#I went through all the wrong people in the past that made it ten times worse

[ronkeyroo]

I’ve been so badly traumatized by people online constantly demanding my attention and snuffing me out in the worst possible ways in the past that to this day I dont know how to properly emotionally navigate this kind of behavior when i am faced with it again, even when its mild.

I’ve went through experiencing unrelenting and overbearing messaging to weird guilt trips and even (I hope to dear god my assumptions to be wrong here) people vagueing at me in such an oddly specific, hurtful manner when i dont appear to be available for their needs and it just...Fuck, it eats away at me. It doesnt happen too often nowdays but, I recognize those behaviors returning and it bothers me alot...

Its easy when its strangers unlike my fucked up now ex friends, I can just put the boundary without all of the previous mess...But I cant shake how incredibly mad it still makes me TT This inappropriate reaction to want to bite and lash out and burn that bridge immediatly to spare myself a FRACTION of the trouble, and for fucks sake i know its still the remnants of the damage inflicted upon me echoing out as self defense but its so uncalled for and im tired of feeling like a mad dog when this trigger is being activated. I really want to unlearn this behavior...

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

hii, I‘ve already made two requests and you‘ve written them so so beautifully <33 Your work is really amazing and I think I would consider you one of my favorite blogs💞💞 I do have one more idea :)

Reader and Jason are in a relationship, yet they don’t know about his vigilante identity. Reader works the night shift as a barista.

One night, the café gets robbed during reader’s shift, but Jason isn’t there to take care of the robber since he went on patrol only later, meaning the GCPD is the first on the scene.

When Red Hood passes the café and see’s all the police lights, his heart drops. He comes to check up on reader, but they’re so shaken up that jason scares them.

It’s all fluffy in the end, and perhaps Red Hood reveals his identity 😚

Promises

Hi, nonnie! Thank you! ~1.8k words

There was a gun to your face about ten minutes ago. Well, it might have been ten minutes ago, you're not exactly sure how long it was now. The idea of time seemed to phase out when two masked robbers stormed into the little Café you worked at.

Who even robs a coffee shop? You had maybe thirty dollars in the till, everyone uses cards or just taps their phones anyway. That point didn't seem to get across to the men as they waved their pistols in your face and shot off rounds into the air.

You showed them the safe, and a few hundred dollars seemed to calm them down. They took the money, took your wallet and phone. But none of that stopped them from shoving you to the ground as they ran off. You just sat there– dazed, scared, and overwhelmed– until a patrol car from the GCPD and an ambulance rushed to park outside.

No one was hurt, maybe some bruises from being pushed around, but you and the two unfortunate people who wanted coffee half past midnight were more than a little shaken up.

You stumble through the questions the cops ask you and let the paramedics guide you to sit on the back of the ambulance. They drape a shock blanket over your shoulders as you murmur about needing to call your boyfriend.

Someone presses a hot drink into your hands, and you barely register the quiet conversations over this being the fourth small business to get robbed this week. Your eyes only leave the spot in the distance you're fixated on when gasps resonate throughout the air. Your gaze shifts up, and your breath leaves your lungs. Red Hood. Red Hood is stalking towards you like lives depend on it, avoiding the medics and cops that try to talk to him, to get his attention.

You're proud of the fact that you don't flinch when his gloved hand meets your face, carefully tilting your chin up to observe your face. His body is rigid, you can tell something's wrong even through the muddled, shocked state of your mind.

He's crowding over you, a barrier between you and the rest of Gotham. You know he's a vigilante, you know that he helps. But the moment frays the last of your nerves and tears fill your eyes.

You just want to go home. You just want to feel safe. You want your phone back and you want to call your boyfriend and have him make everything okay again.

Red Hod freezes and you can audibly hear his breath hitching. His fingers twitch against your skin before dropping, but he doesn't step away, "Sorry. I'm sorry– Did I– are you hurt?"

That only makes you want to cry harder. He's apologizing to you. This stranger hasn't done anything, but check if you're okay, and you're crying all because he looks big and a little scary. You shake your head, trying to find the words to apologize back, that you don't know why you're crying.

You shift back, even if there's no room to go anywhere. Your heart is pounding and you're scared even if you shouldn't be because there was a gun to your face and you could have died and the man that smells like gunpowder and leather can't fix that.

His head doesn't move, you know his eyes haven't left your face. You don't know why. He doesn't gain anything from lifting his hand to catch the tear that spills down your face. "You're okay. You're safe," he murmurs, steady and full of promise, "tell me what you need. Let me make it better." He says your name, says it softly and gently and damn near yearning.

"I need– I want my phone. I want to call you boyfriend," You answer shakily, blinking back the rest of your tears and trying to figure out why a vigilante knows your name.

His head turns, presumably looking for your phone, "Is it still inside the Café?"

You shake your head, voice heavy with emotion, "It– they stole it."

"They?" He questions, mask tilting back towards you.

"The robbers?" You answer weakly, Isn't that why he's here? To get information? To catch them?

His hand finally leaves your face, and you exhale softly in relief, "I'll take care of it."

He wavers in front of you. Another thing that doesn't make sense. You don't get another word out before he's disappeared into the shadows.

Your shoulders slump. You're so tired and so, so drained, and not even the hot drink in your hands is making you feel more in your body.

Someone calls your name. Jason. You stand up on shaky legs, nearly spilling the cup in an attempt to put it down quickly. Jason's here. You don't care why or how, but he's here. He has you wrapped up against his chest and face buried in your hair before the cops can even try to stop him.

He says your name over and over into your hair, and you try to ignore the way your tears stain his shirt. "I've got you, you're okay. You're okay, baby. Promise. I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you," he murmurs, arms tightening around you.

He feels safe. He smells like– he smells like leather and gunpowder. He's big and warm and a barrier between you and the rest of the world. And it all clicks.

"Let's get you home," he says softly, gently, so careful with a voice full of yearning and love. You recognize it. And you know.

Jason knows your shift ends in forty-seven minutes. But patrol has been slow tonight, and he's going to walk you home even if it wasn't. So why not show up a little early and keep you company? Spoiler seemed eager enough to cover his territory for a few hours, anyway.

He'll go back out after he sees you home safe and watches you fall asleep. Jason's idly trying to decide if you're going to be too tired to shower with him, when the flashing lights outside the Café catch his attention.

He thinks his heart might have stopped. He doesn't even think to call Oracle or text you, he just knows his feet hit the pavement and he's running.

There's only one ambulance, only one cop car. His eyes dart. Where are you. Where are you?

He's barreling towards you as soon as he finds you. He doesn't have a plan. Doesn't need one until he knows you're safe. "Move," he snaps at the medic that tries to stop him, never stopping his path towards you.

His hand is tilting your head up before he even considers the possibility that it's a bad idea, that he's just a stranger in a mask armed to the teeth with knives and guns.

He can't help himself. He needs to touch you, needs to ground himself and make sure you're not hurt. He doesn't manage to get his words out before you're tearing up.

Jason's heart breaks at the sight, bile rising in his throat. He removes his hand, even if every instinct he has goes against it. He thinks he chokes out an apology, but he's too busy looking at every inch of you for injuries.

You shake your head and a piece of his soul shatters. He reaches up to wipe your tears, as if he could do anything else, "You're okay. You're safe," he murmurs, and wills it to be true, "tell me what you need. Let me make it better." He wants it to be better. He wants your tears to stop and the tension to leave your body and the anxiety to disappear from your eyes.

"I need– I want my phone. I want to call you boyfriend," You answer, and he wants to drop to his knees when your voice shakes.

Your phone. He can do that. His eyes dart from you, looking for the familiar phone case, "Is it still inside the Café?"

"It– they stole it," You answer and his focus snaps back to you.

"They?" He questions, doing his best to keep the anger from dripping into his voice, to bite back the threats on his tongue for whoever scared you.

"The robbers?" You answer weakly. Robbers. Robbers. Robbers did this. He files that away for once you're home, once he knows you feel safe.

He pulls his hand from your face reluctantly, "I'll take care of it." Jason doesn't want to step away from you. All he really wants is to wrap you up against him and promise everything will be better. But you don't need Red Hood. You need Jason Todd.

He forces himself away from you, moves faster than he should, struggling to shed his armor and mask. He drops his guns to the roof, anything recognizable left in a pile for someone else to deal with.

He's back on the ground and rushing back to you. He says your name. You look up at him and he sees the relief flood your face.

Jason catches you when you step towards him, arms wrapping around you to keep you close.

He whispers promises against your skin, tightening his grip on you. He can feel you crying. It makes concern and anger and the overwhelming desire to protect you twists in his stomach, "Let's get you home."

Jason– Red Hood– talks to the police for you. Insists that there's no more questions for you to answer as he hooks his arm firmly around your waist. He guides you home. You barely process a word he says.

All you can really focus on, as you watch him unlock the apartment door, is that he's Red Hood. How did you miss it? Why didn't you know?

You feel disoriented. But Jason's perfect, exactly what you need in the moment. He doesn't ask you questions, doesn't press or make you move too fast as he helps you change. He nods and gets you water when you say you don't want to shower, that you're not hungry.

He lets you curl against his chest and he kisses the crown of your head when you finally crawl into bed, "I was scared," You admit quietly into his skin.

"They'll never scare you again," he promises. Your stomach swoops. It's the truth. You know it's fact. They'll never scare you again. They'll never scare anyone again. He'll make sure of it.

You fall asleep to his comforting whispers and vows, the feel of his fingers tracing your skin. When you wake up, he's still next to you, still holding you flush against him. Your wallet and phone sit on the nightstand next to your bed. Neither of you mention it as the sun begins to shine on the familiar leather jacket folded over your chair. Neither of you mention it, later, when the news reports that two bodies were found in Gotham Harbor.

[pirateprincessblog]

needle to the heart

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫.: wedding planning seemed stressful and difficult on tv and in the stories of your friends and family. your first one was, indeed, stressful and difficult. so much that it took you less than ten minutes to discard your wedding dress, undo your hair, and call a cab. this time will be different. with a different approach. in a different city. with a different man. 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: kim hongjoong x f!reader x choi san 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: angst, smut, bride!reader, ex!hongjoong, ceo!san, cheating, marriage, past lovers 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: public, voyeurism, orgasm denial, slight dacryphilia, choking, hair pulling, fingering, mirror sex

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: swearing, infidelity 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i whipped this out in three hours. enjoy. i did. i'm horny. and sad. not proofread. :)

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

you liked to think that you were the furthest thing from a bridezilla. you did everything on your own or with your partner, kept your family and friends out of it, for their and your sake, and little by little, all the planning was coming to an end. the seating arrangement was finished, bridesmaids happy, parents satisfied, and you and your partner relaxed. all that was left to do was find the wedding gown and tuxedo.

for your last wedding, your then partner and you did not have a big budget. you did not plan a big wedding either, knowing that none of your family members would attend and he had a very small circle of people.

kim hongjoong was in college, struggling to make ends meet. but he loved you, more than anything. would've kept you in his pocket if he could. he borrowed money from his brother to pay for the venue and catering, and used his savings to buy himself a suit that was conveniently on clearance. as for your dress, he made it for you. his dream of becoming a fashion designer never faded, even though it cost him his apartment and most of the food. he lived off of coffee, pretzels and cigarettes.

he quit them for you, hoping to create a better impression in your parent's eyes. but all they saw was a cigarette smelling, hair dyed boy whose dreams were too big for his own good and he could not give you a good future. they didn't not like him. they hated him. your father, usually having a soft spot for even a pout from you, let alone tears, was unfazed as you begged him to give hongjoong a chance.

"you'll become homeless in no time."

"don't come to us when everything falls apart."

"what do you know about love at your age?"

"why can't you find someone more successful?"

and you almost went through with it. you sat in the hand sewn wedding dress, with your hair done by your best friend, and make up done by yourself. the dress itself did not look like it was made in under a month by a man. it looked like it was stripped from a mannequin in a wedding dress shop. and you loved it. you loved every bit of it. you loved every bit of him. the smile he had on his face as he handed you the box, and the little excited clapping as you admired his creation in awe.

yet, as soon as your best friend left you to get the veil from the car, you regretted it. what if it really does go wrong, and you have no backup. you didn't go to college, instead choosing to work until you decide what to do with yourself. but your paycheck wasn't enough to find an apartment for yourself, let alone two people. then comes the food, the utilities, and his college. would he ask you for money? would he contribute at all? would you have to work two shifts to cover both of your expenses?

in the ten minutes that your best friend, the maid of honour, was gone, your brain managed to mess with your feelings and got you out of the dress and through the window. you ran in the clothes you arrived in, leggings and sweatshirt, with undone hair and face full of smeared makeup. your parents ushered you in, your mother happily wiping your makeup off and preparing you your favourite meal.

your phone did not ring once. it hurt your heart to think that hongjoong did not reach out to you. not him, not his family, and not your maid of honour. you were alone. hurting. you did not want to do it. but if hongjoong had been just a tad bit more patient, everything would've been perfect. neither of you were financially stable on your own, or together, and barely had the money for the wedding. hongjoong didn't understand it. or didn't want to understand it. blindly in love, he just wanted to gift you the world. say the word, and he would create it out of thin air for you if he could.

you moved cities, changed numbers, forgot names and faces, met new ones. you met choi san. a kind, polite man you've met at the gym. the encounter was like one from a movie; someone raising their voice at you for borrowing some equipment and shoving you backwards as you tried to defend yourself. when your back hit the wall, you were certain the giant bodybuilder's fist would soon meet your face. until he came to rescue.

"pick on someone your own size."

"this your girlfriend or something?"

"she is. even if she wasn't, what gives you the right to talk or touch anyone like that?"

"tell your slut to keep her fingers to herself and ask the next time she wants to- oof!"

in a split second, san's fist connected with the man's jaw. it was amusing seeing the giant man stumble back, taking a hit from someone who was shorter and not as bulked as him. the workers were quick to react, but on his behalf. both of you got your membership cancelled, bags and bottles flying out the door, along with you two. you stood in front of the glass doors in the dark, your saviour next to you, equally in disbelief. until you started laughing. and he joined.

from that night, everything seemed to fall in place. you felt loved. safe. had hopes and dreams again. your parents accepted san, just like his parents accepted you. family dinners and lunches were now an often occurrence, with san always abducting you while everyone was busy preparing food and giving you attention where nobody could see.

it was sweet and innocent at first, and more heated and passionate as days went by. choi san knew how to sweep you off your feet, whether it was with a sudden trip to your dream destination or a simple chocolate bar he picked up at the gas station. aside from loving, caring and protecting, he was also rich. you would sound shallow if you said it out loud, but it did contribute. looking at your last relationship, this one felt safe. you didn't need to worry whether you'll spend today's budget on your daily coffee or on your partner's food so he doesn't starve.

now, a few years later, not only do you have a majestic venue, a big number of people you wanted to invite in the first place, and a dreamy groom, but you are also getting your wedding gown custom made. you sit in your fiancé's car, a brand new black and shiny lexus with red seats he bought for the wedding that is just three weeks away. he assured you that the gown would be done by then. it had to be.

"see anything you like, love?"

"they're all so... revealing." you complain, closing one of the dozens magazines san's assistant has found you.

san chuckles, putting a hand on your thigh and keeping the other one on his steering wheel. you still feel goosebumps every time he touches you. his hand is warm on your skin, gently squeezing your bare thigh just beneath the hem of your dress. "you can draw your own picture if you wish. i'll do everything to make sure you have your dream dress. i want my future wife to be happy."

as an owner of a highly successful company that produces luxurious jewelry and watches, choi san could afford everything. yet, he was still cautious with his money. he kept his receipts, tracked his own expenses, but never spared when it came to spoiling you or tipping workers. the only thing you regretted was not meeting him sooner.

"i am happy." you respond, even though your tone is irritated.

"you're so cute when you try to conceal your emotions. you can be angry with something, that's alright."

"i'm not angry. i'm pissed."

"tell me what you want, and i'll make it happen."

"i don't know what i want." you admit, throwing the magazines in the back seat.

"ah," san says. "can i be of any help?"

"you can try."

"you love sparkles. why not go all out?"

"i don't know."

you rest your head against the window, looking at the tall building that overshadows all the others as you give your brain a break. it is san's building, and you have been in there many times. some days spent sitting in the cafeteria and having lunch with him, and some spent against the window, bare body pressed against the cold glass as his warm hands held your waist in place and hips connected with yours. you feel arousal pooling between your legs, and instinctively press your thighs together at the memory.

san recognizes the way you chew your freshly manicured nail, eyes stuck on the highest level on his building and cheeks becoming flushed. he smirks to himself, before letting his hand dip between your thighs and feel the warmth of your core.

"san-" you gasp, quickly rolling up the window.

usually, you do not mind. but in the middle of the day, in a busy city as you wait for the green light?

"may i know what got you so worked up?" he asks, knowing the answer already. he just needed to hear it from you while you were a flustered and stuttering mess.

"you know."

"i'm afraid i don't. mind reminding me?"

you look at him with an annoyed face. you realize it is a mistake, your eyes hungrily taking in his presence. he looks ravishing with his slicked black hair, with a few strands falling over his smug face, a black halfway unbuttoned shirt with rolled up sleeves and his sleeve tattoos on full display. the tattooed hand grips your thigh, his pinky finger inching closer and closer to your clothed core. your gaze drops on his tattoos, having memorized all of them by now. your favorite one overshadows the rest, and when he first showed it to you, it had your jaw dropped for a long time.

your eyes inked on his skin, details astonishing. your lashes, your iris, to the smallest vein in the whites of your eye. it was cleverly camouflaged with the rest of them, but still standing out if someone were to look at it a bit longer.

something about him pleasuring you with that hand had you seeing stars. choi san loved you so much that he got a reminder of you permanently marked on his skin. and he made sure to show you how much he loved you in other ways. just like now, easily moving your panties aside and brushing his fingers against your folds. he circles your clit, causing you to squirm in your seat and claw at the red leather underneath you. he doesn't protest, instead loving the view and sounds you make for him.

"my pretty wife," he coos, then dips his fingers into your aching hole.

you moan, throwing your head back and closing your eyes, finally relaxing your body. san has given you passion and an adrenaline rush. you can't help but be jealous of his previous lovers. were they also treated like this?

you feel the car move, and his fingers plunge deep inside of you. you gasp, opening your eyes and holding onto the door handle and his wrist. he smoothly navigates the busy roads, not once taking his hand off your body. his thick fingers easily find your soft spot, not sparing a moment before abusing it and inching you closer to an intense orgasm. he is forced to stop at another red light, causing you to groan out of frustration. you wished for nothing more than to get out of the busy city center, beg him to stop in an empty parking lot so you can offer yourself to him in the back seat.

"excuse me?"

you become stiff under his touch, ears picking up a foreign voice. san does not halt his moves, relentlessly slamming two fingers into you, hidden by your dress. you squeeze his wrist - a poor attempt to stop him.

"yes?" your lover rolls down his window, shifting his focus on the older couple that approaches the car.

"do you know where this street is? we aren't usually in this city." they show san their phone screen that has an address written in the notes.

as san explains, you can't help but feel a mix of fear and embarrassment. the green light could turn on any second, and your orgasm could wreck your body in the same time span. you can't help the gasps that leave your lips, even though your head is turned to the other side. it does not make the situation easier, seeing that the sidewalk is full of people waiting for the bus. and have a perfect view inside the car. some of them recognize the pure bliss on your face, and while a few turn their heads away, two or three of them stay looking at you.

"and then you turn left after the restaurant." san finally finishes, and you almost do too.

"thank you, kind man. is your... partner alright?"

all three look your way, and you have to fight the urge to yell at the couple to leave and be on their way already. instead, your orgasm ripples through your body, sending shockwaves along your spine and making your eyes roll back. you hear faint snickering, and a gasp. you know that the couple is traumatized, and that san is enjoying every bit of it. as are you.

you don't conceal your moans anymore, allowing sounds of pleasure to echo in the car that now smells less new and more like you.

"i hope you find your location." the man greets, removing his hand from your glistening folds and letting his tongue feast on the fluids that coat his fingers.

before they can respond, the light turns green, and san is quick to step on the gas pedal and leave the shocked crowd behind.

"you're insane." you exhale, a smile creeping on your lips no matter how angry you wish to sound.

"and you love it."

san's assistant is still a student. she works for him so she can afford her college. her job description says doing tasks that make san's job easier, but in reality, her only task is to keep you company and help you around the wedding. and she does not complain.

"april, this looks fabulous." you gasp, gawking at the three story wedding dress shop a few days later.

"i know, right? i pass by this shop every day on my way to college. i really want to buy my own dress here some day." the redhead sighs, dreamy gaze roaming the white gowns. "you know, mr choi is so cool for letting you design your own dress."

"when you get proposed to, give me a call. i'll see what i can arrange." you playfully reply.

she laughs, then finally pushes the door and holds it open for you. sometimes you feel jealous of her. she has fire red hair, and green eyes, the most gorgeous shade you've ever seen. she spends a lot of time in san's building, right outside the office. even though she has never shown interest in him, you can't help but moan just a bit louder when you're in there with him, hoping that she hears and gets the message.

"the owner is so hot, mrs choi. i met him the other day to book a consultation and-"

"mrs choi?" you raise an eyebrow.

"oh- i mean- can i call you that? it sounds so... sexy. mr and mrs choi. the hottest couple i know. not even brangelina can top you."

"april!" you hush her. still, you can't help but blush at her compliment. you're happy to know that she sees you as attractive as san.

after a short introduction and a few words of praise for san, you are sat on a white couch with golden accents, a champagne in your hand and magazine in the other. the shop assistants offer all the help they can, showing you various gowns they already had and handing you rough sketches. but none of them were good enough. it was hard to pick, when you didn't know what you wanted.

"where's the owner? i thought he would be here." you ask on april's behalf.

"oh, he had urgent business. if you wish, i can schedule another consultation in a few days. or you can wait for him, but he arrives late today."

"how late?" the redhead asks, brows furrowed.

"an hour after closing. but i can keep the shop open for you until he arrives."

april groans, making you chuckle. "you have to go, don't you?"

"yeah. boo. but you should definitely stay. the wedding is two and a half weeks away, and you have no vision of your dream dress. i have five in mind!"

and so you do stay, occupying yourself with browsing various materials of lace, satin and whatnot. each of them are undeniably stunning, with a detail that makes it unique. the last assistant that stayed behind encouraged you to explore the two floors again while she stays downstairs and finishes the remaining paperwork.

your heels click against the marble stairs as you climb to the first floor, eyes skimming the room for the second time today. the dresses on this floor seem more modest, with long sleeves and not as much cleavage. quickly getting bored of the floor, your proceed to the top one. it is extravagant, gowns dripping in sparkles under the strong white lights. once you finish going through all of them, you head over to the show window, examining the two mannequins dressed in two versions of the same gown.

you sigh, feeling disappointed that you are so hard to please. your eyes drift to the streets that have calmed due to the lateness of the night and sudden change in weather. it is pouring, most of the stores are closed, making the wedding boutique stand out in its full glory. a few people pass by, none of them headed to the store and instead clutching their umbrellas close to themselves so they don't get wet. you begin feeling annoyed with the owner. he could've notified you that he had sudden errands, and you would've rescheduled instead of wasting your time coming here at all.

then, you see a figure walking towards the shop. and your heart drops.

it can't be.

you rush to the top of the stairs, careful to not make any noise.

"mr kim! you're drenched! i'll get you a-"

"no need, kendra. it's not that bad."

it is him.

his voice you could recognize anywhere, no matter how long has passed. his figure, his voice, even the footsteps that are getting louder and louder. you are not ready for this encounter.

