as he remembered, but there was something different now—an emptiness in her that hadn’t been there before. She looked like a ghost, a shell of the vibrant, resilient girl he had known. And it was all because of them, the people he had just slaughtered, the people who had kept her in this hell.

A tear slipped down his cheek, an unwelcome sign of the emotions he had buried for so long. He wiped it away quickly, his expression hardening. There was no time for weakness now. He had to get her out of here, had to save her, even if he didn’t know if she could be saved.

Homelander began disconnecting the tubes and wires from her body, his movements slow and careful. Each piece of equipment that fell away felt like a chain being broken, a step closer to freeing her from this nightmare. He lifted her into his arms, holding her close to his chest, her head resting against his shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve got you.”

He walked out of the lab, carrying her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, his grip firm but gentle. The night air was cold against his skin as he emerged into the open, but he barely noticed it. All he could focus on was her—the girl who had once been his only source of light in the darkness.

He flew to Vought Tower, faster than he had ever flown before, the world a blur around him. He couldn’t lose her again. He wouldn’t.

When he arrived, he stormed into the medical wing, barking orders at the staff to get the best doctors, the best equipment. The scientists scurried like frightened mice, too afraid of the wrath that radiated off him to question anything. They worked quickly, setting her up in a private room, hooking her up to machines that would monitor her vitals, but Homelander never left her side.

He watched as they worked, his eyes never leaving her face. He didn’t trust them, didn’t trust anyone with her life except himself. But he knew he couldn’t save her alone. Not this time.

As the night wore on, he sat by her bedside, his hand gently holding hers. He could feel the warmth returning to her skin, hear her heartbeat growing stronger, but she still hadn’t woken up. He prayed, silently and desperately, to whatever gods might listen, that she would open her eyes, that she would come back to him.

For hours, he stayed there, refusing to leave even when the doctors assured him she was stable. He couldn’t leave her, not again. The sight of her lying there, so still and fragile, filled him with a fear he hadn’t felt in years. The fear of losing her all over again.

As dawn broke, casting a soft light through the window, he finally allowed himself to hope. Her breathing was steady, her heartbeat strong, and though she was still unconscious, he could see the signs of life returning to her.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice filled with a determination that had carried him through countless battles. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, the first real sign of tenderness he had shown anyone in years. As he pulled back, he saw a flicker of movement in her eyes, a twitch of her fingers, and his heart leaped in his chest.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “Please.”

And for the first time since he had found her, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she would.

[sweetiecutie]

Hi! Would I please be allowed to ask for Regulus black smut + size kink please??

Pairing: Regulus Black x fem! Reader

Warnings: NSFW, size kink, lots of ‘good girl’, daddy issues taming lol

A/n: this idea is absolutely mouthwatering. Wrote this in my heavy fit of daddy issues so beware.

Regulus is bigger. Always has been, even since you met in the second year of Hogwarts, when mostly girls tended to be taller than boys due to physiological reasons - he still was a few centimeters taller. With years, those few centimeters turned into few decimeters and now, in your seventh year, Regulus is almost two heads taller than you, causing you a lot of neck pain because you have to crane your neck while speaking to him and visually dwarfing you just by standing next to you.

- That’s a good girl, taking me so well, - Regulus murmurs softly, hovering above you. His forearm is resting on a pillows next to your head, propping up most of his weight, his other hand is wrapped around the base of his cock as he sinks slowly inside of you, preventing it from slipping out of your slicked tightness.

You mewl at the praise and tight stretch of your walls - no matter how often you two have sex, first penetration is always hard for both of you. Your own arms are wrapped around Regulus’ lean torso, hands gliding up and down his sides, caressing soft skin there with gentle touches.

He’s not all the way in. He never is. Even when he reaches so impossibly deep within you, his pink cockhead pressed tight against your cervix, creating a bump on your tummy - there are always about 4 cm left, your pussy too small to take all of him in. But he never complains. In fact, Regulus loves it oh so much, just how tiny you are in comparison to him. How cute you look when you struggle to take three of his fingers inside, how fucked-our you look just when he buries his dick inside of your tight little pussy, not having fucked you yet. And even if he wants a stimulation of his full length - he can always shove his dick down your throat, sometimes he wonders who gets off more from it, considering how blissed-out you look when he fucks your mouth stupid.

- That’s it, nice and easy, - Regulus coos as he buries his cock deep inside of you, your inner walls flutter around his mighty girth, trying to accommodate his size. His now free hand rests next to your head too, fully caging your body underneath his bigger form.

Black gives you some time to adjust, staying still while his hot lips wander all over your face and neck, leaving butterfly kisses and whispering sweet nothings and confessions of love into your skin. He starts off slow, pulling out just a bit and then rolling his hips gently back into yours, eliciting sweet moans and whimpers escaping your kiss swollen lips. Regulus picks some speed eventually, setting a rhythmic pace, just how he knows you like it - not too fast, but deep and firm, hitting all your right spots with his cock.

