#and the spinning. a lot of spinning. listen what I am trying to say is that you have a lot of reasons to not like it and all are valid

[revelboo]

I literally can't get enough of your writing like I need it like oxygen at this point 🙌 I am not above begging for more of Everything is alright or Over it now

My heart is literally hurting for Star because he genuinely didn't know, and he finally is starting to be vulnerable, and now he knows it's not going to last no matter what. And the inner turmoil of the reader being so torn between him and Soundwave? Wanting both but not being able to hurt Star after he put everything at risk?? It's so good but it hurts my heart 😭😭

And Jazz finally getting someone who would listen to his feelings and get to know the real him under all his masks?? The poor guy needs that so bad, and he's finally opening up (even if she can't understand what he's saying)

All in all, your writing is amazing, and you are literally amazing ✨️✨️✨️

Thank you! I have a lot of fun overthinking why the characters act the way they do and trying to get into their heads

Over It Now Pt 11

IDW Jazz x Reader

• “You could just let me take you,” he says as he watches you lock the door and do an awkward shuffle to put the keys away while trying to not drop one of your crutches in the process. Leaving him for work again. Wanting to help, but also knowing exactly how stubborn you are as you eye the stairs off your porch. He’d also figured out forgiveness was much easier to ask for than permission, reaching to lift you in his servos and carefully set you down in the driveway crutches and all bypassing the steps and then backing up to fall forward into his alt mode.

• Heart racing at being picked up unexpectedly, you warm watching his antics. Because he knows you struggle with the steps and he’d saved you from dealing with them when he didn’t have to. “We both know you have better things to do than chauffeur me around,” you say, trying not to laugh when he opens the driver’s side door and wags it back and forth in invitation.

• “Come for a ride, doll. I’ll behave.” Door still open, he fully expects you to walk past him to your own ugly car, so it’s a surprise when you slide in the driver’s seat and awkwardly lean the crutches in the passenger side. And then you’re right there and he’s more aware of you this way somehow than when he’s held you in his servos. You’re warm against him, soft hands brushing the steering wheel hesitantly as if not sure if it’s okay and he can smell your soap, your shampoo, you. “Alright,” he murmurs more to himself than to you, because it’s a small thing, but you’re entrusting yourself to him. And that means so much.

• There’s no way to not overthink that you’re sitting inside Jazz and it’s weird. You end up folding your hands in your lap so you don’t touch anything you shouldn’t. Inhaling as the shifter moves on its own and then the wheel spins as he reverses. “Doll, you’re going to have to at least pretend to drive,” he laughs and he’s right. Other drivers might notice you’re just sitting there so you just barely touch your palms to the wheel, letting it move freely against your skin.

• Primus, you’re precious. Eyes darting all over his interior, trying so hard not to touch anything. “What do you do normally? I mean a phantom car driving itself has to freak people out,” you mumble, shifting against him as he turns onto the road, wheels humming. Liking the feel of having you there, surrounded by him and safe, it takes a moment to actually understand your question. It’s not nearly the same as holding you in his hands, but still comforting to him that you’re there with him. It doesn’t take a lot of energy, but he does have to concentrate to create a holomatter avatar in the passenger side seat to show you what he normally does, not bothering to make it solid at all since your crutches are embedded in the avatar’s legs and torso and your head turns as it appears. He’s not sure what he expected, but it’s definitely not for you to scream and throw yourself against the inside of his door.

• “It’s me. It’s an avatar,” the glitchy thing in the passenger seat is saying in Jazz’s voice, holding up big hands as you nearly have a heart attack. “Doll, it’s okay. Sorry, I just-frag.” And the human shaped thing flickers and fades, leaving your heart hammering against your ribs. You’re still plastered to the door, hands curled into fists. “Were you going to punch me?” Yes. You absolutely were, because it had just been there so suddenly, a fixed grin on a fake looking face that was staring right at you, Eyes closing you lean your forehead against the cool glass of the driver’s side window and try to calm down and instead start laughing. Covering your face with your hands as he vents at you in exasperation, blowing warm air across your skin and you realize he’s never asked where you work, an address or anything. So how does he know where to take you? Has he been following you?

Previous

[mgjong]

Happy 1M!!!

Want to see me complaining a bit?

I am still sad over the way Deep Cover was received by a big part of the community.

Not here to talk about expectations and stuff, everyone knows the fact we had already streamed the song to hell and back before the MV released and made our own theories had a big part to play. Especially when the thumbnail dropped and everyone felt that their ideas could be right since the "Kotoko with a warden outfit" was one of the things most people agreed on.

I guess it was how people went on over the lack of new information when the MV did, in my opinion, provide a lot of interesting stuff. We got a lot more on the crime and what happened after, giving rise to a bunch of theories. Not to mention the way it portrayed her mentality.

The fact one of the major complains I saw about Deep Cover is that Kotoko is alone in a room for the most part of it with some chess pieces is so funny to me. That's the point. She is alone. The room doesn't even have a door. She is not seeing the other prisoners as anything more than those pieces because she is isolating herself from them in order to enact her justice. And also, the way the walls gain those scratch marks could not only be foreshadowing to the wolf but also maybe indicating that she has TRIED to escape. But once again, there is no door. So Kotoko does what she does best and laughs, pretends everything is fine, that this is what she is supposed to do. And where does that get her? Now the room is completely destroyed, there are broken pieces all around her. It's just her and the monster she has become.

Yeah there is a a lot of unnecessary spinning. I too don't like that part. I wish we had seen Kotoko directly breaking the pieces (although a point could be made that she couldn't imagine herself doing that). Honestly it feels like even with the extra time they couldn't do everything they wanted with this MV, they were probably too greedy and had to settle with what they already had.

But saying that it was a let down because it lacked in content doesn't sit right with me. A lot of hard work was put into it and even the most "boring" part of the MV has so much meaning and build up to the amazing ending. This MV perfectly displays Kotoko's current mental state not to mention all the other parts with ""actual content"" which are just heartbreaking.

[milo-is-rambling]

Someone tell me how to make me not hate myself and make my family not think I’m a bitch and make me want to see my family or drive back down the coast or stay in strange places or do anything other than kill myself I mean whaaatttt haha what a weird thing to say *stares directly into the camera knowingly*

[gloomwitchwrites]

What If 141 and the best enemies to lovers line of all time...

"Who did this to you?"

Cue protective instincts and sexiness

hehe I am giggling!! Okay. Listen. I am fully aware that this is an enemies to lovers trope, but I don't think it applies to all of the 141 guys in that manner. Is there protectiveness? Yes. Is there a bit of spice? Yes, if you squint really hard. Is there also some sweetness thrown in? Absolutely there is. I had lots of fun with this one. I hope you enjoy it!

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x 141!Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, brief blood and injury, hurt/comfort, brief suggestive themes, protectiveness, light angst

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Who did this?” Kyle bends forward at the waist, pressing a bag of frozen peas to your face. His concern is genuine. You can see that, but it’s strange. The two of you get on, but this is something else.

Kyle looks…angry like your injury personally offends him.

“It’s nothing,” you murmur. “Things happen during sparing. It’s fine.”

Kyle’s frown only deepens. He doesn’t believe you. And why should he? The person you were placed with took it too far. And it was all to impress him as if putting you in your place would somehow grant his favor.

It’s clearly done the opposite. He could care less about your sparring partner.

“It was your sparring partner, wasn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Just press the peas to your forehead a little harder.

This time, Kyle’s frown turns slightly upward. “Jokes on them, ya?”

You glance at him sideways. “How so?”

Kyle is grinning. It’s stunning. All pearly white teeth.

“Because I have my eye on someone else,” he says simply, as if that answers everything.

Though you cannot see yourself, you feel your face growing hot under Kyle’s gaze.

“You shouldn’t say thing like that,” you reply.

“Why? It’s true.”

John Price

“Who did this?”

“Why do you care so much, John?”

You attempt to pull your face out of his grasp but he holds firm.

“Of course I care,” he replies. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes, chests heaving. John is close. Too close. So close he could easily brush his lips against yours.

“I don’t know why,” you murmur.

“You do,” he affirms, authority in his tone.

Do you? Maybe. Perhaps. Deep within yourself you truly know the reason but can’t decide to speak it to the air. That would make this real. Whatever this is between the two of you.

‘Tell me who did this?”

“And do that what?”

“What the fuck I want to them, love.”

“It’s nothing. You shouldn’t worry about it,” you reply, again trying to escape from him.

But John isn’t having it. His other hand hooks around your upper arm, and then you’re pressed closed to him. He is so warm. All strength.

“Let go,” you say, but there is no volume behind it. It is weak. Not even a protest.

“Tell me,” he repeats, head dipping slightly.

Yes. Close enough to kiss.

“Tell me,” he says again, this time softer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon’s blood beats heavy. It is tinged with metal. A lace of fire that cannot abate.

His boots slap against the linoleum floor. The overhead lights are bright. Clinical. He is a shadow here. A dark specter.

No one stops him. No one glances his way.

And why should they?

He is a man made fury.

There were hands put upon you. A training exercise taken too far. Simon was not there. And he doesn’t know why. Not exactly. But he’s furious. Protective. The fact that he could not stop this only infuriates him further.

To him, this is a failure.

He doesn’t come to a stop. Doesn’t knock. He barges right on in.

The nurse yelps. Spins suddenly. Face red.

You glance up, eyes wide at first but soothing slightly as they land on Simon. You’re bruised. Stitched up.

Fucking hell.

“Out,” barks Simon.

The nurse leaves but stares him down the entire time. He approaches the table, and lightly brushes the backs of his fingers against the wound on your forehead.

“Who did this?” he asks.

“Simon—”

“Which fucker?” he growls, bending forward slightly to look into your eyes.

“Should see the other guy,” you joke, smiling.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t. You’re not his. Even if he wishes it were so.

Every swing of his fist sends the building frustration outward, shooting into the massive boxing bag before him. It’s a poor substitute for the face he truly wants to smash. Several faces that is. Two specifically.

Who did this?

The words slipped from him unbidden. An instant anger. You had only scowled. Told him you could handle yourself. And you can. Johnny knows this. But he’s still fucking pissed about it. Still seething.

All the fucker got was a quick slap on the wrist. A promise to not do it again.

That sits sour in Johnny’s belly.

But you didn’t cave, no matter how much Johnny insisted that he’d take care of it on your behalf. So he is here, punching the shit out of something that isn’t flesh.

He wishes he could take away your pain. Take away the memory. Give it to himself to carry. You don’t turn on your own. There’s no honor in what happened.

But as much as he wants it to be true, Johnny can do nothing.

You are not his.

Even if he wants to be.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

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[steventhusiast]

modern au where eddie and robin are roommates and steve is italian <3

-

eddie has always known that his roommate robin is in the US for college, but grew up in and is from italy. sure, sometimes he forgets, because she somehow has a near-perfect american accent and also speaks two other languages, but he’s always known.

and for the past year and a bit, he’s known how much robin wants her best friend stevie to come visit. she talks about them all the time, and ever since she and eddie moved out of the dorms and into an apartment together for their next year of university a month ago, he’s known stevie is going to come and visit.

he just kind of forgot the exact day stevie would be arriving.

so when he, clad in nothing but his garfield pyjama pants and a metallica t-shirt that’s falling apart, walks into the kitchen one morning and sees someone he doesn’t know at the kitchen counter fiddling with their instant coffee machine, he almost shits himself.

luckily, he doesn’t, because he remembers in that split second that stevie was due to arrive last night. but he still flinches pretty hard at the fright and grabs for the nearest grabbable thing, which turns out to be the doorframe. somehow, he makes a noise loud enough to get the mystery person’s attention, and they turn around.

holy shit. eddie did not know stevie is hot. or that stevie’s actually a guy. he kind of just assumed, with the nickname and all? but the man standing there looks like he could’ve been carved by the gods eddie doesn’t believe in, and- eddie realises he’s been staring at the guy for a few seconds now, and decides to talk like a normal human being. he first adjusts his position so he’s no longer holding onto the archway of the kitchen for support, and smiles at the guy.

“hi, you must be stevie?” he offers, and stevie takes a few seconds to process his words before nodding with a smile.

“my name is steve. robbie just is… hm, silly?”

eddie blinks a couple times, because steve has an accent. a thick one. he should’ve expected that, because- hello? they’re both literally from italy. but it catches him off guard, and adds to steve’s hot factor. why didn’t robin warn him about this.