"you can go home, love. i'll close up after i've finished with..."

"mrs choi."

"right, mrs choi."

so he does not know it is you. and he won't. not until he sees you. you're a fool for not exploring the place first, finding out the name of the owner. and you're a fool for not leaving when april did. at least then she would've maybe told you his name, and you would not come back-

"y/n?"

ever again.

"you're mrs choi?"

you sigh. there is no going back. there is no avoiding it. best get it over with. do you address him professionally? or by his first name? "mr- hongjoong."

he scoffs, and you finally turn around before you stumble on more words. the sight takes your breath away. this is not your ex hongjoong. it is mr kim, owner and designer of wedding gowns. his hair is not a vivid colour as it used to be, instead his natural dark locks match his dark eyes. it is damp, drops of rain falling from the loose strands and on the mopped floor. he wears a black coat, a black turtleneck and slacks. a complete opposite from your blue haired hongjoong who loved his diy sweatshirts and sweatpants. the man stands still, his expression a mix of anger and grief, and yours only astonishment.

"thought you'd see me sleeping on a bench somewhere? beat and hungry? not successful and financially stable? not over you?"

"no, i-"

"wow. who would've thought i'd be making a wedding gown for my ex fiancee." he approaches you, and you don't have energy to step away. instead, you stare as he puts his hands behind his back and casually leans in, face close to yours. "again."

"i-" you try again, feeling his hot breath on your lips.

"well, shall we get to business? before you change your mind faster this time? wouldn't want the poor man to have the same fate as i."

anger, along with regret, pools in the bottom of your stomach. anger that he didn't reach out to you. and regret for what you did that caused him not to.

"choi... choi san? the owner of that watch brand? well, this watch brand." he shows you his wrist, the familiar watch design shining under the boutique lights. "can you believe that? i can afford it and not go bankrupt. i have to admit the prices are whopping, but it is a really nice-"

"can you stop fucking shitting on me and give me a chance to speak?" you interrupt him this time, brows furrowed and nails digging into your palms.

"fine. go." he sits on the couch in the middle of the room, putting his leg over the other.

"that day... i just-"

"no. speak of the design you want." he interrupts again, making that bubble of anger inside of you bigger and bigger, threatening to burst any moment. "you haven't come here to explain yourself. nor did you ever think of doing that. just because i had a few things to say doesn't mean i want to hear you out. now, speak. long? short? sleeves? no sleeves? easier to unzip so you can leave faster without anyone noticing you?"

your palms burn from the intensity of your nails digging into your skin, and your teeth abuse the insides of your cheeks. "fuck you."

hongjoong abruptly stands up from the couch, causing you to stumble back in order to defend yourself. "me? fuck me? what did i ever do to you besides loving you?"

"you didn't listen. if only you did, we could've been married by now. we weren't financially ready then-"

"i had found a job. i saved up. i wanted to surprise you with a new apartment. but you surprised me with my own wedding gown laying on the floor without the love of my life in it. i have to admit, you outdid me there. did not see that one coming."

"i didn't know about your job."

"of course you didn't. you didn't want to know. your family brainwashed you. tell me, is san filthy rich? is he the one paying for this dress?"

his voice is dripping with bitterness, and his sour smile makes your insides turn uncomfortably. you're not used to seeing him be this mean. but something tells you that you will never see the pure side of hongjoong you've known ever again.

"did your parents adore him as soon as they heard his name? after all, he can afford a lavish wedding. he can give you anything you ask for. all i could give you was the ability to disappoint them with your partner choice. my apologies for that, by the way. i should've known better."

"stop. i'm leaving."

"no, you're not. your little assistant made a contract with us, and you are not to leave the shop until you have your dream gown."

"i don't want your fucking gown."

"boo-hoo. cut the tears, dollface. you're not in a position to be sad or angry. i, however, am in a position to chew you out for what you did to me."

"and you're not chewing me out right now?" you reply, angry tears streaming down your face. you hate crying from frustration.

"this is me holding back, my ex lover. you don't wish to hear me unleash."

stubborn, you straighten your back and walk towards him, until you are mere inches away from his face. "unleash, then. let me hear what you've been brewing all those years."

the man doesn't flinch. instead, he hands you a gown from the rack, shoving it into your hands. "go try that on."

"i don't-"

"go."

letting out a shaky exhale, you enter the dressing room. you finally look at yourself in the mirror. slightly smeared mascara, a few wet trails on your cheeks, and frizzy hair. when you put on the dress, you look just like the day of your wedding; dressed up, hopeless, and troubled. it's like deja vu, putting your hair in a claw clip so that you can see the dress better. tears of anger slowly turn into tears of sadness. you have robbed yourself of your first love, and him of his happiness. you turned him into a bitter man.

"suits you." he comments nonchalantly, hands crossed over his chest. "now, i wonder. by the look on your face, you did not know i own this place or design the pieces in it. what did you think i did after you left?"

"i didn't think." a lie.

"did you think i'd drown in tears from sadness?"

"you know, it seems to me that you thought about me more than you wish to admit." you play his game.

"i am not afraid to admit anything. i did think about you. i ran after you. your best friend stopped me. said you were not worth it. that you'll forever let your parents navigate your life. some best friend, huh?"

you didn't hear from her, or anyone else. nobody reached out to you, and you didn't reach out to anybody. it seemed like a mutual silent decision. and it killed you inside.

"try this one." he hands you another. "might be a bit big, but i'll adjust it."

the switch from professional to whatever the other thing is scares you. so you listen. it's the least you can do. you want to get your dress already, and he might get closure. both of you might. the second dress is plain satin with a corset top. it accentuates your eyes, and isn't revealing, with a simple sweetheart neckline. the pearl straps are made to fall off the shoulders, showing off your collarbones. hongjoong had a fixation for your collarbones, always leaving a hickey or two when making love to you.

you look at yourself with disgust. you're choosing a wedding gown for a man of your dreams, and your mind wanders to the way the man outside the dressing room marked your body every chance he got.

"come out, bride." he calls, and you can't tell if he is mocking you or really means it.

you come out, collarbones on full display, and mascara still smeared. he was ready to throw another comment, but upon seeing you, words get stuck in his throat. his jaw drops slightly, and eyes roam your figure hidden in the satin layers. your waist invites him, as does your unmarked skin. and you know desire in his eyes when you see it. and you hate that you feel it pooling in your core as he approaches you.

"you told me to unleash?" he whispers.

"yes. please do." you beg, hoping to finally close this chapter of your life. "don't hold back. i can take it."

he looks at your teary eyes, chewing the inside of his cheek. he always did that when he thought hard. finally, he steps closer, until your chests almost touch. the towers over you, making your head tilt slightly so you can look at him. the sight is too familiar to him; you below him, teary eyed and smeared makeup. the only thing missing being his load coating your cheeks.

"i hate you."

"okay." you gulp, looking at his chest in front of you.

"i hate what you've done to me. i hate that i ever loved you. i hate that you moved on so easily, while i had to stay back and live in a town where everything reminded me of you. i hate that i was so gullible, thinking we could have a future together. i hate that i thought i was good enough for you."

"hongjoong-" you wish to stop him before you break down. but he doesn't. instead, he places a hand on your neck, causing you to gasp and look up at him once again. your hands wrap around his one wrist in hopes of removing it. "hongjoong-"

"most of all..." he pushes you against the wall, putting light pressure on the sides of your neck. he brings his face close to yours, so close that your noses touch and lips brush each other. when he speaks, you feel how soft and warm they are, and hear how venomous his words are. "...i hate that i still fucking love you. i hate how good you look in a dress you wear for another. i hate that another one is kissing you, touching you, giving you everything that i couldn't. i hate how stunning you look, and i hate myself for being so weak to your mere existence. i hate that you look this good, and it is not for me."

"you're hurting me," you sob.

"you're hurting me, mrs choi. after all these years, you still hurt me." two tears escape his eyes, and he shuts them and furrows his eyebrows. "i hate that i can smell him on you."

his grip softens, but he doesn't remove his hand from your neck just yet. you swallow, before letting his wrist go and instead wiping his tears away. he opens his eyes, not expecting a soft approach from you. when he looks at you, you don't see the resentment anymore. you see pure pain. and you hate to admit that you feel the same.

"we could've been perfect together."

"we could've." you confirm, moving his damp strands from his face and brushing his hair in the process. it is as soft as you remember it. he closes his eyes again under your touch, exhaling and letting himself go in your arms.

"please," he whispers. "one last time."

your moves halt, and your brain freezes. your heart thumps loud inside your chest, and you're sure he can feel it too. "what?"

"one last time." the dark haired man allows his hand to slide from your neck, index finger following an imaginary line down your neck and running over your collarbones. "let me give you a chance to change your mind."

you wish to say no. with all your heart. you love san, more than anything. you've grown with san, you've created a new future with him. but your love for hongjoong is... familiar. old. nostalgic. and still undead. it was buried alive, and you didn't even know it.

"please..." his whispers become softer, and lips closer to yours.

"don't..." you try, voice an equal whisper.

"please," he begs again, his other hand sliding to your waist and pressing your body against his.

"don't," you say, voice shaking as you fight your brain and heart, both already at war with each other.

he closes the distance, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. it is a split second, but in that second, he opens the pandora's box, unleashing everything bad about you. you gulp, feeling his scent envelop you. he smells like rain and jasmine, and it blends with his natural scent so well.

"please," he kisses you again, each kiss short and sweet, and full of pain and desire.

"don't."

"please."

"don't..." the hand that was on your collarbones slides to the zip on the back of the dress, undoing it smoothly and loosening your dress. "stop..."

he kisses you again, spilling begging words over and over, and you do not push him away, despite your words. "please."

"don't..." you exhale when his hands cup your bare breasts. "stop."

"y/n."

"don't stop."

"my love."

"don't stop."

"my beautiful."

"don't stop."

"my only one."

"please don't stop."

as if you shattered the invisible wall that held him back, hongjoong lets your dress pool on the floor and picks you up, pinning you against the wall and making your legs wrap around his body. his lips hungrily search for yours, kissing, sucking, biting, everything he dreamed of for the past few years you were gone.

your hands roam his body, taking off his coat and helping him out of his turtleneck. your tongue finds his, eager to taste him again. you hum the moment you touch the hot muscle, which generously gives you back equal attention. he tastes the same. he tastes like home.

"i should've ran until my legs stopped working. i should've called until my finger became numb. i should've called out your name until my voice faded." with each sentence, he gets rid of a piece of clothing, until your bare bodies are pressed against each other on the soft couch.

you don't speak, instead pulling him by his hair to kiss him again. he chuckles lightly into the kiss, your eagerness amusing to him. you're not in the mood for any foreplay, core already dripping with arousal and desire to feel him after many years.

"i want you to say it out loud." he stops for a moment, looking deep into your eyes.

"don't make me say it."

"i need you to. otherwise, i'm leaving."

"hongjoong..." guilt eats up your heart, the image of san appearing before your eyes.

"say it. say you want me. say you want me to make love to you and send you back to your future husband with my marks and scent all over you."

"i want you." you whisper.

"what was that?" he leans in closer, holding your jaw in one hand while his other one gently spreads your legs.

"i want you, hongjoong."

"atta girl." he smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "i won't be gentle."

you nod, excitement overshadowing the guilt from your infidelity. hongjoong doesn't let you adjust like he always did. instead, he places his hot, leaking tip to your entrance, and slides in easily and deeply. your nails dig into his back, and walls welcome the familiar girth. you both moan into each others mouths, and stand still for a few moments. it is the sudden moment of realization when you look at each other than makes his eyes become darker, and he spares no time before pulling out and slamming his hips against yours again.

his lips leave yours, letting you moan and whine freely as your fingers pull at his hair. his tongue leaves a trail down your neck, all the way to your collarbones. he sinks his teeth into your skin, pulling the thin flesh between them and harshly sucking. you yelp, but don't push him away. you'll let him have this. you don't feel it after the second bite, instead focusing on the way his cock relentlessly slams into you, abusing the sensitive spot and inching you closer to an orgasm already.

his grip on your waist is sure to leave bruises, and right now, you do not care how you will conceal it.

"hongjoong..." you gasp.

"yes, doll?"

"i need- i don't want to cum yet." you admit.

he pulls away, enough to turn your body over so that you are laying on your stomach. he raises your hips, and presses your head against the soft surface of the couch. then, he slams his hips into yours, speeding up his moves. you are a moaning and drooling mess, not being used to being used this roughly. san was passionate, and not soft. but not rough either. hongjoong is just that: his hatred for you might be the main initiator.

"i'll send you back to your fiancé full of my seed." he growls, pulling your hair back.

your nails dig into the cushions, and eyes look at the mannequins in the show window. you don't have time to feel guilty again, because hongjoong wraps his hand around your neck and picks up your body so that your head rests on his shoulder and you can look at him as he drills into you from behind.

"look at me when i'm fucking you."

your hips hopelessly work with his, body tired from chasing the orgasm already.

"is my darling tired?"

you simply whimper at his question, the grip on your neck too strong for any other response. he pulls away once again, wasting no time in picking you up and walking over to the mirror. he lets you face it, palms pressed against the cold surface. he slides back in, deliciously filling you up to the brim. your own expressions of pleasure sicken you. and you hate that you are loving it.

hongjoong looks at you through the mirror, soft grunts and gasps escaping his mouth each time he collides with your ass. his hand finds its way to your mouth, shoving two fingers inside while his other one toys with your clit.

"look at you." he says, eyes locked with yours. you're unable to look away. "taking your ex man's cock while you try on wedding dresses for another."

you simply moan, not knowing what to say. it is hot, and painful.

"does your fiancé know you'll be wearing my dress when you walk down the aisle? does he know that the hands that made it have also been on his future wife's body?"

when you don't answer, he hits your ass cheek, causing you to jolt. "no, no! he doesn't! please, please make me cum."

"i'll let you cum. if you tell me one thing." he brings your body close to his again so he can whisper in your ear. his hips stop for a moment.

"anything." you whine.

"is his cock better than mine?"

there is no better. both of them have their ways of pleasuring you, and you enjoy both. you pull away and turn around to face him. you skim over his features, taking in his glowing face due to sweat and body full of scratches from your nails. the nails you are supposed to have for your wedding.

"no." you finally reply.

"that's a good fucking girl."

hongjoong pushes you against the mirror, this time facing you. he holds your legs over his elbows, body hovering above the floor and back pressed against the mirror. he reaches a new angle, and this time, you know you'll burst fast. all you need is a few more strokes.

"cum for me, baby. cream all over my cock."

your nails continue to dig into his back, and your forehead finds comfort against his. you moan into each others mouths, each chasing your own peak and enjoying the noises that the other has to offer. when you finally spill over the edge, you moan louder than ever, hands hopelessly pushing his body against yours for comfort. his pants turn into moans, and hips become sloppy as he also reaches his peak and shoots his load inside you. you feel fuller than ever, hole clenching around his pulsating cock. you help him ride it out, moving your hips as best as you can from this position.

once down from the high, you bring yourself to look at him one more time.

"i'll never see you again after this, will i?" he whispers, lips already missing yours.

"no, hongjoong. our story is over. i'm sorry."

he only smiles, pressing a final kiss to your lips before pulling away. he leaves to get something to clean yourself, leaving you alone in the room.

your reflection stares back at you through the stained mirror, prints of your body clear as day. bruises decorate your body after a long time, and your makeup melts from your face. facing hongjoong was a challenge.

facing san will be an even bigger one.

as if he knew you thought about him, the phone rings inside your purse in the dressing room. you rush over there, fingers eager to press the green button.

"hey, wifey. how's the gown shopping going?"

"it's-" your voice comes out raspy, and you have to cough to get rid of it. "it's going well. i think i finally know what i want." and you don't mean the dress.

"oh, i'm so proud of you. i can't wait to see you in it. “you’ll look stunning. should i pick you up?"

"you don't have to. i'll be there in a few."

"alright, princess. i love you."

"i love you too."

once you hang up, you exit the room and find hongjoong waiting with the towel. his eyes are glossy, but he holds control over the tears this time. "you know i'll always hate you."

you laugh, pain ripping through your heart at the words. "i know."

"good."

he gets on his knees, cleaning you in silence, before whispering something. if you weren't focused on every sound he made, you would've missed it.

"don't forget me."

taglist:

@unholywriters @jjoongstar @arki-sha @dawn-iscozy @slvtiny @maltesejjong @ate-ez @katelins27 @kodzukein @almondmilkeu @woomyteez @mulletdaddyjayjo @bae4choi @haatohwa @marvelahsobx @angellluh @jjaemasung @oddracha @itza-meee

[idksmtms]

Plié, Jeté, Relevé (Ballet Master!Cillian Murphy x Ballerina!reader)

A/N: Here you go my lovelies! I have literally never done ballet in my entire life, so any knowledge of this has come from watching tiktoks of ballerinas, movies with ballerinas in them, or my best guesses… anywaysssss, I hope you enjoy it! 

Also, would highly recommend watching the performance of Still Life at the Penguin Cafe on youtube, the music and the dancing is *chefs kiss* 

Summary: You were ready to admit that you hadn’t been at your best the past week or so, but surely you hadn’t been so bad as to deserve this much wrath from Mister Murphy… 

Word count:  3,750 

Trigger Warnings: she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, mean!Cillian, SMUT, dub-con bc of the power imbalance (?), fingering (technically?), humiliation (not as a kink tho), only reader orgasms, depiction of toxic teaching environment, (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: This is written purely for fictional purposes and for the sake of writing. No disrespect is intended to the real people portrayed/concerned in this scenario. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

If anyone out there believed in the stereotype that all Irish people were happy and jovial then they clearly hadn’t met your ballet master. The man may speak with a lilting musical accent but there was not a thing jovial or happy about him. The master was harsh, verging on cruel. If anyone was caught slacking even the littlest bit, something that would go unnoticed by the rest of the troupe, his voice would crack like a whip through the studio. 

Recently, that whip had been directed at you. You knew you weren’t doing your best. You had hit a rough patch in your entire life. You had been late more times than ever before, more times than you ever would usually be, more times than you would like. And your dancing had been affected as well. Your posture wasn’t straight enough, your pliés weren’t deep enough, your toes not pointed enough. Everything was going wrong, and while you had hoped it wasn’t noticeable, Mr Murphy never failed to find every SINGLE one of your mistakes. 

Today differed in no way. You had dilly-dallied a little too long while getting ready in the morning, only to end up running late for rehearsal. It was no more than five minutes, but from the start of training it was the rule that all ballerinas must be lined up by the barre at exactly ten o’clock every day. For every minute you were late, the worse your punishment got. Usually if someone hit the five minute mark, they went home and sprained their ankle on purpose for an excuse. 

At four minutes, you had run into the hallway outside the studio and thrown your bag onto the ground, disregarding the sound of your water bottle rolling away and one of your keychains cracking under the weight of your things. At five, you were throwing the door open and running inside, slipping into the back of the line and getting into first position. 

Mr Murphy paused in his speech to gaze at you. You stared straight ahead, refusing to look directly at him. Slowly, his eyebrow rose, scrutinising you with a frown that made shame curl in your stomach and tears make themselves known behind your eyes. He slowly brought his hands together, rubbing them as he sighed and began shaking his head. 

“Kind of you to join us,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he made his way closer to you, stepping leisurely, dragging out the fear that made your throat hurt. He stood a few feet away, staring at you in that impenetrable way of his, ice eyes sharp and painful wherever they gazed. He clapped his hands once. “Girls, turn and look at Ms. Y/L/N.” He waited until each of them had turned in their spots, some craning their heads to the side to make sure they were looking at you lest they somehow disobey him. You could see the pity, the sympathy, the smug triumph in each of the girls’ eyes, the frowns and subtle smirks, and you could do nothing other than keep staring ahead of you as your hands and knees suddenly began to tremble. “What is wrong with her?” 

He didn’t ask it in a rude or incredulous way, but as if you were a diagram in a textbook, and this was simply an exercise the students were completing. You were sure your shame was visible on your face, the embarrassment turning your spine to liquid. One of the girls put her hand up, near the front of the room, and you only recognised her for the little kiss-ass she was once she spoke. She had always been that way, desperate for Mr Murphy. Always at the front of the line, always gleeful at the downfall of others, always ready to point out any mistakes. And you were always happy to watch her desperation help her in no way whatsoever. A lot could be said about Mr Murphy, but favouritism was not something he had ever displayed. Whichever ballerina was doing well, recognisably well, was given her dues, and it was left at that. 

“She’s not wearing her tights and leotard, or at least, she’s wearing sweatpants over them. Her pointe shoes are dirty, and her hair isn’t in a bun.” You could almost imagine her satisfied little smirk when she finished speaking, that evil little smile that you had always wanted to punch off her face. One swing, you thought, just one swing… 

“Correct,” he simply responded, threading his fingers through each other and raising his eyebrow at you again, as if confused and annoyed at you for not doing something. “Leave, get your shit together, and then come back inside. If you have not returned within ten minutes, don’t bother returning to rehearsal ever again.” He nudged his chin in the direction of the door and you nodded obediently, eyes downcast as you stood up straight and slowly walked back out. 

When the door was closed behind you once more, you stood silently for a minute, eyes clenched shut and hands curled into fists at your sides. You pressed out a scream behind your pursed lips, teeth clenched so hard your jaw began to hurt. You slammed the heel of your hand against the side of your head again and again and again until your shoulder hurt a little from the motion and your brain felt sufficiently jumbled. Your chest was heaving and you were overwhelmed with rage. You wanted to kick something, to throw something, to go back in there and rip that bitch’s hair out of her bun. You resolved to pulling your pointe shoes off and lobbing them across the hallway as hard as you could, letting out another clenched scream before walking all the way down to pick them up and bring them back. 

You stood in front of your bag and took three deep breaths. You picked up your water bottle from where it had rolled between another two of the ballerinas’ bags, and took huge gulps of water until you felt a little less sweaty with anger. You checked the time on your phone to make sure you hadn’t wasted your ten minutes, then set about carefully pulling off your joggers, folding them up, and placing them inside your duffel. You pulled out a new pair of pointe shoes, cursing yourself for not having prepared them in time and preemptively wincing at the blisters you knew you were going to get by the end of rehearsal. You walked down to the bathroom at the end of the hall in the pointe shoes, hoping to at least break them in a little bit with the short time you had, and used the mirror to quickly pull your hair into a bun, securing it with pins in a practised dance you had learned from years of repetition. You checked yourself once more in the mirror and then looked down at your phone before sprinting full on back to the room and sliding through the doors. You made it just in time. 

Mr Murphy glanced at you as you slipped into position at the back of the line, following the exercises he had been calling out to the ballerinas while you had been out. He methodically looked at every inch of your body, from your pointe shoes to your pink tights and black leotard, from the careful set of your bun to the determined set of your brow and sheen of sweat on your temples. He didn’t say anything directly to you, and you took it as a win. 

At the halfway point, you were all allowed a little break to drink water and have a rest before you switched from exercises to rehearsals for your next performance. You were all practising for your various roles in a performance of ‘Still Life at the Penguin Cafe’, and though you would have to wear a huge mask of a ram on your head, you were ecstatic for the performance. While it wasn’t technically a solo, you were the centre of the piece, being the only one not dressed as a penguin. Now, everything felt so precarious. You couldn’t quite be sure Mr Murphy wouldn’t take the role from you after the past two weeks spent in a slump, and the worry was becoming your ever-present companion. 

Just as the girls were all leaving the room to get water and lounge around on the floor of the hallway, Mr Murphy cleared his throat and snapped his fingers at you. 

