#and you know what? I still don't know the answer. I should. but I don't.

[hrrtshape]

read this if you're confused about persistence, if you've been affirming for months and nothing's shown up, if you're wondering whether you're doing something wrong but can't figure out what. not a method post. not a technique post. just what’s actually going on when it's not working yet.

ok. so. hi. this is going to be messy and probably upsetting. not because it's dramatic. don't flatter it. but because it's honest. and honesty gets weird when you're dealing with a field that's still so underexamined. we're all just poking the edge of the simulation with a biro. and maybe i should leave it alone. maybe i'm overcomplicating again. maybe this is one of those moments where i should just shut up and script and go to bed. but. no. i can't. i don't know how to shut up about this. and maybe this isn't even the truth. maybe this is just one lens. but fine. whatever. here it is.

context: someone asked me today. "how do i force myself to shift in a short amount of time?" (@srcerers this is your fault....affectionately) and i was writing the usual. the "correct" answer. if you decide it, it's done. if you say you shift instantly, you do. period. PERIOD. done and done, tried and true. the golden assumption + confidence = success formula.

and then i spiralled. because i've been saying that for months. and yes, i've shifted. yes, i've seen results. but before that???????? i spent ages deciding. persisting. affirming. knowing. and still. nothing. and no, this isn't about pedestals. this isn't about wanting it too much. this isn't a fucking disney villain song about obsession. this isn't "just let go babe." no one here is pacing the astral gates with mascara running. this isn't longing. this is clarity. this is when you know it's yours and reality still has the audacity to play pretend.

you're not begging. you're not desperate. you're just wondering why the algorithm is lagging. and you're allowed to. you're god, and the lights are flickering. you're allowed to knock on the wall and ask why.

and sure. someone might read this and say "you were overthinking." or "you were still checking the 3d." but it's not that. this isn't panic. it's not frantic. it's the calm after the calibration. this is what happens after you stop checking. after you stabilise. after you fully assume. when you don't need results to believe. but they still don't come. and so you ask. not because you're doubting. because you're refining. it's not sabotage. it's devotion. it's wanting to understand the edge of your own dominion.

and the thing is. in the past, i wasn't hoping. i wasn't tiptoeing. i was in. all in. clearly, absolutely. no checking. no waiting. i wasn't treating the assumption like a wish. i was living like it was already law. so i continued in this spiral. because if you're god. if your thoughts create. if you say "i am in my dr" now and you mean it, like actually mean it, shouldn't that be enough?? i say this confidently, because after shifting so much, yes, that is indeed what happens. but. for people who haven't experienced that privilege. like. confidence plus assumption equals done. right??? so then why not. where does the decision go. does it just evaporate. does it fall behind the couch cushions of the multiverse. in what fucking universe do you decide something every day with conviction and it still doesn't root. how does that not calcify into fact.

so let me give you a scenario. maybe it's you. it was definitely me.

you're affirming day and night. not hoping. not wishing. knowing. you've decided you are in your dr. period. you walk like it. talk like it. feel it. you're not checking for results. not looking over your shoulder. not waiting for it to kick in. because it already did. your inner world is loud. it's screaming this is it. i'm there. not even zeus could knock me off the road because as god is my witness, i am in my goddamn dr.

and, nothing. no hogwarts. no mansion. no parisian cigarette moment with my boo in the rain. just your room. your walls. your body. again. again. again.

and it doesn't make sense. because the law is the law. you're god. your thoughts create. shifting is instant. so what the fuck is happening.

and look, i used to think there were only two ways to persist. either you're in power mode, clean, cold certainty. emotionally detached, i've already shifted, i'm just reinforcing it. or you're in panic mode, still affirming, still assuming, but there's this silent grip underneath. if i stop deciding this, it'll fall apart. and yeah, on the surface those feel like two different planets. one feels sovereign. the other feels shaky.

but if you strip the tone out of it, if you stop obsessing over how it sounds and just look at the architecture, both are assumptions. both are decisions. both count. because the law doesn't care if you're cool about it or crying about it. it only cares that you're doing it. that it's declared. that it's held. so if both modes are valid, then why do they sometimes fail????????

and this is where it started to come apart for me. because both 'i've already shifted' and 'i need to keep deciding' are still assumptions. one just feels better. it's smoother. but structurally, they're the same. and if the panic one isn't checking, if it's clean panic, if it's quiet panic, it should still land. it should still work. but sometimes it doesn't. and that's what broke the seal. because if it's not about hope, not about doubt, not about waiting, not about checking, and you're affirming like a master shifter, what the fuck is it? and i'll be using me as a poster child of examples and say that, hey, although shifting is now easy for me - i still struggle with manifestations. so. why???

and that question is the reason i'm even writing this at all.

so now maybe you're thinking (if i hopefully have not fully gutted your brain as i have with mine while writing this):

maybe it's because i'm doing it from panic, not power. maybe i'm secretly doubting. maybe i haven't let go. maybe i'm still in the waiting room. maybe that's because i keep looking at the 3d.

no. stop. cut it out. that's noise.

you can be in panic. you can be in power. it doesn't matter. if you are persisting. assuming. deciding. then it should work. that's the rule. that's the contract. it's not a myth. it's not a loophole. it's not some cult-coded trick line you chant and hope it lands. it's the structure. it's the law.

i kept trying to find a reason. maybe it's density. maybe it's linear cause and effect, like flipping a light switch and expecting the bulb. but loa doesn't work like that. and shifting definitely doesn't. it's not circuitry. it's not push-button response.

if you are the light, then the switch shouldn't matter. you're not triggering something, you are the trigger. you're the source. the mechanism. the whole #&*!$%@ circuit board. so what's jamming the signal. if it's not doubt. not timing. not belief. then what.

and here's the closest thing to an answer i've got (half consolation, half theory, fully an attempt to keep myself from throwing my laptop across the room):

you've already shifted. you just haven't caught up to yourself yet.

i know. i hate how that sounds too. it's vague. it's annoying. it feels like spiritual scaffolding. but it's not. or i at least hope it's not.

when we say shifting is instant, we don't mean the wallpaper peels itself off and your mom turns into dumbledore. we mean the moment you decide, the reality activates. the coordinates reroute. the entire grid adjusts.

it's as if you are rerouting a train track mid-motion. you're still moving. but you're not on the same line anymore.

the problem is, we expect the scenery to change with the switch. and sometimes it does. but sometimes it doesn't. and that's because the 3d isn't a flatscreen. it's not theatre. it's not performance. it's a mirror. and mirrors don't update because you want them to. they update because you've changed so deeply that they literally can't reflect the old you anymore.