“yeah, robin is very silly.” he agrees with a chuckle, and then realises steve might not know him, “i’m eddie. robin’s roommate. you probably knew that already though, so now i probably look like an idiot. well- more of an idiot than i already do in these clothes…”

he lets his words trail off as he realises steve is frowning at him in subtle confusion. he’s picked up robin’s rambling-when-nervous habit over their friendship, and hot guys tend to make him pretty nervous. but then he realises maybe steve isn’t as fluent in english as robin is, and even if he is eddie’s a fast talker that doesn’t always pronounce things fully.

“i am sorry,” steve looks embarrassed, “my english is not as good as robin.”

eddie feels so guilty at the pink that’s made itself known on steve’s cheeks, and shakes his head immediately.

“no! you don’t need to be sorry. i just talk a lot when i’m nervous.” he confesses. why did he say that? now steve knows he’s nervous. or does he? maybe he didn’t catch his full sentence.

steve raises one eyebrow at eddie though, and one side of his mouth quirks up into a smile as he turns around to keep trying to make himself a cup of coffee.

“i am making you nervous? why?” steve asks, his back still turned. now eddie’s the one with red cheeks. dammit.

“it’s because eddie here thinks you’re hot, stevie.”

eddie’s flinch at robin’s magical appearance behind him is somehow more spectacular than earlier, and he clutches dramatically at his heart and spins around to glare at robin.

“robin! what the fuck, man!” he yelps when he realises what she’s said. but robin isn’t listening, she’s too busy speaking to steve in italian about who knows what.

probably about how she knows all eddie’s tells for when he finds a guy attractive and how she knows eddie’s type and steve checks every single box. or, eddie squints at the pair as robin tsks at steve and takes over manning the coffee machine, maybe robin’s just telling steve how to make a coffee with the machine?

“you think i am…” steve starts as he spins around to look at eddie, and seems to be searching for a word for a few moments, “attractive?”

eddie’s eyes widen, and then he sighs and fixes a glare on robin. robin just shrugs and makes a very insincere ‘oopsie’ expression, and eddie is about to start denying like his life depends on it, but he looks back at steve.

and steve has that blush back on his face, and a tiny smile, and he’s looking eddie up and down even in his ridiculous outfit.

“um, yes.” eddie practically squeaks, not used to having someone’s eyes on him like this.

steve says something to robin in italian that sounds like it ends with a question mark, and robin rolls her eyes.

“steve wants me to translate a pick up line he wants to use on you, but i literally refuse to do that. google translate is free.”

and with that, she leaves the kitchen.

[cheriladycl01]

Winning Gold in Life - Lando Norris x BritishOlympicFigureSkating! Reader

Plot: You and Lando will try to coordinate his helmet designs to your figure skating outfit, so that you guys can match and win together.

"You looked amazing out there baby!" Lando grins picking you up and spinning you around as you got to the edge of the ice rink by the gate to leave.

You orange dress that had the Mclaren Logo all up the sheer see-through sleeves and on the back as if it were a tramp-stamp flowed around you hips as he spun you.

"Ah that was so nerve-racking having you watching me!" you exclaim, leaning your head into the crook of his neck. You both sat on the stands waiting for the results.

"Y/N, that was an fantastic performance. Think we have a chance for Gold!" your coach says coming over to you handing you your coat and gloves like she normally did after you'd been out on the ice.

"Thank you Maddie, I just hope it was enough!" you nod nervously. Lando rubs his hand up and down your legs in a comforting manor before pulling you into his hold.

"You did do well, no matter where you come... I'm going to be proud of you for just going out there today!" he whispers in your ear and tears start to build up in your eyeline. Some of you eyeliner and mascara had already started to melt off your face but Lando couldn't stand to see himself make it worse.

"Ohhhh, don't cry baby!" he laughs seeing your little pouty expression that he found adorable. You look at him is his thumbs wipe under your eyes trying to fix the black and brown makeup that had started to streak and make you loosely resemble a Panda.

As you waited for the results to come in, you anxiously bite your lips until you hear you name said by the Chinese commentator before the English one making you look at Lando and your trainer.

"Was that my name or am i tripping?" you ask looking between them and Lando has a huge grin on his face.

"That was your name baby, GOLD!" he exclaims and you crouch down into a sort of squat in shock. Tears streaming down your face.

"Y/N come on! Onto the ice!" you trainer grins and you take Lando's hand dragging him so he's as close to the barriers between the ice and the stadium seats as possible.

You see the camera on you and the other two medalists who you immediately pull into hugs, you'd gotten close to them since you guys landed here in Beijing.

You stake out to where the podium is and stand on the top place, getting help from someone to get up onto it. You smile at your flag, proud of what you've done for team GB.

The medal gets placed around you neck after the others and you get handed your flowers as you all stand listening to the British National Anthem, your hand on your heart and medal while you look up trying to keep the tears at bay.

You skate back and see Lando is filming your arrival making you make a silly face at the camera before showing your cold medal to him and the camera with a big cheesy grin on you face.

"Darling I'm so proud of you!" he smiles pulling you in for a hug and kisses your forehead as he takes a second to observe you.

"I love you so much, having you here for support was everything!" you admit, knowing you probably wouldn't have done as well if he wasn't here cheering you on.

"Well, now that you've got your first gold. I think it's time that I got my first win..." he smiles.

"Yeah? Will that be in Bahrain with your new matching lid" you grin at him and he nods.

"Need my good luck charm with me, if I'm going to win!"

And that was how you found yourself once again in the fuel scented paddock that you'd become accustomed too over the few years you'd been dating Lando for.

"Things have been looking promising babe! You guy's sandbagged hard!" you grin, knowing there was a lot more oophm to the car than what they'd let on in February's pre-season testing.

"Zac's orders. We'll be up there with Red Bull and Mercedes this year!" he grins and FP1 and FP2 proved that. He had a mega performance having the quickest time in the first and going third fastest in the second.

Sunday came around far to quickly for your liking and you were sat in the paddock in shorts and Lando's Mclaren Shirt for the warm weather Bahrain had brought. You even had to go to the merch stand to by yourself a McLaren hat because the darkness to you hair had started to burn the top of you head.

It was an embarrassing interaction, you asked for a Lando Norris McLaren hat but it was so busy and so loud they'd mistaken it for a Lewis Hamilton Mercedes hat so you were strolling through the paddock with that on your head.

"Ahhh, well if it isn't my biggest fan Y/N Y/L/N!" Lewis says catching you as he strides past on his scooter stopping to talk to you.

"They made a mistake at the merch shop. I didnt have the heart to correct them..." you chuckle and he laughs as well, he pulls out a pen starting to sign it while it was on your head.

"For my biggest fan" he laughs and you cant help but laugh as well. Only seconds later do the media catch on to the two athletes conversing and pull them up on it.

"Hey guys, how are we doing today!" one of the interviewers asks making you freeze a little like a deer in headlights.

"I'm doing great, just you know spending time with a fan!" Lewis jokes making the reporters laughs and turn to you.

"Yep, big fan of his work. Ppppft whose that Lando Norris guy in pole position. I don't know him..." you joke back knowing Lewis and Lando had the front row locked out.

"Y/N, all jokes aside it's great to see you back in the paddock now after all the training ... which clearly paid off congratulations" she smiles and you blush a little nod liking to brag or show off.

"Thank you, my team and I worked really hard. I obviously had the power of Mclaren and Lando on my side and I'm happy to have achieved Gold after my not so good attempt in 2018!" you cringe remembering when you were so much younger and naive that you hadn't performed as well, just missing out on a bronze medal.

"Well all the best to you and Lando!" she grins before keeping Lewis and letting you dash off back to McLaren.

2 hours later and you were anxuously biting your nails watching Lando catch up to the lead of the race after a slow pitstop and reclaim his P1.

It wasn't until the last lap, where DRS was enabled that he could overtake Charles and take back his P1 having an advantage on the final turn and straight for him to cross the finish line in P1.

His first F1 win.

You didn't have the most graceful reaction for a WAG, that was for sure but seeing Lando win after working so hard towards his goal, you couldn't contain your emotions.

You ran up to him, and you jumped on him not caring about the wetness of his suit from sweat and you were wrapping your arms around his neck and legs around his waist as his gloved hands came down to support you holding just under your bum.

"You are amazing!" you cry pulling up his visor so you can see his own eyes that are full of tears.

You later watched on as he celebrated his podium with Charles and Lewis, and you saw the elated and happy expression on your face that you would do anything to keep on their permanently as your favourite thing about him was his smile.

That was your man... and he was forever your man.

y/user

Liked by landonorris, maxfewtrell and pietra.pilao

y/user: Life recently! Winning Gold in all aspects of life ... McLaren Papaya inspired drip, and Lando getting a new lid for 2023 (I’m not allowed to show you guys till race weekend) <3

Tagged 1 person

View all 347 comments

landonorris: my gorgeous baby! I love you 🥰❤️

-> y/user: I love you more! Thank you for all your support recently 🫶🏼❤️

mclaren: when the drip is dripping 😦🤭🧡

-> y/user: always 🧡

fan1: it’s so cute how Lando and Y/N always match🥺

fan2: Y/N show us the lid we won’t snitch!

maxfewtrell: thank you for making it to the merch drop. We miss seeing you!

-> y/user: missing you too Max 🫶🏼

pietra.pilao: beautiful, gorgeous girl

-> y/user: no you 👆🏼☺️

-> pietra.pilao: let’s date ❤️

-> y/user: YES! Spa days for life 🫣🫶🏼

fan3: P and Y/N’s friendship is so funny 🥺🧡

Instagram Story Caption

Back to training, without my mans 😭🫶🏼

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @lilypadlover @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @viennakarma @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @seomako @urdad-hot @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount @styl1shl1v

[7-wonders]

Wishful Drinking

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x GN!Reader

Summary: After Morpheus cruelly dismisses you, you decide that you'll get back at him by staying out of the Dreaming one night for as long as you can. What you don't anticipate is letting your feelings get the best of you and getting very drunk instead.

Or, drunk shenanigans galore!

Word Count: 3.5k

Author's Note: I don't know what this is, y'all. I haven't written anything in more than a month, and it was so tough to even write this, but I wanted to write SOMETHING. As always, hope you enjoyed, let me know your thoughts, and likes, comments, and reblogs make my world go round.

ALSO! Dream logic applies here, in that you're still drunk when you reach the Dreaming.

Listen.

You know that certain coping mechanisms, like, say, going out clubbing with your friends and getting crazy drunk for the first time in a long time, aren’t exactly healthy. But things have been difficult for you lately! You’ve been struggling a lot, in both your professional and personal life. These hardships are only compounded by the fact that the one person (or person-shaped being) in your life that you thought you could count on, your Morpheus, has been too busy to have time for you.

Literally. He said those exact words to you a mere three days ago, when you had found him in his personal study (a study that he almost never used) after what felt like a day spent chasing him around the Dreaming. You meant for it to come out as teasing when you took note of the fact that you hardly saw him around lately and that it felt like he was purposefully avoiding you, but he had sighed and glared at you before saying, “I have much to do, and I am far too busy to entertain you right now.”

You glowered, but, as he said, he was too busy to see it. Fine, you thought as you turned around and stalked out of his study. Leave him to his business. 

Cut to today. When your friends asked if you wanted to go out with them, you almost said no, having gotten accustomed in the past couple of months to the routine of going to bed by nine o’clock in order to maximize time spent in your lover’s realm. But then, the more you thought about it, the more you realized that you didn’t want to just continue sitting around in the Dreaming and hoping that Morphues would come out of whatever funk he was in. After all, why should you make an effort when he won’t? You’re not about to beg for his attention.

With that in mind, you texted back that you very much wanted to go out with them and proceeded to get ready for a fun night out.

The plan was to have a couple of drinks, dance for a bit, and stay out of the Dreaming just long enough to make Morpheus sweat a bit.

But then shots had been ordered.

And your friend bought you a drink because they knew you had had a tough week.

And you bought yourself two drinks.

And a group of guys bought you another round of shots, and though you all laughed at the fact that they were not getting anything out of this, you still took them because you weren’t about to turn down free alcohol.

This leads to you and your friends stumbling out of a bar at two in the morning, holding each other up as you do. Definitely not the plan, but what’s that one quote about plans and mice and men?

“What about a mouse?” your friend asks from beside you, making you realize that you said that out loud.

“Don’ worry ‘bout it,” you say.