“Ms. Y/L/N,” and he pointed at the spot right in front of him. It took everything within you not to sprint to the spot. You took careful, measured, steps and stopped a few feet in front of him, spine straight and head held high. You weren’t sure where to look. You could never meet his eyes, something in your soul was opposed to it, so you chose a spot on the wall just next to his head. 

“You will stay for another hour at the end of the session to make up for your failures this morning, understood?” He raised both his eyebrows, hands on his hips. You closed your eyes, trying not to burst into tears like a child throwing a tantrum on the spot. You nodded, whispered a ‘yes, sir’ in a clogged voice, and waited until he dismissed you to walk out of the room. 

You sat down by your bag with a sigh, arms slung over your knees as you cradled the water bottle close and pressed your face to it. You closed your eyes and allowed your head to dip down as some of your friends came to sit around you, offering pats of sympathy and words of comfort. You tried to smile, nodded in thanks, but you just wanted to curl up into a ball and never get back up. 

The next few hours were spent going through each section of the dance. You felt lucky that you didn’t get to the Ram piece, you were sure you couldn’t hold it together long enough for that, only to be doused with cold water at the thought that you needed to stay longer afterward. 

When rehearsal was over, Mr Murphy dismissed everyone right on the dot. He didn’t acknowledge you as the girls started leaving, the chatter slowly beginning to rise as they reached the door. For a moment you wondered if you could get away with leaving with everyone else, but just as you reached the door he called out “ten minutes at most, Ms Y/L/N, then I want you back in here.” Your bones seemed to disappear and you thought you would collapse to the floor in a heap of mushy flesh. Instead you nodded and wobbled your way outside to chug what was left of your water bottle, refill it, then chug the contents again as tears of exhaustion slipped from the corners of your eyes and mingled with the sweat dampening the hair by your temples and ears. 

The ten minutes were up far too quickly and you stood with a groan, heading to the door once more. You gazed at the room from the door, the light hardwood floors, the wall of mirrors and the bar spanning the length of the room, the huge windows letting in swaths of natural light. You often forgot how beautiful the space was. 

You walked slowly to where Mr Murphy stood, typing something on his phone and moving the speaker to face the room again. You stood before him, hands clasped and eyes downcast, waiting for instructions. For a while, he didn’t say anything. He was no longer on his phone, his hands hanging by his sides, and he stared at you. Every few seconds you glanced, trying to glimpse what was going to happen, but he just continued watching you, stoic as ever. 

You could never tell what he was thinking. Never once had you been able to guess at his thought process, to figure out what was going on in his head. Maybe that was one of the reasons he intimidated you so much. 

He walked closer, so close the toes of his shoes almost touched the toes of yours and you gulped, staring at the contrast, the black and the pink, the background of wood. His hand came up and he tapped up under your chin with the side of his index finger, waiting for you to lift your head. When you did, your entire face felt hot under the skin. He was so close, you could see the freckles splashed on his skin, the careful set of his cheekbones and jaw. You gulped. His eyes were so much more terrifying up close. 

“You’ve been given a gift,” he began, slow and firm, “your ability, your natural rhythm, that is a gift. Unless you put in effort to finetune this gift, it goes to waste. Do you understand what I’m saying?” You nodded but he shook his head once. “Speak.” 

“Yes sir,” you breathed out quickly, gulping when your mouth was closed again. 

“I’m not sure you do, though,” and it felt like the hammer falling. His eyes seemed to harden a little, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “The past two weeks all I have seen is a sloppy, unprincipled, uncommitted dancer who deems merely showing up a success.” Each word was a stab to some part of you, and it took everything not to wilt completely to the floor. “You have been given one of the more difficult roles in the performance, and I once believed you deserved it. For the life of me, I cannot remember why.” Your eyebrows furrowed as you closed your eyes, throat bobbing as the despair that felt inevitable finally began to land. 

He went silent, and that felt worse somehow. The backs of your eyelids began to burn and you clenched your hands tighter around each other, hoping the little pain it brought would distract from the tears. You berated yourself in your head. You yelled in your mind that this was a pathetic display, that it would be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done if you began to cry in front of him. He would think less of you, it would only confirm what he believed; you were weak. When you opened your eyes again, one traitorous tear slipped out and down your cheek. You could feel the hot, ticklish track it made down the skin. If you didn’t know better, you thought you saw Mr Murphy’s eyes soften. 

He breathed out, long and tired, and reached up to gently wipe the tear away with his thumb. Your breath caught in your throat. His hand was warm. Your chest felt tight. His skin was soft. You stared into his eyes. He left the side of his hand against your face, as if allowing himself to feel the skin. Something in your stomach writhed impatiently. Everything seemed to have changed within a second. Some deep seated urge whispered in your ear to open your mouth and lick his thumb. You shivered. 

“Turn around,” his voice was low, rough, and you almost moaned at the sound. You gulped again, but obeyed almost instantly. You heard some shuffling, and then the music started, the slow long notes interspersed with the quick little strums, a beautiful, almost joyful piece of music. Then Mr Murphy was pressed right against your back, and suddenly the music was secondary. His chest, firm, solid, was moulded to your back. You could feel the soft fabric of his black shirt, the puffs of his breaths against the back of your neck. Your entire body shivered. He was warm, like a heater on a middle setting, and if you weren’t so tense, you would melt against him. You could feel his nose against your head as he bent slightly. You could feel his lips graze the shell of your ear as he whispered “relax.” You tried, forcing your muscles to loosen like you would before a performance. 

His hands trailed down your arms, his fingertips running down your biceps, then your forearms until you shivered against him again. When he reached your wrists, he hooked his own hands under them and began raising them in time with the music. You turned your head to the right, watched his hand raise your own, your lips parted and breaths heavy. You couldn’t move past the feeling of him pressed to your back. 

You almost missed the cue to move, almost, and pulled away from him slowly, carefully, using the measured steps required by the music. You left your right hand in his, just the barest touch of your fingertips against his, the illusion of contact as you moved to the left, feet lifting high. His eyes seemed to pierce through you, and suddenly you enjoyed the feeling in a sick, scary way. You walked forward until you were in line with Mr Murphy, still an arm’s length away before he stepped forward and your arms moved to a waltz position. He settled into the space, gripping your hands firmly in his. He was pressed as close as he could be, closer than your actual partner would be for the dance, and you set your eyes on his face. Your pulse thrummed in your ears, you were in your element. 

You went through all the steps of the dance like you had been born knowing it. Your bodies were like water as they moved, smooth, graceful. You hadn’t felt this intune to the music in a long time, hadn’t felt this much like a dancer in a long time. You could almost see the crowd in front of you, the blinding lights, the smooth fabric of the dress. 

At the final step, Mr Murphy gripped your hand and spun you into him, changing the ending of the dance. You gasped as you leaned back into his chest. His head was bent down, pressing his face into your hair. You were panting, torso moving up and down quickly but trapped in the confines of his arms crossed over you. You leaned your head back a little, pressing the curve of your skull into the curve of his neck as he pressed his cheek to the side of your head. The music was fading out, and the only sounds in the room were your mingling breaths, heaving into the air of the room. 

His left palm pressed against your stomach, firm and insistent, but you couldn’t be bothered to look down. It seared into your already boiling skin and you closed your eyes. You tuned into the sensation of his hand slowly sliding down, bit by bit, inching down over your stomach then pressing against your pelvis. You gasped as you felt his fingertips brush over the leotard just at the top of your pussy. Your hand moved behind you, gripping his sides, clenching into the soft fabric of his shirt. 

He didn’t say anything, just breathed heavily against the side of your head, and you didn’t stop him. His hand moved farther down, pressing against the softness atop your core. Gently, his index finger moved to the centre line and began pressing in. You lifted up on your toes a little when you felt the pressure through the fabric, the indent of his finger pressing against your clit. You were hot and wet, he could feel the heat emanating from your core against his hand.

He kept his finger pressed there until you became restless, impatient, pressing your hands a little harder against his ribs. Slowly, keeping the pressure, he moved his finger down until he was pressing against your hole. The warm tendrils of pleasure slowly undulated up your insides. He repeated the motion, up then down and pressing a little harder against your hole. 

You breathed out heavily, shakily, and bent your knees to press a little harder into the feeling. 

Up, down, press. Up, down, press. He circled your clit through the fabric, pressing against the pulsing little bud. Up, down, press, drag up, drag down, press. You were panting into the air, face contorted, mouth up and head tilted up, resting against his shoulder. Your eyes were screwed shut, hips moving to chase the motions. He didn’t say anything, just breathed heavily against your ear, held you tighter against his body. 

You were both standing in the middle of the large studio, bathed in the early evening light. Your hands clenched a little harder against his sides. The warm tendrils were lasting longer, becoming more frenzied, curling up into your stomach and making your hole flutter. His right hand moved up and cupped your breast, gripping firmly and burning the heat of his hand into the flesh. 

You were engulfed by him, wrapped up in both his arms as he pressed his fingers harder and quicker against the seam of your core, moving up and down, pressing and releasing. He ran the edge of his thumbnail against the fabric over your nipple and your pelvis shook. You writhed in his arms at the spark it shot to your core, at the electric pulse it created and ultimately pushed you over the precipice. A moan, a high-pitched whine shot from your mouth, echoing in the room. You pressed yourself so hard against him he almost lost his balance, moving one foot back to keep the two of you upright. Your hands hurt from how stiff they became clenched into the fabric of his shirt. 

Slowly, he released the pressure against your core. He grazed his finger up until he could press his hand to your stomach again. He left it there and the two of you heaved breaths in sync. You began to flutter your eyes open, still lost in the blood rushing through your head. His right hand came up and gripped your chin, pushing it so you faced to the left where his head had dropped down. He leaned back a little, you tilted forward a smidge, your eyes met. Your lips were still parted, his mirrored. Then he surged forward, pressing his mouth to yours, his nose sliding into the crease between your cheek and nose. He tasted warm and minty. His lips were plush and cushiony soft. He pulled away and you looked into his eyes again. 

Neither of you said a word.

Taglist: @4ria790

[steddieas-shegoes]

it's not ever what it looks like

for @steddielovemonth prompt 'love is saying you're sorry'

rated m | 3,299 words | cw: language, implied sexual content | tags: angst with a happy ending, arguing, established relationship, hurt/comfort, rock star eddie munson, teacher steve harrington, modern au, steve thinks eddie is cheating on him but HE ISN'T I PROMISE, marriage proposal

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

It wasn't the first time Steve woke up to pictures and articles about Eddie being seen with some model or actor, but it was the first time he'd actually been worried.

Eddie had been distant lately. Usually, when he was on tour, he'd call Steve on his lunch break and text him when he got off of work, and he'd try to Facetime him after his show if it wasn't in a different time zone.

But for the past week or so, he had excuses. They sounded legitimate until one of the afternoons he said the band was caught up in an interview so he couldn't call and Jeff called him ten minutes later to ask where Eddie was. Even with that, Steve hadn't assumed he was cheating.

Steve figured maybe Eddie was just tired or his social battery had run out. Those kinds of things happened before occasionally.

But not daily for over a week.

He was barely even responding to texts, and the ones he did respond to were hours later and hardly adding to any conversation.

And now this article.

There was a picture of Eddie standing with his arm around some guy who was taller than him, both of them laughing, looking at each other like...well. Steve knew that look because it'd only ever been pointed at him, but now he was seeing it pointed at just some guy.

The headline read EDDIE MUNSON GIVING UP HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEART FOR SUPERMODEL SUPERSTAR?

Steve decided the only way through this was to read the entire article. At least then he could probably convince himself they were wrong.

Except the article went on to explain how Eddie hadn't brough Steve to any shows yet this tour, and how he'd been flirting more with the crowd after the show instead of just during it, how he was seen at two bars over the last week when he usually doesn't go out after shows.

It went on to say that these pictures were taken shortly after they'd been seen sneaking away from a group of people they'd been hanging out with and that they seemed very close for the entire night. The article said the guy was a male lingerie model who made it big posing for Gucci last year. He'd just landed his first film role as a supporting actor and was looking to land a lead role soon.

Steve hated him. And he was getting a terrible feeling in his gut about what was going on.

He had 26 unread texts, most of them from Robin, Dustin, and Gareth.

All of them had said mostly the same things:

I can't get ahold of Eddie.

He wouldn't do this.

Something else is going on.

Call me when you can.

The last one was Gareth, and it's not that he and Gareth weren't close, but they never talked on the phone.

He tried not to think about he didn't have a single message or missed call from Eddie.

Steve called Gareth.

"Steve. Shit, I'm glad you called."

"What's going on?"

Gareth sighed. "Ed's kinda losing it. But before you call him-"

"Why would I call him? Shouldn't he be the one to call me? If he wants to be with some supermodel, he should probably be the one to break up with me, right?" Steve could feel tears gathering in his eyes, stinging the back of his throat. "I'm not sure why I have to be the one to hurt and do the breaking up."

"Steve-"

"Is there something you needed Gareth? Or were you just trying to defend your friend?"

"There's nothing to defend! I swear-"

"Yeah. Well. Tell him to call me if he wants to explain anything, I guess."

Steve hung up just before a sob ripped from his throat.

He never had to worry about Eddie being a famous rock star, spending 6-7 months of the year gone, meeting all kinds of flashy celebrities. Eddie loved him so much, he never had any doubt that he'd always be his first choice.

Until now.

It was a shitty feeling and he had to be at work in less than an hour.

No time to wallow.

He sent a quick text to Robin to let her know he was okay, but needed to focus on getting through work, then shut off his phone.

"Is everything okay?" the art teacher, Mrs. Phineas, asked him on their lunch break. "You seem out of it today."

"Just a migraine," Steve gave a half-smile, hoped it was enough to convince her to leave him alone. He still hadn't turned on his phone, and at this point, he didn't really want to.

She tilted her head to the side. "When are you off to see your man?"

"Don't know," he shrugged, ignoring the tug in his stomach, the sudden weight in his chest.

"Ah," she said, turning back to her soup. "Something happened."

"Nothing happened!"

"You look two seconds away from crying," she gave him a deadpan look. "Did he hurt you?"

Mrs. Phineas was a little older than Wayne, close to retirement, and had been his closest friend from the moment he started teaching at this school nearly six years ago. He'd told her everything about Eddie, their relationship, his hopes of Eddie taking a longer break after this tour so they could have some time just the two of them, maybe make a real plan for their future.

Steve nodded once.

Her hand covered his and she squeezed his fingers in her own. "I may not know him half as well as I know you, but I know that boy loves you. You two will get through this, whatever it is."

"I dunno if we will," Steve whispered, scared to speak louder and risk the tears falling. He'd been doing so well today.

She patted his hand and went back to eating, saying nothing else about it.

His students had caught on early that he wasn't quite his usual self, and the group of second graders had been on their best behavior because of it. As the dismissal bell rang and he started calling for bus riders to line up, someone walked through his door.

Eddie walked through his door.

He bit back the anger, knowing his students loved Eddie and wouldn't know he was here for any reason other than to say hello.

"Mr. Munson!" A few of them yelled as most of them ran up to him instead of getting in the line Steve asked them to.

"Hi kiddos!" Eddie was faking it, but luckily the students couldn't tell. "Sorry, but you guys have to listen to Mr. H right now. I promise I will come say hi again tomorrow."

The students grumbled about it and Steve took in his appearance.

He had dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept the night before, his hair was in a messy bun instead of perfectly arranged to fall on his shoulders, and he was wearing Steve's hoodie that had suspiciously gone missing the last time he'd been home.

The fact that Steve's first thought was how badly he wanted to pull him into a hug was not a good sign.

He checked names off the list as they filtered out the door and then called the car riders to line up. He went through the list and made sure everyone made it into the hall where they'd be called when their parent pulled up before turning back to Eddie.

He closed his door and made his way to his desk, ignoring the way Eddie awkwardly stood by one of the student desks in the front.

"What are you doing here?" Steve asked, signing off of his work email and organizing tomorrow's lesson plan.

"I needed to explain-"

"Right."

"That article wasn't supposed to come out yet."

Steve's jaw dropped. So he wasn't going to deny it, he was just gonna act like it was the media's fault for releasing it before he could talk to Steve.

"Yeah. So you decided to come break up with me in person because you got caught cheating instead of doing it over the phone right before the article hit online. Got it."

Steve was not going to cry about this. Not in front of Eddie.

He was going to go home, shower, try to eat something, and then he was going to cry for the next 10 hours.

"No, Steve, you don't understand."

"You're right, I don't. I don't understand how you could throw away a 10 year relationship for a model who doesn't even know your middle name. I don't understand how you can fly all the way here and interrupt my day at my job to try to explain to me why you were so cozy with a guy who doesn't even know that you like your hot chocolate with Bailey's instead of regular milk. I really don't understand how you couldn't even bother to text or call me one single time since the article to even try to explain anything." Steve wiped his eyes furiously, angry that his tears were betraying him. "I don't understand why you would expect me to care for reasons."

Eddie wordlessly picked Steve's phone up off the desk and powered it on. He set it down in front of Steve and waited.

Texts and calls and emails came through all at once, hundreds of notifications lighting up his screen.

Many of them from Eddie himself.

"Go ahead. Open them," Eddie didn't sound mad, he just sounded resigned.

So Steve read through the texts, many of them different renditions of 'please Steve, call me' and 'I love you sweetheart I'm sorry.' Not promising.

But then he started playing the voicemails.

"Stevie, it's really not what it looks like. It's never what it looks like. You know that. Please call me as soon as you can. I love you."

"I can explain everything if you call me back. I promise you it isn't anything more than a business thing. Everyone in the band can tell you. I swear. Just. Please."

"I'm getting on a flight to you now. I'm gonna keep trying to call you even when I land. I need you to know what's going on."

"Just landed. I'm on my way to you. The guys are a little pissed, but you're more important than the show tonight. I'm not doing my own thing until I know you understand."

Steve looked up at him, tears still falling down his face.

"Well?" He asked, broken.

"His name is Wyatt. He's trying to make it in the acting world and he was pretty much told he was the top choice for playing lead in a movie that's in early stages of development," Eddie spoke quickly.

"Great for him."

"It's actually great for all of us. The movie is a biopic of Corroded Coffin. He's expected to play me."

At any other time, Steve would be proud, he'd be jumping up and down at this chance for them, and he'd be kissing Eddie without a care in the world.

But he still saw that picture and that article, and no matter how much "business" was going on, it was pretty clear that wasn't all that was going on.

"So you thought sleeping with him would help him get into the role? Or did you just wanna get into him?" Steve bit back.

"The article was wrong! The picture was just really conveniently timed! You know the media are vultures, Stevie. How many times have they written about us breaking up? How many times have they said Gareth and I have secretly been married for the last two years? How many times have they tried to post shitty things about your relationship before me to prove that you can't possibly be queer?" Eddie pulled Steve to his feet and cupped his face in his hands. "I've been spending the last two weeks talking with him and the producer and the guys to see what might work best for production. They want us involved in as much of the writing and filming part as possible. And he had time in his schedule to come to a show last night, so we all took him out after so he could get a taste of what it's like for us. He's really excited for the role and all of us are really excited for the movie."

Steve felt stupid. Well, maybe not stupid. His feelings were valid and he wasn't dramatic about what he'd seen.

But he did feel a little shitty about doubting Eddie.

Eddie, who had literally flown across the country to explain in person so that there was no way Steve could misunderstand him. Eddie, who once Doordashed him soup from his favorite restaurant when he was sick even though he was in Europe. Eddie, who sent letters to the kids in his class once a month to talk about how important music is and following your dreams. Eddie, who loved him for ten years and wouldn't have let anyone get in the way of what they'd built.

Steve fell against Eddie, buried his face in his neck and his hands in his shirt. Eddie's arms wrapped around him, his voice saying something against his shoulder. Steve couldn’t hear him, but he didn’t think he needed to.

He just needed to feel him.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said against his neck. Tears soaked the hoodie under him, and Steve could feel tears against his own button down. “I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.��� Eddie shook his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone until the article hit, but I was still gonna call you and warn you but I didn’t and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. This is part of the whole lifestyle. I should be used to it,” Steve shuddered as Eddie’s hand scratched at his scalp. “I should’ve reacted better.”

“We both didn’t treat this the way we should’ve.”

Steve snorted, nodded as he found the spot Eddie had tattooed on his neck a couple years earlier. He pressed his lips over the tattoo of his lip print.

“You flew across the country over this,” Steve pulled away and looked at Eddie, vision blurred from crying. “Just to make things okay.”

“I needed you to know. I needed to hold you. I needed to have you in front of me. And I wanted to celebrate the fact that we’re getting a movie about our lives,” Eddie smirked. “I wonder who will play you. Someone with a nice ass is a must. Their hair will have to defy gravity. Don’t know if they’ll find anyone with that smile, though.”

“Me? Why would they need anyone to play me?” Steve played with the string of the hoodie. “That might be kinda boring.”

“How would they make a movie about me and not include you? You’re the reason I ever made it past Hawkins, sweet thing,” Eddie leaned in to kiss his bottom lip. “Maybe they’ll just cast you. No one else could pull it off.”

“Eds-“ Steve blushed. “Wait. Okay, I trust you, but what were you doing in the picture?”

Eddie laughed. “He had just finished telling me about his boyfriend who lives in Italy. He’s apparently just a regular guy in finance who has no interest in the whole fame thing. Sound familiar?”

“Sounds like you two have a lot in common.”

“The picture was me asking if we could crash at their home in Italy next summer on our honeymoon,” Eddie said casually.

Steve froze. “Honeymoon?”

“I’m open to other places, but you still haven’t been to Italy and I know how much you wanted to see Rome and Florence,” Eddie was smirking.

That bastard.

“You are ridiculous, you know that? I’m over here planning how I’ll survive a breakup with you and you fly across the country to propose with a honeymoon planned before I’ve even said yes! You know how crazy that sounds, right?” Steve shook his head. “You’re lucky I love you. You’re lucky I’m not interested in big romantic gestures.”

“Damn. Hold on, let me make a call,” Eddie reached into his pocket for his phone.

“What?”

“I gotta cancel the big romantic gesture,” Eddie explained as he typed furiously on his phone.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It was a whole thing. Robin was involved. There may have been 500 flowers ordered. I think it’s too late to cancel the singing telegram though.”

“I genuinely can’t tell if you’re being serious,” Steve wouldn’t be surprised if at least some of that was true.

“Oh, I’m serious. The ring was being set on the bed in the middle of a heart made of rose petals. I didn’t half-ass a fucking thing, angel.”

Steve pulled his phone out of his hands and set it on his desk. “Don’t cancel anything. I changed my mind. I am very much into big romantic gestures when it’s you doing them.”

“It was a team effort. I mean, I had to move it all up unexpectedly, but this was all gonna happen next month when I came home." Eddie pulled Steve into a long kiss, tongue tracing his lips. He pulled away to rest their foreheads together. "I'm not doing this just because of what happened, but I need you to know you're it for me. You've stuck by me through failing senior year, through being broke trying to book gigs all over the midwest, through the stress of our first album being released and the unexpected overnight fame, every album and tour since then, every time I've had to miss things that matter to you because of the band, all of it. You love me anyway. I don't always deserve it, but I'm grateful."

Steve's lips pressed against Eddie's again. "I love the life we have. I love you."

"I'm not asking you without the ring. I made so many plans. Robin will murder me in my sleep if I don't go through with them," Eddie laughed. "So can we get out of your classroom before I do something inappropriate and get you fired?"

"I mean," Steve glanced at the clock. "Technically all the students should be gone. We could lock the door..."

"Steven Harrington! How dare you suggest I fuck you over your desk in a school! I can't believe you would tell me to unbutton your jeans," he said as he unbuttoned his jeans. "And get on my knees." He got on his knees. "And suck you until you can't stand anymore."