You buck your hips against Regulus, trying to impale yourself impossibly deeper on him, but one his big hand grips your hip tightly, effectively stilling all of your movements.

- That’s all right, little girl, none of that. Just lay there prettily as I fuck you into the mattress, mkay? - Regulus drawls from above you, small smile lingering on his handsome face as his eyes study your blushing face closely.

You pout but agree nevertheless:

- Mkay, - you copy his words, relaxing in his arms, letting him do whatever he wanted to your body. Regulus’ smile widens into a sly grin as his hips resume their previous tempo, fucking you into your bed just like he promised.

Your hand comes to cradle his nape, his skin there is wet with sweat from the strain of how good he fucks you, soaking wet those cute little curls on the back of his head. You bring Regulus’ face down towards your own, your noses bump together with every deep thrust of his hips against yours, his obsidian eyes never leaving your teary ones. A high-pitched squeal escapes your lips with particularly firm roll of your boyfriend’s hips, your eyes flutter closed, Regulus’ name on your lips like a mantra.

- Look up at me while I fuck you, - Regulus rasps and you force your eyes open again, staring up at your boyfriend with immense adoration. His thick curls fall on his forehead, getting into his eyes as he tries to blow them out unsuccessfully, your hand reaches up to card through his silky locks, combing them back from his face. - That’s it, look at me while I make you feel good, that’s my pretty little princess. Rub your clit f’me, yeah?

Your heart picks up pace at his choice of words, you unravel one of your arms from around your lover’s neck, trembling hand makes it’s way down to where your bodies connect, finding your clit and circling it in skilled moves. Your pussy tightens deliciously at added stimulation, clenching around Regulus tightly, eliciting quiet ‘fuck’ mumbled under his breath from him.

- Reggie, gonna cum, - you utter breathlessly and your lips brush against his with every word, he just pecks you encouragingly.

- C’mon, cum on my cock. Be a good girl and make a mess for me.

You feel your stomach tighten and you chase the feeling desperately, nimble fingers rubbing on your clit faster and sloppier, feeling warmth surely growing within you. It took only a few more thrust to send you right over the edge, white-hot sensation surging through your veins, filling every cell of your body with euphoria.

Regulus never stops, fucking you right through your orgasm; black eyes don’t dare to leave your beautiful face, trying to carve every second of your pleasure into his memory. His hips still only when you start whimpering from overstimulation, staying buried snugly inside of you.

You look up at Regulus with teary unfocused eyes, realization that he didn’t cum with you starts to hit slowly. But his lips are on yours already, shutting you up with a reassuring kiss, not giving a chance to start rambling. Bumping his nose against yours affectionately, Regulus pulls out of you carefully, giving your thigh a playful squeeze.

- Roll over on your tummy, baby. Gotta be a good boyfriend and fuck my girl nice and good, don’t you think?

Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated, they inspire me on creating even more content for you💖

[sweemmy]

"I love you."

He had heard those words countless times before, both in life and in Hell. They always felt hollow, like faint echoes fading into the vast emptiness of his heart. They stirred nothing in him, only a slight annoyance. Love was a strange concept, distant and incomprehensible, never something he had the desire to explore. It wasn’t meant for him. In life, he had seen how love weakened men, made them foolish and dependent. In Hell, it was no different—just an illusion that led others to ruin, betrayal, and despair. He, on the other hand, had always stood on the sidelines, watching with a mix of amusement and disdain as souls fell prey to that emotion.

He had never felt the need to return those words. Why would he? Love was a slow poison, corroding from within, and he had neither the time nor the interest in experiencing such a fragile state. Watching others crumble under its weight was enough for him. He, always the calculated, always the distant, stayed in control.

But with you… it wasn’t that simple.

At first, he brushed it off. Not because he didn’t feel something, but because he wasn’t willing to acknowledge it. That unsettling knot tightening inside him whenever he saw you confused him in ways he hadn’t experienced in decades—perhaps ever. Curiosity? No, it was more than that. It was an intrusion into his mind, a weight he carried with him, refusing to let go. From the shadows, he watched you like a predator, calculated and cautious, trying to understand what it was about you that pulled him in. You moved through life, innocent, carefree, unaware of the eyes following you with an intensity even he couldn’t quite grasp.

Ninety-one years. He had spent so long in Hell, playing his part, pulling strings as others danced to his tune. He manipulated, controlled, always keeping a safe distance, emotionally fortified against everything. No one had ever touched him. No one had made him question himself. Until now.

He watched you with a tight smile, that carefully crafted mask of politeness he used to hide what he truly felt. But inside, there was a storm. What had begun as passing interest had grown into something far more complicated, something deeper, something terrifying. You had done what no one in ninety-one years had managed—you had pierced the armor that kept him immune. And he… didn’t know how to handle it.