so when you say "i am in my dr" and it doesn't look like your dr, that's not proof it failed. it's just a delay. you're already in the new field, but the particles haven't aligned. and yeah, that's maddening. because your body feels the shift. your head knows it. but your eyes won't show it. and then you start to doubt. not openly. but subtly. in the quiet. in the repetition.

so. what can i sum up. persistence is not about time. it's about saturation.

it's not about hours logged or how many affirmations you can fire off in a spiral notebook. it's about how deep it goes. how thick it sticks. and no, that doesn't mean screaming it louder. doesn't mean performing it. it means not needing to say it at all. not because you gave up. not because you're done trying. but because it's default now. baseline. unconscious. it is. not a spell. not a statement. just identity.

shifting isn't something you win. it's not a trophy for spiritual discipline. it's a symptom. a side effect of self-recognition so total, so absolute, that there's no room left for contradiction.

so yeah. both "i've already shifted" and "i need to keep deciding" can work. panic or power doesn't matter if the persistence is clean. if you're not checking. not looping. not measuring the silence. but if you're still waiting, even subtly, even spiritually, it's not saturation. it's performance.

and that doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. it just means you're still becoming. still burning off the part of you that thinks shifting is something to win, not something you already are.

and yes, some people shift instantly. some people shift after six months of saying "i'm already there." and they're not better than you. they're not more "aligned."

they just hit saturation faster. their idea of "this is true" had less gunk to burn off.

you say: but i'm god. i decide. why hasn't it happened yet?

and i say: it has. if it feels like it hasn't, you're still relating to it like something outside you. you're still watching for it.

reality isn’t late. reality isn't anything. it just reflects. it doesn't show up when you're ready, it has to show up when you're being. not when you want. not when you wait. when you are.

if it's not visible yet, it's not because it's in transit. it's because you're still checking. you're still measuring. you’re not failing. you're not early. you're just still treating truth like a method.

and truth isn’t a process. it’s a position. a posture. you don't need to persist for six months. you don't need to reach peak saturation like it’s a score. you just need to stop making realness conditional.

stop affirming like you're earning it. start assuming like it's breath. like it’s done and there’s nothing to explain.

because shifting isn't slow. it's not cumulative. it’s not linear. it’s identity. the second you say: i am - it's done.

not "on its way." not "almost here." and certainly not "it's glitching."

done. and if you're still asking when, then you haven't decided. not really. so stop trying to time it. just be it.

and look. i still believe shifting is easy. because it is. i've done it. i know it's not in charge. but sometimes it's not about method. it's about the silence in between. and that doesn't make the law wrong. it just makes the process actual. i'm not saying shifting or manifesting is hard. i'm saying that staying loyal to the truth when it hasn't shown its face yet takes a different kind of strength.

you don't have to overanalyse it.

but you're allowed to want to understand it.

that doesn't undo the truth.

it just lets you live inside it better.

[inkedinshadows]

The Greatest Gift

Pairing: Azriel x f!reader

Summary: Being introduced to a partner's family is always nerve-wracking, especially when Azriel has never talked much about his mother and you don't know what to expect.

Warnings: pregnant reader, barely edited, maybe rushed ending?

Word count: 3.7k

A/N: so sorry for being late in posting this one! Literally wrote the last part today and edited quite quickly so I could post it. Hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

Main Masterlist | Week Masterlist | Azriel Masterlist | AO3

@sjmxreaderweek

“Stop fussing. You look lovely.”

You looked at your reflection in the mirror for the hundredth time and frowned. You could see why Az thought that, but there was still something that felt… off. You just couldn't put your finger on what it was.

“Something's missing,” you murmured to yourself, smoothing out non-existent creases on your dress. You had picked your most beautiful one—a nice summer dress that flowed to your feet and hugged your body perfectly. Just tight enough to reveal the small bump that was beginning to show.

Your hair was styled in a low bun at the nape of your neck—classy and delicate, but not too formal. You didn't want to come off as too concerned with appearances. For that same reason, you had kept your makeup minimal and natural.

Maybe that was it. Maybe you should have done more. It wasn’t too late, you could still—

“Y/N.”

Azriel came up behind you, his arms sliding around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your neck. “There's no need to be so nervous, my love.”

Your eyes met in the mirror, but, unlike every other time, his soft smile did little to calm you.

“I just don't want to make a bad first impression,” you murmured. You tasted blood on your tongue and realized you were chewing on your inner cheek again. You stopped immediately.

“And you won't.” His hands came to rest on your hips as you both looked at the reflection. “Look at you. You're gorgeous, Y/N.”

You were beautiful—you could admit that much. But you didn't feel perfect, and that's what you were aiming for.

Turning around to face Azriel, you placed your hands on his broad chest, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your palms. He had also dressed up nicely, and you knew he had done it for you, to help you feel more at ease. He didn't have to, after all. It was his mother you were about to have lunch with. He didn't have to impress anyone.

“I don't want to disappoint her.” You looked into the depths of those beautiful hazel eyes. “She's your mom.”

“And you're my mate, who's also pregnant with my child,” he answered, his hands now resting on your belly. “You have nothing to worry about. She's going to love you. Trust me.”

Hearing the certainty in his voice, you finally relaxed. You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his, breathing in his familiar scent.

Despite having been mated for a few years—and all the decades of friendship first and being in love later—you had never met Rosalind. Every time he visited her, after Winter Solstice and for both their birthdays, you never accompanied him. He had never asked you to, and you had never pushed him about it. You knew how he felt about his mother, how he wanted to keep her sheltered from a cruel world that had already taken so much from her.

She's a kind soul, he always said. You didn't doubt it.

That's why you had been so surprised when he had come home after his last visit and told you he would like you to meet his mother.

And here you were now.

Azriel kissed your forehead before pulling back. “You're ready to go, baby?”

You nodded, turning to take one last look in the mirror. And that's when you realized what was missing.

“Wait! Hold on…” You opened the top drawer of the dresser and rummaged through it until you found what you were looking for. “Aha!” you exclaimed triumphantly, holding a little necklace between your fingers.

The jewelry itself wasn't anything special—a thin chain with a small star-shaped pendant—but it held a symbolic meaning: it was one of the first gifts you had ever received from Azriel, back when you were nothing more than friends, and every time you wore it, things went well. It might be just superstition, but it quickly became your good luck charm. That's why it was reserved for special occasions such as this one.

“Your lucky necklace?” Azriel took it as you offered it and stepped behind you to put it around your neck. “I thought we were meeting my mother, not going on some kind of adventure.”