Somehow, you make it into a Lyft (thank the gods for friends who don’t get carried away), and somehow, you make it into your home. Not without its difficulties–you dropped your keys multiple times on the walk to your front door, and there might be a you-shaped indent in the entryway wall from where you fell into it when trying to kick your shoes off. 

When you reach your bedroom, you decide that actually, the floor looks comfier than your bed does. You’re so drunk that the room feels like it’s spinning when you lay down, and you close your eyes to enjoy the ride.

“Fuck, I’m so drunk right now,” you say out loud, laughing at the sound of your slurred words.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, really. You know that you need to crawl to the bathroom to wash your face and find enough dexterity to change clothes before hopefully sobering up just enough that you can make it to the kitchen to grab painkillers and water for the inevitable killer hangover you’re going to have tomorrow. The floor is just so soft, though, and you work yourself into a trance-like state by staring up at the ceiling fan and watching it go around and around and around. On one blink, you’re staring at your ceiling.

And on the next, you’re staring at another ceiling, one that’s not really a ceiling at all, but an entire galaxy above your head.

It’s easy to get lost in the magnificent colors swirling above you (especially in your current state), and you do, until you hear someone calling your name. When you look away from the universe, you see the love of your life looking at you, though at present, he is not reciprocating the heart eyes that you are always looking at him with.

“Where have you been?” Morpheus demands.

“Morpheus, my love!” You throw your arms out and grin. “I’ve missed you.”

“Do you have any idea how worried I have been? I sent Matthew to find you hours ago when first you were late, only for him to report that he could not find you at your home.” You’re a little surprised that Matthew hadn’t managed to track you down; your little raven friend was almost scarily good at finding people/places/things.

“Aw, you’ve missed me?” It makes sense, of course; after all, you’ve missed him, so it’s only natural that he would miss you in return. Still, the sentiment makes you feel all warm and melty on the inside.

 It’s obvious to anybody who actually takes the time to know Morpheus—a tiny list of people and beings, two of whom are in the room with him right now—that he’s fighting a war between wanting to scold you and wanting to hold you and check you up and down for wounds. Morpheus crosses the room towards you, and you ready yourself for the inevitable lecture you’re about to get, about how you’re just a fragile little human and he worries every moment that you’re away from him (y’know, now that you have the clarity of a drunk person, you’re actually annoyed that this is constantly coming from the being that’s meant to be your lover).

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, you find his arms wrapped tightly around you and his face buried in your neck. He’s hugging you, not the other way around. He’s never done such a thing before, and you don’t know how to react. What you do know is that any of the residual anger you had been feeling drains out of you like water from an unstoppered bathtub. You really didn’t think that being away for—the math isn’t mathing for you currently, and you don’t actually know how long it’s been—a couple of hours would affect him this much.

“You are the one most dear to my heart,” he mutters into your ear, cognizant of the fact that you are not alone in this throne room. “Of course, I missed you.”

“Oh. When you said you were ‘too busy to entertain’ me, I just kinda assumed you wouldn’t notice I was gone.” Though you don’t mean to weaponize your words, the poison darts make contact with their target anyway, and Morpheus stiffens in your hold.

“Are you alright?” he asks instead, choosing to wait until a later time to have this particular conversation.

“Aw, dream boy” you coo, snaking a hand up to clumsily run it through his hair. “I’m okay baby, swear it! Like, absolutely, one hundred percent fine.”

Morpheus pulls away from you so that he can look you up and down to confirm that you really are okay. “You smell like a pub,” he notes. 

“How can you tell that in the Dreaming?”

He ignores your question when a realization seems to hit him. “Are you inebriated?”

“No, I’m drunk,” you correct very matter-of-factly.

“That is–” he stops, choosing instead to just shake his head.

“Oh, dear,” Lucienne mutters from behind Morpheus, reminding you of her presence in the first place.

“Lucienne! Hi! How have you been!” 

You crane around Morpheus to be able to see your favorite librarian, but you almost fall over in the process. Before you can tip too far over, Morpheus is there to right you again. When he does, he looks down at you with quite the serious expression on his perfect face.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, ready to punish whoever put you in such a state.

“Vodka. Rum, maybe?” You think back on your drinks for the evening, though it’s hard to think back that far. “Yeah, the second round of shots was definitely rum.”

“You put yourself in this state?”

“Yes?” Has Morpheus never heard of the concept of going out and getting shitfaced with your pals? “To be fair, I didn’t think that my drunkenness would…” You search for the word that you want to use, but it’s just not coming to you! “Uh, carry over?”

“Please tell me you managed to make it home safely?”

You nod. “Sure did! Pretty sure I fell asleep on the floor, though.”

Lucienne slowly begins to back up towards the door, and Morpheus stares at you for a long moment before sighing heavily.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask nervously, starting to get upset the longer the silence drags on. Did you say something that you shouldn’t have? Is there a rule you don’t know about against sleeping on floors?

Instead of answering you, Morpheus waves a hand in the air and says, “This dream is over.” 

You’re awake and once again staring up at your ceiling fan, only this time, Morpheus is also in your line of sight. It’s impossible to stop yourself from touching him when you’re sober, so it’s not at all surprising that your hands go up to caress his face now when you’re drunk.

“Hi cutie,” you greet, laughing in delight when he flushes just the slightest amount.

He grabs your hands and kisses the back of both before setting them against your chest. “Why are you sleeping on your floor?”

“Because,” is your simple, childish reply.

“That is not a good answer.”

“It’s the one you get because it’s the one I have.” You throw in a peace sign to be extra spicy, but Morpheus, unfortunately, doesn’t comprehend your 21st-century humor, and instead just segues into the next order of business.

“Might I help you up, so that we can get you properly ready for bed?”

“But I’m comfy,” you groan. Morpheus is not buying what you’re selling, unfortunately, so you sigh. “Fine.”

Morpheus holds his hands out for you to take and helps you to your feet. Too fast, apparently, because the room begins to spin and your stomach tilts dangerously, making you clap a hand over your mouth.

“Oh no. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy,” you chant, squeezing your eyes shut and laying your head against Morpheus’s shoulder while you try to breathe through sudden nausea. You will not throw up on your super hot eldritch nightmare king boyfriend, you command yourself. Not tonight, and not ever.

“What is wrong?” Morpheus sounds panicked, and you want to reassure him, but you hold up a finger in the meantime.

When the nausea finally passes, you take a deep breath and slowly look up. “Okay, I think I’m good now.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Sometimes drinking too much combined with moving too fast makes people feel sick. It’s my fault, but I’ll be okay.”

“Are you well enough to move?”

“Yes, I promise.” 

To prove your point, you let go of his hand and start walking heel to toe as the police require during field sobriety tests (honestly, you’re a little surprised that you can actually do this right now). You can practically feel your lover's amusement behind you, but it proves to him that you are capable. Morpheus lets you walk to the bathroom on your own power, and you think the only reason he doesn’t sweep you off your feet is because he’s worried you’ll throw up if he does. He watches you intently the entire time, though. 

You sit on the lip of the bathtub, watching Morpheus move about your bathroom as though he knows where everything is; he probably does, you realize, whether it be from that endless wealth of knowledge about everyone and everything that he possesses, or just his familiarity with your home. After rummaging around for a few moments, he comes back with a washcloth and your favorite pajamas. The sight of the familiar material makes you tear up, and you sniffle loudly.

Morpheus looks up in alarm. “Are you okay?”

“You remembered my favorite pajamas,” you say, trying to not start crying. You can count on one hand the number of times he’s come directly to see you off to his realm, and you’ve probably worn those pajamas twice. Yet he remembered the one-off comment you had made about how they were your favorite because of course he did.

His face softens. “Of course I did.”

You clear your throat and wipe your eyes. “Sorry. I’m okay! Just drunk.”

Morpheus hands you said pajamas before turning the faucet on and letting the water run. He seems to realize something after a moment and looks at you helplessly. “I do not feel temperature as you do. Is the water alright?” 

You grin and stick your hand under the faucet, moving the tap just a smidge hotter before nodding at him. “It’s good now. Thank you for asking.”

He begins to run the damp washcloth gently over your face, a barely-there smile appearing on his own when you wrinkle your nose at the cool sensations. Where this situation would be awkward with anybody else, it feels entirely natural with Morpheus. You’ll take these little moments of domesticity with him whenever you can get them, even when you’re still half drunk.

Even if you wanted to, you can’t hold yourself back from saying, “You’re so beautiful, do you know that? Seriously, you’re the prettiest man-slash-anthropomorphic-personification I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” The words are heavy on your tongue, but you’re pretty proud of the way you only barely stumble through ‘anthropomorphic’.

“You are still under the influence,” he notes.

“So? Drunk words equal sober thoughts, right?”

“‘A drunk mind speaks a sober heart.’ Jean-Jacques Rosseau,” he supplies.

“Sure, that. I’d tell you how pretty you are even if I was sober, and you know that.”

“Perhaps.” He says it in that infuriatingly sexy way of his, the one that makes you want to tear his clothes off.

Instead, you’re the one taking your own clothes off, though not for any fun reason. Getting changed is not as difficult a task as it would have been when you first arrived home, with the benefit of time naturally sobering one up on your side. Morpheus still keeps a hand held out, just in case you lose your balance and need something to grab onto, but after you’ve finished changing, that hand slips under your shirt and caresses your side.

“Thought you were supposed to be helping me keep my clothes on,” you say with a shiver, grabbing his wrist and pulling the offending extremity out from under your shirt.

“Apologies.” His tone implies that he’s not sorry at all, not that you would want him to be. “I simply couldn’t resist.”

He looks down at you with so much love in those blue eyes of his that you feel like you don’t think your mortal mind could ever truly comprehend it. Nobody has ever loved you the way that Morpheus has—all-consuming and passionate. He told you once that many of his relationships had ended because he had been seen as too intense, too obsessive in his love. Bring it on, you had told him when he expected you to back down. To date, you haven’t regretted that.

You don’t think you ever will.

Now that you can see the end of your night in sight, tiredness begins to seep into your bones. Though your bed is just right through the bathroom door, it feels miles away. With that in mind, you ask,  “Will you carry me?” 

“Were you not worried that you would feel sick?”

“Yeah, but I’m tired.” You pout (on purpose because you know what it does to him), and you can practically see his resolve break. “Just be careful?”

“Always,” he promises.

And careful he is, slowly picking you up and waiting until you nod to carry you to your bed. He sets you down gently, You’re thrilled to see a glass of water already waiting for you on your bedside table, Morpheus anticipating your needs before you’ve even realized you have them in the first place.

Crawling under the covers after finishing your water, you motion for Morpheus to sit next to you on the bed. He does as you ask, and you move your pillows so that you can sit up and lean on him. When you’re comfortable, you say, “Thank you for everything tonight. I know taking care of me wasn’t what you had planned.”

“You need not thank me. I enjoy caring for you, no matter the situation.” 

Your eyes flutter closed at the sensation of his hand carding through your hair, and you start to feel yourself inching closer to the Dreaming. Something keeps you from truly falling asleep, though, and when Morpheus shifts next to you, you realize what it is: the conversation’s not over. Morpheus is trying to figure out how to say what it is he wants to say.

Finally, he figures it out. “Might I ask you something?”

You open your eyes to give him your full attention and nod.

“Earlier, when you seemed surprised that I had noticed your absence. Did you do this,” ‘this’ being getting very drunk, “because of what I said?”

“No. I mean, I went out because I was mad at you, and I figured that me being a couple of hours late would make you learn your lesson, but I got drunk because I wanted to have fun with my friends and let loose.”

“And did you?”

“Maybe a little too much,” you admit cheekily.

“I apologize for my harsh words the other day. I have been…feeling burdened under the weight of my realm, and I took it out on you for no reason.”

“It’s okay, Morpheus. You’re busy running an entire realm and overseeing the collective unconscious. I shouldn’t be so needy.”

He shakes his head. “It is not okay. I should never talk to you in such a way, and you should never feel as though I do not want you around. I do want you around, always.”

“People say things that they don’t mean. That doesn’t mean they’re not worthy of forgiveness. But you gotta talk to me, okay? When you’re feeling stressed, or when things get to be too much. I’m here for you, and I want to support you however I can.”

“I love you,” he says. The fact that he’s being so open with his emotions is a pleasant surprise; it took him so long to be the first to say it, and even longer to be comfortable with it. You smile up at him.

“I love you, too. Stay with me until I fall asleep?”

“Of course.”