"Eddie!" Steve chuckled, shoving his hand in Eddie's hair. "We should at least lock the door."

"So you're not saying no?"

"Why would I say no?"

"That's what I'm saying!" Eddie got back up and ran to the door, flipping the lock and turning back to Steve with flushed cheeks. "This is like, maybe three of my biggest fantasies in one, so I may actually come in my pants."

"You're ridiculous."

"Baby boy, my hand is my only friend on tour, you know that. How can I possibly hold myself back when I've got your dick in my mouth?" Eddie dropped to his knees again, looking up at Steve with something close to reverence.

"It's not in your mouth yet," Steve smirked as he tugged his waistband down enough to free his cock.

"Oh, I missed you," Eddie said directly to Steve's hard cock. "Steve, I want you to fuck my mouth until I pass out."

"I'm not doing that."

"Okay, well I'll settle for until I have to tap out."

"Fine. But it's not gonna be long for me," Steve shook his head. "Missed you, too."

"The sooner the better, sweetheart."

[wonwoonlight]

when mingyu takes jungkook's advice but forgets about one (1) thing

fluff // idol!au // mingyu is dumb in love // sex implied but this drabble is nothing but fluff!!!!!

It's three in the morning when Mingyu turns on the live.

He's still high on adrenaline for some reason; the whole day has been great and not one single thing went wrong even though some schedules got him worried at first. His meals were all exactly to his liking, his exercise went like a breeze, and he got to see you.

Perhaps the last one is what makes him so high. After all, it's been a little over a month since he saw you and finally being able to see you and feel you... gosh it was the closest feeling he would describe as euphoric.

You're currently sleeping in his room, blisfully unaware that your boyfriend has turned on his live just one room away.

"Hi." He grins and waves at the camera. "If you remember I told you some time ago that I'd start listening to a certain senior... here I am."

He fixes his hoodie over his head, happy that the fans seem happy with his wardrobe: a grey sleeveless hoodie with nothing underneath.

"I look like your boyfriend?" His grins widen, his mind flying to you. "Your boyfriend must be very handsome then."

"Hmmm, why do I look happy when it's 3 in the morning? Why? Am I not allowed to be happy at this hour?" He comes closer to his screen to look at the comments. "I'm not drunk! But I might’ve had a liiiiittle bit of alcohol earlier."

The live continues on like that, and between all the crazy things he's seen Jungkook did, he's starting to see why the guy is fond of doing lives at this hour. As an idol, he's usually wide awake at ungodly hours, and even though he knew the company and Seungcheol would have his head tomorrow, he can't be bothered to care at this moment.

He's blaming it on the alcohol too. But by the time he even remotely considers something might go very wrong, he's having too much fun with his fans and he's way too drunk on the happy feeling from everything that has happened during the past 24 hours.

"It's okay. If I get scolded then I get scolded." He addresses the fans' concerns. "They probably won't reupload this so consider this a present for all of you here, okay? Let's have fun while we're at it."

"Mmmmh. Is there nothing fun? Tell me something fun." He frowns as he squints at his screen, trying to read through the comments.

"What I'm wearing underneath this?" He grins teasingly and tugs the neck of his hoodie. "What do you think?"

It's seconds later that the comment section goes crazy, and he blinks in confusion, trying to see why people are screaming. It doesn't help that no one gives him any context until he finally catches one single comment that gets his heart beating so loud he can hear it on his ears.

Was that hickey on your collarbone???

He continues to play stupid, answers some questions that he made up in his mind while pretending to look for one in the comment sections, stays on live for another five minutes before he says he's starting to get sleepy so he needs to go.

He stares into space for a good ten minutes after he turns off the live.

He's fucked.

He's so fucked.

How the fuck is he going to explain this to the company and all of his members tomorrow? At least he's actually been considering going public with you for quite some time, have talked about it with his members and the company also, but this isn't how he imagined it would be.

Biting his lip, he's too lost in his thoughts to realize you've stepped out of your room, looking a little lost also, wondering why he's in the living room.

"Why are you not in bed?" You ask adorably, rubbing your eyes as you plop on the sofa besides him. "And why is your phone propped like that?"

His arm wraps around you and pulls you to his chest, already imagining not having to hide you away anymore after whatever hurricane that will pass tomorrow.

But.

First thing first.

"Babe." He squeezes your shoulder, already feeling sorry at your sleepy hum because he's sure you won't be sleepy after this. But whatever, imagining his future self showing you off to everyone is going to be worth it.

He grins when you look up in confusion, the dangerous grin that you know is up for trouble.

"We might have a problem. "

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Maybe Ghost Konig and any other cod characters you write for with an s/o who’s very insecure about their stretch marks? Thank you very much

MW2 w/ an S/O who is Insecure about their Stretch Marks

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, No Pronouns used for Reader except for 'You', Implications of Smut, Knife Play, Insecurity, Anxiety/Upset, Minor Implications/Spoilers about Ghost’s Past, Mention of a Strap-On, Brief Mention of Murder/Killing, Angst, Fluff, Possessiveness, Protectiveness, etc.

Ghost:

Has absolutely zero clue as to why you're insecure about your stretch marks.

Genuinely never even thought of them before now, even though he’s seen them many a time.

However, when you expressed concerns over the way you looked - the way you felt - because of these marks, he set about trying to make you feel better immediately.

He’s not the most emotionally mature person; having to grow up as quickly as he did at such an early age definitely stunted his emotional growth, making it difficult for him to feel and express emotions clearly.

But for you, he’ll try his best.

He starts nuzzling into your thighs and stomach more often outside of sex; just tender moments between the two of you, with him showcasing how much he loves you and your body.

He’d try words of affirmation, saying how he thought you looked “Positively spiffing” (he was using the term humorously but meant every word) in your outfit.

Whenever you cracked a smile, he’d feel triumph bloom like solid gold in his chest, casting him in a glow of pride.

Eventually, he’d showcase to you the parts of himself he would never show another soul.

One evening, Simon had his hoodie off, his back and chest fully exposed to you. And all the scars that seared across them. You tracked your finger along them, creeping from one gash to another. All the while, Simon rhymed them off to you: when, where and how he’d gotten them.

You traced one on his shoulder blade. The warm glow of the room belying the horrific means through which the scar was attained.

“Paris, terrorist attack, twenty-ten.”

“I never heard of an attack in Paris then,” you said, tone questioning.

Simon cast a lopsided smile over his shoulder at you. You caught it.

“That’s the point.”

He turned to face you fully, placing a hand on your waist, beginning to hike your shirt up. You placed your hands over his, shaking your head, a wide-eyed expression overtaking you.

“No, Simon,” you said quietly. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. His head tilted.

“Why not?” He said. “Have I done something to upset you?”

At that, your eyes snapped up and found his, dark and gleaming. You shook your head, vehement in your judgement.

“No, God no! Simon, it’s not you, it’s-”

“Don’t say it’s you - don’t you dare say it.” 

The authority in his tone made you ache in places you didn’t want to think about right now. You shifted.

“But…it is me, Simon.” You felt your eyes and throat sting with tears. “It’s always me.”

“Love–” Simon’s movements were stutterish as he took your chin in his hand and inched your face up to meet his. You tried resisting, but he wasn’t going to let this rest. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

There lay a desperation in his voice you’d never heard before, and neither had Simon. You sniffed, and, your eyes shimmering with tears, you looked up at him. Only sincerity painted his features, no trace of condemnation or judgement hanging upon a single point. You swallowed.

“It’s just that…I appreciate what you’re doing for me - believe me, I do ! - but…”

“...But…?”

“But your scars mean something; you got them through protecting people, fighting for them - caring for what matters most–” You choked on a sob, tears starting to roll down your cheeks. “And mine are just…” it burned your tongue to say it, “there.”

Simon went quiet for a moment.

“(Y/N)...” His voice was a rumble of thunder, the cleansing storm rising over the tainted hill. He took your hands in his, abandoning your shirt. He rubbed reassurances into your hands, tracing the veins, the valleys of muscle and the alleys of life which pumped through them. His eyes seemed to turn down at the ends, round, doe-like.

“Your marks are not ‘just there’.” He wiped a stream of tears indenting the heather face of your cheek, and his hand remained there, collecting those which followed. “They are evidence of how you’ve lived, how you’ve survived,”

His hand dropped to your chin, bringing your face up to his once more, shining his moonbeams upon you.

“They show how you’ve grown. How you’ve lived and enjoyed a life you made for yourself. Your marks succeed where mine have failed; yours scream life, while mine whisper death - a life loved, and lives taken.”

Your mouth fell open. You were aghast, unable to conjure anything in your vocabulary that was either expansive or emotive enough to convey all that you felt. Your chest broke out into warmth, the dawn of a new perspective shining upon you as Simon did now.

Before you could form a sentence - as blubbering and elementary as it would be - Simon pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was warm, all-encompassing, musical and low in the ringing silence of your desolate ocean.

He parted, cautiously, lips peeling from yours as if you were attached there, and looked upon you. Your cheeks were beginning to sting with the salt of your tears, vaguely chemical against your skin. You clambered into Simon’s arms, wounded and healing, and encompassed as much of him in your arms as you could.

“Your scars are beautiful, Simon,” you whispered into his chest. “No matter what you think - no matter what you say - I’ll always find them so.” You nuzzled into his neck. “I’ll always find them you.”

You heard Simon sniff, felt his chest rise with the sudden influx of air - emotion. You didn’t look up. You allowed him emotional anonymity.

“And I’ll always love your marks, (Y/N),” his voice strained, whispering and wisping. “I’ll always love them on you–” he pressed a strong, permanent kiss to your head, “--I’ll always love you.”

The evening consumed you, whisking you from the mortal coil to that of the metaphysical, that which was hidden to all but you and Simon, where you joined once again, physical bodies bound in a tight embrace, slumbering, dreaming.

König:

You actually came to König, sliding into his lap as he read a book, unable to keep what was eating you alive a secret any longer.

“Maus?” he said, putting Pride and Prejudice down and turning his full attention to you. “Is something the matter?”

You kept your head down and nuzzled into his chest, hoping his shirt would soak the tears staining your cheeks.

König tried to crane his neck down to see your face, but you hid it further into the cotton of his jumper.

König sighed, then began rubbing your back with a large hand.

“Whatever it is, we can fix it,” he said softly, gently. “No matter what.”

Maye thirty minutes passed, maybe it was only five, and König remained quiet for the duration, occasionally squeezing you and pressing a kiss to your head.

“I hate them,” you muttered, voice muffled by König’s chest.

Immediately, his back was up, like a cat’s. If he had the ears, they’d have been pricked.

“What?” he said, voice hard and thin, like a spear. You jumped in his lap and he sank back down, patting your head, a silent apology for his outburst.

His voice sounded as if it were spread thin, trying to conceal something far bigger than itself.

“Who has upset you so, maus?” He was careful with his words, trying to keep the extent of his bubbling anger at bay.

Finally, you looked up into his large, soft gaze. His eyes widened.

Your face was red in places, a map of countries in a continent called Sorrow.

Your eyes glistened, and König’s breath caught in his throat.

Before he could ask what was wrong, you shuffled off his lap and stood before him. You lifted your top and held it in your limp hand.

König’s eyes moved across your body as if searching for an injury, and when he turned up nothing, he looked you in the eyes.

“Maus, my lovely– I don’t understand,” König said as he shifted to the edge of the sofa, ready to jump up at your command.

You sighed deeply. “Don’t you see?” you said, folding your arms across your chest. “Don’t you see them, König?”

“See what?” His tone was becoming gradually frantic.

You huffed. “My marks, König! My– ugly– disgusting–”

“Hey, hey–” he slid off the sofa and enveloped you in his arms, holding you close to him, “--they are not ugly! Just– listen to me, maus–

“How do you deal with them?” you said, quiet as your namesake. Exasperated. “Your scars, Köni…how do you live with them?” Your voice croaked with tears, and the lump in your throat grew, bobbed up and down. It burned, reminded you of why you were here to begin with.

König thought for a moment, going quiet, his arms still wrapped around you. His hand squeezed your shoulder, fingers pressing soft, repetitive circles into your skin, a cycle of comfort. His warmth - his scent of pine - filled your senses, held you as he did now.

“There was a time,” he said, finally, his voice a whisper, “not too long ago, when… they made me hate myself, hate what I’d become.” He took your chin between his fingers and inched your face to meet his. He smiled, eyes crinkling. “But then I met you, and you told me how pretty you thought they were; ‘like tattoos,’ you said.” The memory tickled your mind and you couldn’t help but smile at the image of you sat on König’s chest, trailing a light finger just below his scars, afraid to touch them - their history - for fear it would hurt your dear König. He urged you to feel them, to make himself entirely transparent to you.

 “And that’s how I have grown to like - to love - them. Because your opinion means more to me than mine does.”

The stinging sensation in your eyes strengthened, and you couldn’t help but let a tear slip. Though, not of your own despair, but of your love for König, and his apparent adoration for you. König could tell your tears were not of sorrow, and he pressed a slow, light kiss to your lips.

“Unless you’re planning on leaving me for another man, I suggest you only listen to me from now on.” His smile made his cheeks round and full, his eyes turn into half moons.

“And what makes you sure I could leave you for someone else?” you said, speculatively, jokingly. Inquisitively. König gave an honest chuckle, taking your face between his hands and squishing your cheeks.

“With a body like that, you could have any man you wanted.” His tone was light yet held a hidden weight, a seriousness, perhaps an insecurity, he didn’t want to address. “I’m just glad you chose me.”

He punctuated his claim with another kiss, deeper, hotter this time.

Soap:

You were turned over in bed beside Soap, who, despite your best efforts to conceal yourself, heard your soft chokes of tears.

His initial, instinctive reaction had been to envelop you in his kisses, slip his arms around your waist and pull you flush against him, to implore you to tell him what had made you so upset.

But, as he lay on his side of the bed, listening to your silken sobs into your pillow, he felt his chest break out into weighted feeling of dread, tree roots digging through the skin and into his very being, tinging his blood with a most negative sensation of blackened lightning.

Empathy, one might call it. He was feeling what you felt.

He couldn’t take it, your tears, your despair, and so he turned, gently, onto his other side and faced your back.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, and you flinched.

“Oh!” you said, patting your face with your sleeve. “Sorry, Johnny– I didn’t mean to wake you,”

Your voice was deceivingly light, airy - a front to throw Soap off your scent.

Soap didn’t bother with the formalities. His only priority now was you.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” he said. He pulled your shoulder back, willing you to at least look at him.

You didn’t move.

You refused to.

“Nothing, love,” you said, hushed beneath the tension in the room.

You turned, offering only a peak of your facial silhouette, sacrificing it to the sliver of moonlight peeking through the blinds.

It was wet, despite your best efforts to conceal any evidence of your upset.

Soap restrained a sigh and watched you try to burrow your way back into your pillow before he started asking any more questions. Without warning, he forced you to look at him, pulling you so you lay on your back. He sank down on top of you, knees bolted to your sides - one of which sat dangerously close to the edge of the bed, threatening to slip off at any moment.

His gaze was direct and impenetrable as he searched your eyes, hands pinning your wrists beside your head. His strength was unrelenting, unmoving. He wasn’t going to let you off easy on this.

“Now, then,” he said, voice low and dyed an erotic tone of resolution with his accent. “Are ye gonna tell me what’s upset you, or am I gonna have to force it out of ye?”

You knew he was joking, and you shared the knowledge that this was his way of trying to make you feel secure - that you could trust him. But of course, you already knew that.

You gaze drifted down to where yours and Soap’s thighs met, and the weight that had been pressing on you for weeks jumped down onto your chest again, urging a fresh set of tears to emerge. You looked away, off to the side, hoping you could hide the dried streaks your tears had left behind.

“Hey, Sweetie, look at me– look at me.” Soap’s voice grew stern, and, when you refused to cooperate, he took your chin between his fingers and made you look at him, grip decidedly firm yet gentle.

“Angel, baby–” his eyes pleaded with you for an answer. “What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t hold it anymore and burst into tears, trying to keep your sobs quiet. Soap remained atop you, caressing the side of your face. Your tears were thick, almost viscous with all that had caused them, as if they, too, bore the weight of what plagued you.

“My marks,” you said, your voice merely a sound rather than a sentence. Soap’s head tilted as he looked down at you.

“What was that?” he said, unsure as to whether he’d heard you correctly. You sniffed, fortified your voice.

“My marks,” you repeated, clearer now.

Soap looked at you as if you were speaking another language, and you mistook his silence for perhaps the oncomings of a laugh. Or worse yet, agreement.

Soap scoffed alright, but he didn’t laugh. Instead he rearranged so he sat further down your body. He lifted your shirt, which you tried to pull down. He growled and practically tore it off you. And you let him. He stared down at your abdomen, your thighs, and sighed deeply.

“Why on earth are you worried about your stretch marks?” he said, absolute and firm, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. You almost wanted to shrug and apologise for wasting his time, but you remained quiet.

“These marks,” he began, lowering his face to your stomach, “are part of you. You know what that means?” His gaze flickered from your abdomen to your face. When you shook your head, Soap gave a huff of a laugh, his breath hot and circling against your skin.

“It means that they’re not the burden you think they are; they’re not unsightly, or ugly, or anything else you can think to call them. They’re beautiful because they are you.”

Your tears were still welling, and Soap pressed a soft kiss to your stomach. Then another. Then another. He linked a chain of kisses, inching further down your body, reaching the band of your underwear. He looked up at you beneath heavy lids. He dipped his tongue beneath the band, making you jolt. He laughed.

“I mustn’t have been doing a good job of showing you how beautiful you are,” he said, lowly. His hands slid to your hips, hooking his fingers over the edge of your underwear and tugging them down.

“It’s time I changed that.”

Price:

He’d picked up on your off mood every day this week, but he’d wanted you to come to him when you were ready, rather than him chase you up about something you didn’t necessarily want to talk about.

You never cracked, though. Not even once.

You’d kept your thoughts to yourself, yet your body betrayed you.

Whenever Price had initiated something in the bedroom, you’d shied away, putting your hands against his chest and giving a weak, watery smile.

“Maybe another night?” you’d say, and Price respected your wishes.

But, he was growing agitated.

It wasn’t his sexual frustration which urged him to act, but his frustration at himself for not being able to tell what was troubling you.

He was your protector; it was his duty, his pleasure to look out for you in any way you needed him.

And he felt like he was failing.

Eventually, he asked you outright what had gotten you so upset, and when you reluctantly told him it was your stretch marks, Price sat there. Flabbergasted.

“That’s it?” He couldn’t help himself saying. But when he saw how much the topic meant to you after you gave him a stormy look, he changed his tune.

Consoled you well into the night, holding you, burying kisses into your skin, drawing lines against your marks, saying how he found them beautiful because they were “Part of you.”

Never lets you go a day without feeling appreciated - more so than he did prior to this discovery.

“You know, Darling,” Price began, laying in bed with you in his arms, “I can’t remember what my life was like before you came.”

You looked up at him. He nuzzled the tip of his nose against your hair.

“And I can’t imagine what it would be like without you in it.” The smile in his voice was more than a mere tone, but a feeling, deep and sincere, the epitome of love itself.

Your face broke out into a grin, beams shining through the clouded sky. “Oh?” you said, bringing your thigh over his middle. You slid on top of him, knees either side of his waist. You planted your hands on his chest, rubbing slowly. His chest rumbled, the beginnings of a purr. His eyes gleamed, his lips curled up beneath his moustache, pinched as raised theatre curtains

“How about I show you how much you mean to me?” Your request was more foreshadowing than anything else, but, in a plot twist, John gripped you by your thighs and rolled so that he was now on top of you, your wrists pinned beside your head.

He brought his face down beside your head. “Last I checked, that was my job,” he rasped, his beard scratching the side of your face. He slid a hand down to the hem of your night shirt, raising it over your stomach. “And I don’t plan on retiring.” 

Alejandro:

Is on the offensive immediately.

Thinks somebody’s said something to you that made you upset.

“Who was it, mi amor? Who do I have to kill?”

It would take all your strength to keep him from storming out the house and popping a cap in the first person he suspected as being the perpetrator.

You’d have to explain to him that nobody’s said anything to hurt your feelings, and that your insecurity about your stretch marks has been with you since you were young.

“It’s just the way I am, Love,” you’d say, casting a diluted smile Alejandro’s way. “‘Ts just the way things are.”

This shocks Alejandro; sends him into a catatonic state, even.

Not once had he even considered your stretch marks a point of insecurity: not for you, or him.

In fact, he thought they were cool, and whenever he’d show you his scars, he’d smile. “Now we’re matching!” He’d say.

After you’d expressed your insecurities about your marks, he’d never let you go a day where he’d remind you you’re beautiful (though, that isn’t saying much; there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t make you feel worthy and loved. He just tries even harder).

Man’s a body worshiper if ever I saw one (and I have seen many).

When you’re laying down together and he has his head on your thighs, he’ll randomly turn around and start kissing your marks.

Only does this in private, and with good reason.

Definitely the type to use tongue, even if it’s on the surface of your skin.

Will not let you leave until he’s convinced you’re feeling better about yourself.

Tells you that his mission in life is to “Make you realise how beautiful you are in everyone else’s eyes, even if you don’t see it yourself.”

You can definitely use the insecurity card to request - ahem - ‘snuggle time’ with Alejandro.

If you say to him in your whiny voice: “Baaabe, I’m not feeling too good about myself today,” he’ll be on you like a rash.

You may think you’ve got one over on him, but don’t be fooled.

He knows what you’re doing, but he’s not going to stop you.

After all, why would he ever pass up the opportunity to show the person he loves most in all the world how beautiful they are?

“There will never be a day where I will not worship you, mi corazón,” he panted, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your thighs. “You are my god - my religion.”

His eyes gleamed as he looked up at you from between your legs. “My life.”

You screwed your eyes shut and whined when he licked a stripe against your underwear, catching you where you needed him most.

“Alejandro,” you whispered, his name a prayer on your lips. “Please,”

“Say it.” He slid a hand over your stomach, feeling your skin, your marks, beneath his warmth. “Say what you want me to do and I’ll give it to you.” There was no hint of a lie in his words, only the inescapable truth of his undying love for you and everything your body had to offer.

Between glistening eyes and an open mouth, you let him in. “You.”

Alejandro left many bruises and bites on you that night, all borne out of love. And, afterwards, as he looked upon your sleeping form, all he could think was of how ethereal you looked, and how lucky he was to have managed to find someone like you.

Valeria:

She simply won’t hear of it.

She’s quite an aggressive woman, and she expresses her love and adoration likewise.

Therefore, when you end up confiding in her that there is even a single part of yourself you’re insecure about, she flips her lid.

Not at you, of course. At who or whatever has made you feel this way.

She throws her hands up and curses in Spanish, saying how only she’s “allowed to make you feel that way.”

And she means it.

She won’t let you feel bad unless she wants you to (and even then it’s because you’ve whined and moaned for it).

Trust that she’s watching you like a hawk 24/7 after that.

If she finds you looking at your marks with anything less than adoration, she’ll drag you into the bedroom and force you to say you do, otherwise she’s not relenting with that ten inch strap-on.

She’s sensitive, however.

When she can tell that a quick therapy session isn’t going to change your mind, she’ll just sit with you and listen, make you a drink and hold you when you cry.

She’ll come up with the idea to name them - so they “feel like friends rather than enemies,”

Places warm, soft kisses along your marks, christening them with her love when you’ve decided on a name.

If you name one after her, she’ll be honoured.

“Now I’ll be with you forever,” she’ll say, wrapping her arms around your waist. “On you forever, I should say.”