He had tried. He tried with all his might to bury that feeling deep within him, down in that dark abyss where he stashed everything he refused to face. But you had seeped into every corner of his mind, filling the empty spaces, making indifference impossible. You had become his obsession, his weakness, and admitting that made him furious. He had never allowed himself to feel something so… human. And now, here he was, standing before you, feeling a whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t control.

Those words, the ones he had heard from desperate, trembling lips so many times before, now burned inside him. "I love you." He had heard them before, hundreds, maybe thousands of times. He had always ignored them or mocked them. But now, those very words were tearing him apart.

"I love you."

His voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed in his chest like a haunting refrain. The phrase slipped from his lips without his consent, as though they had been waiting for years to be spoken. And though he maintained his usual smile, that polished mask of elegance and charm, something in his eyes betrayed the truth—the turmoil raging inside him. Vulnerability. Pain. Fear. And worst of all… need.

In that moment, he looked at you with a gaze so intense it was almost unbearable, as if by staring he could somehow make sense of everything he was feeling. But there was no logic to it. His entire existence, both on Earth and in Hell, had been a dance of control, where every move was calculated with precision. Now, he stood on the edge of a precipice, and the thought of falling terrified him.

He was afraid. Not of love itself, but of what it meant. Of the vulnerability it forced upon him. For years, he had remained detached, viewing love as a weakness, something others suffered from, never him. He was the manipulator, the one who controlled the emotions of others. But now, he found himself ensnared in his own web, exposed in a way he had never been before.

He didn’t know what to expect from you. He didn’t know if those words would change anything, if you would understand them as he now did. But one thing was certain, with a clarity so sharp it nearly tore him apart—you had become his only constant. And that thought, that terrifying, overwhelming thought, was shattering him.

Ninety-one years in Hell, and only now, looking at you, feeling you so close and yet so far, did he understand what love meant. For the first time, he had found something that could truly destroy him.

And that… terrified him more than eternity itself.

[apollogeticx]

✧˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ PEOPLE YOU KNOW ♡·˚

— [♡] ; the name "gojo satoru" felt foreign and awkward on your tongue after months of calling him "gojo-sensei" ｡°. gojo satoru

tags: fated feud, fem!reader, betrayal, angst, found family, trust issues, dark past, second chances, clan rivalry, hopeful ending, gojo collecting traumatized students 101.

wc. 5K

You were never supposed to know peace.

From the moment you took your first breath, your fate had been sealed by those who surrounded you, hands already stained with the blood of generations lost to the Gojo clan’s power. You were born into a cage made of their ambitions and hatred, their fear of Gojo’s supremacy shaping you into a tool—a weapon crafted for a singular purpose.

“Your life isn’t your own,” they reminded you, again and again, in the cold, dark halls of your clan’s compound. Each bruise, each scar you bore from training was a reminder of that truth. You weren’t meant to live beyond your mission; you weren’t meant to become anything more than the one thing they needed: Gojo Satoru’s downfall.

Day after day, you were sharpened. They taught you everything, everything but the chance at a life free from their shadow. Theories upon theories of how Gojo’s Infinity could be pierced, how his Six Eyes could be blinded, flooded your lessons. Every possibility was drilled into you, every failure punished. You learned to move silently, to breathe in the malice they planted deep inside of you.

They made you believe this was all you were ever good for.

The clan elders whispered of his power like a dark omen. His Infinity—a barrier no one could cross—and the Six Eyes, those cursed techniques that made him untouchable. You were to be the antithesis to all that. Where others had failed, you were supposed to succeed. They stripped you of your name, your identity. You were nothing but the weapon to strike at the untouchable.

“Gojo Satoru,” they would say, the syllables laced with bitterness. “He will fall. You will make him fall.”

But no matter how hard they drilled those words into you, a part of you—buried deep beneath the years of pain and manipulation—questioned whether you were truly capable of such a feat. Whether you were capable of anything beyond being a mere vessel for their hatred.

Infinity. Six Eyes. Words that loomed large in your life, despite never having encountered him in person. It was always about him. From your earliest memories, they drilled it into your head—he is invincible, untouchable. Your existence, they claimed, was the only thing that might tilt the balance. You had no identity beyond that.

When the time finally came, they sent you to Jujutsu High. After all, what better way to study the enemy than from within? Months of training culminated in this infiltration, hidden under the guise of a normal student.

But it wasn’t like what you imagined.

You thought he’d be different—distant, cold, untouchable like the legends described him. But Gojo Satoru was nothing like the stories.

On your first day, you felt his presence before you even saw him, his energy radiating through the hallways like the sun at high noon. It was overwhelming, suffocating even, but not in the way you had expected. You anticipated his aura to be a fortress of power, a wall you’d have to break through. Instead, it was na aura of warmth. He was... bright.