Morpheus turns your bedroom light off without you needing to ask (seriously, you love him so much), and you close your eyes. Then, a thought hits you.

“Hey,” you say, staring up at him in the dark and waiting until he looks at you to continue. “Can you get drunk?”

“No.”

“Why not? I mean, isn’t there special alcohol for preternatural beings? You’d think gods and goddesses would’ve figured out a way to get turnt by now.”

Though he doesn’t want to give in to your rambling when you’re meant to be trying to fall asleep, he can’t help but indulge you. “Gods and goddesses can. We, the Endless, cannot.”

“What? That’s so fucking lame. No. That’s–that’s an injustice! I’m so sorry.

“I promise, it is okay. Now, please go to sleep.”

You nod, but close your eyes for maybe thirty seconds before they snap open again with a realization. “Wait.”

“What?”

“You mentioned other gods and goddesses. How many are there? Are they all real? Is actual God real? I mean, I know the devil is real, you kicked their ass for your helm, but for some reason that’s more believable than–”

“Go. To. Sleep,” Morpheus commands.

“Ugh, you’re no fun!”

“I am not afraid to use my sand if need be.”

“You wouldn’t.” You raise an eyebrow in challenge, and he raises one right back. After a brief stalemate, you’re the first to give in. “You have to understand how world-altering this information is to a regular human like me, I mean–”

You’re asleep before your head hits the pillow.

[sarawritestories]

can I request an Az x reader fic with lots of hurt/comfort vibes? maybe they are out on the town and they run into the readers ex who was not very nice to her and she gets scared and az goes into protective mode? thanks thanks thanks!!

My Wife. My Mate. My World

Azriel X Plus Size F Reader

A/N: Thank you for this request! This just felt fitting to have as a plus size reader I hope that's okay! This is also my first time writing for Az and I hope I did him justice for you!

Summary: Azriel and You are in your home Court of the Summer Court. When you run into your ex, the confidence you spent a long time building was shredded and your Mate was more than happy to remind you how amazing you were.

Content Warning: 18+ Minors DNI, Depictions of verbal abuse and slight (Briefly), slight fat shaming, low self esteem, fluffy ending

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.6k words

It was a beautiful day in your home court, Summer Court, your hair was up in a curly bun and a loose cobalt dress that had a crisscross design on the front and two high slits. The dress accentuated your curves and was one of your favorites. You didn’t bother with jewelry as shadows were always swirling around your arms and in the blazing summer heat their cool touch was a welcome reprieve.  A Hand wrapped around your waist as you walked through the beach, “I love you, in Night Court attire, but you are a goddess in Summer Court dresses.” Azriel whispered causing you to giggle.

“Azriel, you have said that when we are in every other court except for the Spring Court, and you also say that I am a goddess with no clothes on at all.” I tuck myself into his side, “I’m beginning to think I could wear garbage and you would call me a goddess.”

Azriel kissed the top of your head. “You would make quite divine garbage, Angel.” You rolled your eyes and elbowed him though he was quick and gripped your arm spinning you around while simultaneously taking your legs out from under you with his own. The next thing you knew your back was pressed against the warm sand and the shadowsinger was on top of you pinning your arms above your head with one hand. His wings flared up to block the sun rays, so you weren’t squinting. He had a playful smirk on his face, “Violence is never the answer, my love.” There was a twinkle in his eye as his face lowered to yours.

“Says one of the most feared spymaster and warrior in all of Prythian.” You murmured before his lips were on yours. The kiss makes your toes curl but every kiss he gives you has that effect ever since your first date, it only intensified when the mating bond snapped for both of you. He slipped his tongue in your mouth, and you moaned and arched your back yearning for more friction.  He pulled away causing you to groan in protest. He chuckled and pushed off you standing and dusting the sand off his knees.  You glared at him, “You’re cruel, Shadowsinger,” he laughed and held out his hand, you grasped it the scars bringing comfort on your skin.

Azriel lifted you up and gripped your waist bringing you close kissing your nose, “Listen I’m not trying to get a bloodstone because of public nudity. Rhys would kill us both.” His hand grazed down to your plump ass and squeezed, “When we get home though,” he continued to grope and, in a flash, slapped your tender flesh causing you to gasp as his lips grazed the shell of your ear, “I will happily show you how cruel I can be.”

You could feel the heat rise from your neck to your cheeks, “Is that a promise?”

He was about to respond when a familiar voice rang in your ears, “Y/N? Is that you?” Your body stilled and shadows swirled around my body anxious from the shift. You turned and were met with a familiar set of eyes. The male was in the Summer Court army uniform his gold skin compliment

You pulled away from Azriel and he let you to fully face your ex, “Micah, what a pleasant surprise.” You gave him a grin, but Azriel as he moved to your side his wings tucked in tightly.

Micah gave you a tight lip smile, “For sure, I heard you were in the throws of the Night Court.” He looked over to where your mate his cold assessing gaze.  Azriel’s relaxed demeaner shifted, he widened his legs, crossed his arms and made sure that one wing curved around you.

Micah opened his mouth and with a familiar glint in his eye you gripped Azriel’s arm. “Where are my manners? Micah, this is Azriel, my mate. Az, this is Micah, an old friend of mine.” Rage flared briefly in his gaze at your choice of words. “Darling, could you give us a minute?” you looked over at my mate, who’s hazel eyes met yours his brow quirked, “Just going to catch up, I’ll meet you at the café, okay?” Azriel met Micah’s gaze who puffed his chest out and you rolled your eyes.

Azriel pressed his lips to your forehead. “You sure?” he whispered, you gave him a nod and he gripped your face in your hands, and he crushed his lips to yours letting the kiss linger for a minute longer, and with a wary glance over the other male, he made a few stepped backs and took to the skies. A cool shadow still swirled around your wrist sliding up your arm and around your neck.

Micah held out an arm and I slipped my hand through his I felt his hand instantly flexed. “So, you fuck vermin now?” I scowled at him, and he laughed and continued, “You really had to scrape the bottom of the barrel, huh?”

You gritted my teeth, “Watch your fucking mouth, Micah,” trying to focus on your feet sinking into the sand.

Micah proceeded, “Why did you leave, Y/N?” He feigned sadness and you saw right through it. “We were so good together.” He took a moment to look me up and down, “Though you, don’t look nearly as radiant as you did when you were sinking into my cock.” His arm moved and snaked around my waist, his hand gripped the flesh and my body tensed. “They clearly do not treat you the way you deserved. With discipline.” I didn’t even notice my shadow fleeing.

You closed your eyes and tried block out his words, but you were sent back to that time before the Night Court took you in.

“Get out of my house,” Micah gritted out. The blonde soldier in his bed scrambled to get clothes on as the male placed his arms behind his head arrogance seeping out of his pores as the female fled and bumped into you fleeing the house you shared. “Enjoy the show, Princess.”

You wanted to be heartbroken by this, but you had suspected him of being unfaithful. I crossed my arms and leaned on the door frame, “How long?”

He snorted and decided to rise from the bed, “Does it matter? You’re not going to leave.”

Anger began to bubble up, “Oh really? Why is that?”

Micah approached with predatory grace and gripped my chin tightly. “Because I’m the only one who will give you the time of day. I mean you and I both know you’re plain looking,” He looked down at my body, “Your body is subpar, and you are lucky that I put up with you.” He pressed his thumb that smelled of the female he was with on my bottom lip and propped my mouth open. I knew what he wanted me to do. “You going to be a good girl or are we going to need to punish you.” I closed my mouth over his thumb and sucked, tears did fall of humiliation. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, “So here is what’s going to happen, you are going to be my pretty little doll for all events, and we’ll go on dates, and I will fuck anyone in our shared bed I please.”

A hand patting my cheek brought me back to the present, “Ah, good you’re back.” Micah smirked. “Were you thinking about me, Princess.” Uncomfort began to settle in my bones, and I sent that feeling down the bond as Micah pinned me against his chest.

With a thud and a cloud of sand blue siphons radiated through the smoke. Emerging from the cloud Azriel’s shadows swirled around and ready to attack. Rage filled those hazel eyes of his. “Get. Your. Hands. Off. Her. Now.” His voice was ethereal the shadows giving it a haunting cadence and it entranced you.

 Micah only tightened his grip on the order, and you yelped Azriel snarled. “Well look at that, Y/N you found someone who would be willing to kill, for your mediocrity.” You flinched as you met the shadowsinger’s eyes. His Hazel irises softened as he watched the verbal blow land. Though in a flash they steeled into calm rage as shadows leaked from his body and wrapped around you again bringing comfort.

Micah ignored the lethal man in front of him, “I mean maybe your Cunt is not so medio-“Azriel’s fist collided with the male’s face and he released his gripped on you. You wrapped your arms around Azriel’s neck and inhaled his scent.

“I got here as quickly as I could,” The High Lord of the Summer Court’s voice broke through the chaos on the beach. “Y/N, are you okay?” You turned to face him, Azriel’s hand splayed across your stomach soft circles rubbing my stomach.

“I’m fine, Asshole never knew when to shut up.” You muttered, your brows furrowed, “How did you know?”

“Azriel’s shadows alerted us something was wrong with one of our Soldiers and a member of a different court.”

You leaned into Azriel’s chest his hand holding you protectively, your head resting at his shoulder, “You never went to the café did you,” his shadows sputtered around me as if trying to confirm my theory.

He pressed his lips on your hair line, “The shadows that love you so much didn’t trust him, so I didn’t go far.”  He looked at Tarquin, “Will he be taken care of?”

Tarquin nodded, “Yes he will, we don’t take lightly to our soldiers manhandling civilians, especially when they hail from a different Court.” He looked at you, “I know this was once your home, I always want you to feel welcome here. I’m so sorry for Micah’s behavior.”

You crossed my arms around my body, “Micah has always been like that, but I appreciate you handling this for me.”

Tarquin nodded and walked to the other sentries that were hauling a knocked-out Micah away.

Azriel nuzzled his nose in your neck taking in your scent, “Would you like to go home?” He whispered.

               You closed my eyes, “Please.” Azriel pressed his lips to your neck and shadows erupted around the two of you and then you were in our town home that you built after you had your mating ceremony.

You pulled away from your mate and gave him a tight smile, “I’m going to hop in the bath get the sand out.”

Azriel smiled, “Want me to join you, worship you like the goddess you are.”

You shook your head, “Sorry, my love, I’m not in the mood.” You cupped his face and gave his free cheek a kiss.

He furrowed his brow and watched as you walked to your shared room and went into the bathroom.  In a few moments’ time you were in the bathtub and thinking back to everything Micah had said.

Your body is subpar, and you are lucky that I put up with you.

Did Azriel feel that way?

You’re plain looking.

Azriel always said you were his goddess, was he lying. Micah always lied and told me how beautiful I was.

Hours went by and you barely moved out of the bath and there was a soft knock on the door, Azriel poked his head in as you were staring at your knees. “Angel.” The spymaster walked into the room, closing the door behind him, and leaned against it. “You’ve been in here for hours.” You met his gaze, and he inhaled sharply as he felt worthlessness down the bond. In only a few strides he was by your side and gripping your hand, “Talk to me.”

Tears began to resurface as you faced your mate, “I’m sorry, Az.”

Azriel’s brows furrowed. “For what?” He was stroking the top of your hand with his thumb.

“For not being a good enough mate for you.” Azriel’s eyes flashed with pain but were gone in an instant. “You deserve someone better than me.” Tears were falling down your face and your breathing began to quicken, “I’m not worth-“

Azriel gripped the back of your neck and pressed your forehead against his and your eyes fluttered closed. “Shhh, enough of that.” He pressed a kiss on your forehead that was so tender, and he sent love down the bond like a caress on your soul. “Let’s get you clean up.” Azriel grabbed soap and a rag and began washing your body and massaging your hair. He was whispering sweet little nothings in your ear as he cleaned the sand and dirt from the day.

When he was done, he helped you out of the tub and wrapped you in a towel, his shadows bringing in your favorite nightgown that was the same blue as Azriel’s siphons. “Arms up.” You lifted your arms, tears still flowing down your cheeks.

Once the nightgown hugs your skin you wrap your arms around yourself, and the cool touch of the shadows yank my arms apart and your brows furrowed. “They don’t like you hiding,” His hands met yours and the comfort of his scars kissing your skin the shadows slithering between both of your hands. “I don’t like it either.”