You whirled, worried that your nervousness was starting to annoy him. Instead you found him with an amused smile on his lips, looking down at you with a softness that made your heart flutter.

“Y/N, my love.” He cupped your cheeks, his voice low and gentle. “All that matters to me is that you're comfortable. We can reschedule, if you want.”

You shook your head and a small smile appeared on your face. “No,” you said firmly. “I want to meet her. I'm just a bit nervous.”

When he arched a brow, you chuckled. “Okay, maybe more than a bit.”

Azriel leaned in to brush a kiss across your lips. “I know. But I can already tell you she's going to adore you. Trust me. Everyone does.”

Your smile grew, and with one last look at your reflection, you finally stepped back. “Alright. I just need to grab the pastries and we can go.”

~~~~~~

Azriel winnowed you to the outskirts of a little village. Though the street was quiet, peppered only by a few houses, you could hear children laughing and screaming playfully in the distance.

The manor in front of you—Rosehall, Azriel had called it—was smaller than anticipated, with colorful flowers in every window.

You smiled at the sight and let Azriel guide you to the red-painted door.

When he didn't knock, you looked up at him and found his eyes already on you.

“What?” you asked, brows furrowed.

“You're doing it again.” His hand came up to cup your face. “Stop biting your cheek, love. It'll bleed.”

“I didn't even realize I was— sorry.” With a sigh, you cleared your mind of the nervousness that was starting to rise again. Then you gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

Azriel nodded, and his hand fell away from your cheek to knock on the red wood. It took only a few seconds for the door to open, revealing a smiling Illyrian female.

Her hair was the same black as her son's, just like her hazel eyes—both common Illyrians traits. But you knew Azriel's face well enough to notice they shared the shape of the nose, the curve of the mouth, the slightly upward tilt of the eyes. He wasn't the spitting image of her, but no one could have mistaken them for anything other than mother and son.

“Oh, my boy! It's so nice to see you again so soon!” Rosalind hugged her son, who could embrace her with only one arm, the other one holding the wicker basket with home-baked pastries.

“Hi, mom,” he replied, his tone as soft as the one he usually reserved for you. She smiled as he leaned down to place a kiss on the crown of her head. She was several inches shorter than him, just like you.

Rosalind then turned to face you, and a second later her arms were around you. “It's such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

You were so stunned by the sudden display of affection that it took you a moment to return the gesture, and another one to find the words. “The pleasure is all mine.”

When you pulled back, Rosalind’s smile was even brighter than before, and it was enough to make you forget any semblance of anxiety.

“Come in. Come, dears,” she said, stepping aside. “Come inside. Let me take a good look at you, Y/N.”

Azriel placed a gentle hand on your lower back to set you walking, and as you passed by his mother, you caught a glimpse of the wings Rosalind kept tucked behind her back. Twin long scars ran down both of them—clipped. A wave of horror coiled in your gut, and you had to swallow to keep your composure.

“Are you alright?” Azriel whispered close to your ear. Ever the observant mate.

You gave him a nod, then quickly took the basket from him just to have something else to occupy your mind. When his mother closed the door and guided you to the sitting room, you offered it to her with a smile. “I made these for you, since it was your birthday last week. It's pastries.”

Rosalind took it, lifting the lid to peek at what was inside. Her eyes gleamed as she looked up again, a bright smile on her lips. “You're too sweet, darling. You didn't have to. Thank you.”

Despite having just met her, you could already see why Azriel always said she was a kind soul. If Rosalind had been your mother, you would want to protect her from such a world too.

The Illyrian female handed the basket to her son, instructing him to take it to the kitchen and if he could please start setting the table. Azriel brushed a kiss to your hair, then disappeared down the hallway.

His mother turned to you again.

“Oh, Azriel said you were beautiful, but…” Her hands hovered over your baby bump, but she didn't touch it. “You're glowing, Y/N.”

You smiled back at her. “Thank you. Az never told me much about you… I'm glad I finally met you.”

Rosalind shook her head. “Of course he didn't,” she said with a soft laugh. “He thinks even talking about me will put me in danger.”

You couldn't help but chuckle with her. You were very aware of Azriel's overprotectiveness. It had only grown since you got pregnant.

“It's because he loves you,” you offered gently.

“Oh, I never doubted that.” Rosalind gestured for you to sit on the plush couch, then followed to settle beside you.

The sitting room was large and inviting, with sand-colored rugs layered across the wooden floor and shelves filled with old books and trinkets. Only a few paintings hung on the wall, and your gaze lingered on them as you leaned back against the deep red cushions of the couch.

“But I think he loves you more.”

You turned to look at Rosalind, opening your mouth to protest that she couldn't compare the two things. But she leaned in as if to reveal a secret, a smile playing on her lips.

“He always talks about you,” she murmured.

Your lips curled. “He does?”

Rosalind nodded. “Oh, yes. He can go on for hours about you.”

Your eyes darted to the hallway, at the end of which you'd caught a glimpse of the dining room as Azriel had walked away to follow his mother's instructions. Now you could hear the faint rustle of dishes being arranged on the table.

“He'd done it since he met you, you know,” his mother went on. “The first time he told me about you, he said you were the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. And that you were so nice and sweet, he hoped you'd fall in love with him one day.”

Your smile grew. Azriel, usually so reserved and quiet, had been talking to his mother about you since the beginning. That shouldn't have surprised you—you'd always been close, after all—but the things he'd told her… You never thought he'd so open about it from the very start, even with his own mother. Maybe you'd just assumed that since he didn't talk to you about her, he wouldn't talk to her about you.

As if on cue, Azriel appeared in the doorway. “The table's ready,” he announced.bhh

His eyes darted between you and his mother, and he arched a brow when twin complicit smiles bloomed on your faces.

Rosalind rose to her feet, wings shifting awkwardly behind her. “Well, I should go check on the food,” she announced. “It's probably ready, or it’ll be soon. So you can start getting comfortable at the table.”

On her way out, she placed a hand on Azriel's arm. “Thank you, dear,” she said with a smile before continuing down the hallway.

Azriel watched her go, then turned to you with a questioning look in his hazel eyes. “Did I miss something?”

Walking up to him, you tried to suppress your smile but failed. Biting your lip was the only way. “Did you really spend hours telling your mom about me?”

He stilled, and you noticed the tips of his ears turning a faint shade of red. For a moment, he didn't meet your eyes.

“She told you about that, I see.”

Mother above, he was adorable when he got flustered.

“She did,” you grinned, leaving the room with him following close behind. You glanced at him over your shoulder. “She also said you hoped I'd fall in love with you from the very beginning.”