You wanted to hate him. You tried to maintain your focus, to remember the cruel purpose that had been etched into your bones since birth. But how could you, when he was so... friendly? His smile was disarming, his laugh loud and full of life. And the way he treated everyone—not just his students but even you, the supposed weapon sent to destroy him—was effortless. Casual, like he had no idea of the burden you carried.

“Hey, you must be the new kid!” Gojo’s voice had snapped you out of your thoughts on your first day. He tilted his head down slightly, even though he was much taller. Those eyes—those cursed Six Eyes, hidden behind his blindfold—seemed to pierce right through you. “What’s your name?”

Your name. Something so simple, yet you hesitated. The response you gave was mechanical, devoid of feeling, as you introduced yourself. Every syllable was heavy with the weight of your mission, the expectation of your entire clan on your shoulders.

But Gojo’s grin didn’t falter. “Well, welcome to Jujutsu High! We’re a pretty small group here, so I’m sure we’ll get to know each other real well.” He said, as though he had no clue who you were, what you were meant to be.

It was frustrating. Infuriating, even. Every interaction was supposed to bring you closer to understanding him, to finding a weakness. Instead, all it did was throw you into confusion. How could someone so powerful also be so... human? You were meant to tear him down, to be the undoing of this untouchable figure, yet it was him who was breaking you. Not with force, but with kindness.

He was too bright. Too... Gojo.

Days turned into weeks, and still, you struggled to reconcile the man before you with the target etched into your soul. The more you saw of him, the harder it became to remind yourself of your mission. He laughed at your awkward attempts to avoid his attention, teasing you playfully when you stammered through conversations. At times, you caught yourself almost enjoying it—almost forgetting.

But you couldn’t forget. You weren’t allowed to forget.

Your nights were sleepless, haunted by the faces of your clan, the cold voices of the elders reminding you of why you were there. You were their weapon, their creation. You had no right to lose focus. Yet, every time you closed your eyes, it wasn’t your mission that plagued you. It was him—Gojo, with his blinding smile and easy demeanor.

How were you supposed to fight someone who didn’t even seem to care that you were a threat?

Weeks passed at Jujutsu High, and despite your best efforts to keep your distance, you found yourself inexorably drawn into Gojo’s orbit. It wasn’t by choice, not really. He was just… everywhere. He seemed to appear out of thin air—his boundless energy always circling around you, pulling you into conversations, dragging you into group training sessions, or forcing you to spar when all you wanted was to retreat and focus.

“Hey, kiddo!” Gojo’s voice rang out from across the courtyard, cutting through the calm morning air like na explosion of sunlight. You tensed, the instinct to brace yourself for his overwhelming presence kicking in as you glanced over your shoulder. There he was, in all his glory, strolling over with that easy smile plastered on his face.

Kiddo. He’d taken to calling you that almost immediately. You hated how casual and comfortable it sounded, as though you were just some other student—just another kid under his care.

But you weren’t. You couldn’t be.

“Gojo-sensei,” you replied, your voice stiffer than you intended. His name felt awkward in your mouth, even now. Every time you addressed him, you could hear the echo of your elders reminding you of who he was—not a teacher, not a mentor, but the man you were destined to defeat. Still, the way he grinned at you made it feel like you were just one of his students. Nothing more.

“You seem tense,” he remarked, his voice playful as he folded his arms and cocked his head to the side. “Training too hard? You’re not supposed to carry the weight of the world, you know. Leave that to the old guys.” He winked, knowing full well the irony in his words.

You didn’t respond, hoping your silence would end the conversation, but Gojo wasn’t one to let things go. He slid in closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over you.

“Come on, kid. Lighten up a little, will ya?” He placed a hand on your shoulder, and you could feel the weight of it, solid but not heavy, grounding you in the moment. There was an ease to his touch, a warmth that contrasted with the rigid formality you had been taught to expect from him. “You’re doing great. Really.”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. It wasn’t just na empty compliment—he genuinely believed it. And for the briefest moment, you felt a flicker of something deep inside, something dangerously close to... pride.

But that feeling was quickly quashed as the memory of your mission came crashing back, pulling you down like na anchor. You weren’t supposed to enjoy his praise. You weren’t supposed to feel anything for him beyond what your clan had drilled into you.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your eyes fixed on the ground.

Gojo’s hand lingered for a moment longer before he pulled back, letting out a soft chuckle. “You’re a tough one, huh? That’s good. You’ll need it.”

You glanced up at him, confused by his words. “Need it for what?”

“For dealing with me,” he said, smirking as if that explained everything. “I’m a handful, or so I’ve been told.”

Under normal circumstances, you might have rolled your eyes or brushed off the comment. But there was something about the way Gojo’s presence lingered, something about his carefree attitude that made you want to stay, to hear more.

Despite everything you knew, despite everything you were supposed to be, you felt the faint stirrings of... trust. It was ridiculous, you knew that. Gojo Satoru wasn’t someone you were meant to trust. He was your target. The reason you were here. And yet, every time he called you “kid” or “kiddo,” it chipped away at the wall you had built around yourself.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Gojo suddenly said, his voice softer, his teasing demeanor dialed down a notch. “You’re strong. Smart. Got a good head on your shoulders. You remind me of myself when I was younger.”