Valeria dragged you into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. One of her men guarded the other side, frightening off other club-goers.

Valeria’s eyes were heavy, dark and all-consuming with a feral rage that only occurred under rare circumstances, those being her jealousy. She gave you little time to protest as she hiked you up onto the counter, the tap digging into your back.

“I’ll murder him,” she said, voice rasping with drink and the need to mark you - to take you. “I’ll kill them all - all those bastards that looked at you.”

“Valeria, please,” you gasped when she cut the lining of your jeans open, making the button pop and recede into a dark, grimy corner of the tiled room. Valeria brought the knife to your throat, her voice snarling and serious as death.

“I am the only one who can look at you.” The tip of her knife began its slow descent to the collar of your shirt, which she separated from your body with a long, ripping tear. Now, chest exposed, you yelped. Valeria forced your legs apart and crouched between them. Her knife sat at the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re mine,” she promised. “And if I need to mark you myself–” she trailed the tip of her weapon along the marks on your hips, “–then so be it.”

Gaz:

Will look at you like you’ve just asked him to recite Pi.

What???

What do you mean you don’t think your stretch marks look good?

Gaz thinks they look perfect!

He can’t imagine you without them; he’s genuinely emotionally attached to them.

You should’ve guessed as much when you felt him tracing them as you lay in bed.

Fr though, Gaz understands why you feel insecure, but he doesn’t understand why, if that makes sense.

He knows certain things get to you, thus making it plausible that you would become upset with something you found on your person, but he doesn’t understand why you’re insecure.

He can feel himself getting angry whenever he hears you talking - or even thinking - bad about yourself.

He’s not mad at you! Not at all.

He’s simply aggravated by the fact that something or someone has made it so you can’t see yourself the way he sees you.

To cheer you up, he’ll start relaying extremely specific compliments to you.

“I’d love you if you were a two foot tall worm with a receding hairline.”

“Uuuh…thank you?”

Though, if he found those didn’t work or, God forbid, made you feel worse-

“So you’re saying that you only find my personality attractive and not my body.”

– He’ll find another way of lifting your spirits.

“I would commit arson if you ever tried to get rid of your stretch marks.”

“...Why?”

“Because I love them and they’re my friends 🥺.”

Btw he’s fr about that - he sees your stretch marks as individual, sentient beings.

And he begins to tell you the backstories he’s made up for them.

And you can’t help but get attached to them, too.

“Hold on, why does Antonio get to be seen today and not Felicity?” you asked, holding the sleeveless vest to your torso. Gaz returned, throwing a pile of yet more sleeveless shirts, vests and other variants onto the bed.

“Because I haven’t seen Antonio all week and I’m starting to think you’re playing favourites.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Poor guy’s probably suffocating under all those jumpers you wear!”

“Oh?” You raised and eyebrow, looking at Gaz in the mirror. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Gaz threw you a devilish smile, the corners of his lips pointing up like horns, sharp and curled. He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, holding the vest against you.

“Put the vest on and you won’t have to find out.” He pressed a constellation of kisses to your shoulder, up the connecting junction of your neck and shoulder, until he reached your jaw. “Unless you want to.”

Graves:

When you initially told him, he wasn’t sure how to respond.

Genuinely thought money would make all your problems go away.

He threw a wad of rolled-up George Washingtons at you and told you to “Buy something nice - do yourself up pretty.”

Obviously, not the best thing to say to somebody who’s insecure.

And when you didn’t talk to him for days afterwards, he realised where he’d gone wrong.

You wanted reassurance, not a solution.

See, he’s so used to using money to make his problems disappear that he thought it’d be a quick fix for you, too.

Pokes his head round the bedroom door like heeeyyy~ before taking a  seat beside you on the bed.

“Look, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t realise you just wanted to talk rather than have me fix the problem.”

His wording’s still very off, but he’s working on it with gentle guidance from you.

He genuinely never realised your stretch marks were an insecurity for you, though, hencewhy he’s not so good at the whole ‘reassurance’ thing.

He learns quickly, though.

It starts off with small gestures; putting a hand over your marks, looking at them fondly, telling you how gorgeous you were every single day.

And, eventually, when you’re being more…intimate, he’ll refuse to let you cover yourself up (unless you really want to, ofc).

Trying to hide your marks? Not for long - Phillip’s got a PHD in cloth tearing, and you’re his first job.

“I don’t remember telling you you could do that.”

Aggressive love. Full-on laving his tongue over your marks.

“Just markin’ what’s mine, Angel.”

Doesn’t give you even a second to feel insecure anymore.

Encourages you to wear clothing that reveals your marks if he thinks it’ll make you feel better.

Again, won’t force you to; if you don’t like revealing clothing overall, he’ll make sure to find other ways of empowering you.

Gets very territorial whenever he catches someone staring at you because he firmly believes that, 100% of the time, it’s because they’re checking you out.

Will glower at them with his eyes until they look away, cowering.

And all the while he’s looking at you, thinking God damn, I can’t believe I managed to pull you <3

“Love, why did you stare at that man in the bar earlier?” You asked, not looking up from your book. In the dim light of the bedroom, you saw Phillip’s head turn, looking at you. In your periphery, you saw his cheeks lift. He crept closer.

“Ain’t it natural for a man to want to protect what’s his?” His voice carried with it a weight you recognised as rhetorical. You put your book down on the bedside table and resisted a knowing smile.

“I don’t know,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “Is it?”

A sly smile crossed Graves’ face, and, in an instant, he was on top of you, his weight definite and promising of something. He wrangled your arms, pinning them above your head. And you only smiled up at him as he beamed down at you.

“Oh, I think you know it is.” His eyes gave no way to humour or jest, possessing within their oyster shell colour a pearl of the rarest, most valuable material: love.

Graves leaned down, and, biting the shell of your ear, pressing a kiss beneath it, whispered.

“And you know how much I hate sharin’.”

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[fandoms-writings]

Let Go

Pairing: DBF!Bucky x college!reader (Part 3)

Word Count: 6.9K

Summary: Enough is enough. It's time to put your foot down with Bucky. You're tired of being hidden, but that means a whole new dynamic to your relationship - and a hard conversation.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ ONLY , making out, fingering, p in v sex, subby!bucky makes an appearance, Mentions of past sex acts, angst (this one is SAD for a little guys sorry), reader standing up for herself, confessions, bucky being a big ole dummy, cuss words ( I think that's it lol)

Part 1, 2 || Bucky Masterlist || Masterpost

Sorry! Can we raincheck?

Miles is down with a fever, can we reschedule?

I've got a surprise exam in the morning, I'll have to pass tonight.

The messages from your friends glared at you from your phone screen as you read them over and over. You hadn't actually opened them, they just sat in your inbox, one right after the other. 

Great. You sighed, glancing around the street corner where you were supposed to meet your friends for a night out. Your best cocktail dress clung to your hips as you shifted from heeled foot to heeled foot. You'd wanted to spend the night with your friends, finally taking a break from all the assignments and exams and responsibilities you had. 

But now, you stood alone outside the club, your uber already gone, and some guys eyeing you as they went in, giving you the wrong kind of chills. 

You huffed a breath and raised your phone back up, pulling up a number you haven't had the time to call - you were busy getting a degree - but that didn't stop him from trying to reach you. Bucky's name stared at you as your thumb hovered over the dial button. 

You took a breath to steady yourself as you pressed it and raised the phone to your ear. You hadn't seen Bucky in weeks, not that you didn't want to. You'd just been busy with classes and projects. 

And trying to get a hold over the feelings you had for him - the type of feelings you absolutely could not have for your fathers friend. 

He answered on the third ring, his voice and loud music coming through the speaker, "Hey!" 

"Hey, Buck," You couldn't help the way his voice made your heart start racing, even if he was just over the phone. "Are you busy?" 

"Not at all," His side got quieter as you heard a door slam shut, "What's going on?" 

"I was supposed to go out with some friends tonight, but they've all bailed. I was going to ask if you wanted to come out. I'm already downtown." You told him the name of the club you were standing in front of and he confirmed he knew of it. 

"I can be there in twenty minutes," He said and you could hear the smile in his voice, "Or ten if I run." 

"I'll wait inside for you," You smiled. At least you wouldn't be alone for the night and getting this dolled up wasn't a total waste of your time. 

You hung up before heading inside, letting the loud music rattle your bones as you made your way to the bar to order a drink and wait. 

~~~

The next fifteen minutes flew by faster than you thought they would've, nursing your drink and watching people dance against each other helped. But when those familiar hands landed on the bar next to you, you decided it was worth the wait. 

Bucky looked like he ran, his eyes clear and wild, his chest rising and falling at an uneven pace - though it was clear he was trying to steady it. 

"Where'd you come from?" You asked, a small smirk on your lips. 

"I was at the bar a few blocks down when you called. Started running as soon as you hung up," He said, sliding closer to your side, leaning to purr into your ear, "I've missed you." 

"Hm, have you now?" You fluttered your lashes up at him, and his smile grew.

"I have," His eyes flicked between yours then down to your lips and back up, "You've been so busy, I barely get to see you. It's a miracle I get texts back when I do."

You laughed at that, "Well sorry I'm trying to actually pass my classes with more than just C's"

He chuckled before smirking, "Did you miss me at all?" 

You let out a dramatic sigh, "A bit." 

"Ouch, only a bit, huh? Did I not make a lasting enough impression on you last time we got together?" The moment flashed in your mind - the dingy dive bar, the locked bathroom door, the cool mirror at your back, the counter under you ass, the arms holding your legs open, the way his lips felt on your neck, his hips snapping into yours - 

You pushed the memory from your mind as you felt your core go molten and your skin heat. Bucky knew as his smirk grew that he did indeed make a lasting impression, but chose not to say anything as you slid off the barstool, standing in front of him. 

"I want to dance," You downed the rest of your drink before lifting your chin at him. He chuckled before shifting out of your way, letting you lead the way to the dance floor. 

You didn't even get to take one step before a familiar voice called both of your names. Your heart dropped out of your ass and your skin turned ice as you turned to see one of Bucky's friends - one who also knew your father. 

"Sam!" Bucky smiled, clapping the other man on the shoulder, "What are you doing here?" 

"The wife wanted to have a night out dancing, and this was the spot her friends recommended, so here I am," he smiled, turning to you, "Hey you, I haven't seen you since that barbecue at your dads over the summer. How are you?" 

You pushed a smile to your lips, hoping it came across as natural as you stepped forward to give Sam a quick side hug. "Good, just needed the same thing your wife wanted - a night out." 

"I see," He glanced between you and Bucky, "So, did you two come together or. . ?" 

Your knees felt weak and you were glad you hadn't made it far from your barstool as you leaned on it for support. If Sam found out, there was no way he wouldn't tell you dad, and you dad sure as hell could never know about you and Bucky. But before you could respond, or even try to come up with something that didn't sound suspicious as fuck, Bucky's voice filled the silence. 

"No, I was walking back from the bar on 9th when I saw her standing outside," He smoothly said, putting a friendly hand on your shoulder, "She said her friends canceled so I offered to buy her a drink before she went all the way back home." 

It wasn't a total lie, but something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. The easy lie and simple dismissal of you two being there together, how it was just a coincidence. 

"Oh well I'm sorry," Sam looked at you with too much pity and you fought to keep your smile as you waved him off. 

"It's fine, don't worry," You took a breath, "I should probably go home though." 

"What? You just got here," Bucky argued and you shrugged. 

"My friends aren't coming, I'm not going to dance by myself." 

"Come hang out with us!" Sam exclaimed, adding a teasing, "Unless you think we're too old for you." Oh how wrong he was with that. 

"I don't want to be a bother," You said, "Really, I'll be okay." 

"No no no, c'mon," Sam got his wife's attention, pointed to you and you saw her face light up. "I think she wants to dance with you." 

"Okay, okay, I'll dance for a little bit," You laughed, following Sam to meet his wife on the floor, Bucky at your back. 

You tried to glance over your shoulder to get his attention, to convey how nervous you were - how nervous he should be, but he wasn't even looking at you anymore. His eyes were flitting around the dance floor. 

It was so easy for him to pretend nothing was happening between you two, to pretend like whatever you two had didn't exist. You fought off the uneasiness in that realization as you finally met Sam's wife on the floor and joined her in the music. Your body wasn't as fluid as it usually was when you danced, you felt stiff, but you couldn't help it. Especially not when another glance at Bucky dancing against another girl twisted your gut in ways you didn't know it could. 

Tonight was going to be a long one. 

~~~

Your feet ached in your heels as you quickly made for the exit. You needed air, you needed space, you needed to go home. 

You'd been able to stomach watching Bucky dance without you for the first couple hours - barely - but you couldn't take being ignored anymore. You didn't want him to fuck you in the middle of the dance floor for everyone to see, Sam included, but you would've liked if he'd offered to dance with you like Sam and his wife did. To join the group even or, fuck, just look at you once in awhile. Maybe smile. Or wink.

Instead, he gave you a wide berth, didn't look at you once, and didn't seem interested when you excused yourself to the restroom twenty minutes ago. You hid in the stall, gathering yourself before exiting, glancing out at the group to see not one of them bothered by the long time you took, and decided it was time to go home.

Pushing open the main door, you blinked in surprise at the rain that was now pouring down, and you sighed, shutting the door and stepping as far away as you could without stepping out from under the awning. You called an uber to take you home and watched impatiently as the car icon turned down various streets to get to you. The driver wasn't far, and would only take a few minutes to arrive, and you were hoping it was enough time before someone came out looking for you. 

But when the door next to you opened, and that familiar head of cropped brown hair peered around the edge, your heart sank. Your name fell from his lips in a confused tone as he took in the way your arms were wrapped around yourself and how you were basically hiding behind the door to stay out of the way. 

"What are you doing out here?" He shut the door and stepped next to you, his elbow brushing yours. You grit your teeth at the frustration that was brewing in you, the urge to shout and yell. You weren't normally someone who lost their temper, but you were so tired. Tired of not being enough, of being alone. 

"Waiting for my ride." You refused to look at him as he stared at the side of your face and you watched the road. 

"You. . ." He hesitated, tilting his head and leaning a bit, trying to get you to look at him, "You're leaving already?" 

"Yup." At the dismissive tone in your response, he straightened himself again, but still kept staring at your goddamn face. A sigh pushed past your nostrils as you glanced at the gps again, seeing the car was only two blocks down now. Thank god. 

"Do you want me to come with you?" He asked, following you as you stepped out from the awning and into the downpour, your dress and hair almost immediately becoming soaked through. "Or you can come over to mine, if you'd like?" 

"No, thanks." You declined, your voice beginning to strain, "I'm not in the mood to fuck you tonight." 

He flinched as if you'd hit him, but recovered as he sidled up to you again, "W-well, I've got a bottle of wine, your favorite brand, in the fridge unopened. We could have a drink and watch a movie? Or cuddle, or just talk? Whatever you'd like." 

You turned to him, surprisingly calm considering the way your chest seized and your eyes stung. His face fell as he took in the state of you, the misery lining your lashes and the anger pulling your lips thin. "Don't pretend like you actually care, James. Like whatever this is," you weakly gestured to the space between the two of you, "has ever been anything more than you wanting to fuck me," You turned back to the road, your voice dropping below a whisper, "and me letting you." 

His jaw went slack as he stumbled for words. 

A small car pulled up beside you, throwing its hazards on as the window rolled down. You leaned in, asking the driver for his name. The older man who was probably in his late sixties or early seventies introduced himself as Dominic, and after checking to make sure it matched your app, you pulled open the backseat door. 

Bucky's hand shot out to where yours rested on the car door, gently, "Wait. That's it? You're not going to talk to me about this?" 

You fought the tears in your eyes as you sniffed, turning your full attention to him. "There's nothing to talk about, James. I'm just stating how it is. I didn't ask you to come out with me just to ignore me all night, only for you to remember I exist when you want a good lay." The uber driver kept his gaze on the road, patiently waiting for you to get in, and pretended he wasn't hearing your entire conversation. You'd apologize to him once you were on your way. 

"You know why I - "

"Because of Sam," You calmly cut him off, "I know. But that doesn't mean you get to pretend that I don't exist. You wouldn't even look at me." You pulled your hand out from under his, climbing into the car. He held the door open, refusing to close it. "Close the door, James." 

"Can we please talk about this?" He begged, something you never heard him do - usually it was you begging him. You looked up at him, and you couldn't tell if your face was wet from the rain or the tears that could've fallen. It was probably both. 

"What's there to talk about?" You asked, your voice raw, "There are boundaries we can't cross, James. And I'm tired of being alone." You took a breath to try and steady the shakiness out of your voice, "And I'm tired of waiting for you to notice me." 

You leaned forward and grabbed the door handle, ignoring the way Bucky's face crumpled in disbelief. You tried to pull the door, but he held it firmly open. 

"Please let go," You asked. 

He shook his head, your name slipping from his lips like a prayer, "Please."

"Let go." 

He let out a shuddered breath as he looked at his feet for a moment. You were going to say it again, when he nodded and looked up at you, sniffling. 

"Okay," He muttered, "okay." His hand fell from the door, and you watched him through the window as you pulled it shut. 

"Please go," You gently asked your driver, who gave you a pitiful look in the mirror before he nodded, putting the car in drive. You didn't look out the window again, but you knew Bucky was still there, standing in the rain, watching you pull away. 

~~~

"Thanks, Dom," You gave the driver a small smile as you opened the car door. He hadn't asked about what he'd heard while waiting for you to get in the car, or about your tears. He asked if you were alright, if you needed him to stop anywhere and get you anything. You'd smiled, declining the offer, but it had warmed your heart. 

"Of course," He turned to give you a sad smile. "If you need anything, I'll be driving all night, so I'll be around the area." 

You smiled at him, "Thank you, but I'll be fine." 

He nodded, before saying, "Hey." 

You looked at him again, waiting for him to continue.

"I'm not trying to butt in on a situation I don't know," He started, "and you can ignore anything I say once you get out of this car. Just," He took a breath as if to steady himself, "Sometimes, it's worth listening to the other side. So you know the whole truth. So you don't sit there and wonder years later, if shutting them out was a mistake." 

"I appreciate the advice, but," you sighed, "there's a lot of story there that I can't get into." 

"And whatever you do, is your choice. Just. . ." He took a deep breath before his eyes locked with yours, and you could see the regret and the sadness swimming in his irises. "I was that person, once. And not a day goes by where I don't wonder what life would've been like had I just listened." 

You smiled, reaching forward to pat his shoulder, "Don't let the past drag down your present," you offered him a sad smile, and he reached up to pat your fingers with his old ones, "Have a good night, Dom." 

"You as well." 

You climbed out of his car, walking to where the doorman of your building greeted you and held the door open for you. He eyed your soaked clothes and hair with concern and you waved him off. 

"Got caught in the downpour. It's headed this way, but I'm alright." You plastered on a fake smile, as you passed him. 

The elevator ride was suffocatingly silent, the only noise being the dings of the floors you passed and you spent the time removing your heels, your sore feet thankful to be flat again. The ding of your floor filled the air and the doors whirred as they slid open. You were greeted by that maroon carpet, and cream walls of the hall, the little gold detailings of the light fixtures and door handles plentiful as you passed them by, aiming for your door. 

Your keys slid in and unlocked effortlessly, and you stepped into the darkness, shutting the door behind you and locking it before you slid down to the floor. Feet pushed out in front of you, your back to the door, you sat there in the quiet stillness of your apartment. 

In the dark, Dominic's words kept ringing in your head. Sometimes, it's worth listening to the other side. So you know the whole truth.

You sighed as your head fell back and thumped against the door. Deep down, you knew the old man was right. You don't have to let Bucky back in, but you should hear him out. But you knew by the way your heart constricted at just the thought of it, that you weren't ready, not yet. You needed to cool down and think and relax before that conversation.

So you stood on shaky legs and flicked on a couple lights before making your way to the bathroom. A hot bath to wash away the night and chase away the cold that was starting to bite at your bones was the best way to start. 

~~~

Nick, your doorman's voice echoed in your head as you stood at the buzzer of your door. 

There's a James Barnes here to see you. 

It'd been a couple weeks since you left him at that club downtown. Weeks of no contact, not even a text. You knew you needed to talk to him, but you didn't know if you were ready. You didn't even know what more could be said. What story he could try to spin you. 

But you remembered Dom's words from that night, and shook yourself from your stupor just in time to hear Nick calling your name through the buzzer. 

"Send him up." You hoarsely replied, "Thank you, Nick." 

"Sure thing," His voice came through the static before going quiet again. 

You took a deep breath as you looked around the apartment. It was a little messy - you hadn't really had time to clean these past few weeks with finals around the corner. Part of you wanted to rush to pick some of it up, but you knew deep down you didn't have time before Bucky knocked on your door, so you wrapped your arms around your torso and waited, trying to ignore all the awful ways your brain was coming up with for this conversation to end. 

The knock on that door couldn't come soon enough, and you had to steel yourself before pulling it open. 

Bucky honestly looked worse for wear, the bags under his eyes were prominent, his hair that was usually so well styled was unkept and in disarray. His normally well trimmed beard was longer than you'd ever seen it, though it wasn't by much. And in his hands, was a small bouquet of wildflowers. 

"Can I come in?" He asked, his voice gentle and somewhat hesitant. 

You stepped back from the door, silently holding it open for him to enter. He pressed his lips tightly together and quickly stepped in, watching as you shut and locked the door behind him. 

"I know that these won't fix anything, but I remember you talking about the flower shop two blocks over and how you really enjoyed the wildflower bouquets so I thought I'd stop on my way here to get you one - " He was rambling now, staring at the flowers in his hand as his free one came up to gently stroke some of the petals. 

You walked to the kitchen, with him blindly following you as he rambled on and on about the flowers and the specific bunch he grabbed reminded him of you and you had to push out the feelings that started to warm your chest down, down, down back into their steel box - the steel box you decided to lock them away in that night you left him at the club. 

After grabbing a small vase from the cupboard, you held your hand out for the bouquet. Your fingers entered his field of view that was still locked on those petals and his rambling tumbled to a halt before he nodded to himself. 

"Right, sorry," He gently handed them over to you and watched as you placed them in the vase and filled it with water. You'd worry about if you were really going to keep them later, and if you did, going through and properly arranging them. But right now, you had an important talk waiting to happen. And the sooner it was over, the better. 

"What do you want, Bucky?" You asked, pushing the vase away from the edge of the counter and looking up at him. 

"I was hoping we could talk." 

"I have nothing more to say to you." You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned your hip against the counter, eyeing him as he stepped up to the other side, resting his hands against the fake marble. 

"You don't have to say anything, but I have some stuff I'd like to say to you." His eyes were practically begging you to listen and Dom's words rang in your head again. Sometimes, it's worth listening to the other side. So you know the whole truth.

"Fine," You sighed, "out with it." You knew you were being a bit rude and cold. But after the past few weeks you've had, you didn't want him here longer than necessary. 

"Right, um," He took a deep breath. He seemed so uncharacteristically nervous. Whenever you were with him, he was always so sure of himself. So confident and cocky. To see him rambling and fiddling with the flowers earlier, and now struggling to find his words - it put a pause in your frustration. 

He straightened his back and took another breath, and you steeled yourself for what he was about to say. 

"I want to apologize." He started, "For everything. For starting this with you, pursuing you when I knew I shouldn't have. For making a mess of it." His throat bobbed as he continued, "When I met you two years ago, there was just something about you. Something that lured me in. You were - are so smart. You're so fucking smart, and beautiful and funny and witty and I just - " He sighed, "God, I fell so hard for you.