He led you to your shared bedroom and led you to the full-length mirror. His shadows swirling around your neck and through your hair giving you some light kisses. He rubbed the top of your arms and left soft kisses on your bare shoulder. His hazel eyes met yours in the mirror, “Tell me, Angel, what do you see?”

You took a deep shaky breath, “I see me.” He casts a look toward you, causing you to bite your lip. “I see a plain, large woman who isn’t a warrior like Feyre or Nesta, Or beautiful like Gwyn or Elain.”

Azriel wrapped his arms around your torso, his fingers digging into your soft skin and gave your shoulder a soft bite, eliciting a moan from you. “You want to know what I see?” I nod and he presses you closer to his chest and sways back and forth as he looks at your reflection. “I see a strong female, that fought and lived though a war. I see a kindhearted female, who took it upon herself to make her best friend’s mate comfortable just so she didn’t feel alone,” You smile thinking of the first time you met Ferye. “I see a loving female, who saw the mangled hands of a broken male and decided to kiss every scare telling him that you want to place good memories on those scars to erase the bad ones.”

Your hand founds his and gave him a squeeze as tears streamed down before he turned you around to face him, he tucked the wet strands of hair behind your ear, “I see a female, who is powerful because she was brave enough to leave an abusive situation with someone who did not appreciate or respect all the amazing things, I adore about you.” He wiped the tears from your cheeks and kissed you passionately for a moment and when he pulls away, he keeps your face close to his. “I love you, Y/N. Your smile almost made me fall to my knees in praise.” You laughed and you could see his eyes light up at the sound. “My Wife, My Mate, my world, is anything but mediocre. You are amazing and I thank the Cauldron everyday that it brought you to me.” He kissed your nose, “My beautiful.” A kiss to my lips, “Kind,” Another kiss, “Passionate,” another kiss, “Sexy,” he growled, and I smiled, “Mate.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, “I love you, Az.” You kissed his lips and Azriel’s hands slid down to grip your plump ass, “Now I do recall you saying something about worshiping me-“ You couldn’t finish your statement before Azriel scooped you in his arms and put you to your bed and spent all night showing you just how amazing he thought you were.

[thesiltverses]

Hello! Writing first to thank you for such an extraordinary creation - as a piece of writing and even more so in performance. Every episode manages to somehow build on and outdo the last; you navigated that transition from a smaller scale story of grisly mysteries and personal crises of faith to a grand scale of war, revolution and political satire with absolute aplomb, and never lost that throughline of exceptional characterisation and sharp writing, always steering to the most interesting conflicts. You are always very humble in your public comments, but I hope you allow yourself a little pride, because this is absolutely top notch stuff.

I was struck by Paige's final words, that she hopes what they left would be found 'flawed, inadequate, yearning'. As the show went on, I was surprised - in a good way - that the show's politics gradually crystalised into a full-on nihilist anarchism, something perhaps even along the lines of Monsieur Dupont. (Muna used the 'a' word in one of the Q&As but it was pretty evident even before that). Taking these gods as a metaphor for ideologies and social systems, the scope of it becomes pretty universal - and unsparing. And, equally, hard to answer.

I wondered when the Many Below/Wound Tree was introduced what answers they would find: what political movement could truly resist cooption or becoming its own horrible self-sustaining egregore. And in the end the answer you express I suppose is a negative one: that even Paige's god of victims is a tool, one that must eventually be discarded to go into some unknown place beyond it all (to walk away from Omelas), towards something that narrative fiction - as a form of the 'endless words' that are derided so much in the third season - can no longer address. Which I respect - to pose the question is vital, even if the tools can't reach any answers if they even exist.

I think this struggle exists in many stories that address themes of making a break from the rapacious society that created them (and take it seriously) - your Baru Cormorants and Mononoke-himes. We can describe the problem vividly, but since we do not have a counterexample to hand, any story we tell about ~what is to be done~ and what it will look like when it is feels like it will be just as hollow as the spins and angles and parasitic fantasies that so many characters advance in the Silt Verses. (How could there possibly be a time where it finally works out, after we have seen all this? But then, what are we living for?)

To try to make this a question and not a ramble, I wanted to ask - what do you see as the role of fiction in addressing the horrible machinery of this world? Is it enough to pose the question particularly sharply, skewer the bad and inadequate answers, and leave the readers/listeners to figure out how to make the killing of gods concrete? How do we punch through the bounds of it all being Content, another product to be bought and sold? What does it mean to sit here and fantasise about people making that revolutionary break when there is no revolution to be had?

I don't know what answer I'm hoping for here, but given the themes of the show, I feel like this must be a kind of thing you've thought about, and probably have a far more developed line of thought than I do. And if this is a bit too much to drop in your inbox on a Saturday morning, I will say again thank you for writing this story and all the actors for making it so strikingly concrete - it truly means a lot, and I will treasure it.

Hi, and thank you for listening and for a beautifully written and thoughtful ask! ('Horrible machinery of the world' stopped me dead in my tracks.) And I am very proud, genuinely.

I don't have a good enough answer to your questions, and for me a lot of TSV is very much about trying to figure those answers out, but let me try and sum up my perspective bit by bit.

Is it enough for fiction to pose the question, without also proposing the answer?

I don't think it's enough for fiction as a collective body of work.

I'd argue there's probably a tendency towards open-endedness and irresolution in these individual narratives simply because it feels like a more honest acknowledgement that in real life, the foe has yet to take a real body blow and will not go down easy; that the foe, in fact, is the marketplace for the work itself and ironically profits from the popularity of stories with easy heroic victories over villains who represent capitalism. That these stories inevitably become a pleasant consumable that serves our complacency within the belly of the beast, a kind of daily tonic to reassure us that good always triumphs and regular people always come out on top.

I also think that the sheer scale and scope of the topic creates its own challenges; you probably can't engage thoroughly enough with both the dystopian question and your ideas for a utopian answer all in a single story, without ultimately turning the latter into that false reassurance, a quick handwave of a happy ending.

You mention Omelas, and I think we could illustrate the problem by looking at how LeGuin handles her two successive masterpieces:

The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas, which gives us the titular resource-rich u(dys)topia built on invisible suffering, and the dissidents who turn their backs on that world and walk out into the inhospitable wilderness in search of something better.

The Dispossessed, which as its premise gives us Anarres, an imperfect but sympathetic anarchist society whose adherents turned their backs on a neighbouring world of capitalist plenty to live out in the inhospitable wilderness in search of something better.

Anarres can very reasonably be viewed as LeGuin's direct answer to the question posed by Omelas, and she would have likely had it in her mind already as she wrote Omelas. But if the short story had ended with 'I hear that against all odds, the ones who walk away have successfully founded an anarchist utopia where hardship is everywhere but it's shared as equitably as possible. THE END', the amount of lazy shorthand and empty comfort involved in that happier ending would inevitably make it a dishonest and unserious offering.

Instead, Anarres is a starting premise to be interrogated at length over the course of a separate story, rather than a happy ending to simply reassure the reader that better things are possible - and even at the end of the novel LeGuin's unresolved questions are still very similar to the ones that we're left with in Omelas (and the same questions that I feel like we were knocking about in The Silt Verses, and which I guess you could argue are all lingering concerns at the end of Mononoke, as well): how and where can we find space to create and sustain a genuine alternative when the narrative environment of capitalism is so powerfully all-subsuming and constantly growing to fill the space? Do we need to disconnect entirely, vanishing as if dead? If we disconnect, how can we possibly survive and what inhumanities or ethical compromises will be required of us? If we do survive, is our isolationism a dereliction of human responsibility to those left behind?

All of which is to say that I think present-day fiction absolutely can make the attempt to meaningfully explore potential alternative-utopian solutions in more depth and with far more tangibility than we attempted with TSV - but that dystopian fiction like ours which concludes with the unexplored promise of a revolutionary utopia and the vague reassurance that the irrepressible human spirit will figure things out from here on out (Chewbacca gets a medal, everyone's in the streets wearing a Guy Fawkes mask) doesn't do much more than dramatically undermine its own goal of disrupting the audience's comfort.

That said, one of my big regrets this season was that we didn't succeed in more engagingly exploring and articulating the Woundtree camp's development into a flawed but functioning society in Dispossessed fashion ahead of the ending. That was my intention, but what quickly became clear was that in a dramatic format, with a limited cast, it was just endless static meeting-room scenes with Paige and Elgin discussing difficult responses to impossible challenges, while everyone else was out having dynamic and exciting adventures with lots of fun and exciting gods. Dystopias remain too entertaining for utopias' own good.

What do you see as the role of fiction in addressing the horrible machinery of this world?

I believe that absurdist horror fiction specifically, founded on the principle of 'people in a world that makes no sense, deluding themselves that it definitely does make sense' can play a very powerful role in that stated purpose.

Many horror traditions carry the baggage of inbuilt or inadvertent conservatism - the concept of a peaceable, passive, safe, middle-class Normality which is then disrupted by a terrifying outside threat (alien, ultra-foreign, ultra-low-class, underworldly, wild, etc). But absurdist horror very directly identifies Normality as the true source of our terror and very directly confronts our human response to it. It creates the right environment for us to ask all of the good questions. Isn't this an unsustainable nightmare we're living in? Why are we expending so much energy pretending it isn't? How do we get out and what do we do if we can't?

Probably the only listener reaction that's genuinely frustrated me about both of our shows is the folks who come away turning their noses up at the bluntness of that approach and acting like they've Solved The Art simply for figuring out where our broad sympathies lie. "Hm, just listened to The Silt Verses and I understood it at once; it's clearly trying to say that capitalism is bad. A little heavy-handed in its messaging for my liking, hm-hm!"

Not to go full Garth Marenghi, but for me the directness of the provocation and the obvious outrageousness of the nightmare is the point; it then allows us to go to places that other genres (or more understated critiques) generally can't.

How do we punch through the bounds of it all being Content, another product to be bought and sold? What does it mean to sit here and fantasise about people making that revolutionary break when there is no revolution to be had?

God, I don't know.

Maybe it means nothing; maybe we can't punch through; maybe there is no story unruly enough to be truly unco-optable, and therefore even the most radical fiction ultimately serves as a distraction, a placebo, a reassurance (that we are not alone, that better things are possible) which will impact the wider world more by keeping us subscribed to the Kindle app than by any action we might feel inspired to take.

Amazon is paying Boots Riley to make TV shows. Disney won much praise for delivering a revolutionary fantasy in a Star Wars shell. Apple is funding excellent, discomfiting and furious corporate satires about how we happily ignore invisible worker abuses for the sake of our own lifestyles, but they also cannot be considered accountable for the deaths of Congolese child-labourers in the global cobalt supply chain. The Dispossessed is in development as a limited series and the LeGuin estate are closely involved.

The master doesn't just own the tools, he's been buying up the guillotines as well.

What if, as with the unknowable nothingness outside of Omelas, the only art that cannot be reduced to product in net service of the status quo is the art that's so invisible and inaccessible and disconnected as to not exist at all? Does being relatively small and ramshackle really lend us any ideological purity, any genuine detachment? You can listen to The Silt Verses on Apple and Spotify and Amazon Music. Brought to you by Acast.

Chapter 36 with Dev and Seb was to a large extent intended as an articulation of that worry. To what extent can we still trust in the integrity of a sincere love story (one that we want to believe in) it if takes place in an insincere and predatory environment? Can any meaningful story be told honestly within such a space?

This stuff really worries me. I think it's probably right to worry. I don't know the answer. I do know that there are some folks for whom the show has made a tangible difference in terms of their life's direction, and that's a huge comfort to me.

There was someone who said it helped them find their faith, strangely and wonderfully. Someone else who said it contributed to their decision not to go down a more lucrative career path within what they view as an exploitative industry. (I hope they don't regret that decision; I hope it makes them happy.)

So there's something there. Maybe.

[steddie-island]

Long Haul

Written for day 2 of @stevieweek | Companion piece to Wallpaper Rating: G | WC: 1,150 | Tags: Eddie Munson POV, Coming out, MTF Steve Harrington ao3 | Divider credit

If Steve and Robin both have to be there to break this big news to Eddie he knows it must be something really bad.

That's how it always goes, bad news. He's told to sit down and listen while the grownups talk at him. Not to him, no, he didn't get anyone actually trying to talk to him until Wayne.

Still, Eddie tries not to look like he's ready to throw up while Steve and Robin stand in front of the couch. The way their hands are clasped together, and with how straight and tense they're standing, Eddie can't help but think of the fucked up twins from The Shining.