The compliment hung in the air, heavy with implication. You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. Was this a trap? A test? Did he know? Could he see through you and the purpose that had shaped your life from the start?

“I’m not like you,” you blurted out, the words sharper than you intended. Gojo blinked, taken aback for a split second before that disarming grin returned.

“Eh, maybe not,” he said, shrugging. “But that’s not a bad thing. The world doesn’t need two Gojos running around, anyway.”

There was a twinkle in his smile when he said it, and you could almost laugh at how absurd it all was—this man who was supposed to be untouchable, invincible, speaking to you like you were equals. But you couldn’t laugh. Not when your every instinct screamed at you to pull away, to build back the barriers you were letting crumble.

Gojo tapped your shoulder lightly, pulling you from your thoughts. “Anyway, don’t be a stranger, kiddo. If you ever need anything, you know where to find me.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his retreating figure leaving you standing in the courtyard, more confused than ever. His words echoed in your mind, louder than the commands of your clan, drowning out everything you had been taught.

You had a purpose. You knew that. But with every passing day, Gojo’s light grew harder to ignore, and with it, the lines between duty and something else blurred just a little more.

The day it all fell apart, you had known something was wrong. The air at Jujutsu High felt different, heavier. You felt it in the eyes of your fellow students, in the whispers that followed your steps like shadows. But you pushed it aside. You couldn’t afford to be paranoid, not when your mission was still incomplete.

Then, they came for you.

The higher-ups descended upon you like vultures, swift and merciless. You were cornered before you could even react, their curses restraining you, leaving no room for escape. There was no explanation, no warning. One moment, you were walking through the quiet halls of the school, the next, you were shackled, powerless to move.

“Traitor,” one of them spat, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.

Traitor. The word hit you like a physical blow, even though you knew this moment was inevitable. They had found out. Somehow, the secret you had been born to protect, the purpose that had been hidden deep within you, had unraveled before you could even make your move.

“Wait—” you managed to choke out, but the words were cut off as a curse tightened around your throat, rendering you silent.

It didn’t matter what you had to say. They wouldn’t listen.

Without hesitation, they dragged you through the halls, past the familiar places that had once been a reluctant sanctuary. Your heart pounded, not from fear, but from frustration, from the injustice of it all. You hadn’t betrayed anyone. You hadn’t even acted yet. But that didn’t matter to them. The mere existence of your mission was enough to condemn you.

You were brought before Gojo. His figure loomed in the doorway as you were shoved into the room, your body weak and trembling from the restraints. His face was unreadable beneath the blindfold, and for the first time, the usual warmth he carried was nowhere to be found.

“They’ve told me everything.” His voice was flat, no longer laced with the teasing affection he had once directed at you.

You opened your mouth to speak, to explain, but nothing came out. What could you say? How could you justify your existence, when you had been molded to destroy him? You saw no sympathy in his stance, no compassion in his expression. Gojo Satoru, the man who had once laughed with you, called you “kiddo,” and made you feel like a person—he wasn’t there anymore.

“Take her away,” one of the higher-ups ordered, and without a word of defense, you were dragged from the room.

The arrest was swift. Brutal.

For days, you were left in the darkness. Deprived of food, of water, of any semblance of humanity. Your once-sharp mind dulled under the crushing weight of hunger and thirst. Your body bore the marks of countless interrogation sessions, each one harsher than the last. Bruises lined your arms and legs, dark and angry. Your skin was caked in dirt, your clothes torn from the repeated brutality.

They wanted answers—answers you couldn’t give them. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you didn’t have them. The mission had always been shrouded in secrecy, known only to the highest echelons of your clan. You had been a weapon, nothing more, trained to follow orders without question.

But that didn’t stop the interrogations. The demands for information. The relentless accusations.

“You were here to kill him, weren’t you?” one interrogator sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “To kill Gojo Satoru.”

You said nothing. Your voice was too hoarse, too broken to respond, even if you had wanted to. And what could you say? That you were born for it? That every step of your life had been carefully crafted for this singular purpose?

They wouldn’t care. They had already made up their minds.

Hours turned into days, and you lost track of time. The pain became a constant companion, dulling your senses until you could barely feel it anymore. Your body was weak, battered, and your spirit was crumbling under the weight of it all.

But the worst part wasn’t the physical pain.

It was the silence from Gojo.

There was no rescue, no sudden reprieve. The man who had once filled your days with light and laughter hadn’t come for you. He hadn’t defended you. You were nothing more than a mission now—a failed one at that.

In your darkest moments, you thought about the way he had smiled at you, the way he had made you feel like you were more than just a weapon. But it was all na illusion, wasn’t it? A fleeting lie you had allowed yourself to believe.