"But your father is one of my friends. And that's not right. What kind of man does that make me?" He asked, gesturing to himself. "What kind of man does that?" He all but fell into one of the barstools at the counter, "So, I kept you at arms length. Only saw you in secret, pretended you weren't there if there was even the slightest chance of getting caught - and for that I am so, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. But," he sighed, taking a moment before continuing, "but I didn't know you felt any certain way about it. About me."

He looked up from the counter to you, across the kitchen with your arms still crossed, "I didn't know you weren't okay with it. With the hiding and the secrets. If I had known - "

"What?" You weakly asked. You didn't mean to cut him off, you meant it when you said you didn't have anything left to say to him, but your mouth opened of its own accord. "What would you have done?" 

He was silent and you shook your head, letting out a weak, sad laugh, "Exactly. You wouldn't have done anything, because you can't. Not with who we are." You swallowed down the lump that began to form in your throat, your next words coming out almost silently, "I don't just feel a certain way about it." 

"What does that mean?" He asked, his brows knitting together. 

"James," You sighed, "I've been in love with you for months now." His eyes widened as he watched you lean backwards against the other counter, "And what sucks, is that these past few weeks, all I've wanted to do was call my dad, or my mom, and get some advice on our situation," You felt the tears begin to build in the corners of your eyes. "But I can't ask them. And I can't talk to any of my friends about you because they know my parents." 

You ignored the way his face crumbled as your voice cracked and thinned as you fought the building tears, "I can't talk to anyone about you. I'm alone in this. And even if I were to have you, I'd be alone."

He was silent for a minute, watching the tears fall down your cheeks before he slowly stood and walked around the counter to your side. He hesitantly approached you, gently reached up with his hands and brushed away the tears from your chin. 

"What if you didn't have to be alone?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"What if," he breathed in, his eyes scanning every inch of your face as he caressed it with his thumbs, "what if you didn't have to be alone? What if we didn't hide?" 

A weak scoff pushed past your lips and you tried to glare at him, but you could tell it wasn't really there, "You're assuming there's still a 'we'." Though your words were meant to throw him off, the lack of bite in your tone kept him right in front of you, the tight concern in his face melting way to something you'd only glanced in his eyes a handful of times - something soft. 

"I would like there to be." He whispered and you felt that steel box inside yourself crack open. 

"What?" It felt like it fell between you, your question, but he caught it with his nervous grin

"I'm in love with you," he stated with such gentle conviction, that steel box starting to spring open further and further the more he spoke, "and I know I've made a mess of things, but I would do anything to make it right." His hands slid off your cheeks and ran down the lengths of your arms, softly gripping your fingers and pulling them away from your chest and to his own. "I want to be with you. I want to show the world that I'm yours. I want to openly be yours." 

That little steel box shoved deep down inside of yourself flung open. Everything you've bottled up the past few weeks came bubbling to the surface as you fought that wobble in your lips. You fought to keep it all in. To keep yourself composed. 

"I want to make this right," He continued, his own eyes watering at the state you were in, "You just need to tell me how." He sighed, "Or tell me to fuck off, and I will. You'll never hear from me again if that's what you want. And honestly, I wouldn't be offended if you did." 

The thought of never seeing him again didn't sit right with you. It made a horrible sense of dread fill your chest and you shook your head. 

"What about my father?" You asked, your voice straining against the words that were trying to get out. Against the confession that sat at the tip of your tongue. 

"We'll tell him. We'll find a way to tell him and it'll be okay," He gently pulled you, testing to see how you reacted and when you easily stepped towards him, he wrapped his arms around you, holding the back of your head with his hand, "We'll figure it out." 

The warmth from his chest seeped through his shirt into your cheek and you let it out then, the cries that you'd been holding in, the words you'd come to terms with days ago that you never thought would be voiced, the words you'd wanted to say to him in anger began clumsily tumbling from your lips. 

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Your lips scraped against the cotton of his shirt, "You can't expect me to tell you how I feel when you made it feel wrong to want more." You pulled back, weakly pushing against his chest before haphazardly wiping your eyes. 

You'd missed everything about him the past few weeks, no matter how much you tried not to. His warmth, his scent, the feel of his hands, the husk of his voice. God you missed it. And you wouldn't have had to miss him at all had the two of you just told each other. 

"The way you'd avoid me or act as if I wasn't there," You said, taking a step out of his arms, "How do I know that won't happen again?" 

His face fell as he looked at you, his hands dropping to his sides, "You don't, but I can promise you that it never did." He let out a sad chuckle at the confusion taking over the tears in your eyes. "I may have avoided getting too close to you, yes, but not once did I not notice you." 

He stepped forward, wrapping his hands around your waist to settle on your lower back, his fingers tracing invisible patterns into your shirt. 

"If we're in the same room, I always know exactly where you are," His eyes darted down to your lips for a split second, "When you leave the room, all I want to do is follow you, but I can't. So I strain to hear your voice and laugh over everything else. I practically hold my breath until you come back." He gave you a sad smile, "I know you probably don't believe me, but it's true. It's like my entire being orbits around you and when you aren't around, my soul doesn't know where to spin." 

You didn't know what to say as you watched him, noted the sincerity in his gaze - the tears beginning to line his own lashes. You weighed everything he'd told you, how he felt, how he was trying so hard to not lose you. All because you finally put your foot down, and then listened. 

You weren't sure if your brain could form the words you wanted to say - needed to say. Your heart was racing from his confession and the proximity of him. He was so close to you, you'd merely have to tip your chin up the slightest to catch his lips with your own. 

So you did.

His body instantly reacted - his grip tightening across your back and pulling you as close as he could, his lips moving in tandem with yours in the soft enticing way they always did, a sigh leaving his nose and tickling your cheek. 

The feeling of his lips on yours sent a warmth through your chest that you hadn't felt in weeks, and it quickly spread through the rest of you, tingles shooting out to your fingers as they reached for his chin and down to your toes as your feet backed you up into the counter. A small noise that sounded almost like a whimper escaped his throat, swallowed by your mouth on his, as your hands slid up from his chin into his hair, your fingers threading through the strands and gripping them. 

You knew there was more to talk about, more to figure out - there always would be - but right now you couldn't stop thinking about his lips on yours, his tongue gently asking for permission to play with yours as his hands slid from your back down to your ass, squeezing before sliding further to your thighs, his back bowing as he reached. His fingers pulled on your legs twice and in the spare second his lips were able to pull from yours, you felt him whisper to jump, so you did. 

He caught you, gently placing you on the counter as he stepped in between your legs, pulling your hips to the edge of the counter. His lips left yours and moved to your neck, softly nipping and sucking as he moved down to your chest, pulling your shirt, stretching the neck of it but at the moment you couldn't care less about it. He only pulled away to pull the clothing up over your head and out of the way, his mouth immediately going down to close around a nipple when he noticed the lack of bra in his path. 

A low groan rumbled through his throat and into your skin before he moved to the other one, giving it the same treatment as the first. Every little touch of his hands, the way they grazed over your skin or grabbed at your free breast, kneading it with his fingers, and the hot trail his tongue left across your skin turned your core molten. You needed him, you didn't want any of the teasing and edging he so loved to torture you with. 

So you tugged on his hair, his name falling from your lips in a whine and he looked up at you, his eyes glazed and his pupils blown. The look made you hesitate and you clenched around nothing - you'd only seen him that far gone in the feeling of your skin one other time. So, seeing it now, you knew you could ask him to do anything, and he'd do it. You could order him, and he'd obey. 

You pulled his face up to yours, making him stand up straight as you locked your lips with his again and slid your hands down to his belt. While you worked the buckle open, his hands wrapped under the shorts on your hips, pulling them down your legs and causing you to gasp at the cold counter meeting your skin. 

The buckle finally opened and your fingers immediately moved to the button and zipper of his jeans, his own moving to brush against the wetness there. Your lips swallowed the new whine that he let out as he gathered the slick, pushing two fingers all the way in.

Your lips broke from his at the feeling of his long fingers pumping in and out of you and your fingers stumbled over the denim, but finally you got the button open and the zipper down and you shoved at his pants, your lips moving to his ear. 

"C'mon, handsome," You whispered, letting your lips brush against the shell of his ear and grinning at the shiver that ran through his body, "Your fingers feel nice, but," Your hand reached past the waist, gripping and stroking him, his lips opening in a gasp and latching on to your neck again, "this is what I want." 

He groaned into your neck, thrusting into your hand, his fingers in your cunt stroking your walls, matching pace. 

"I need it, James," Your other hand pulled back to grip his hair, pulling on it to get him to look at you as you continued stroking him. When he pulled away from your neck, he already looked fucked out and you smiled, leaning forward to lick his lips. He tried to chase your lips with his own but when your hand didn't let go of his hair, he stopped. "I need you to fuck me, James," He groaned at that, "Can you do that for me?" 

He nodded, his voice thin as he responded, "Yes." 

"Good," You smiled at him, trying not to whine at the loss of his fingers as he pulled them out and pushed his boxers down just enough. His left hand settled on your waist as his other lined himself up with your entrance, gathering some slick before he pushed himself in, going all the way in one go. 

His head fell into your neck as he groaned, the sound of it combined with the sudden fullness pulling a moan from your lips.

"Oh, fuck," Your lips brushed his ear as you panted. "That's it - fuck -" Your hands come up to grip his shoulders and his back as he immediately set a growing pace. "That's a good boy." 

His lips again connected with your neck and you tipped your head to give him more access, his teeth dragging across your skin. His hips sped up, a loud moan breaking from you as he angled to hit that perfect spot, Your head falling back into the cabinets. 

"That's it that's it," You panted, "Oh, don't you dare stop." His teeth nipped just below your ear and you couldn't stop the grin that grew on your lips, "Mark me," You grunted, "I want everyone to know I'm yours." 

What you could only describe as a growl rumbled from his lips into your skin as he began working to leave a mark on that exact spot, the sensation flying through every one of your nerves, shooting down to where he was hitting that perfect spot over and over, and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to falling over that edge, faster than he'd ever let you before. 

His lips brushed the skin of your neck as he grunted out, "Please cum on me," His voice was breathless and he sounded so, so close to begging, "please." 

You let out a breathy sound, that band in you so close to snapping as you lifted your legs to wrap around his hips. Your fingers wound through his hair again, gripping the strands as you ordered him, your lips never leaving his ear, "Make me." 

"I will," He said between leaving marks across your neck and shoulder, "I promise I will." 

His hips never faltered as his thumb on his right hand came to press quick circles into your clit, your legs snapping around him at the sensation and your head again hitting the cabinets. 

"Shit, that's it," Your fingers gripped any part of him you could reach, scratching your nails down his skin and the shirt still covering his back. The band in your core snapped and your release washed over you, your body locking around his as you were sure you screamed into his shoulder. 

His hips didn't stop, still fucking into you at that brutal pace he'd set, his thumb still circling your clit and you could feel another orgasm quickly approaching. 

He grunted out, his only request this whole time, "One more," before his voice softened into a whine, "please give me one, pleasepleaseplease." 

You didn't fight the second wave as it crashed into you, stealing your breath. His hips thrust into you just a couple more times before he stilled and his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, his long moan vibrating into the skin of your neck as he buried his face again. 

His legs shook as he stood there with you wrapped so tightly around him, but it was like he didn't dare move from your hold, or let you escape his. And you were fine with that. 

Once you got your breath back, you slowly dragged your fingers over his back and shoulders, threading through his hair before going back down his neck, his muscles loosening with each pass. 

His arms wrapped around your waist in a tight hug as he finally broke the silence, "Can there still be a 'we'?" His voice was so quiet, like he was scared to ask. You pulled his face away from your neck finally. "Are you going to ask me out? Like a real date?" You grinned at the flush on his cheeks. 

"Can I take you on a proper date?" 

You couldn't stop the small laugh that bubbled up in your chest and you nodded, "Absolutely." 

There was a feeling in your chest telling you to think about it more before agreeing, but you ignored it. You knew the risks, and you knew there was more to figure out and more to learn before it would be a smooth road - and that didn't even include telling your parents. 

But that was a problem for another day. Right now, you just wanted to stay wrapped around Bucky in every sense and enjoy the warmth that filled your chest as he looked at you like you hung the sky just for him. 

Yeah, you'd fix the rest of it later. 

As always, thank you for reading! Reblogs, comments, and likes are all appreciated!

If you enjoyed the story, please consider supporting me on my Ko-fi

If you want to be updated when i post a new story, please follow my library blog and turn on notifications <3 @remis-library​ 

[heavyhitterheaux]

Everything But the Skirt (NSFW)

First Lady of Private Garden Fic

Synopsis: Jack doesn't like your choice of attire and an argument ensues. Eventually he gives in, but in the back of your mind you knew that you weren't getting off easy.

Pairing: Husband!Jack Harlow x Wife!Reader

First Lady of Private Garden Masterlist 1

First Lady of Private Garden Masterlist 2

Requested by: an amazing anon

Do not engage if you are underage

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

You were walking past Jack who was on the phone with Clay when he did a double take and his eyes suddenly went wide.

"Clay, let me call you back. Uh babe?"

"Yes?" You said in response as you went to stand in front of him before leaning down to kiss him.

"Are you… actually going to wear that outside this house? Because uh…?

"Wear what smush?"

"That skirt." He pointed to it and you looked down at it to try and understand what he meant by it but you didn't.

"What's wrong with it?" You asked before looking back up at him confused.

"Your ass is almost out, that's what's wrong with it."

"I wear things like this all the time so what's the difference?"

"The difference is that I'm usually with you and it's usually never that short. Oh, and you're usually here…. At home."

"It's not even that short. I like it and want to wear it."

"I like it too but I also don't want anyone to try and take advantage of you. You know how people are."

"Babe, you're making a big deal out of nothing. I have a big ass ring on my finger." You mumbled as you started to get upset.

"If it was nothing then I wouldn't have said anything and like they give a fuck if you have a ring or not. Go change it." Jack responded to you without missing a beat and all you did was roll your eyes.

"This goes with my outfit and I'm not changing it because I'm supposed to be leaving in ten minutes. I'm not going and looking for something completely different."

"Roll your eyes like that at me again and I guarantee you that they'll get stuck like that. I don't want you leaving this house in that."

"Then come with me."

"You know I have something to do already and besides even if I was going with you, you wouldn't be wearing that."

"Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"So now I'm being difficult because I want my wife’s ass covered when she leaves this house? Make it make sense. In the time that you've been down here arguing with me, it could have already been changed."

"I'm not changing anything. As long as I'm comfortable and I am okay with it, why should anything else matter?"

"Oh, so now my opinion doesn't matter?" Jack responded while getting defensive.

"I never said that, Jackman."

"In not so many words you did. You're getting upset because I want to look out for you. Did I get that right?"

"No, I'm getting upset because there is absolutely nothing wrong with it."

"If it's not that short, bend down in it."

With a huff that you let out, you simply got into a low squat position before coming back up.

"That's not what I asked you to do."

"It's the same exact thing!"

"No it's not. I said "bend down, not squat down." You then bent down and you felt the material from the skirt rise up a few centimeters and that was it.

"And I see your thong. Take it off."

"I'm not taking anything off and I'm leaving."

All Jack did was laugh to himself and shake his head.

"Hmm, okay then." 

You had suddenly become nervous once you heard him laugh since he didn't put up any more of a fight.

"Wait, what?" You asked while looking at him.

Jack simply shrugged.

"You're grown, go ahead." Jack said as he started to scroll through his phone. That's when you knew that he was pissed.

"Why all of a sudden are you not saying anything about it?"

"You already made up your mind, didn't you?" He asked while looking up at you.

"Yes, but…"

"Then go. I'll see you when you get back. Don't want you to be late." Jack said as he stood up and leaned down to kiss you.

"Have fun."

The entire time that you were out you felt uneasy because of how you had left things with Jack. I mean you were grown and you could wear what you wanted, so you still didn't understand the big deal behind it. You had your friends with you and you knew for a fact that they would protect you if they needed to but all in all you were dreading going back home.

It was around three in the morning when you entered the house and it was silent meaning that Jack was probably already asleep. You turned on the light to walk up the steps to peek over and see that he was sitting in the living room just staring at you.

"What the? Why are you being weird?" You asked as you tried to start making your way up the steps but instead Jack called you over.

"Come here for a second."

"What babe, I'm tired." You said as you still had your foot on the step.

"Just come here."

You walked into the living room and threw your phone and keys on the opposite couch before walking over to Jack.

"Yes?" Was all you said before Jack gestured for you to sit on his lap.

"Did you have fun?"

"I did."

"Hmm."

"Smush, what is your deal? If you need to say something just say it."

Jack didn't respond to you but instead reached up your skirt to play with the waistband of your thong while not breaking eye contact with you. Now your heart was pounding.

"Babe…."

All he did was take your arm and place a small kiss on the inside of your wrist.

"Why is your heart beating so fast, princess?"

"I…."

"You nervous?"

"What? No."

"You sure about that?" Jack asked you again before placing kisses all along your neck to the skin that was exposed. 

"Yes, I'm not nervous."

"I don't like when you lie to me."

All you then heard was the material from your thong rip as Jack pulled it. 

"Babe!"

"What?"

"That was one of my favorite ones!"

"I'll buy you more." He responded by shrugging and throwing it to the side before holding up his fingers to your mouth. You immediately opened it and began sucking on them and when Jack was satisfied he took them out and quickly inserted them in you. 

"You like disobeying me, don't you?" Jack asked you as he was moving his fingers in and out of you at a painfully slow pace.

"What? No. I just…"

"No, you do like disobeying me simply because you know what's going to come later when you least expect it."

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"And that's your problem. You never think that you do." Jack said while eyeing you and you couldn't help but to roll your eyes. You didn't think he noticed, but he stopped his movements abruptly and told you to stand back up.

"Take off everything but the skirt since you still want to be a fucking smart ass."

"I..what?"

"You've been asking a lot of questions tonight. Do I have you flustered mamas? Do what I said and do it now."

You got up from his lap and slowly took off your top before taking off your bra and throwing it to the side and starting to play with your pierced nipples.

"Did I tell you to do that?" Jack asked and you immediately halted your movements and looked at him confused.

"I asked you a question so be a good girl and answer it."

"No."

"I didn't think so."

You peered down to see the obvious tent in Jack’s shorts, but as you got closer he pushed your hand away.

"Don't you want me to take care of that for you?" You asked and he simply shook his head no.

"We'll get there eventually, but for now come back up here."

All you could think in the back of your mind was how sore you were going to be later on in the day after you woke up.

Once you sat back in his lap, he wasted no time with placing your left nipple in his mouth and biting down lightly, making you gasp out in pleasure as he rolled the right one with his fingers before switching to give each one the same treatment.

Once he had detached himself from you, he started to place small kisses all over your chest with leaving bites every so often as the wetness between your thighs continued to increase.

"Babe, hurry up." You whispered as you threw your head back in pleasure as Jack had inserted his fingers in you once more.

All he did was laugh before saying anything to you.

"Be careful what you wish for." He softly whispered in your ear before kissing the shell of it and increased the pace of his fingers.

He tightly held onto your hip so that you would stay in place and not move as he slowly began massaging your clit.

"Baby, I'm about to…."

"Then do it." Was all Jack said before you came all over his fingers.

He didn't even give you a chance to recover before he stood up and told you to get on all fours on the couch.

Jack then got behind you before sliding down his shorts and boxer briefs before slowly stroking himself as the precum was leaking from the tip and you heard him hiss.

"Babe?"

"Good girls are patient, but you showed me earlier tonight that you’re not one. I already let you cum once."

You didn't say anything in response as Jack slowly entered you bottoming out and throwing his head back in pleasure. He gave you a few seconds to get yourself together before slowly moving in and out of you a few times.

Then without warning, he increased his pace as he held tightly onto both of your hips so it would decrease your chances of moving away from him.

"Shiiiit." You said as you could feel one of your hands slipping from holding you up because of the increase in pace.

"So you like getting attention from other men who aren't me, huh?" Jack asked you and you struggled to speak because of how much pleasure you were in.

When you didn't respond to it, he slid out of you before you felt a hard smack to your ass making you jump as he asked you again.

"I thought I asked you a question? You know it's rude to not answer your husband when he's speaking to you."

"No I don't."

"You sure about that? Because you still walked out the fucking house with that skirt on."

"But…"

"But what, princess?" Jack asked as he slid back into you.

"Oohh oh fuck."

"Last time I checked you were married because I'm the one who put that damn ring on your finger, isn't that right?"

"Yes!"

Without warning Jack flipped you over so that you were laying on your back and put his hand around your neck and lightly squeezed as he continued to thrust into you.

By this time, your eyes were rolling in the back of your head because of how much pleasure you were in and Jack wasn't showing you any type of mercy.

You could tell he was getting close because of his thrusts becoming sloppy and his grip on your neck was loosening.

You could feel yourself about to hit your peak before Jack slid out of you and placed your legs on his shoulders as his tongue started to work on your folds making you throw your head back in pleasure.

"Babeeee oh fuck." You gasped out and Jack noticed you slowly moving away from him as he was quick to pull you back and start to suck on your clit and wasn't letting up.

"Shiiit baby, I can't take it." You yelled out, but all Jack did was keep eye contact with you as he sucked harder making you scream out.

"JACKKKKK!"

You then let out a string of curse words as you squirted all over his face and the only thing he did was keep sucking on it as he then inserted three of his fingers.

"Babyyyyyy." You pleaded with him, but he wasn't letting up. Then you had a realization that this was what he was talking about earlier when he told you 'be careful what you wish for.'

"Nah, you acting like you available to every fucking man in Atlanta. Whose pussy is this?"

"Yours!"

"Is it? Because you seemed to have forgotten that tonight."

You couldn't even answer him as you once again squirted all over his fingers. He simply picked you up as he sat down on the couch and put his hands behind his head.

"You know what you're supposed to do so get to it. Make me cum. And no we not taking any breaks. You had all that mouth earlier so we're going to put it to good use." 

You tried to give yourself a few seconds to recover, but Jack wasn't having it as he pushed his hips up into you making you let out a loud moan. 

To give yourself leverage, you placed your hands on his shoulders as you got into a comfortable rhythm. As your head rested against your hand that was on his shoulder, you heard him softly moaning in your ear and that was enough for you to increase your pace.

His hands went back to your hips as he began to help guide you since he could tell that you were starting to get tired.

"Fuck, baby I'm almost there." 

All it took was another minute before you felt him twitch inside of you before the warm sticky liquid was all over you.

"Get on your knees."

You lifted yourself off of Jack before doing what you were told as you settled in between his legs in front of him and you began to lick off the cum wherever it had landed before taking him in your mouth. 

He made a makeshift ponytail of your hair in order to get it out of the way. As you used your right hand to help you where your mouth couldn't reach. 

You went slowly at first and tried to give him enough time to recover, but you thought about how he showed you no mercy so he wasn't about to get any either.

As you increased your pace, the hold on your hair got tighter and without warning, Jack lightly pushed you away from him before standing up and stroking himself.

"You want me to cum all over that pretty little face?"

You eagerly nodded as you closed your eyes and within seconds felt it all over your face and chest.

Without him having to tell you to do it, you took your finger and began to run it all along your face before putting it in your mouth to suck it off. Once he was satisfied with how much you had gotten off, he laid down on the couch and picked you up off the floor to place you on top of him before reaching up to kiss you as you eagerly kissed him back as he began to play with the fabric of your skirt.

"I should have known this was going to happen when you actually let me leave." You muttered while he just looked at you.

"And I know someone tried to be a smart ass and talk to you even though you have a ring on your finger. Am I right?"

"Well yes, but…"

"I just want certain things to be for my eyes only. That's all."

"That's fair."

"Besides I distinctly remember getting yelled out when I wore gray sweatpants and you told me that I better not leave the house like that."