Azriel's ears were now completely flushed. But his lips quirked up at the corners as he said, “Of course I did. You were perfect.”

You reached the dining room—smaller than the sitting room, yet just as cozy. Cushioned chairs suited for Illyrians surrounded the table, and sunlight poured in through a large window.

But before you could turn to face Azriel and answer, his arms were already around you, pulling you back against his chest.

“I was perfect?” you repeated as you turned your head back to smile at him.

“Mhm,” he hummed, brushing his lips against yours. “You always have been.”

His broad hands slid down to rest on your small bump.

“And now you're even more perfect,” he murmured.

You finally turned around in his arms and looped yours around his neck. “That's also thanks to you, you know,” you replied with a smile.

His hands found your hips and he pulled you flush against him. "Some days I have to remind myself that,” he admitted quietly. “That there’s a wonderful new life inside of you. And I helped create it.”

He didn’t have to say more. You knew why he needed the reminder—that someone like him could create something so beautiful. After everything he had been through and he had done, he had convinced himself he would never be good enough to create such a miracle. And now he was being proven wrong.

“You did,” you replied, nails gently scratching the nape of his neck. “And this wonderful life will become a wonderful baby. Our baby. And you will be a wonderful father.”

His eyes locked with yours, and slowly, another smile appeared on his face. “Our baby,” he repeated.

Then leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss—a silent thanks you, a testament to the love you shared. And even after you broke apart, the feel of his lips on yours lingered like the last warmth of the sun before it sets.

The delicious smell of roasted lamb pervaded the room, and followed by the quiet rustle of dishes and pans that announced Rosalind's entrance.

She glanced at the two of you still standing there, a warm smile curving her lips as she placed the serving plate in the center of the table, where Azriel had left space for it.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took a small step back from him.

Even after your chat with Rosalind, being caught kissing her son felt oddly awkward. You weren't quite sure why—you were mated to him and pregnant with his child, after all. And Rosalind didn’t even seem bothered by it.

She gestured toward the table and the chairs. “Come sit, dears,” she encouraged. “We don’t want it to get cold, now do we?”

Azriel placed a hand on your lower back and gently guided you to a chair, pulling it out for you. As you sat, he leaned down to murmur in your ear, “Your cheek, my love.”

He was already moving to sit next to you before you even glanced at him.

You offered him a grateful smile, then helped Rosalind serve the food, realizing only then what she had cooked.

Roasted lamb. Baked potatoes. The same blend of herbs you always used—flavors that bloomed across your tongue at the first bite.

“This is delicious,” you said, smiling. “And it's one of my favorites, too.” With a look toward Azriel, you added, “What a nice coincidence.”

“Yes,” he replied, far too casually. “A lucky coincidence.”

His mother chuckled and you playfully rolled your eyes at him.

“I wanted to make a good impression,” Rosalind explained. “It's not every day I get to meet my son's mate.”

At least you weren't the only one who'd been worried about first impressions.

You turned back to her with a smile. “It's not every day I get to my mate's mother,” you replied. You nodded toward the basket of pastries you'd made, now waiting on the sideboard, ready for dessert. “I asked him too, for the pastries. I wanted to get you a real present, but.. I've never been very good with gifts.”

Azriel had told you not to worry, that you could show up empty-handed and his mom wouldn't mind. But it hadn't felt like enough, yet you always struggled to find the right gift for your friends, so how were you supposed to pick one for your mate’s mother? So you'd asked him what she liked best and baked it yourself.

Rosalind slowly set her fork down and reached across the table to take your hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Don't worry, dear. I have everything I need here.” Her smile was soft, reassuring. “And you've already given me the greatest gift I could ask for.”

At your confused frown, she gave your hand another squeeze. “You make my son happy,” she explained. “It's all I ever wanted.”

Your heart swelled at her words. “Don't worry,” you assured her. “That's all I want too.”

Your gaze drifted to Azriel. His eyes were already on you, love shining in their hazel depths. Beneath the table, his hand came to rest on your knee.

“I told you both you’d like each other,” he said softly, glancing between you and his mother. “You were both nervous for nothing.”

Picking up your fork again, you replied, “That's because you never introduced us before, Az.”

He looked like he was about to protest, but then he sighed instead. “Yes, that's fair,” he conceded. “Maybe I should have.”

“Oh, it's alright,” Rosalind chimed in. “We're all here now and that's what matters.”

You nodded, and while you and Azriel returned to your delicious meal, Rosalind fell silent, a thoughtful expression replacing the smile she often wore.

After a moment, she spoke again.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, looking first at her son, then at you. “A favor, if it’s not too much trouble.”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yes, of course.”

Azriel looked curious now, though he remained silent. Maybe he hadn’t expected her to ask anything, either.

Rosalind hesitated for a second before continuing. “When the baby arrives… could you visit me more often?” She paused, then quickly added, “Or maybe I could visit you? But I’d like to be a part of the baby's life and watch them grow.”

You blinked, stunned by the suddenness of the request. Of course you wanted her to be involved, to know her grandchild and be part of this growing family.

But the emotion behind her words caught you off guard, stealing whatever answer you might’ve given.

Before you could find your voice, Rosalind turned to Azriel.

A new vulnerability shone her eyes—his eyes. A mix of sadness and tenderness in equal parts, as though she were remembering something from their past.

“I didn't get to be the mother you needed when it mattered most,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. Still, she went on. “So let me try to make it up by being the grandmother your child deserves.”

All you could do was watch, your heart straining, as Azriel’s throat bobbed once.

“You were—” He stopped, shook his head, then tried again. “You are the best mother I could ask for, mom.”

They shared a heartfelt smile, and for a moment, you felt like an intruder on a private, sacred moment.

“Of course we can visit more often,” he said gently. “Or you can finally come to Velaris, if you'd prefer. Rhys and Cassian would be happy to see you again.”

Rosalind's eyes lit up, her smile blooming bright. A mother, happy to reunite with her son's world. With his chosen family, and the new life he was building.

You watched her, and wondered—would you wear that same expression when your baby arrived? That same fierce, unwavering love that would never make your child doubt they were wanted and adored.

You hoped you did.

You knew you would.

Azriel already had that look. He'd had it since the moment you told him you were pregnant.

“I'd love to see them again,” Rosalind said. “It's been too many centuries. And maybe…” She chuckled softly, “it's about time I visited Velaris.”