You were no one. Nothing. Just a tool that had outlived its usefulness.

And now, you were paying the price.

The room was cold. Sterile. The light above flickered faintly, casting weak shadows across the bare walls. You had been left alone for what felt like days again, your wrists raw from the restraints, your body aching from the strain of hunger and exhaustion. The silence was unbearable, almost worse than the interrogation. It gave your mind too much room to wander, to dwell on everything that had happened, on how completely you had failed.

You didn’t expect him to come. Not after all this time. Not after the accusations and the punishments that followed. Gojo Satoru wasn’t someone you thought you’d see again—not after the higher-ups had laid bare your betrayal. But when the door opened, and the familiar white-haired figure stepped through, your heart sank.

He was here.

The Bearer of the Six Eyes.

There was no familiar grin, no teasing lilt in his voice as he stepped into the room, his tall frame dominating the small, confining space. His blindfold was still in place, but you knew he could see you with perfect clarity—your disheveled hair, the bruises on your arms, the dirt staining your once-clean uniform. He could see it all, and yet he remained silent for a long moment, taking in the sight of you in chains.

“You’re a hard one to track down, you know that, kid?” Gojo’s voice, though light as ever, carried na edge you hadn’t heard before.

Kid. It stung now, more than it ever had. It felt like mockery, like a reminder of the bond you had lost—the bond you had destroyed with your silence and your deception. You looked up at him, your gaze bitter, hollow. His presence was still too much, too bright even in this dismal place. You swallowed the bitter taste that rose in your throat, refusing to allow any weakness to show.

“It’s Gojo Satoru now, isn’t it?” you said, your voice raw but firm. “Or maybe you’d prefer Bearer of the Six Eyes?”

The shift in how you addressed him was palpable, heavy with resentment. It wasn’t Gojo-sensei anymore. You couldn’t bring yourself to call him that now—not after everything. The title you had once used with some semblance of warmth felt foreign, twisted in your mouth. Gojo stood there, unmoving, the weight of your words hanging between you like a wall.

He frowned, just barely, but enough for you to notice. “Gojo Satoru, huh?” His tone was soft, almost questioning. “That’s a bit formal, don’t you think?”

You didn’t answer, keeping your gaze on the floor, refusing to meet his eyes—Six Eyes, the very thing that had marked him as untouchable. The reason you had been made. You felt sick with anger, with the weight of everything that had been forced upon you, the mission that had led you here, to this moment of utter defeat.

Gojo moved closer, the sound of his footsteps reverberating in the small room, and you felt his presence looming over you. His voice came again, quieter now. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to talk like that.”

You let out a bitter laugh, hollow and strained. “What does it matter now? After everything, do you think I could still call you Gojo-sensei? I’m not your student. I never was. I was a weapon, designed to destroy you.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. You could feel his eyes on you, even behind the blindfold. He was studying you, seeing through your bitterness, through the layers of anger and betrayal you had wrapped yourself in.

“And yet, you didn’t try to kill me,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “If you were really just a weapon, you would’ve made your move by now.”

You clenched your fists, your body trembling with the effort to stay composed. “I couldn’t. I—” The words caught in your throat, too tangled with emotions you didn’t understand. “You don’t get it, Gojo Satoru. You were never supposed to be… like this. You were too—too bright. Too human. It made everything harder.”

For a moment, Gojo said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but you could sense the tension between the two of you—the unspoken things hanging in the air, the weight of your mission pressing down on both of you. Then, without warning, he crouched down in front of you, bringing himself to your level.

“I don’t know what your clan told you, what they made you believe,” he said quietly, his voice almost too soft, “but you’re not just a weapon. I saw you, kid. I still see you.”

You flinched at the word ‘kid,’ but there was no teasing in his tone now. It was just Gojo—Gojo, who had once laughed and joked with you, who had treated you like a person, not na enemy. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He wasn’t supposed to see you. He wasn’t supposed to care.

“You don’t get it,” you repeated, your voice breaking. “This is what I was made for. My whole life—it was all for this. For you.”

Gojo was silent for a long moment, his expression softening. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle but firm. “And now that they’ve thrown you away, what are you going to do?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “They used you, kid. They molded you into something to fight me. And now that the higher-ups know, they’re done with you. They don’t care what happens to you.”

His words hit harder than any physical blow. You had always known, deep down, that your clan saw you as nothing more than a tool. But hearing it spoken aloud—hearing Gojo say it—felt like a knife twisting in your gut.

“You don’t have to keep living like this,” Gojo continued, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “You can choose something else.”

You stared at him, disbelief flickering in your eyes. “Choose? What choice do I have left?”

Gojo tilted his head, his tone softening. “You could stay. Stay here, at Jujutsu High. Be my student. For real this time.”

The suggestion hit you like a punch to the chest. Stay? After everything? You shook your head, the weight of the offer too much to bear. “I can’t,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Not after all this. Not after what I was meant to do.”