"Because your dick is fucking huge. That's why."

"And your ass isn't?" Jack asked as he was palming it and all you could do was laugh.

"Touché."

"I still don't like how short this is."

"I think I learned my lesson."

"Uh? Who said that I was done teaching it?" Jack asked you but before you could respond, he grabbed a hold of the side of the skirt where the small slit was and ripped it in half making you gasp.

"Now it won't be a problem anymore."

"You cannot… you cannot be fucking serious."

"You're already on thin ice so don't test me."

"I didn't cut up your sweatpants did I?"

"I changed before I left the house so you had no reason to."

"You owe me a new thong and skirt."

"I have to see it and approve it first before you buy it."

"Fine." You responded by shrugging.

But little did he know, you had the same exact skirt in three different colors and was going to wear another one tomorrow.

Taglist:

@harlowsbby

@babyharleezy

@hoodharlow

@stefansalvatoresgf

@jackiehollanderr

@primadxna-girl

@dessmxsworld

@cockslutslurper3000

@raelorns21

@variety-fangirl

@gbaabyyyy

@kamorsstuff

@harlowthot

@sinsandsuccubus

@curlyhairclub

@bootlegroach

@haylexo10

@thinkingaboutjharlow

@fluidsentiment

@charli123456789

@moody4world

@yourstrulymayah

@yana4life

@beanbagbitch

@alinaharlow

@carma-fanficaddict

@minaxcarter

@arination99

@xjup1t3r

@venusvinc

@jackharloww

@midnight-star47

@minkookie95

@inluvwithladybug

@exoticr0ses

@jharlowsangels

@jackierose902109

@knack4harlow

@cmalass

@megawhoree

@softtcurse

@sia2raw

@miniaturehideoutmentality

@hoya122

@nattinatalia

@jackslover12

@skyesthebomb

@jackharlows-world

@louisianalady

@fdl305

@automaticpeachsong

@harlowcomehome

@gassyandsassy1

@babygirlwilly

@amethyst09

@harrycanyonmoonn

@toocriticalharlow

@tattered-tales

@sisiking99

@dessxoxsworld

@gillybear17

@jacksdaycare

@iheartharlow

@disaster-rose

@babyvinnie

@evansxchalamet

@chtkmyharlow​

@itsyagirljaz

@neon-lights-and-glitter

@awhore4moree

@a-moment-captured

@jackmans-poison

@valentinqee

@lightsoutstyles

@j-worlds-blog

@middlechild404

@0elliotswhore

@iknowdatsrightbih

@w1ldthoughts

@love2loveonme

@hufflewhore128

@shawtypoison

@fantasywritersstuff

[intuitive-revelations]

FLUXES [Celestis: Engineered Participants / Technologies] Example: "DOCTOR, The"

[Image description, courtesy of @quailfence: a series of pictures of text, alternated with screencaps and gifs from Doctor Who.

1: Text: Fluxes: [Celestis: Engineered Participants/Technology] Individuals transposed backwards in time but not too far in space, using a very high chaotic limiter setting and tied to their home period by a thread of biodata

2: The Eleventh Doctor stands in the future corpse of his TARDIS, looking and a pulsing stream of light that has replaced the console. He says, "That is the scar tissue of my journey through the universe. My path through time and space."

3: Text: He raised a finger. 'Look. There.

Now she could just make out the thread in the moonlight. It was just a faint reflection, maybe a foot or two long, about a metre off the ground. A taut strand of spiderweb hanging in the air, not attached to anything.

'What is it?' Fitz asked.

'It's only partially rotated into three dimensions,' he said. He pushed his finger right through the glimmering line, without affecting it. 'That's why it looks one- or two-dimensional. The rest is still perpendicular to what we can see - woven into higher space, or the time vortex…'

'Yes,' said Fitz, 'but what is it?' 'It's what your friend mistook for a ley line.' The Doctor was scuttling around the silver thread, peering at it from every angle, getting more and more agitated. 'It's part of the fabric of space-time itself. What DNA is to your genetic code, this stuff is to biodata. And it's all just exposed here now. Personality, history, memory, perception, all vulnerable…'

'I'm going to have to ask you again, aren't I?' said Fitz.

The Doctor said, 'It's me.'

4: The Fourteenth and Fifteenth doctors in the TARDIS. 14: "But you're fine?" 15: "I'm fine, because you fixed yourself. We're Time Lords, we're doing rehab out of order."

5: Text: The subject is turned loose in his or her own history, and the limiter setting allows tiny actions taken by the future version to have considerable effects on the past version. The biodata link then transfers these changes to the future version, which alters it, and thus alters the changes made to the past version. Therefore, the individual's history is kept constantly in flux.

6: The Fugitive Doctor says, "Let me take it from the top: Hello, I'm the Doctor."

7: Text: Let me finish. Think back to that time when you went to see your previous selves.

8: Ten, Eleven, and War talk to each other. Ten: "You're not actually suggesting that we change our own personal history?" Eleven: "We change history all the time. I'm suggesting far worse."

9: Text: 'Maybe there's no one home on Gallifrey,' said the boy softly. There was just the one of him.

The Doctor looked at him, cupping the small white cube in his hands. The boy said, Maybe they all left. Or maybe the whole planet's being destroyed, and undestroyed, and destroyed, and you just caught them at the wrong moment.

10: The TARDIS by the ruins of Gallifrey

11: Text: 'It's impossible,' said the Doctor. 'It's impossible for my people. Our past is unreachable. What's written can't be unwritten.'

'Who said your history can't change?'

Another boy answered, 'Someone from his history.'

And another: 'Maybe it's the second-biggest lie in Time Lord history.'

12: Dhawan!Master tells Thirteen, "You are the Timeless Child."

13: Thitreen stares at a ruined house. Swarm whispers in her ear and tells her, "All the memories you've lost, all the people you've been. It's all in there, contained within that house."

14: Text: And it was like the Doctor's home. As if his ship understood the loss of the House and had compensated to fill the emptiness. Shadowy corridors, alcoves and stairways, a secret at every turn. Like being in the Doctor's head. Like his life, for that matter, the details of which were strewn like flotsam across the floor.

15: Text: 'Sweet,' said the little boy. 'That's my favourite of your origin stories, too.'

The Doctor opened his eyes. He had been laughing, he realised, he felt that lightness in himself. The boys had all moved away, behind him, leaving him facing the empty dark of the warehouse.

'What do you mean?' he asked. His voice sounded very small.

'Is this the version where they banned all mention of his name, and yours, for consorting with aliens? Or the one where he got every record of himself deleted from the files?'

'Feel free to believe either of them,' snapped the Doctor, 'or both of them, or neither of them. If you're curious about my past, I want there to be as many wrong answers as possible.'

16: The Eighth Doctor tells someone, "I'm half human. On my mother's side."

17: Text: 'Well he's a hybrid, you know that. A Gallifreyan not born of Gallifreyan, the one who unites the two races and brings good old human niceness into their alien society. Aliens need that, y'know.'

'A human hybrid? She saw the contempt in his curling lip. 'Pseudoscientific nonsense. There's no evidence,' he repeated.

'He's allowed to be different. He's got a prophecy and everything.'

18: Lady Me says, "By your own reasoning, why couldn't the Hybrid be half Time Lord, half human?"

19: Text: Someone giggled. 'Let's play pin the tale on the donkey.'

'Maybe you didn't use to have a father.'

'Maybe you're living in the middle of a time war. Maybe there's an Enemy out there -'

The Doctor shouted, 'I'm not listening!'

'- who's rewriting you when you're not looking!'

'Maybe you weren't always half human.'

'But now you've become always half human.' 'Maybe you weren't always a Time Lord.'

But now you've always been a Time Lord.'

'Maybe you originally came from some planet in the forty-ninth century. Fleeing from the Enemy who'd overrun your home -'

'I said I'm not listening! Laa laa laa laa laa -'

'- and you've just been written and rewritten and overwritten, ever since.'

'Pin the tale!'

'How d'you know it's not true?'

'How could you know it's not true?'

The voices crowded in. 'How would you know, huh?'

'How would you know?'

'How would 'How would you 'How 'How would you know? you know? you know? know?'

'Why would I care?' shouted the Doctor.

The boy fell silent.

20: Lady Me asks, "Am I right? Is it true?" Twelve replies, "Does it matter?"

21: Text: However, the one group from the Homeworld which has excelled at flux-engineering is the Celestis.

22: Two asks the Time Lords, "Now then… what about me?"

23: Tecteun tells Thirteen, "Which is ehy we engineered the Fluyx: Shut the universe down and you within it."

24: Text: Even Mictlan itself can be considered a kind of enormous flux, an endlessly-shifting realm so cortosive to the rest of history that its heartland has to be kept on the outer skin of the universe

24: The Fourteenth Doctor tells Donna, "I invoked a supersition, at the edge of the universe, where the walls are thin and everything is possible."

25: The space station from Wild Blue Yonder

26: Text: There are suggestions of a stable middle-ground between the two fates, in which the physical matter of the flux is lost but the meaning of the subject/ victim is retained, a series of memetic connections with no flesh to support it. Yet this entity exists only on a purely theoretical level, relying on the perceptions of others to survive at all.

27: The Twelfth Doctor walks up to the TARDIS console. He says, "Can't wait to hear what I say." Glancing at the viewer, he adds, "I'm noting without an audience."

28: Text: You know what Sam represents. If a tree falls in a forest and no one's there to hear it, does it make a sound? Stop me if I'm getting too abstract here, but if a Time Lord saves the world and nobody witnesses him doing it, does history care? She's your witness. The thing you need to make you whole.

29: The First Doctor looks at the viewer and says, "Incidentally, a Happy Christmas to all of you at home!" End description.]

[Plain text: Fluxes [Celestis: Engineered Participants / Technologies] Example: "Doctor, The". End plain text.]

@dw-described

[zmediaoutlet]

spn20rewatch, 1.06: "So you lie to them."

A lot is made of the way that the Winchester boys grew up isolated. Raised to be soldiers, moved from town to town. That should lead to a particular kind of raw-edged unsocialized set of feral outsiders -- but Sam and Dean are thoroughly not that. A large part of why, I think, is that they were always enrolled in school (until Dean aged out). They actually had lots of opportunity to engage with normal people, even if the relationships they formed weren't necessarily deep. To borrow from Fight Club, they had plenty of 'single serving friends' -- good for a short time, but not for a long time. This practice is how they're both so good with people -- they don't come off as all that strange in normal interactions when they're not working, because they're just... not that strange, at least on the surface. They're good with people. They're just not good long-term.

When Sam goes to college, part of the stated goal is for there to be a normal life -- or a life at all, because he doesn't seem to include the rambling hunting existence as a valid option. A big part of that normalcy included finding a girlfriend and making friends. Makes sense, especially since he must have passed through dozens of schools with pre-established friend groups that he could see he'd never really be part of. After a while he'd know there was no point in trying to integrate, if they were only going to be in that school for a few months. Stanford gave him the opportunity to put down some roots, to really engage, and it seems from what little we see that he made a good effort. ...But.

DEAN: You’re kidding. You still keep in touch with your college buddies? SAM: Why not? DEAN: Well, what exactly do you tell them? You know, about where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing? SAM: I tell them I’m on a road trip with my big brother. I tell them I needed some time off after Jess. DEAN: Oh, so you lie to them. SAM: No. I just don’t tell them… everything. DEAN: Yeah, that’s called lying. I mean, hey, man, I get it, telling the truth is far worse. SAM: So, what am I supposed to do, just cut everybody out of my life? (DEAN shrugs.) You’re serious? DEAN: Look, it sucks, but in a job like this, you can’t get close to people, period. SAM: You’re kind of anti-social, you know that? [...] DEAN: Dude, what kind of people are you hanging out with? SAM: No, man, I know Zack. He’s no killer. DEAN: Well, maybe you know Zack as well as he knows you.

We'll learn in a later episode how well it went for Dean when he shared the family secrets with someone, so his attitude here is understandable. That said, when Rebecca finds out that something monstrous is happening with Sam, she doesn't completely flip out -- the evidence is in front of her, and she appreciates Sam's help. So, maybe Dean's wrong about this. ...But we never see Rebecca again, and there's no indication that Sam actually kept up with her or Zack after this hunt.

Sam also never told Jessica the truth about his life, and he doubles down on that choice when he tells Dean in episode one that Jessica was never going to know. He thinks there can be a partition between the hunting life (that doesn't even count as life, and is dangerous and bad and must be kept secret) and the "real" life in the daylight, and sees no issue in closing his entire past and large parts of himself away. It's safer, and better, and he'll be able to get through it and have that normal life he always said he wanted.

It doesn't work that way, though, and not only because the plot intervened. We've already had the moral structure of this universe established and it is not acceptable to ignore those things you could have done something about, with your knowledge and skills. Sam's a hunter, got trained that way for ten years, and the pretense that he can be wholly in these friendships (or romantic relationships) while partitioning away a massive part of his history and personality is a farce that was doomed to end. His friends didn't know him because he couldn't let them know him. He says himself, he never really fit in. The 'normal life' he was after wasn't ever going to be an option. He understands that, by the end of the episode; accepting it will take a little longer. At least he and Dean are freaks together.

[kitspindles]

I’m in no way bashing on people who have already finished TSatS and say they hate it, are disappointed, etc., because I myself have not gone past chapter seven. My friend let me read some today, but I won’t have my own copy until Thursday, so maybe my opinions will change. I will say, however, that if you read 400+ pages in less than a day, maybe give yourself some time to process the entire plot first?

In any case, I can’t help but wonder how many people went into this book expecting one version of Nico and Will, only to be hit with something else entirely. And I mean like... expecting the fandom’s versions of these two, rather than what canon has previously shown us up until this book.

It’s my personal opinion that the PJO fandom’s worse enemy is their own mischaracterization of the characters at times. And I don’t mean like little head canons and stuff. Everyone has done those at some point. There’s usually no harm in those. I’m talking about people who created their own versions of Nico and Will and have been running with these visions for years through different fan fictions and what-not online.

For years we’ve known basically nothing about Will aside from the fact that he’s sarcastic, likes Star Wars, his mom is a country singer, he can glow in the dark, and he’s better at healing than fighting. (And he has questionable fashion choice at times). Like, that’s all we’ve had since his initial introduction in The Last Olympian over a decade ago. Everything else? Online and fan speculation. And again, there is nothing wrong with that! I just feel like a lot of people went into this book holding onto their own pre-conceived visions of what Will Solace was and ended up disappointed the authors made him... different? But not really different, because he didn’t have a lot of in-depth personality or backstory before this.

Me personally? Yeah, I’m not that far into the book yet but I’m loving how Will is portrayed so far. He’s still sarcastic, but he’s shown his fair share of level-headedness as well as frustrations just within the first couple chapters. He is in no way the overly-optimistic sunshine-y boy who only exists to help Nico that the fandom has portrayed him to be all these years. His character arc is already headed in a way deeper direction (more on that when I finish the book). The whole bit where Will had coffee spilled on him and spent the next couple paragraphs in the scene trying to be unbothered while actually giving off “This is fine” fire dog energies? I loved that.

As for Nico, can I just say I adore how he’s written in this book? Aside from his PoV in Blood of Olympus, this is the first time he’s had his own narration. And it’s actually about him and more in-depth than previous times. I’ve heard people say that he’s “out of character,” and while I can see a little of what they’re all saying, I just want to know... what version of Nico have you all been reading? Did I miss something?

Up until this book, what exactly did we know about Nico? That he’s displaced in time, his sister and mother are both dead (and he feels alone), he harbored repressed gay feelings from his upbringing as a Catholic guy in 1940s Italy, and he’s been through the ringer more than once (so, trauma, basically). Oh, and he’s a bit of a nerd (Mythomagic and knowing all kinds of ancient creatures). That’s... about it. Everything has been speculation and projection from fans.

In previous books he’s always been portrayed from first- or third-person point of view (usually from people who don’t know him well and just think he’s “creepy”), leading to the idea that he’s distant and low-empathy based on some interactions he’s had with demigods who weren’t thrilled to be around him, during a time of great pressure. But he’s not exactly uncaring. He’s been shown to care a lot, actually (Bianca, Hestia, Bob, everything he’s done for Percy, his friendship with Reyna, Hazel, etc.)

But what about when he was ten? He was an excitable, curious kid who liked to have fun. And what did we see briefly in Trials of Apollo (before Jason died, at least)? We saw some of that energy return, particularly in The Hidden Oracle.

So, yeah, I’m personally thrilled to see him making cringe-y jokes and have some self-deprecating humor. It’s very “#OnBrand” for a traumatized teenager who’s just trying to cope and live life without any godly wars forcing him this way and that. Can we really say it’s “out of character” if we’ve never seen more than one side of Nico? (The under pressure side, from other character’s PoVs, in books not about him where he’s basically been a side character?) I’m just glad to see him cracking jokes, laughing, and acting more like a normal kid.

Now, is this book different from Rick’s other ones? Uh, yeah. I won’t say it’s not. But it’s not bad. It’s supposed to be different. It has slightly different intentions than the other books (re: explicitly working through trauma and relationship bumps). Also, it’s co-written. Co-written books always read slightly off from the original author’s work, but dam if it isn’t hard to meld writing styles and copy another author’s particular voice. But I think Mark did a very good job at imitating Rick’s style (again, from what I’ve read so far).

Will I change my mind on all this the farther I get into the book? Maybe. There’s a lot to read and take in. All I’m saying is don’t let the negative reviews warp your opinion of the book if you haven’t read it yet and are on the fence if you should or not. Wait for the PDF to drop, or for a library copy, and read and see for yourself.

[unclewaynemunson]

It's a little past two AM when Wayne opens his lunchbox and finds himself unable to stop the smile that's creeping onto his face.

He's met with a note, in neat handwriting:

My dear Wayne, I hope you're having a good day/night at work. I made you some extra healthy sandwiches because of that cough you were worried about – I hope you like fresh tomato and lettuce. (Please don't get mad at me for trying to make you eat vegetables on your bread.) I also hid some clementines in your bag. I'll be thinking about you when I go to bed, and I can't wait to see you again in the morning. Love, S.

'Munson!'

He startles when he hears his own name and looks up to find his colleagues looking at him with various degrees of amusement.

'Who woulda thought?' John McMillan laughs while some of the younger guys let out wolf whistles. 'Wayne Munson got himself a lady?'

'We've been working here together for almost ten years and I don't think I ever saw you smile before,' Bernie adds. 'So she wrote you a love letter to go with your sandwiches, huh?'

Wayne rubs a hand over his beard, trying to hide his inclination to hide away from all those eyes staring at him like he's something funny. He has never liked being the center of attention.

'Don't act like y'all know somethin' you don't,' he grumbles.

'Who is she?' asks Logan. 'Can't be someone from the trailer park, you never were interested in any of 'em. Found yourself a more classy one? Someone from Loch Nora who gets the hots for a working man?'

Wayne suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at him.

'You got it all wrong, boys,' he says, hoping they'll back off soon.

'Do we, now?' With a taunting smile, John McMillan plucks the note out of Wayne's hands, and starts reading it out loud to his little audience in a high-pitched, faux dramatic voice.

Wayne isn't ashamed, and he knows the teasing is mostly meant in good fun, but he feels an overwhelming relief about the fact that Scott had been smart enough to not sign the note with his full name.

'S, look at that!' McMillan exclaims triumphantly, putting the note back into Wayne's lunchbox. 'So he got a mystery lady... Guys, who do we know with names starting with an S? Any girlfriends or wives we should get worried 'bout cheating?'

There's laughter, some guesses thrown around by people thinking they're funny, but Wayne mostly lets it glide off him, the same way he'd endure their comments about Eddie back in March. Granted, this teasing is much less mean-spirited than the so-called banter back then, but he still doesn't like to get involved. The less these men know about him, the better; that's a lesson he learned a long time ago. So he eats his bread – and even a clementine – while he lets them guess and pretends to laugh with them.

When the break is over and they get up to go back to their job, Bernie matches his pace to Wayne's.

'Look, you know we've been teasing you, but we're happy for ya, man, you know that, right?' he says.

Wayne pats him on his shoulder. Bernie is a good guy. He was one of the few men around here who actually seemed concerned about Eddie when all that shit went down. As far as Wayne knows, he never chose a side back then, never came for his nephew like those guys like Logan or John McMillan, with their big mouths and narrow minds.

'All good, Bernie, thanks,' he says.

'Does she make you happy?'

The question catches him by surprise; it prompts his lips to curve into the second unexpected smile of that day.

He thinks about the way Scott looked at him before they said goodbye this evening. He thinks about the sparkle in Scott's eyes whenever he talks about his students. He thinks about the way his hands held Wayne all through the night they spent together last weekend. He thinks about his neat mustache, his soft sweater vests, his long fingers cradled around one of Wayne's mugs. He pictures the private smile that must've surely been on Scott's face, a smile nobody saw, when he filled Wayne's lunchbox with fresh veggies and a surprise note.

'Very,' he tells Bernie, before slowing down his steps to be left alone with his thoughts about the man who will be waiting for him in bed after his shift, asleep and with his hair a mess, but waking up for a second to kiss Wayne's lips like he always does.

There is nothing that makes him happier than that one hour they get to share in bed together before Scott's alarm goes off in the morning.

[whumblr]

Eat your words

Crossed out - Continued from ch.4 - Prologue

-

Lucas dragged himself up the metal stairs to his cell, both mentally and physically spent. Sure, he was used to making long days, long hours. But those hours were mostly spend stuck to a desk, morning to night in an ergonomic chair, with tasty takeout and a sense of accomplishment when he went home. Now he was stuck in hell, and deskwork was replaced with manual labour for ten straight hours that left his body stiff and sore even after the first day.

All he wanted to do was fall onto his cot and sleep until that goddamn buzzer announced the start of a new awful day.

But unfortunately, it seemed he couldn’t just yet. His stomach plummeted when he reached the top and saw Nero standing right outside his cell, waiting for him. If only he had a cellmate, he could fool himself for a few seconds that Nero wasn’t there for him…

He nearly halted right in his step, but the stubborn part of his brain made him carry on as if nothing was wrong and he kept walking, albeit a little tense. The anxiety in his brain at the same time replayed the scene from yesterday at his first breakfast, where he had taunted Nero about expecting compliance from him.

“Don’t go thinking you’ve won that battle now, son.” One of the other men at the table had muttered to him when Nero had simply walked off and Lucas remained scot-free. He hadn’t put much thought into that. But he was pretty sure the other half of that war was going to be fought out right here. Right now.

“Good evening, warden Mathison,” he tried, upholding some sense of politeness to outright avoid a drawing of weapons yet still refusing to call him ‘sir’.

Nero merely nodded in response. “Settling in alright, Varga?”

“You know what they say about the first day at a new job. It’s exhausting. So if you don’t mind…” Lucas pointed vaguely at his bed and took a step forward.

An arm shot out, hand slamming into the metal doorframe that rattled with the force, blocking the entrance.

“You haven’t made your bed,” Nero observed.

Lucas followed his gaze. The blanket was shoved to the side, all crumpled up. Ready to dive in only to have that flat mattress make the pain in his back even worse.

“I was a little preoccupied getting used to the new morning schedule.”

Nero smiled. His eyes snapped from the bed back to Lucas. “Do it now,” he said, and removed his arm.

“I’m literally turning in the second you walk awa—”

Nero didn’t even say anything, just stared him down and Lucas instantly fell silent.