A flicker of uncertainty sparkled in Azriel's eyes, as if he still wasn't sure his mother should be exposed to the potential dangers of the world, even in a city as safe as Velaris. But it was there and gone in a heartbeat, so fast you might have missed it if you didn't know him so well.

Rosalind didn't seem to notice, though, and the conversation flowed easily from there. She asked you many questions—about your childhood, your passions, your job—eager to know you as you were, and not just through Azriel's stories.

You got to know her just as well, and during the few hours you spent together, a connection began to take shape. Quiet and natural, it settled between you like it had always been meant to grow there. You wondered why you’d even been nervous in the first place.

Maybe it was because of your lucky necklace.

When you and Azriel finally left, just before dinner, Rosalind made you promise to return the following week—and to start planning her visit to Velaris.

*lovely divider by @slytherin-pen

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd @lreadsstuff @littlest-w01f

[offscreeneddie]

"I did what you told me to do," Eddie says, the second he hears the other door being closed and the person on the other side sit down on the creaky bench.

"And that is?"

Eddie closes his eyes. "I stopped punishing myself."

It's quiet for a moment before Father Brian answers again.

"Do you want to take this outside of the booth?"

"Sure."

Eddie stands up and opens the door, and the priest does the same. He looks at Eddie with a raised eyebrow. "I see you updated your look, Eddie. Let's sit down."

Eddie absentmindedly touches his lips and sits down next to Father Brian. The Priest. He barely know what he's supposed to call him even if it's inside his head. "I miss it, actually. Just a little."

"It was very handsome."

Eddie laughs, "Yeah, I've heard."

"You stopped punishing yourself. Do you want to tell me more?"

"I went after my son. I got him back. I took him back. And I danced in my living room."

"I see."

"And I figured out the juice thing, I think."

Father Brian scrunches his face before answering, "The juice– Oh, the... juice thing."

Eddie looks at him. "You know. The juice. Joy."

Something clicks in Father Brian. "Ah. And what is... this joy you found, then?"

"It's Buck," Eddie says with no hesitation.

"Buck?"

"He's– He's my best friend."

Silence.

"I think it's been him the whole time."

Silence again. Eddie continues.

"I never let myself think about it. And then he took over my lease and helped me get Chris back and– And he did it, without expecting anything in return, because all he wanted was for me to be with my son, who he basically helped raise, for the record," Eddie says, and raises a pointed finger. "He has been there all this time and I haven't... I haven't seen it, not like I should have. But when he took over my lease behind my back, I got this feeling that I couldn't put my finger on and when I moved to be with Chris, all I could think about was why it all felt so wrong."

"You moved?"

"Yes. I moved back to El Paso to live near my son, and I couldn't have done it without Buck, who was so obviously in pain about it but again, just wanted me to be with my son. He accused me... or, well... I accused him of making me choose between him and my son and I told him that he would lose every time. But I'm starting to think that... That I could have both. That I want both."

"So you've decided to stop punishing yourself."

"I decided to try that, yeah."

"I still feel like there is more things you want to say."

"I–" Eddie opens and closes his mouth. "I haven't told him yet. My flight back to El Paso is tomorrow and... I want to stay. But I can't stay."

"Why?"

"Christopher is still in El Paso. I'm just here because of a funeral. My captain... Old captain..."

"... Bobby?"

"Yeah, how did you– Oh."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Eddie." He looks genuinely sad. "He was a good man."

"I should have been here." It comes out as the confession he probably was here for in the first place. Which it probably was. Loving Buck isn't something he needs forgiveness for.

"Why do you think that?"

"They are my family, all of them. And I wasn't here. And if I had been here, I would have been with them, and I could have saved him. I could have helped."

"But you're here now."

"I have to go back."

"Do you?"

"I– Yes, of course I have to. My son is there."

"I thought you said to stop punishing yourself."

Eddie takes in a deep breath. "Yes."

"So why don't you just bring your son back here, with you? You said you got him back?"

"I–I did."

"So, stop punishing yourself."

Eddie looks at Father Brian again, who looks back at him with a small smile. Eddie stands up, "Okay. Oh, and I have one more thing... I'm sorry I lied to you before." He gets a raised eyebrow in reply. "I'm actually not straight."

"And I'm still celibate."

Eddie laughs and leaves the church. He gets into his car, takes a deep breath, starts the car and calls Chris who answers immediately.

"Hi, dad!"

"How do you feel about moving back home?"

-

Eddie parks outside his– Buck's– their house and feels something warm spread in his body. It's not an unfamiliar one, but he can finally put his finger on what it is. He smiles and gets out of the car.

He knocks on the door, two, three times, before it opens.

"Eddie. Why are you knocking?" Buck says, still looking so exhausted after everything.

Eddie can feel his face flushing. He drags his hand through his hair and scratches his neck. "Hi."

"Hi?" Buck looks so confused.

"I–"

Eddie doesn't get to finish the sentence. The earth is moving.

[lambilegs]

contains: nsft content (minors + ageless blogs dni), modern!au, "daddy" used as a title, reader receiving strap on + fingering from sevika, breeding kink, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, sevika teasing reader for being tight, reader's body is referred to with the terms: "pussy," "clit," "tits," kinda semi-public idk

best friend's older sister!sevika who you need to sneak around with because it's that hard to find a minute alone with her during your friend group's sleepover.

your friends are at your side every minute of the day, all of you sprawled together on the couches through the afternoon, then later helping each other get ready to head to the club. you don't even get a split second to show sevika how you look, for as soon as your outfit is patted in place by your friends, your uber is here and all of you are rushing out.

by the time you all return to your best friend's house, giggling and stumbling through the door, sevika is seated on the couch, typing away on her laptop. as you all pass the living room to head up the stairs, the two of you lock eyes, your stomach twisting and turning with excitement as her eyes scan over your body, her jaw clenching in what you can only hope is desire.

as all of your friends take turns hopping in and out of the shower, you jerk up from where you're lying down on the floor when your phone rings with a notification. the words immediately have your entire body prickling with anticipation, feeling as though the simple sentences have set you aflame.

When it's your turn to shower, text me. I'll meet you in the bathroom.

a painfully, agonizingly long forty minutes later, you carefully push the door open to the bathroom, gulping hard when you find sevika there, already topless and in a pair of basketball shorts. you've seen her in this state before, of course you have, but still, it makes your chest throb in a multitude of ways. both for the eagerness from knowing what's to come, and the domesticity of seeing her like this, casually half-nude and waiting for you in the bathroom. if you let yourself soften the moment with a tinge of daydreaming, you can almost picture how blissful it'd be years from now, doing your skincare routine as she lingers nearby, leaning on the wall and talking to you.