The thought makes him laugh, but the laughter only heightens his anxiety– which is then heightened even more when Robin shoots a Look at him that he can't quite figure out.

"Stevie… sweetheart, I can't read your mind. If this is bad news, I'd really rather you just tell me." Eddie shifts uncomfortably. The fingers of his right hand fidget with one of the rings on his left, spinning it around and around. "I can take it, whatever it is."

The look Steve gives Robin drops a bowling ball right into the center of Eddie's chest. Steve has tears in his eyes, and he's shaking, and fuck . This is very fucking bad.

Eddie wracks his brain, tries to think back on what he said or did. Maybe there was something he didn't do that he was supposed to do and now Steve is dumping him over it. Really, it was only a matter of time. Steve is good, so fucking good, and Eddie never deserved him in the first place.

And of course Robin's going to be here for it, because Steve dumping him as a boyfriend means Robin is dumping him as a friend. They're a package deal, you don't get one without the other.

"Eddie!" Robin's voice breaks through his mental spiraling.

Eddie clears his throat, drops his hands between his knees again and looks at the two of them. "Sorry. Sorry, yes. I'm here."

"Did you hear… any of that?" Robin asks.

Eddie flushes, opens his mouth, digs for anything that one of them might have said.

Steve takes pity on him, and Eddie is graced with one of those patient smiles. It’s that soft smile that got him through the hell that was physical therapy. "We're making him nervous, Rob."

"You're nervous, too," Robin reminds him. Still, she gives Steve's hand a squeeze before stepping to the side. It's one on one instead of two on one, which does help the knot in Eddie's chest loosen a bit.

"I can take it, Stevie," Eddie says with a small smile. "Whatever it is, just… lay it on me."

Steve glances at Robin, then back at Eddie. His hands have that fine tremor to them again, so he wraps his arms around himself and tucks his fists against his sides.

"I've been thinking… and I've talked to Rob, and… I don't… I'm not…" Steve stops, has to take a few slow breaths.

This is it, the death blow. The last glimpse of the sun before it gets snuffed out, removed from Eddie's life forever. Eddie wants to close his eyes so he doesn't have to watch, but if this is his last sunrise he doesn't want to miss a second of it, either.

"Eddie, I'm not… I'm not a boy." Steve shifts on his feet and swallows loud enough for Eddie to hear it. "I don't want to be a boy anymore. I think— no, I know I am — I'm a girl."

Eddie can only blink up at her while Steve explains it, explains lip gloss and nail polish and old girlfriends. She talks about how she's given this a lot of thought, really, and if Eddie doesn't want to be with her anymore she understands.

Eddie's listening, really he is, but the relief is so instantaneous that he can't help but start laughing, quietly at first and then louder.

Steve stops talking and looks at Eddie like he's lost his mind. "What? What is it?"

"No, no, baby, I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you." Eddie rubs both hands over his eyes, wiping away unshed tears. "I promise, this isn't about you." He reaches out for Steve's hand and pulls her around the coffee table to sit down on his lap.

"Why are you laughing?" Steve asks. The hurt in her eyes has Eddie sobering up immediately.

"I thought you were breaking up with me." Eddie brings a hand up to tuck Steve's hair behind her ear. "I thought that was why you brought the reinforcements. Maybe you were afraid I would lose the rest of my mind or somethin'."

"What?" Steve shakes her head and touches the jagged scar on Eddie’s jaw. "Why would I be breaking up with you? I love you, Eddie."

Eddie catches Steve's hand, pulls it to his lips to kiss over her knuckles. "Because you're the best person on the goddamn planet, and I don't deserve you."

"Eddie—"

"I'm serious, Stevie." Eddie wraps an arm around her waist to pull her that much closer. "You're amazing. You're smart— don't try to deny it, I've seen that beautiful brain of yours in action." He gently, so fucking gently, taps in the middle of her forehead to emphasize his point. "You're funny, you're so goddamn brave. You have the biggest heart in the world." He cups Steve's cheek, and she leans into the touch. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I still can't believe how lucky I am."

Steve's lower lip trembles just a little, and Eddie can't help but brush his thumb over it. "Even now?" she asks. Eddie hates the uncertainty in her voice. Steve Harrington isn't ever uncertain, unless it's about D&D or Lord of the Rings or some other nerdy shit that the kids try to throw at her.

"Are you kidding?" Eddie brings his other hand up, to hold her face between his palms. "Yesterday morning I woke up with the most gorgeous guy in Hawkins in my bed, and tonight I get to go to sleep with the most beautiful girl. That's… amazing ." He shakes his head and brings their foreheads together. "I love you, Stevie. No matter what you do, no matter what you change, I'm in it for the long haul. You're it for me, baby."

"Fucking sap," Steve says wetly, but she's smiling when she says it, when she leans in to kiss Eddie again.

It's a kiss full of love and hope, that speaks of a future that stretches out in front of them, just waiting for them to decide what they want to do with it.

It's a kiss that has Robin murmuring "Dinguses" under her breath before sneaking out the front door to give them privacy.

[scribblesofagoonerr]

— Separate ‖ | © scribblesofagoonerr

pairings: leah williamson x jordan nobbs x separate reader!buddy x chaos fc reader!monkey

summary: buddy is reunited with monkey, and there up to no good already.

here's the start of the cross over nobody asked for but i wrote anyways, featuring everyones' chaotic fc reader, monkey.

also thank you to @alotofpockets for putting up with me sending my ideas for this and word jumble.

Sure enough with a bit of encouragement, you slowly came out of your shell enough to move to sit in Leah's lap and get in all of the cuddles that you had missed throughout the last week.

Until you hear the front door open, and you knew who it is straight away.

"Ello'? I'm home!" You hear your favourite person shout aloud and your quick to jump up from Leah's lap and race towards the front door, "Where's my favourite little buddy?" She asks.

"Here I am!" You all but launch yourself into the arms of the older girl.

"There you are!" Monkey exclaims, squeezing you gently as she spins you around in her arms, "I've missed you loads!"

"I've missed you too!" You can't help but giggle as your lowered back onto the floor, "Look! We're doin' Lego!" You pull her in the direction of the lego blocks scattered on the floor where you had left Leah and Jordan in favor of Monkey.

"Aw, wow! So you like the lego set, huh?" Monkey grins as she slumps down on the floor and your quick enough to drop down into her lap, the two older women completely forgotten about now that your favourite person is here.

"She's been waiting for you to come back," Leah states, smiling at the pair of you together.

Monkey gasps dramatically before she beams a wide smile, "You have? Well I'm here. Where've you been?" She asks, tickling you under your ribs.

"I went on holiday with my mama, silly!" You exclaim, bursting into a fit of giggles right there, "Where you been?" You wonder, curiously.

You know Leah and Monkey went somewhere, but you can't exactly remember where.

Or if you were told, you didn't really listen much to it.

"Oooh right, of course you did!" Monkey facepalms herself and you can't help but laugh again, you sometimes think your favourite person is the funniest person in the world, "I went to Nashville and I was in my cowgirl era. I even had a lad try hit on me and I told him to kiss my--"

"Monkey!" Leah exclaims, cutting the girl off, "She's 3, she doesn't need to hear that!" She scolds her, which you find it even funnier.

Monkeys' always known to get herself into trouble, sometimes you're corrupted and like to join in with her as well.

It's even more fun when Kyra comes to visit as well.

The three of you have so much fun!

You find it funny sometimes when you watch Leah and Kim tearing their hair out with your favourite person.

"I wasn't even gonna say anything," Monkey holds her hands up in self surrender, smirking at Leah.

You look at Leah to see her giving Monkey one of her usual stern facial expressions. You see it happen a lot, but never usually directed towards you at least.

It's always Monkey.

"And just like that we're forgotten about," Jordan jokes, seeing you happy enough again with being in the company of monkey, "I should probably go." She suggests to Leah, knowing it's the easier option that wouldn't lead to tears.

Leah hums in agreement as she watches you and Monkey together, "That's probably a good idea," She replies before she turns to look at you, "Mamas' gonna go home now, Buddy. Shall we go and say bye?" She questions.

You nod and scramble up from the older girls lap to throw yourself directly at Jordan's legs, "Bye, Mama! 'Ove you!" You exclaim.

"I love you too, my little Buddy," Jordan crouches down and plants a gentle kiss on the top of your forehead, "Be good for your mummy, okay? No getting led astray either." She tells you, glancing in the direction of your favourite person.

"Accusations. False accusations!" Monkey screeches loudly and dramatic, which of course makes Leah roll her eyes in response, "I don't know what yer' even talkin' about there!" She insists, shrugging her shoulders.

"You and I both know what I mean," Jordan remarks, chuckling at the older girl as she ruffles her hair, having the height advantage being stood up while Monkey is still sat down.

"Pft," Monkey scoffs and stands up off the floor, "I'm still an inch taller than you!" She insists, smirking at Jordan.

Leah shakes her head at the antics of your favourite person, "That's enough, Monkey!" She states, firmly before the older girl can continue to wind up Jordan any more, "Stop being a menace, go and do something productive!" She tells her.

Monkey pouts and slumps her shoulders, "I'm bored though and I can't talk to Kyra because she's asleep still!"

"Kyra!" You squeal at the mention of the Aussie girls' name, "I wan' talk to Kyra!" You insist.

Leah gives Monkey a pointed look, "See? Look what you've done now," She pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Oops," Monkey gives the blonde a guilty facial expression.

"I wan' speak to Kyra!" You insist once again.

Shaking her head, Leah turns to look at you, "Buddy, you'll see Kyra when she comes back home, but you can't talk to her because it'll be night time for us when she's awake." She explains.

"I wan' speak to Kyra," You whine, not entirely understanding the whole aspect of time zone differences.

"Ooo, Buddy! I know who we can talk too!" Monkey perks up with the idea as she grins at you, "How about we go and talk to Lessi instead?" She suggests, hoping that you'll agree to that.

"Lessi!" You cheer excitedly, forgetting about the Aussie women for now.

"Yeah, Lessi!" Monkey repeats before she sweeps you up into her arms, "You wanna go fly around the house?" She wonders, knowing exactly what you like and don't like.

"Yeah! Yeah! Fly!" You squeal in delight, squealing even more as Monkey balances her hand under your tummy and you're in the air within seconds.

"All aboard Russo airlines," Monkey jokes, making fun of the blonde for her celebration, "Neeeeeawww!" She makes the noise of a plane, running through the house with you in her arms.

"Don't drop her, Monkey!" Leah and Jordan both shout in sync, almost both of them having heart attacks seeing it happen.

"Sounds like you got your hands full there," Jordan remarks, shaking her head.

Leah chuckles slightly in response, "I'm not sure who's more of a handful at times," She replies.

"Definitely Monkey," The older women out of the two replies, grinning at her ex-girlfriend, "Right, I'll be goin' then. Her teddies in the front pocket of her backpack if she wants it."

"Thanks," Leah nods in agreement, "I'm sure she hasn't asked for it yet when she loves that thing." She adds.

That thing that Leah was referring to was Mr. Bear, a stuffed brown bear that was gifted to you from your great-grandma and ever since you got him, you carried him everywhere with you, even going as far as almost dropping him out of the window one time and Jordan had to stop the car and jump out to retrieve him to save any of the tears.

"Yeah, me neither," Jordan agrees with her ex, "And her blanket, if she needs it is--"

"Jord, don't worry. I've got it, Leah interjects, chuckling slightly at her ex girlfriend, "She's my daughter too, remember? I can figure these things out."

"Yeah, of course, sorry force of habit," The older women out of the two gives her ex a sheepish smile and nods, while shoving her hands in her pockets, "Ehm, I'll be here on Friday at 2 to collect her for the weekend then." She tells her.

"I'll see you then," Leah nods curtly, opening the front door to let Jordan out, "Safe drive back."

Jordan smiles slightly at Leah, "Yep, thanks. See you on Friday." With that, she waves at her ex girlfriend before she departs down the driveway and climbs back into her car for the long drive back home.

© scribblesofagoonerr

[sadnightforus]

[10:59 AM] “Hey… HEY!” Riki whispers to you while you both are listening to your teacher who is busy explaining and breaking down about world’s history. 

 According to your seating position, you’re sitting in front of him, though, you’re sitting on the right side of the school twin desk and he sits at the left, not vertically aligned to each other. It has never been a problem for the both of you, as the seats aren’t far away. 

 The fact he cares to disturb you during class is both annoying and questionable, as he rarely does, unless it’s an important business. 