Gojo remained silent for a moment, as if considering your words. Then he stood up, his tall frame once again towering over you. “You were meant to do a lot of things, kid,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “But maybe it’s time to figure out what you want.”

With that, he turned and left the room, leaving you alone once again. But this time, his words lingered in the air, heavy and full of possibility.

What did you want?

For the first time in your life, you weren’t sure.

Days passed, and with them, the cold, unfeeling walls of your confinement started to feel like a prison not just for your body but for your mind. Your thoughts swirled endlessly in circles, replaying the words Gojo had left you with. His offer to stay. To be his student—for real this time. But after everything you’d been through, after the torture and betrayal, it felt like a cruel joke. How could you possibly belong here?

Yet there was something in his voice that made it hard to dismiss. Something genuine, as though he saw a future for you where you couldn’t.

Late one night, the sound of voices broke through the stillness of your cell. Raised, agitated, echoing down the hall.

“Are you out of your mind, Gojo? She’s dangerous! Her entire purpose is to be a weapon against you!” one of the higher-ups growled.

“That was her clan’s decision, not hers,” Gojo’s voice shot back, sharp as a blade. “She didn’t ask to be born into that. You can’t punish her for what she never had a choice in.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Gojo was fighting for you?

“She’s a liability,” another voice chimed in. “We can’t risk keeping her alive. If she turns on you—”

Gojo’s laughter was cold and bitter. “Turns on me? You’ve already turned on her. You locked her up and tortured her for something she hasn’t even done. And now you’re talking about killing her? You think that’s going to solve anything?”

The silence that followed was heavy, the tension palpable even from your cell. You didn’t know what to think. Gojo was the last person you expected to go against the higher-ups, to stand between you and their judgment. And yet, here he was, doing exactly that.

“You don’t get to make this call, Gojo,” one of the higher-ups snapped. “You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment.”

“My emotions?” Gojo’s voice dropped, cold and dangerous. “If you think I’m doing this out of sentimentality, you’re more delusional than I thought. She has potential. If you kill her now, you’re wasting a resource that could be used to our advantage.”

“Potential?” The disbelief in their tone was unmistakable. “You think she could be of use to us after everything? She’s too unpredictable.”

“That’s because you’ve given her no reason to trust you,” Gojo responded, unyielding. “Let her train. Let her join Jujutsu High. I’ll take responsibility for her. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be the first to know.”

Another long pause followed, thick with hesitation. Finally, one of the higher-ups spoke, his voice clipped. “Fine. But if she steps out of line, she’s dead.”

The weight of their words settled over you like a lead blanket. They were giving you a chance, but only under Gojo’s watch. And the moment you made a wrong move, you’d pay the ultimate price.

Moments later, the door to your cell creaked open, and Gojo’s figure appeared in the doorway, his face obscured but unmistakable.

“Come on, kid,” he said, his tone softer than before. “You’re getting out of here.”

You hesitated, your body weak from confinement, but you pushed yourself to your feet. Every movement was painful, your muscles protesting after days of inactivity, but you forced yourself to stand tall as Gojo led you out of the cell. The air in the hallway was cooler, fresher, but it did little to ease the tension coiled in your chest.

As you walked in silence, following him through the winding halls, the weight of everything crashed down on you. Why was he doing this? Why was he fighting for you?

“You really fought for me,” you muttered as you walked beside him, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo shrugged, his expression unreadable behind his blindfold. “Of course I did. I wasn’t going to let them throw you away just because they’re scared.”

“But why?” you asked, unable to stop yourself.

He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. His expression softened, though you couldn’t see his eyes. “Because if you’re a weapon,” he said, his voice low and steady, “so am I.”

You froze. The words hit you like a punch to the chest, so simple yet so profound. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, was admitting that he, too, was a tool—someone shaped by forces beyond his control.

For the first time, you didn’t have a response. You simply stared at him, the weight of his words pressing down on you.

Gojo didn’t wait for you to recover. He started walking again, his tone shifting back to its usual teasing lilt. “But seriously, just stop calling me ‘Gojo Satoru.’ It’s way too formal, and it makes me feel old.”

Despite everything, you felt a small, reluctant smile tug at the corner of your lips. “What should I call you, then?”

He grinned, though you couldn’t see it, you could hear it in his voice. “Gojo-sensei has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not happening.”

He laughed, the sound light and carefree, as if the darkness of the last few weeks had never touched him. “Fine, fine. Just don’t be so stiff about it, okay?”

The playful tone felt strange after everything, but it was oddly comforting. This was the Gojo you knew, the one who joked and teased, who acted like nothing could ever touch him. And somehow, even after everything, he was still the same.

When you reached the gates of Jujutsu High, Gojo paused, resting a hand on your shoulder. “You can stay here. Train. Learn. Be a student for real this time. But you have to choose it.”