those tender ideas blur away when she faces you, your eyes immediately skipping down to the thick line of hair starting at her stomach and fluttering wider at the centre of her hips. you feel hungry for it, wanting to feel that bush of hair rub against yours as the two of you claw at each other for more touch, more words, more moans. more, more, more. you don't think you'll ever get enough of her.

and just an inch or two lower, and god, there's a bulge.

she leans against the counter, crossing her arms and a subtle smirk. "something caught your eye?"

her voice is low and quiet amidst the blaring fan in the bathroom, the cool touch of which sends goosebumps popping along your sweat-soaked back.

"I should be asking you that," you drawl, sauntering over to her to wrap your arms around her neck. "you're the one who asked me to meet here, remember?"

she wraps her arms around your waist, her rough hand sliding up your top as she pulls your body against the hard planes of hers. the scent of the coconut oil seeping through her hair infuses your nose, and you breathe it in deeply as her nose brushes against yours. "I do remember. but, do you want a verbal answer for that? or can I show you?"

with every article of clothing she peels off you, your skin is met with hot, wet kisses, her tongue lapping the sweat coating it and making your body arch in pleasure. when she tugs your top off, her hands are immediately groping your tits, mouth sucking eagerly on your nipples. she devours your body like a woman starved, soft, pink tongue swiping at the stiffened nubs and making you close your thighs together in sensitivity. it only worsens when she playfully skims the line of her teeth along them, her grey eyes carefully locked on your face, which heats up in response, knowing you must look incredibly glossed over and aroused right now. especially once your noises start joining the mix, a choked out gasp wrenching out of your throat when she takes turn sucking harshly on them, her mouth so rough that your chest keeps pumping out in her direction.

your hand flies to your mouth when a sharp knock is pounded against the door, your name loudly called. "bro, hurry up, I still reek of alcohol."

"s-sorry," you stutter out, nails digging into sevika's shoulders when her large hands cup your ass, fingers digging into the plush of it as she walks backwards in the direction of the shower.

after rubbing your aching pussy and spending a few minutes with two fingers plunging in and out of your hole, she has you cornered in the shower, the steam coating both your bodies in delicious, moist heat. her large chest is lodged right up against yours, her hand kneading at the back of your thigh as she coaxes you to lift one foot up on the ledge. an act with only gets her purple strap hitting even deeper in you, her sharp, measured thrusts making your eyes roll back.

as per usual, she's relentless, keeping you pinned to the wall as her hips snap against yours, creating wet-sounding smacks that only add to your arousal. in the heated, wet cube of the shower, you feel utterly surrounded by her, the two of your bodies intertwining as one as she fucks you hard and fast, the thick length of her drilling into you with such strength that it causes your back to keep sliding up and down the slippery tiles of the wall.

"you'd have thought that I would've loosened you up by now," she mutters against your jaw, her words barely audible from the rain of the shower. "but, no, just as tight as when I first fucked this pussy."

you moan loudly, eyes fluttering shut as your neck arches up. "god-- fuck, sevi--"

she immediately takes the bait in your movements, her teeth sinking into your skin as she sucks a harsh mark, the sting of it making your toes curl.

“you trying to get us caught or something?” she hisses, her tone sharp with discipline. “keep that mouth shut.”

your eyebrows scrunch together in pure, unadulterated pleasure, your pussy tightening when she plasters her prosthetic hand to your face, keeping you quiet as she continues pumping her cock into you. while you can barely tame and hold in your little squeaks and moans, sevika manages to get by, panting heavily as her gaze remains honed in on your face. you can tell all of this is starting to get to her more, her eyes ablaze and unfocused.

"you looked good," she whispers harshly, her nails digging harder into the plush of your thigh. "real good."

you bite your lip from behind the covering of her hand, a wide grin spilling onto your face.

sevika seems to notice it, her gaze shifting over your crinkled eyes, inciting a low chuckle of her own. her hand slides away from your mouth, which is immediately seized by her lips, her hips continue to rut up as her tongue laps softly at yours, wet and messy.

her hand squeezes your thigh one last time before resting on your stomach, pinching it lightly and inciting a soft squeal from you.

"gonna dump so much come in here," she murmurs quietly. "but, that's what you want, right? running in here so eagerly when you realized there’s a chance your cunt’s gonna get loaded. and right in the middle of a sleepover too.”

“daddy,” you gasp against her mouth, your hands reaching behind to dig your nails into her back.

“don’t you worry,” she rasps, the cool metal of her hand sending shivers down your spine as it cups your ass cheek and spreads you out. “I can tell when a slut needs to be taken care of.”

and taken care of is exactly how you feel once she's helping you climb out of the shower, legs wobbly and thighs deliciously achy.

when you two realize that your love-making took a very long, very accidental forty minutes, sevika watches with a bemused smirk as you stumble through the bathroom, rushing to wash your face and get your clothes back on. panic rushing through you, you slowly pinch the bathroom door open, your head snapping from side to side before hissing for sevika to get out, smacking her bare back frantically as you push her in the direction of her bedroom.

she's halfway across the hall when she pauses, her head whipping to the side. your breath catches in your throat, and face tightened into a premature wince, you turn to see someone in your friend group frozen in place, gawking at the two of you.

the three of you watch each other in stunned silence until you finally jolt into action, spluttering over the sight of sevika standing calmly out in the open, her chest bare. a hot fusion of embarrassment and anxiety whirs through you, and it propels you into actions, hands haphazardly scrambling to continue shoving sevika to her bedroom. your efforts double when your idiot girlfriend chooses to chuckle to herself, purposely placing her weight back on you to make your task even more difficult. 

as you two finally stumble through the threshold into her bedroom, you very pointedly ignore your friend’s laugh and victorious mutter of, “at least I get five dollars now."

[sourle]

Starting point

君はずるい ずるい 人だ もう

WARNINGS: minor description of injuries

Note: I wrote this for an ask but then scrapped it because it does not make sense for the ask sob

You boredly yawn, leaning against Taph as you two listen to Chance speak while he flips his coin again and again. "... Hey Chance, what if I bet it's gonna land on heads next? If I'm correct, I'll get to use your gun in the next game." Chance seems to perk up from the idea, judging from their smirking widening.

"Oh, ya wanna bet? A'ight. And if it's tail, you have to clean my room." "Bet."

Chance flipped the coin and—

Head.