 It startles you out of your trance, as you snap your head to look back at the guy who is now staring at you. 

“What?” You ask, a bit irritated that you’re pulled away from the board. Your fingers stop working to write more notes, but try to keep your ears alert, invade when your teacher mentions any relevant information that might be on the exam. 

“You dropped your pen.” He answers, maintaining eye contact despite the forbidden rule to not talk during class. 

 You look up, observing your desk, realizing that your pen is indeed long forgotten as it must’ve fallen off some time ago when you were trying to take notes during the lessons. You don’t say anything, but instead place your pencil on the top, lowering your body a bit as your right arm works itself to retrieve the school item back to where it belongs. 

 However, a piece of folded paper catches your attention as you don’t remember that any of your classmates litter or there are trash as all of you have mandatory cleaning duties as a group. 

 Curious, you pick it up and place it onto your table, unfolding it to see the note was written in a messy handwriting, the writing style that belongs to none other than your friend, Riki. 

‘To the cutie whose student number is 9, will you be forever mine and my valentine? - N.R (student number 14)’ 

 Your student number in this class is 9. His student number is 14. 

 You feel like your world spins, but in an agonizing slow manner, the one that is sick and both ecstatic from the realization. 

 You recall back to every moment that you both share; a lot of occasions where you’ve gotten too close to him and subtly held his hand under the excuse of your hands being cold, but never once did both of you want to let go of the fingers lacing motion. 

 Or wore his jacket because you didn’t bring yours and it happened to be chilly (you shamefully admit that you just wanted his scent to linger on you). 

  Or when he bent down to tie your shoes because he noticed you’d trip with your shoelaces not being properly kept in place. 

 Or when he gently wiped your mouth because you have ice creams on the corner of your mouth as you both skipped school that one time. 

 You smile to yourself as you remember and get mushy as you now know that your love wasn’t always one sided. 

 Giddily, you begin to write your response under his words. And when you’re done with it, you hand Riki the now shared response note as you notice that his eyes were trained on you the entire time. 

 And as he opens the note to see the response ‘To the boy whose student number is 14, yes I’ll be yours. And I hope to spend every Valentine with you. - Y/N (student number 9)’, you giggle as you see that he can’t help but his face dusts in every shade of red, eyes now glistening with sparkles as he has received the best news of his life. 

COPYRIGHTED BY SADNIGHTFORUS, 2024

A/N: if you ask me, pure insanity

reblogs, comments and likes are appreciated!

[astraystayyh]

nights with hyunjin <3

little fluffy hyunjin fic inspired by the fact he sends good night msgs on bubble at the latest hours. lowercase intended.

2 am

"where do you see yourself in twenty years?" you whisper, buried under the thick white covers with Hyunjin. You can't see his face, but your nose brushes against his and his warm hand is on your back, keeping you close.

"where will you be in twenty years?" he replies instantly and you feel your cheeks heat up at his words.

"hyune, just answer the question," you whine after a few silent beats and he giggles slightly, "i am. doesn't matter where I'll be, as long as you're there."

you draw in a deep breath, suddenly feeling as if his words were keeping you at his mercy, completely unarmed. "you mean it?" you ask, grabbing onto his arm tightly.

"i do," he reassures, bopping his nose softly against yours, "you are my present and future, angel."

3 am

"what are you drawing?" you ask as you enter hyunjin's art studio, two cups of chamomile tea in your hands. you place them down and stand behind hyunjin, who leans his back onto your chest, melting into your touch. you wrap your arms around his shoulders in response, softly kissing the top of his hair. he smells like your shampoo.

"a house," he replies. his left hand wraps around your thigh, grazing up and down the exposed skin. "our house, i hope," he adds quietly and you feel your heart skip a beat.

"ours?"

"mm. wanna buy you a house. with a little garden and a view of the beach."

"i'll plant lots and lots of flowers for us there." you smile, admiring the pastel colors blending seamlessly in his painting.

"just make sure they won't die," he teases and you fake a gasp, "are you underestimating my gardening capabilities?"

hyunjin blindly grabs your arm, spinning you around so you'd sit on his lap.

"nonsense, you are my little florist," he grins cheekily and you touch his cheeks softly.

"these are cute," you tell him, referencing to his now apparent dimples. little pools for you to drown in.

"you are cuter."

"I'm still not over your flowers comment."

"I will kiss you for every flower you plant."

"that's a lot of kisses."

"i know," he smiles at you, his eyes turning into moon crescents. yours.

5 am

"can't believe she still likes him," hyunjin huffs loudly and you laugh, your hand softly threading through his hair.

"it's just a show baby."

"i know but listen," he stands up from between your legs, eyes wide looking into yours, "he just told her he doesn't find her beautiful. who says that to their lover?"

"he's stupid, she's clearly out of his league and he's threatened by that."

"right!" he claps in agreement, "she deserves better."

"she does," you giggle as he lays down again, face now buried in your chest.

"you do know i find you the most beautiful person in the world?" he whispers and your eyes soften at him.

"you tell me."

"but do you know it?"

"i do."

"good, because if you didn't then I'm a horrible boyfriend too," he shudders and you giggle at the horrified look on his face.

"you aren't, my love."

later on that night, while you are brushing your teeth, hyunjin pops his head into the bathroom. "baby," he calls out and you hum in reply.

"you are beautiful," he says and you raise an eyebrow in question at him, mouth full of toothpaste.

"just making sure you don't forget it."

4 am

"I'm getting sleepy," you say quietly. it was nearing four am and hyunjin has been playing with your hair for what felt like an eternity. braiding small sections of it, only to open them once again.

"me too."

"let's try to sleep."

"don't want to," he mumbles against your hair and you chuckle. "why?"

"if we go to sleep then it will be morning really soon which means i have to leave you."

his words make your heart clench in your chest. nights with hyunjin were your favorite parts of your existence. there was no pressure, no expectations on the both of you. you could just be two humans in love, under the kind gaze of the moon.

"okay, baby. what do you want to do?"

"i just want to look at you," he says quietly and you nod, getting away from his hold. you lay your head on your pillow and he does the same, this way you're both facing each other.

you feel yourself relax completely under hyunjin's gaze, because it's filled with love. for you. his pointer finger traces over your features, delicately, as if he was grazing a porcelain vase. and you let him. his touch is so soft it makes something warm stir within your stomach. it wasn't untamed butterflies, fluttering their wings to escape. it was something comfortable and safe, finding its home within you.

"you are so pretty," he whispers and you smile softly at his words.

"so are you." your right hand rises gently to rest on top of his cheek, and you swipe your thumb slowly across it. hyunjin's eyes flutter closed at the contact and you feel a wave of fondness flood within you.

you'd do anything to preserve this serene look on his face.

"try to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up." you finally say.

"you promise me?"

"i promise."

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Kinktober Day 23 - Bondage/Restraints

A/N: This is a sequel to Kinky Boots.

Pairing: Elvis x reader

Word count: 1.8K

TWs: Bondage (handcuffs and tied ankles), reader calls Elvis daddy, praise kink, the cane gets *involved*, sub/dom dynamics, name-calling, Elvis is pretty rough with reader, a little pain kink, degredation kink, oral (m receiving), fingering, reader cries a little... think that's it?!

Kinktober masterlist

You've always been obsessed with his cane collection. He's told you repeatedly not to play with them, that they're dangerous and not toys, but you're not a good listener. Sometimes you just see things you like and get carried away. This is one of those times, and of course he finds you. 

“Little girl,” His voice a low rumble. 

“Mmmm.” 

You put your hands behind your back and try your best to look innocent. 

“What have I told ya about playing with those?”

You wrinkle your nose and squeeze your eyes shut, as if you're trying to remember something difficult. 

“Not to?” You try, eyes springing open again. 

“Hmmm. Exactly. So what're ya doin’ just now?”

You twist back and forth on the spot, spinning your little skirt out. 

“Sorry, Daddy. They're just so pretty.”

Looking down, hoping that somehow that will make it all better.

“You will be sorry,” he growls, making you start.

“I-I… but I really am…” 

He shakes his head, pulling one of the sword sticks out of the closet and then grabbing you around the upper arm and manoeuvring you into the middle of the room. 

“Ya like ‘em, donta’tcha?” He asks, his voice suddenly soft. 

Nodding eagerly, you look up at him again, hoping maybe he's not as mad as you first thought.

“They're so pretty, Daddy.”

“How much ya like ‘em?” He asks, moving closer to you and pressing the silver top of the cane between your breasts. 

“Mmm. A lot, Daddy.”

He smirks and runs the end of the cane over your breast now, lingering on the nipple he can see through your top. 

“A lot?”

The cane moves down over your belly and then you feel him push it under your skirt and between your legs. 

“Mmhmmm.”

He rubs it against your clothed pussy, watching for your reaction. You moan softly. It's not as if you haven't done this to yourself whilst he wasn't here, but him doing it to you is something else. 

“Think ya need me to teach ya a lesson, hm? What happens when little girls don't do as they're told?”

He's breathing hard, watching your pupils dilate and your cheeks redden. 

“Yes, Daddy.”

You bite your lip. You know your panties must be soaking by now. 

“Panties off,” he instructs. “Lie down on the bed.” Moving the cane away from you now, making you groan in frustration. 

You do as he says, quickly pulling your panties off and lying down. He smirks, kneeling between your spread legs and pushing your little skirt out of his way. 

“Now you know you've been a very naughty little girl,” he hums. 

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I hope you're going to take your punishment f'me?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Do I have to use these?” Pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. 

You stare at them for a while. You feel like you know what he's going to do and wonder if you need restraining. You sigh. You're a brat, you probably do. 

“You should, Daddy. Don't know what I might do if you don't.”

“Hmmm.”

One thing that can be said for you, he thinks, is that you know your limits. And you know when you might be about to do something to make him mad. 

“Good girl,” he tells you, firmly, as he cuffs your wrists to the bed. “Legs too?”

You nod. 

He's had the bed at Graceland specially modified so that there are loops attached to it, and he pushes rope through them, tying your legs in place too. Looking back to survey his handiwork he can't help smiling. You're spreadeagled on the bed with your arms above your head, completely helpless. 

“Ya ready?” He asks. 

Over the months you've been together he's got better about checking in with you. It took him a while to understand that just because you're submissive doesn't mean he can do whatever he wants and you'll be happy. Not that he hasn't always fussed over you from time to time, but his aftercare isn't exactly consistent. It took a few tears for him to realise that he needs to love on you afterwards too. Every time.

“Yes, Daddy,” you tell him, even though you're not sure you are. 

He takes the head of the cane and puts it between your legs again, gently rubbing it over your pussy, collecting the arousal there and spreading it around. You moan at the feeling of the cold metal against you, almost certain now that you know where this is headed.

You feel it push inside you and gasp. It's so hard and cold, so unyielding, that it almost frightens you. But it's also what you've wanted to do ever since you saw this cane for the first time. You know there's a sword inside it. You know you shouldn't want this. But you really do. As he starts to pull it out and push it back in again, a little further each time, you hear yourself moaning desperately. 

“You're such a filthy little girl,” he tells you. “Letting me fuck you with whatever I want.”

You whine. “Yes, Daddy… Ohhh…”

“You like that?”

He pushes the cane in deeper, so far now that the thrusts are hitting your cervix, bruising it. You squeak.

“Daddy, it hurts.”

He shakes his head, carrying on with his movements, sliding the cane in and out, slick with your juices. 

“Should have done as you were told then, shouldn't ya?” Pushing in somehow even further.

You yelp. “S-sorry.”

He laughs and lightly slaps your clit, enjoying the noises you make in response.

“Maybe this will teach ya to listen to me, hm? Little bit of pain. You're gonna feel this tomorrow, little girl.”

He picks up the pace, slamming the end of the cane into you over and over again as his thumb makes circles on your clit. It hurts but it feels so good at the same time, and you don't know what to do with yourself, pulling on your restraints, bruising your wrists now too. 

“Cum for Daddy like the filthy little slut I know y’are,” he hisses. 

You can't help it, the words and the sensations are too much and suddenly you find yourself crying out, your back arching off the bed as you cum hard and messily.

“Fuck,” you mutter as you feel him slowly pull the cane back out of you again. 

“Lick it clean f'me,” he instructs, pushing the end against your lips. 

You open them willingly and find yourself deep-throating it, split everywhere. He laughs again. 

“Nasty little girl.”

You whine and he finally pulls the cane back out of your mouth, watching as you cough a little and then look up at him desperately. 