You looked up at him, your chest tight with uncertainty. “What if I can’t? What if I fail?”

He smiled, that familiar, infuriating grin returning at last. “Then we’ll deal with it when it happens. But for now, just focus on being yourself. You don’t have to carry that weight anymore.”

The sincerity in his voice took you by surprise. After so long of being treated as nothing more than a tool, hearing someone speak to you like this felt foreign, strange. You didn’t know how to respond, so you simply nodded, too tired and overwhelmed to say anything.

As you stepped through the gates of Jujutsu High, leaving behind the darkness of your past, Gojo walked beside you, no longer na enemy, no longer a rival, but something else. Something you couldn’t name yet, but for the first time in your life, you felt the faint stirrings of hope.

“Gojo-sensei,” you muttered under your breath, testing the word.

He immediately perked up, flashing you a triumphant grin. “See? I knew you’d come around.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile found its way to your face. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end. Maybe it was the beginning of something new. And this time, you had the choice.

©apollogeticx ⋆ all rights reserved.

[moonstruckme]

Hiya Mae!! How are you?? It’s been a little bit but I was hoping I could request a poly!marauders fic (+plus Lily if you’re comfortable with doing that if not it’s fine). This week is the 6th anniversary of my brothers passing and this year is a bit harder as I’m turning 18. Having such a milestone coming up and him not being here is sorta making me sick. I was wondering if maybe you could base the fic off of that? Or something to do with grief and them helping reader out. I’ve found great comfort in the abundance of love you portray with their relationship and I could do with a lil of it.

If not it’s totally fine don’t feel obligated. Hope you have a good week!!

Hi sweetheart, sorry I couldn't get this to you during the week you requested it. I was also dealing with a bit of grief at the time and it felt too raw to try for a while. I hope you're doing well and that you really enjoy being 18, even if those feelings are complicated by your loss <33

cw: mentions of death, grief

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 622 words

The sky is turning from deep blue to black outside when Sirus notices you’ve slipped into a melancholy. 

The only hint of it is in your tone. You’ve been quipping about the film you’re all watching like you always do, bouncing off his and James’ comments and Remus’ amused grunts, but there’s a falsity to the cheer in your voice. This is something you and James have in common; when Sirius or Remus are upset it permeates the area around them like a thick fog, but the two of you have a way of keeping it contained within yourselves, putting on counterfeit smiles. Sirius often wonders if it doesn’t hurt you more. 

He leans away from where he’s been resting his head on Remus’ pectoral, snaking an arm around your shoulders. 

“Penny for your thoughts, pretty girl?” he asks quietly. 

You shrug. Swallow. “Just thinking about them,” you murmur in reply. 

Sirius suspects this isn’t the full story, but he, too, knows the necessity of papering over certain pains. He doesn’t pry. 

Before the war—before Regulus—Sirius used to think that grief was the pain that came from the love you had for the lost person being ripped away from you. But even months after his brother’s death, all the love is still there. It’s amplified, if anything, every ounce of it demanding attention now that he can no longer take it for granted even a little bit. 

What went was the ritual of it all. The peculiar brand of happiness he’d felt around Reg, never easy but still there, buried beneath layers of troubled history and shared broodiness. The inside jokes they’d barely realized they had, things no one who wasn’t raised in their house would see the humor in. The surety that if they fought, they’d get a chance to make up. Sirius will never have those things with his brother again. In memories, maybe, but now they’ll always be tinged with the love so big it hurts. 

He wishes desperately he could keep you from hurting like that. 

He shuffles closer, awkwardly wrapping his other arm around you until he’s nearly covering your body with his. It’s like he thinks he can shield you, like he can protect you from grief after he’d failed to protect you from loss. 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius says. 

You shake your head, turning so it’s jammed in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Your face feels hot. “I don’t know what to do,” you choke out. 

Sirius squeezes you tighter. He gets it, but he doesn’t. He knows how it feels to grieve, but not how to grieve your person in your way. It’s an ache he can only approximate. 

“Sweetheart.” James’ voice sounds pained, and he gets up from Remus’ other side, rounding the couch to climb onto the armrest beside you. He rubs your back with one hand, the other coming to rest on Sirius shoulder, a comfort in case he needs it. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do, my love.” 

Sirius feels a hot tear slip down his neck into his shirt, and James winces as your shoulders hitch under his touch. Remus makes a soft pitying sound. 

“You’re alright.” He latches onto the last unclaimed part of you, rough hand soothing up your calf. “You’re okay.” 

“Sorry,” you manage, and Sirius squishes you punishingly in his arms, pressing a staunch kiss to the side of your head. 

“Don’t be silly,” he tells you. James makes a half-choked sound of agreement. “No sorries, okay?” 

You nod, the bump of your nose moving against Sirius’ neck. He gives you another kiss to show his approval. 

“You’re alright, darling,” Remus says again. “Take all the time you need. We’ve got you.”