"Yes! Ha!" You sat up straight and held out your hand, Taph clapped his hands beside you. Both your energy is matching in hype-ness. "Where's my price at?" You drag out the last words as Chance gives you an amused chuckle before placing his flintlock in your palm.

"You won it fair and square, Cheater." You rolled your eyes at the nickname and spun the flintlock in your hand.

"Of course I did, Gambler."

The three of you relaxed there, chatting away while waiting for the other survivors who were in a match. Suddenly a cosmic like sound came from the dining room of the main cabin followed by a bright light.

The three of you looked towards the entrance of the dining room, the first to walk out was Builderman. He looked beaten up, and the others that followed behind him didn't look any better.

You watch as Elliot starts cleaning the others' injuries, tending to them all by himself. You contemplated if you should help or not. But you need to make yourself useful in this place, you can't just be a sitting duck all the time.

You got up and went to grab a spare medkit somewhere that you hid in case of emergency and approached 007n7 first, knowing Elliot will definitely tend to him last.

He looked up confused as to why you approached him. "Heya," you greeted with a soft smile which made him a bit more confused though he still greeted you back.

"Hi.. uhm—" he watches as you kneel next to him and open the kit, taking out a gauze.

"Can I?" Your action surprised him, he just curtly nodded and watched as you tended to his injuries. Gently with your care unlike someone in red he knows.

Once you are finished, you give him a pat on the shoulder. "There! You're all good to go!”

Your enthusiasm despite the dreading reality of the place is a nice fresh sight. He smiles at you, "Thanks..”

"No problem! If you need any help on replacing some bandages don't hesitate to come to me." He watches as you leave. You didn't just help him with his injury, you also helped him bring hope.

Next you tend to Two time despite their protest, "Spawn doesn't like this, Spawn doesn't want that, blah blah blah!" You mocked, but not too harshly disrespecting their beliefs.

"And the Spawn doesn't want its devoted follower to be hurt, now let me help you!" "And The Spawn think you're unworthy to care for m—" "NON BINARY FELLA IF YOU DON'T—”

In the end you manage to convince them, gently tending to their injuries and bandaging the rips on their back. You can't help but chuckle as you see their tails wag.

They're an odd fella, but you can't help but think they're just some weary cat. You pat their shoulder, “You're good to go, thanks for your corporation!" your voice is laced with bitter sweet sarcasm.

Two time muttered something along the line of The Spawn but you choose to ignore it and watch as they walked away.

You hissed, staring at Dusekkar's arm. The scar has red marks around it with the teared skins burning into a black scabs on the edge.

“C00lkid?” you cleaned the area around the scar with a cotton wet with gauze. The former admin shook his head.

“The kid plays rough alongside his companions, though as you say, he's not aware of the hurt he inflicts.” you hum, finding his speech to be calming.

You wonder if he's hurting at all with his call demeanor, though his pained grunting answered your question.

“I'm.. trying to help him come to a realization, I don't know if it's working.." Dusekkar hummed in response. He lets you hold his arm in your hand as you begin bandaging the cleaned wound.

“All done!.. If it's starting to irritate, tell me so I can check on it." You placed back the remaining bandage into the kit, closing it seeing as the others had been healed.

“Much appreciation, I've seemed to have mistaken you as ignorant, fed by the rumors. But you kneel and heal for the injured despite the hatred put on you. Deepest apologies from me and deep thanks for the help." You process it all in. Confused and bashful.

"I-it's alright! No biggie—" "Though even as conflicts swim in between you, I recommend you help a fellow survivor."

Dusekkar cuts you off, motioning a hand towards Elliot who's tending to his wounds on his own. You glance at him before back at Dusekkar with uncertainty yet all in response he just nods. A push for you to help Elliot.

Elliot huffed, trying to reach a hand to his back and failing to do so. The others have gone to their own cabins due to his insistence on them to rest, leaving him alone. He would ask you, but he knows you would not be pitiful enough to tend to him.

He struggled to tie the bandage on his injured hand, hissing in frustration before pausing as he saw two knees in front of him. He looked up and saw you.

"Need help?" You offered, kneeling down in front of him.

"I'm fine." You wince at his cut answer, despite the denial of help you still opened the kit and placed it next to the one Elliot's using.

"I'll help anyway." Elliot opened his mouth to retaliate but hissed as he felt the searing of his burnt scar on the back.

"Here," you reach over and grab the wet cloth from the bowl next to him before getting behind him, "Please let me help you."

He has no other choice, the others already retreat into their cabins except for Taph who's sitting on the couch waiting for you.

He lets you and you carefully clean the burnt scar, careful not to touch the gashing area. You placed the red tinted cloth back into the bowl of water before grabbing a napkin to dry the area.

"I'm sorry.. About c00lkid.." you start, "I know it's not enough, but I'm truly sorry for him hurting you guys. He's.."

"Just.. Playing. He was playing with.. him." You listen as Elliot begins to tell you what had happened. At first c00lkid wasn't aggressive, playing with his father.

The only thing that made c00lkid start to hurt them was due to c00lkid uncontrollable power. He told how c00lkid apologize for hurting him and Dusekkar, including accidentally hurting his father who tried to stop him.

And Shedletsky attacks and c00lkid is mad.

"What.. Made you hate them so much?" He paused and you fear you might've touched a sensitive topic.

"Like you, 007n7 exploits. He hacks small things like his neighborhood, then the park, before he gets to builder brothers' pizza place." "Your workplace," "My workplace."

You hum, you listen. Letting him speak about his past with 007n7, letting him ramble about his feelings, and what it made him feel. You felt bad when it was made worse when you began exploiting because when the issues with 007n7 then came c00lkid, and after that you.

"I'm sorry—" You furrowed your brows in sympathy, "I am. I truly am, I'm sorry for causing you this much stress."

"If you truly are, then you would've changed years ago, think about what you've done." He sneered, hands clenching at his sides.

"I did and you all refused to believe I've changed!" "It's hard to believe when you don't even think to apologize sooner or regret it."

Your eyebrows furrowed further, pursing your lips tight. You got nothing more to say, he's right.

"Then help me. Just let me know what kind I do as proof." He stares at you, seeing the genuine look in your furrowed eyes. He let out a deep sigh.

"Maybe you should start with Builderman. He's the one who carried the weight of your doings to his people." You nod, closing the kits.

"You should rest. We don't know when the next hell starts. Best you regain more energy, you're important to the team." He watched as you walked away, leaving him to lean against the wall of the staircase.

[jinjoohaa]

Tamed by You

Pairing - Toji fushiguro x reader (Husband! AU)

Content warnings : Power imbalance, age gap (reader is 20+), NSFW smut, dom!Toji, bratty/sub!Reader, cockwarming, face sitting, oral (f/m), fingering, mutual masturbation, somnophilia, breeding kink, size kink, degradation + praise, slapping (sexual context), possessiveness, emotional arguments, reader crying, fluff + angst + filth, toxic tenderness, rough sex, domestic moments, hurt/comfort, and some good ol’ post-fight cuddles.