“Want your dick, Daddy, please,” you beg, opening your mouth again. 

He grins. “You promise to swallow all Daddy's cum like a good girl?”

When you nod eagerly he unzips his pants and pulls his dick out, hard from watching you like this. He loves degrading you, though he's sure he shouldn't. Sometimes it seems like you're the only thing in his life that he can control. Straddling your head he pushes into your warm, wet mouth, groaning at the feeling of you all around him. 

Guiding his dick with his hand, he starts to pump in and out, picking up speed as he feels his pleasure build. 

“Mmm. Good girl,” he mumbles, starting to lose control already, pushing further inside, fucking your throat. 

You moan and cough and struggle to breathe a little, pulling on your cuffs. Feeling tingling and wetness between your legs again. You love taking him like this, it really turns you on. Love especially watching him lose control, starting off gently and building to rough mouth fucking, making spit flow out everywhere and making you gasp, desperate for air.

“C’mon little girl,” His voice is raspy now. “Ya can take more than this, I know ya can.”

You whimper around his dick, your eyes wide and watery as he thrusts in deeper, obscene wet noises coming from your mouth and throat, pulling even harder on your cuffs. You want to grab his ass and pull him even further into you. Or touch yourself. Either would do.

He's not paying any attention to what you want though, his own high is so close now he keeps thrusting in and out, grunting as he feels his release in the base of his dick. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm cumming,” he tells you, breathlessly, a warning that comes a few seconds before a last deep thrust and his release emptying down your throat. 

His hips rock a little as he closes his eyes, moaning and groaning at how good it feels. Then he remembers to pull out and lies down next to you, his breath coming in harsh pants.

“Good girl,” he whispers as he traces the contours of your face with a finger.

“Please,” you whisper back. 

“Hmm?” 

He thinks you probably want to be untied and moves to unlock your handcuffs. 

“N-no,” You just about manage. “Will you make me cum again?” Your eyes big and pleading. 

He chuckles. “Oh lil girl. Ya never are satisfied, are ya?”

You whine. “Love takin’ you so much, makes me so wet,” you tell him, wriggling about against your restraints. 

“I know,” he hums, then lets his finger trail down your body, over the curve of your breast and down to your hip bone. 

You wiggle again and he laughs. “Alright, alright. Since you've been so good f’me.”

The finger makes its way between your pussy lips, stroking up and down until it's covered in your arousal. Then he slowly circles your clit with it, watching for your reaction, your face reddening even more, teeth nibbling on your lower lip. He loves being able to bring you to the edge so quickly with just one finger. 

“Cum for me, baby,” he says, so sweetly that when you do, your body pulsing and a soft moan escaping your lips, you find tears falling  down your cheeks too.

“Hey,” he quickly undoes all the restraints, pulling you into his arms. “What's wrong, baby? Was I too rough?” 

His gentleness makes you cry even more, sobbing gently against his chest. 

“Baby? I'm sorry. Ya know I love ya…”

“Oh, El,” you shuffle. “I loved it. I dunno why I'm crying…”

He snuggles you closer. “Are ya sure I wasn't too rough?”

You shake your head. “No, no. I loved it. I love you.”

He strokes your back with his big hands and you start to calm down. Sighing softly as you finally relax. 

“You can play with them y'know,” he murmurs into your ear.

“Hmm?” 

“The canes. If you're careful.”

You move your head back and stroke his face gently. “Really, Daddy?”

He smiles. “Really, baby. Think ya learned your lesson.”

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@vintagepresley @arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @another-identityofmine @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @cattcb @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @ccab @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978

[redstarwriting]

hobie brown with a pink gf

hobie brown x badass pink!fem!reader hcs

request?: yes

request: “HI RED!!!! idk if you’ve done this already but i really wanna see what hobie would be like with a badass pink!gf. like she wears pink demonias nd stuff but can like hold her own yk? i hope this makes sense LMAO”

requested by: anon

warnings:  language, mentions of stealing, alluding to s*xual harassment from men, cops

a/n: omggg the only person i could think of with this request is chrissy chlapecka wearing her all pink outfits and telling everyone to hit men with their cars LMAO thank you for the request, anon🖤

───────────────────────────────────

- givin me chrissy chlapecka vibes - he loves it - listen - if you have any type of distinct style or attitude going against what most people believe - or one that challenges any type of authority or societal beliefs - Hobie immediately respects you - doesn’t necessarily mean he will be best friends with you - but he respects people who he can see have that kind of rebellious “fuck the patriarchy” attitude - so when he saw you - all pink outfit - pink makeup - pink accessories - pink boots that look like they could kill a man - exactly what you intend with said boots btw - he respected it - especially since you seemed to be taking the stereotypical “girl color” (whatever the fuck that means) and putting a spin on it they wouldn’t like - and girl when he saw you kick some man’s ass - all pretty in pink? - he was like ooh yeah - oh she’s the one - he loves to steal anything and everything pink that he sees - all for you - and he does - this style you have is the definition of him saying “Wear whatever you want, I can fight.” - and in response - you just scoff - “I’ll wear whatever I want, I can fight.” - he loves it - he loves that you’re always ready to stomp someone’s face with your pretty little boots - the amount of time he’s actually had to hold you back is amazing - and he doesn’t hold you back because he thinks you won’t beat the person’s ass - or because he wants you to be the ”better person” or whatever the fuck that is - but because he doesn't want the piggies getting any ideas when it comes to you - he knows you can hold your own - but he can’t help but be a little protective of you - and he just doesn’t trust cops - they’d see you looking all pretty and try something - not on his watch - he’ll take over if there are cops around - but if it’s just a slimy man? - he’ll still be there, ready to step in and kill the guy at any time - but you can handle yourself - so he lets you handle yourself - he loves when you paint his nails for him - he has so many shades of pink nail polish now - and you’ll paint his nails all pink all the time - at first, he was kinda like hmmmmm am i gonna like this? - spoiler - he did - he still paints his nails black all the time but when you ask to put some pink in there he’s all for it - he doesn’t realize his flat is slowly becoming more and more pink as you start to move in - because he doesn’t necessarily care all that much - he really likes the color now - but when Gwen comments on it he’s like… oh yeah - “Hobie? Have you found a new love for the color pink?”   “What?”   “Your place. There’s so much pink in here.”   “Oh… (Y/n) and I are gettin’ serious. She’s been movin’ in. But yeah, I do fancy the color pink, now. What of it?” - he does have a favorite shade of pink that you wear - but he loves when you wear all pink - so he acts like he doesn’t have a favorite - but he’s bad at it - cause the minute you wear a bright obnoxious shade of pink? - he’s gone - he’s simpin - he’s in love - he will compliment you more than he already does - which is a lot - and have his hands all over you - needless to say you’ve incorporated that color into your wardrobe a lot more - he just loves your style - and your attitude - the two of you are the government’s worst enemy honestly - and even though you’re a badass - you don’t need a man or anyone for that matter - you have a soft spot for your anarchic asshole - and sometimes you just like to see him be the badass - cause he sure can be - you’re a “don’t fuck with us” couple - a “fuck around and find out” couple - and the two of you wouldn’t want it any other way <3

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[peachesofteal]

Peachy I am so in love with the dead disco Omegaverse AU! It absolutely plays on my heartstrings!

Can we have a continuation of the story so far? What happens when Darling finally comes off of her heat—I’m ready for the tough conversation!!!

-💀👻

18+ MDNI / dead disco omegaverse au / mature themes

takes place after this

Your head is stuffed with cotton. It’s full of nonsense, heavy and confused, like you’re drifting between a dream and reality, only one thing painfully clear.

Your heat is fading away, you’re nestled between two very warm bodies. It’s a hazy kind of warmth, the type that hangs heavy in the air, and your face presses further into the searing temperature of skin, seeking, smelling. You’re drinking in the scent of your alphas, blinking to try to clear your eyesight in the dark. The smell of them, woodsmoke and balsam, sinks through your consciousness until you’re shifting restlessly, detangling your limbs from the web of bodies, pushing and pulling against their grip.

You come to reality very quickly, and fear floods your nervous system.

No. No, no, no- you… you didn’t, they… they can’t have been here. They shouldn’t have been here-

“Omega.” Johnny murmurs against the back of your head, hand holding your hip steady, stroking circles into your skin to soothe you, keeping you in place. “Ye with us?”

You whimper. You can’t help it. It comes second nature, slipping out before you can stop it. Your muscles seize, like they’re preparing to spur you into action, and the room spins.

“No.” Simon murmurs. “Settle, darling.” He starts up a deep hum from his chest, harmonics vibrating through his bones to yours, genetics and hormones reacting to the pull of his designation, your body going boneless between them. “That’s it, good girl.”

Something is wrong. Beneath their efforts at producing a calming, soothing scent and atmosphere, there’s a tinge of anxiety. Of worry. Of distress.

You swallow.

“What’s going on?” You whisper, clenching your eyes shut.

You don’t want to face this. You don’t want to hear it… the truth. What they’ll say to you. About you.

Whispers of your past shudder across your mind, memories that you’ve worked so hard to keep away, locked up in a little box somewhere in the back of your consciousness.

You’re dirty. Your heats are dirty. You’re disgusting, like all omegas. Useless. Nothing. Just a thing to be bred, to be used. You have no value.

“I need ye to take a deep breath for me.” Johnny coaches, hand nestling against your breastbone from behind. When you do, it’s a struggle, jagged and rough. His lips find the shell of your ear, breathe fanning over your cheek. “Another one, darling. Try again-“ your ribs expand, and he kisses you sweetly. “Good. That’s it, just like that.”

“Are you hungry?” Simon asks, and you nod automatically. You’re starving, and they’ve most likely been listening to your stomach rumble for hours. He gives you a gentle smile. “I’m going to start some breakfast, and Johnny’ll get you in a shower in a minute.” You nod again. You feel like jelly, sore all over, and you imagine you probably haven’t been out of this bed in days.

The door opens, orange dusk filtering in from the living room as Johnny gives you another kiss along your jaw and sits up, pulling you close.

“Alright darling. Let’s get in the shower.”

Simon made way too much breakfast.

All your favorites, which is a good sign, you guess. And Johnny is glued to you, holding you in his lap on the couch while you eat, moving your plate and your coffee cup to and from the table to your hands.

Maybe this means they won’t throw you out.

“So.” You try to smile but it feels forced and wrong. “Am I in trouble?”

“No.” Johnny vows.

“No, of course not.” Simon agrees, pulling the plate from your fingers with a gentle tug. “But there’s a lot we need to talk about.” Your nose tingles with the threat of tears, and you fist your fingers together.

The silence is loud for a long moment. Uncomfortable, until Simon breaks it.

“I’m not going to ask why you didn’t tell us, because we know.”

The tears start immediately. You’re breaking under the weight of your shame, your fear, your past. It’s too heavy, and it hurts, ice in your chest like you’re dying.

“You know?”

“I called your doctor.” What? He what? Anger, and panic wells up in the back of your throat.

“You had no right-“

“You left the flat in the middle of your heat, in a near feral state. We found you on the street with another Alpha trying to lay a claim to you. I’m sorry for invading your privacy, but I’m not sorry for protecting you. We needed to know what was going on.” You tamp down the urge to jump to your feet and run out the front door. Johnny keeps his arms firm around your body, and you press against him anxiously.

You can’t do this. They’ll want to talk about it. They’ll want to know everything. They’ll know you’re dirty.

“Darling, hey. Look at me.” It’s Simon again, trying to catch your eye. “Everything is alright. There is nothing, nothing that you could ever do, or ever tell us, that would make us love you any less.” He’s so soft with his words, trying to coax you, but your head swings back and forth in denial.

“That’s not true.” You have to get out of here. Something is banging at the brink of your mind… something wild and raw, something trying to claw its way in. It’s violent… and feral. “I have to go.”

“What?” Johnny tugs you in tighter, but you thrash against the feeling, hysteria bubbling up in your stomach.

“Easy.” Simon wraps a hand around the back of your neck, squeezing just a bit. “Why is that not true?” When you don’t answer, he sighs. “Omega.” It’s a pull, the command of an Alpha, and you grit your teeth.

“I… I was always taught that heats are wrong, that Omegas are useless. That I’m-“

“No.” Johnny stops you. “There’s nothing wrong with ye.”

“You don’t understand.” You protest, and they both watch you mournfully.

Johnny presses his lips to your hair, and Simon pulls your hand into his.

“So tell us.”