He hesitated for a moment, but then stepped forward, through the small door, right past Nero. He expected… something. A shove in the back, blocking the exit and caging him in to this box of a room. But nothing happened and he safely reached the bed. He pulled the sheets taut and threw up the blanket, smoothing it out over the mattress. He didn’t think Nero would expect anything less than military precision, so he lifted the thin, plastic-y mattress and tucked the sheets and blanket neatly under. So he could rip it back off in a few minutes.

As he worked, he could feel Nero’s gaze lasering into his back. The man casually leant against the door opening, arms crossed.

“Consider this a warning,” he said. “I’ve sent people to solitary for less.”

Lucas bit back a ‘yeah, yeah’ and opted to continue working in silence, smoothing out all the wrinkles and placing his pillow neatly on top. He stood straight, next to the bed, eyes fierce on Nero’s as if daring him to find something to criticize. Nero tilted his head in an ‘acceptable’ and gestured up with his fingers, beckoning Lucas back out of the cell.

“These hours, after dinner,” he said, “you are free to spend however you want. Seeing as you don’t know the rules yet, not to mention there’s paperwork for you to go over, you’ll spend these hours in my office. Every day. After dinner.”

Lucas soured. “For how long?”

“Until you get it.”

“Get what?”

“The basic rules and basic manners expected of you here. Or until you sign. Up to you. I’ll expect you tomorrow at seven pm first.”

So much for his plans to just sleep early and escape reality every night. “Right,” Lucas merely said.

Wrong answer.

“Varga…” the man almost tutted, a fake disappointment in his tone and he stepped closer. “You’re a lawyer,” he continued like a patient teacher coaching a stubborn student. “I know this isn’t the first time you’ve heard or uttered the word ‘sir’. If it makes things easier, you can think of me as the judge. Your judge.”

“Is that what you fancy yourself to be here?”

“Here?” Nero laughed, inched closer standing directly in front of him and whispered: “Here, I am so much more.”

Before Lucas could even brace himself, a hand shot out and slammed into his throat. The enormous force threw him against the bars of the cell. His body crashing against the metal echoed through the room, the only thing even resembling a cry for help as all his air was cut off.

Some men on the other side of the room startled from the loud noise. They glanced over, but as soon as they saw what was going on, they quickly averted their eyes again, literally turning their back on Lucas. They continued their hushed conversation, ignoring him. Leaving him helpless and choking.

“What was it you said?” Nero spoke calmly, drawing closer. “Don’t hold your breath on it?”

The metal bars pressed against his back like they were trying to work right under his shoulder blades. Hands clawed up, trying to pull at the fingers digging tighter around his throat. Absolutely useless. Like trying to pry the bars of his cell apart. Lucas gurgled a sound of surrender, a sound that turned to a high-pitched yelp of surprise in his throat as his feet came off the ground.

Eyes widened, brain in full denial as Nero just fucking lifted him right off the floor with one hand. Slowly, sliding him up against the metal as if he weighed nothing, until they were at eye height.

There was no emotion in those grey eyes. No urgency. Just a silent expectation.

Whereas Lucas’ eyes contained every emotion he had. They all mingled into a wild panic. He couldn’t breathe. Could only struggle and flail against the vice grip around his throat, against the perplexity of this situation. He pulled at Nero’s arm, lightly kicked his feet but didn’t dare to but any weight behind it.

He tried to nod, shake his head, anything to show that, yeah! Okay! He got it!

And all of a sudden the bruising force on his throat released and he dropped back to the floor like a ragdoll.

He heaved in a breath, coughed it out again as too much air filled his lungs. He clutched a hand to his chest, forcing himself to calm down, forcing a measure of control back to his body. Trembling all over, he rolled to his knees trying not to double over.

“Have I made myself clear?” The cold voice above him broke through his daze.

Lucas panted hard, hand now cradling his bruised throat, the other on one of the bars as he tried to pull himself back up into a somewhat more dignified position than hunched over Nero’s boots. He fought the urge to wheeze out a ‘crystal’, but looked up and merely whispered, “Yes sir”.

Nero nodded and turned away from him. “Tomorrow. Seven pm.”

-

Continued here

Tag list: @gala1981 @chaotic-orphan @lolrpop

@andithewhumper @tippytappytyping @suspicious-whumping-egg

@cherrychupachup

[to-be-a-dreamer]

you sound like a right winger. cancel culture?

This is legitimately the funniest insult I’ve ever received thank you Anon. Like, you can’t think of any better way to discredit my post about how I wish people would just let a character be Not Racist and acknowledge that sometimes people can learn they were wrong and become better people so you call me (a queer woman of color who is college-educated and an immigrant, btw, just so we’re all on the same page) a “right winger” for using easily-recognizable terminology to ensure everyone reading understands what I think is the core issue. Incredible, insane, I wish you weren’t a coward who posted anonymously so I could scroll through your blog because I’m sure you’ve got jokes.

But anyways, since we’re all here I’ll take the opportunity to explain what I mean and my thoughts on cancel culture.

Original post that Anon is talking about for reference

People on the internet are obsessed with this idea of perfection. They think that a person has to do the right thing, always, every time. They think that a person who does or has ever done something shitty is just a shitty person who doesn’t deserve a platform. And they think that a person who was a shitty person in the past should always be viewed in that way. They can never accept that someone could have toxic or harmful views, realize they were wrong, and then become a better person, especially if they went through that journey offline or a long time ago. They don’t care if the person they see before them is clearly an open-minded, good person who doesn’t possess those views anymore. In their eyes, that person is still that same bigoted asshole from three, five, ten, twenty years ago and they have to acknowledge that past and be publicly shamed for it every single day in order to be “forgiven”. (They will never truly forgive)

And it’s just. I don’t understand it because what is the point of activism and education if we’re not going to allow people to learn what we’re trying to teach? How is our movement supposed to grow if we don’t accept the people who have been touched and reformed by it? How does any of this get better if we don’t allow people to be better?

Here’s my biggest problem with “cancel culture” (the mass ostracism and shaming of someone who has behaved or spoken in a socially unacceptable way). I think that this kind of mindset has led to an entire generation of internet users who are terrified of ever doing “the wrong thing” on the internet. We’re so afraid of making mistakes because we know how hard it is to come back from that and how unforgivable the rest of the internet is. And it’s turned us into overly defensive people who struggle to admit when we’ve done something wrong. We’re terrified to consider the possibility that we’re the "bad guy" in any situation because we've convinced ourselves that doing something shitty makes you a shitty person. We think our individual actions are lifetime sentences. I've seen so many people on the internet make small mistakes but double down and take things way too far when they're called out for it because they don't want to see themselves as a person who does problematic things. Because we've convinced ourselves that making a mistake makes you a bad person on a fundamental level. We've tied the amount of criticism we receive to our self-worth.

I also notice that it prevents people who actually need to learn and be better from realizing that. Because the amount of hate someone receives is so disproportionate to any mistake they actually made, it's so easy for a person to think "okay there's no way I deserve to be harassed this much, this is probably just the internet overreacting again, I haven't done anything wrong" and instead of learning the small lesson they needed to learn they just brush off the hate and dismiss it as cancel culture.

And so to bring this back to 9-1-1, I do think that some of the hate towards Tommy is due to shipping wars, but on a deeper level I think people just can't handle the truth that Tommy is actually a good person now. Maybe it stems from people hating the idea that someone who made their own lives miserable could learn and grow and become a better person later in life like Tommy did. Maybe people have some unresolved trauma about bigots that they're projecting onto these characters. Maybe they want to feel morally superior and just don't like the idea that someone who was shitty in the past could go on to have the same views and ideals as them. It's hard to tell for sure and it probably varies from person to person but I think the idea that a person has to be defined by their past is a big part of it on all levels.

Anyways, those are my thoughts on cancel culture as a whole and why I think the current generation of internet users has a really tough time taking accountability and why we all have rejection sensitivity (not RSD, the actual real medical condition, just a general sensitivity to being told you're in the wrong). We don't like to confront our own flaws because, according to the internet, those flaws make you a terrible person always and forever and you will never be able to overcome them or move past them. I hope this all makes sense I've been thinking about this a lot since 2020 but I've never tried to explain it in words. I don't think there's anything wrong with holding people accountable for past actions, I think there's something wrong with the disproportionate hate those people receive and the amount of shaming and shunning they have to go through before they're allowed to move on with their lives.

[lokisprettygirl]

Brokenhearted (Daemon Targaryen x Female Reader) (Non Canon Modern AU) (18+)

Read Chapter 6 here // Series Masterlist

Chapter 7

Summary: A missed period causes Daemon to snap at you again.

Warning: 18+, Smut, sex, Reader has a personality, Discussion of mensuration and Pregnancy, arguments and angst, flashbacks of abusive relationship, sexual abuse, traumatic distressing content, Daemon is a big time smoker so if it’s something triggering don’t read it, he’s not the best boyfriend, alcohol drinking, mention of past trauma and therapy, cigarette smoking, possessive behaviour, some violence, baby needs therapy, baby is trying

"You were famous" you mumbled softly as you went through the pictures on his phone. It was Sunday and you shared your day off with him so you both were in the bed just relaxing for once, you were sprawled out on your front as you scrolled through the images on his phone from the time he used to fight professionally.

He had saved some memories from the past, moments that he still cherished. His mouth curved into a smile as you said that and he pushed himself up on his elbow to kiss your cheek, you tilted your head so his mouth trailed down over the length of your neck.

"I wasn't actually that popular, just known amongst the people who watch the sport" he mumbled so you hummed in agreement.

"Have you ever been with a woman that knew you?"

"Are you asking me if I have fucked a woman that knew who I was?"

"Yeahhhh?"

"I have..once or twice" you nodded as he said that and pecked him on the lips.

It's been two weeks since his birthday party and the opportunity that was presented to him by the chairman of UFC federation and you were trying to make him open up to you about why he didn't want to fight anymore.

"Don't you miss it?" You asked him so he chuckled,

"Fucking other women? No ..you wear me out enough darling " he said playfully and it made you smile,

"I know I do but i was referring to your fighting days. Don't you miss being in the ring?" He averted his gaze and shrugged as you questioned him,

"Noo" he mumbled before he laid down on his back and stared at the ceiling.

"Okay" you got on top of him but he immediately flipped you underneath him, he still had an issue with you being on top of him and you didn't really mind, you wanted to give him all the time he needed.

"Did you always aspire to be a chef?" He asked you so you nodded.

"Mostly yeah, a part of me did"

"And what about your ideal mate? I'm sure I'm not the type you must have imagined for yourself" He smirked as he questioned you.

"Not the type? You mean tall, sexy and handsome type?" You chuckled so he shook his head and kissed you, his fingers hooked around the waistband of your underwear and he lowered them down.

"The fucked up and damaged type"

"You're not damaged baby..and we are all fucked up in one way or another" you mumbled softly as your fingers caressed his scalp,

"Whatever helps you sleep at night" he snickered as he pushed his cock inside you slowly, you winced a little so he looked at you,

"Something wrong?" He pulled out of you so you squeezed your eyes.

"No it's just my tummy, I should have gotten my period like ten days ago and I still don't have it" you answered calmly but you noticed the immediate change in his demeanor, he took his cock out, buttoned up his pants and got off the bed to stare at you.

You felt awkward now so you sat up and fixed your clothes as well, you knew you had said something wrong because he had that typical look of panic on his face.

"Dae?"

"How …come?..Why..why why are you missing your periods? I thought you were on pills? Are you not?" He asked hurriedly.

"I am.. of course I am..it's just.."

"Just what then? You think you're pregnant somehow even though you were popping your pills?" He raised his voice a little and your eyes teared up,

"Daemon calm down please ..I'm pretty sure I'm not pregnant "

"Oh you're sure? Well if you're sure then I should just believe you right?" He snickered as he crossed his arms.

You fell silent for a moment because you didn't want to escalate this argument further, he usually calmed down after a few moments of outburst but this time he seemed particularly triggered.

"Are you fucking someone else? because this child in you can't be mine" Your mouth opened in shock at his words, you glared at him as he said that and immediately got off the bed to storm out of his room,

"Where the fuck you're going huh?" He asked you as he followed you.

"Talk to me when you are willing to listen okay?" You said to him as you grabbed your bag and stormed out of the main doorway, you heard the sound of something breaking inside as you waited for the elevator but you didn't want to go in there right now and deal with him.

You didn't want to leave him when he was obviously hurting but you had a feeling that he would say things in anger that would hurt you deeply and things he'd most definitely regret later.

On the way to your apartment you bought a pregnancy test kit, just in case, you were pretty sure you weren't pregnant but a test would remove those lingering doubts you had in your head now. You had no idea what you'd do if you were indeed pregnant, you didn't want a child at this stage in your life.

And the way Daemon had reacted you feared that he won't be there for you if you were expecting his child.

As soon as you were inside the apartment you took the test and those two minutes where you had to wait to watch the stick turn either blue or pink felt like hell. It wasn't unusual for you to have your periods late this way but you have never been this sexually active before in your life. Both of you got sexually intimate everytime he was around you.

As you watched the stick turn negative you breathed a sigh of relief, you took the test again just to be sure and it turned up negative again.

You checked your phone to see if he had called or texted but your heart sank at the nothingness. A lump formed in your throat as you tried to hold back your tears but failed miserably, he had told you that he wouldn't be the perfect guy for you and in moments like these he really wasn't but you didn't want his trauma to taint your relationship with him.

You didn't want to believe that he'd just abandon you if you were indeed pregnant. He was a good man and he wouldn't just abandon you like that. You wanted to keep your faith in him until he'd prove you otherwise..

Around ten at night he finally came to see you and as you opened the door he stared at you for a moment before he stepped inside your apartment. He had a small pharmacy bag in his hand that he passed to you,

"Take the test" he told you sternly.

"Daemon i have–" before you could even speak he had cut you off,

"Take it, please" his voice softened this time so you sighed and took the bag from him.

"Should have used the fucking condom" he mumbled under his breath and you bit on your cheek to calm down because you were starting to feel really frustrated by his behaviour.

"What if I'm pregnant? What are you gonna do?" You crossed your arms as you questioned him.

"Well first of all I'd like to know why and how? Aren't those pills hundred percent effective?" He questioned like a jerk.

"Ninety nine" you mumbled meekly

"Whatever..If you are really taking them everyday then you shouldn't be pregnant, isn't that right?" He raised his brows and you nodded before you chuckled,

"But what if I am, hypothetically What if I am pregnant and for the sake of our relationship let's just assume that I'm not a fucking whore that's whoring around and the child is yourssss ..what then?"

You raised your voice and he opened his mouth to say something but then the look on your face broke his heart. He already knew that he never deserved a woman like you in his life especially considering how awfully he treated you at times but moments like these really shook him up, he always projected his issues on you when you didn't deserve it at all. Maybe you were pregnant and if you were it wouldn't just be your fault or your responsibility to bear alone.

He was just scared after what had happened last time, he always lived in fear. Even though he was meticulous about it and always asked you if you were taking your pills, he wasn't as careful about the precautions as he had been in the past.

He walked towards you and you took a step back so he walked closer to you again and placed his arms around your body.

"If you're pregnant then the baby is mine, I know that. I'm so sorry about what I had said earlier, I regretted it as soon as it left my mouth. Can you forgive me darling please?" He asked you softly as he made you look up at him, you were still upset but you didn't want to stretch the issue knowing that he was clearly feeling triggered by a memory.

"Are you going to leave if I'm pregnant?" You asked him so he placed his forehead down on yours.

"No, never, I'm sorry my words made you feel that way. I am just not ready for a child but I'd never abandon you I promise" he assured you, he had no intentions of leaving the woman that was willing to stand by him through his bad and worse.

"I'm not either" a part of him felt relieved as you said that.

"Okay, then we will deal with it if it comes to that, for now I just want you to take the test for me ..so can you please do that?" His voice had a pleading tone to it as compared to before.

"I have already done it twice, i am not pregnant" he pulled away as you said that, saying that he was relieved would have been an understatement.

"You're not?"

"Nooo.. I don't know why my period is late but I know I'll have it sooner or later" he sighed as you said that.

Now he felt even worse about the outburst he had. He stepped away from you and leaned against the back of the couch in your living room.

"I don't deserve you darling" he looked down as he said that.

"Don't say that..Is there a reason why you freaked out other than not wanting a child?"

You asked him and he felt as if the ground has been pulled from underneath him and swallowed him whole,

"I'm pregnant" she said to him as she placed the stick down in front of him at the dinner table and it most surely was positive. He stood up immediately, his appetite was gone.

"How did it happen?" He asked her as he grabbed the stick to inspect it.

"Do I need to tell you how babies are made you jerk?" She got upset so he took a deep breath,

"Noo i…i meant we were using condoms and you're on pills so...I"

"Are you telling me that it's my fault?" She glared at him. He wasn't ready for a baby, he was just twenty four and the international fight week was just right around the corner, he had been training so hard for the tournament and he didn't want to get distracted. But as much as he didn't want it, that was his child in her womb and he wasn't the type of man to abandon someone like that.

"I'm not saying it's your fault.. I'm just confused is all ..did you see a doctor?" He asked her softly as walked closer to her and bent down to her level to talk to her, she glared at him before she slapped him hard.

"That's for questioning me" he was so used to them that he didn't even flinch and he wasn't surprised when she kissed him roughly after that, that was all she did to him, she'd hurt him and then love him, the cycle never stopped.

"We are going to be parents and I need you by my side alright?" She said to him so he nodded.

Later on he had discovered that she did it on purpose, she was poking holes in the condom and she had stopped taking her pills so he won't be able to get away from her for this tournament but he did it anyways and that's where it all went down for him. That's when his life changed forever.

..

"Daemon?" He heard your voice so he snapped out of his thoughts,

"Can you hold me?" He asked you softly so you immediately walked towards him and your arms wrapped around his neck, you knew his outburst had everything to do with none other than the thorn in his past- Samantha.

Over the course of four years of their relationship she had ruined him slowly, the biggest regret he had was that he didn't fight back until it was too late.

A part of him always wanted to hold on to her because he wanted to believe in the love he had for her, he wanted that woman back that he had fallen in love with, she was a completely different person when they had first met.

She was kind, so caring, she always looked after him so later on when she changed so drastically he often felt as if he was the one to blame for it, that he was the one to change her and that's exactly why he never stopped her from doing whatever she wanted, she made him believe that he deserved it for what he had done to her, that he was the reason she had turned into a monster.

"I don't want to punish you for her wrongdoings but I keep doing it, are you sure you don't want to get out of this mess?" He asked you so you pulled away to look at him.

"Daemon if I wanted to leave I'd have left already, if I didn't care about you then I never would have gotten myself in this relationship, I'd never ever want to hurt you but I'm only human and I'm going to make mistakes" you told him honestly and he nuzzled his face between your neck, his fingers traced circles on your waist.

"You never hurt me, I get hurt by my own fears and insecurities and then I take them out on you. I just need you to know that you're very important to me and I don't want to lose you" He whispered, his voice filled with tenderness.

"Let's just forget about it, okay? I'm not upset with you"

"You should be"

"But I'm not"

"That's because you're an angel, my very own Angel who is determined to stand by me no matter what" you smiled as he said that,

He was never overly sentimental but once in a while he would say a few words that left you feeling giddy and gave you all the butterflies. You caressed his scalp gently before you kissed his forehead and then his lips softly, in moments like these he could clearly see how different you were from her, how tenderly you treated him even though he gave you several reasons to get upset and hurt him.

"Is there any chance you'd want to have sex with this angel before she actually gets her period?" You bit on your lips and it made him smile, he grabbed your chin and kissed you before he picked you up, instead of taking you to your bedroom he took you to the couch instead and laid you down. You kept your eyes on him as he took his jacket off and then his shirt followed, you couldn't hide your lustful gaze as he pulled his zipper down.

He crawled on top of you and undressed you quickly as if he couldn't wait any longer.

"Do I need to worry about your health? Why aren't you getting your periods if you're not heavy with my child?"

He questioned as he pushed himself inside slowly, the way he always wanted to discuss important matters during sex intrigued you and frustrated you at the same time.

"I uhhhh god..okay…I don't know but it's nothing new, probably just hormonal" you mumbled so he nodded, a hint of smirk formed on his face at the sight of you, he thrusted in and out of you slowly until you were melting underneath him.

His breath hitched in his chest as you caressed his scars with your fingertips, the old Daemon would have swatted your hands away quickly but this new in love Daemon allowed himself to enjoy the touch, your touch always felt soothing to him and that's why he was so afraid of you at first, he didn't want to get used to this, he always feared you'd change into her as soon as he'd show you his vulnerability.

"Cigarette?" You asked him post coitus and he thought about it for a moment before he got up and picked you up to take you to the bedroom. He sat you down on the bed and stared at you briefly,

"What do you want, baby?" You asked him as you grabbed his hand in yours and pulled him on the bed,

"Can you just..just lay with me?" There was a hesitation in his voice as he laid down next to you, he had no idea that you'd give him the whole world if he'd ask you so sweetly.

"I'm here" he closed his eyes as you caressed his prominent cheekbone with your fingers. After a moment of quiet you finally spoke,

"You should fight again" his eyes opened again as you said that. He had a habit of discussing important matters during sex and you had the habit of doing it post sex.

"I do fight, everyday"

"You know what I mean"

"I can't, i can't do it again, it's too late" he sighed and he was hoping you'd let it go but you were as stubborn as he was.

"It's not, it's not too late, i have seen you fight, you're different from those other guys, you train them to perfection and yet they're never able to defeat you"

He let out a deep sigh as you said that. He can't fight, just being in front of the crowd felt unimaginable to him..

"You can do anything you want dae, I believe in you"

You mumbled softly just to put the thought in his head.

You had found a video of him on YouTube a few days ago, from his last ever professional fight, it was the first match of his qualifier round for the international UFC week, he was doing good, he was easily winning but something bad had happened between the second and third set.

The fiery passionate man that had won the second round didn't return for the third, he was there in presence but his mind seemed distracted, he seemed hurt and scared and then he was beaten to pulp until he finally gave up.

Everyone in the crowd was shocked, his supporters were disappointed in him, nobody knew what went wrong, some also felt that he lost on purpose because he was paid in hefty from the opposition.

So many accusations were thrown at him but nobody knew the actual truth.

You didn't either but deep down you had a sneaking suspicion that his loss that night was because of Samantha, she was his curse and she never wanted to see him succeed, she always wanted to keep him caged and closer to her, she hated the attention he had on him and how she was slowly losing him from her tight grasp, this tournament would have changed his life in every possible way and perhaps she couldn't take it so she did something to ruin it all for him..

You didn't know the truth but you had a feeling you would find out soon.

"One Chicken Caesar Salad with croutons on top and dressing on the side, table 9" Claire put the order on the tab so you quickly prepared it and sent it out. Daemon would be there soon to pick you up, you were almost at the end of your shift. The head chef was on vacation so you were handling everything by yourself and you just wanted to go home with him. However Claire returned soon after and told you that the customer wanted to compliment the chef so you made your way outside to meet her.

As you approached the table every hair on your neck stood up, it wasn't just any random customer, it was her -Samantha.

You recognised that creepy smile she had on her face, before you could say anything you noticed her attention diverting towards the door so you turned around and it was Daemon.

For Seven years he had been running away from his past and the dreams he once treasured so deeply, he was running from that toxic woman but his past had finally caught up to him.

He stood there shellshocked as he came face to face with the woman that had destroyed everything about him that made him so uniquely him.

She broke his heart and took away his every reason to smile. She crushed his spirit and now as she found out that he was finally moving on in his life with you, she had returned to remind him why he'd never escape her.

❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️

Taglist (please check your setting if I’m not able to tag you)

@simbaaas-stuff @ajthefujoshi @witchybitch2 @hypocritic-trash-baby @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @thefallenangel21n @kmc1989