next chapter

Chapter 1

Marrying Toji Fushiguro was like trying to domesticate a wild puma — dangerous, unpredictable, stubborn. Yet somehow, by some miracle, you had managed to do it.

You tamed not just him, but the small, bratty version of him too — his son, Megumi — wrapping both feral creatures around your little finger without even trying too hard.

It wasn't always easy.

Toji was still rough around the edges, a man who lived by instinct more than reason. He worked a job he never talked about, came home battered and bruised sometimes, his dark green eyes glittering with something savage he refused to burden you with.

But despite all of it, he was yours.

Entirely, wholly, selfishly yours.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Late again.

You sat curled up on the living room couch, arms crossed over your chest, lower lip jutted out in a pout.

He'd promised.

He promised tonight he wouldn’t be late.

And yet here you were, the TV humming low in the background, wearing one of his old black shirts that hung off your body like a second skin, no pants, legs bare, waiting and stewing in frustration.

The front door creaked open, the scent of Toji — sweat, leather, gunpowder, something male and dark — immediately filling the house.

You heard the low rumble of his voice as he kicked off his boots.

"Sugar?" he grumbled, voice hoarse, worn from the day. "You awake?"

You didn’t answer right away, pouting harder, making a show of pulling the throw blanket tighter around yourself.

Passive-aggressive silence. Your specialty.

Toji's boots thudded to the side, and heavy footsteps crossed the wooden floor.

When he finally saw you on the couch, your brows drawn together, nose scrunched up adorably, he huffed out a breath — somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

"Aw, c'mon, don't gimme that face, brat," he muttered, tossing his jacket onto the armchair, stalking toward you with the easy grace of a predator.

You turned your head away dramatically.

"I’m not talking to you," you mumbled, even as your heart sped up the closer he got. "You promised."

Toji knelt in front of you, resting his huge palms on your thighs. His body radiated heat, making it impossible to ignore him even if you wanted to.

"I know, baby. Got caught up," he said, voice low, coaxing. "You know I'd rather be here... buried in my pretty little wife."

You squirmed, trying to maintain your pout, but it was already cracking under the heavy weight of his touch.

Still — you were feeling particularly difficult tonight.

"You always say that," you muttered, glaring at him from under your lashes.

"Maybe you should just stay out next time if it's so hard to keep your word."

Something dangerous flickered through his gaze — a warning spark that made your thighs clench unconsciously.

His hands squeezed your thighs, thumbs pressing circles into your soft flesh.

"You wanna repeat that, sugar?" he asked, voice dipped low, sweet as poison.

You opened your mouth — to bite back, to sass him further — but before a single word left your lips, Toji surged forward, dragging you onto his lap with a rough growl.

You yelped, your blanket falling away, leaving you straddling him, his hard body under yours, muscles bunching under his tight black shirt.

"Better be real careful, mama," he whispered against your jaw, stubble scraping your skin deliciously.

"You know what happens when you run your mouth."

You whimpered — part protest, mostly need — grinding down instinctively against the thick bulge pressing between your thighs.

Toji chuckled darkly, one hand snaking up to tangle in your hair, the other palming your ass roughly.

"You miss me that bad, huh? So bad you're actin' up like this?"

Your body betrayed you, your hips canting against him, seeking friction.

God, he was so unfair — all it took was one rough word, one touch, and all your stubbornness melted into needy submission.

"You said you'd be home," you breathed against his neck, voice small, desperate.

"And now I am," he murmured, pressing a kiss just under your ear — biting down gently, just enough to leave a mark.

You whimpered again, grinding against him shamelessly now, your panties soaked through.

Toji groaned, gripping your hips tightly.

"You gonna apologize for bein' a little brat?" he rasped, dragging your hips harder against the thick ridge of his cock.

You shook your head defiantly, whining when he stopped moving you.

"Guess I'll have to fuck that attitude outta you, then," he growled, flipping you effortlessly onto the couch.

You gasped, your back hitting the cushions, legs spread wide with him kneeling between them — and the wicked smirk he wore promised punishment.

Sweet, filthy punishment.

---

You gasped when your back hit the couch, a little "oomph" leaving your throat, more from shock than pain.

Toji loomed over you, grinning like a beast who just caught his favorite prey, his rough hands sliding up your thighs, pushing the oversized T-shirt you wore higher and higher.

"You look like a fuckin' present," he rasped, eyeing the thin panties you wore — dark, damp with your need.

"All wrapped up pretty, just for me."

You pouted again, shifting to push him away with a tiny shove to his chest — but Toji just laughed low in his throat, catching both your wrists in one big hand and pinning them above your head against the couch.

Your pulse skipped violently.

Pinned under him, wrists restrained, his body so much bigger, heavier, hotter — it made your attitude falter, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

"Where's all that mouth now, mama?" he teased, nipping along your jawline.

"I thought you were gonna give me a real earful. Tell me how mad you were, huh?"

You whined — a soft, breathy sound — as he rocked his hips down, grinding the hard line of his cock right against your soaked panties.

"Toji," you whimpered, squirming.

"That's right, baby. Moan my name. That’s all you're good for when I get my hands on you."

You wanted to bite back, really, you did — but the slow friction of his cock pressing against you, the way he moved so lazily, so deliberately, robbed you of every coherent thought.

Your panties clung to you, sticky with arousal, as he dry humped you through the thin fabric, deliberately denying you the real thing.

"Feel that?" he muttered against your throat, dragging his cock over your swollen clit again. "That's what you get for bein' a little brat, sugar. You get teased. No cock until you learn to be good."

You whimpered pathetically, writhing under him, trying to angle your hips for more pressure. But Toji just chuckled, shifting away slightly, making you cry out in frustration.

"Nuh-uh," he said smugly, releasing your wrists. "Turn over, baby. On your stomach. Ass up."

You hesitated, chewing your lip — stubbornness sparking back to life.

"Now," he growled, voice rough and commanding.

Shivering, you obeyed, flipping over onto your stomach, pressing your flushed cheek into the couch cushions.

You heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, the soft hiss of leather sliding free, and your toes curled in anticipation.

"Smart girl," he praised mockingly, running the cool leather over the curve of your ass.

"Almost makes me think you like when I punish you."

You huffed, braver with your face hidden from his smirk.

"Maybe I do."

The belt snapped lightly against your thigh — not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you squeal.

"That's 'cause you're a filthy little thing," Toji chuckled, the amusement rich in his voice.

He leaned down, teeth sinking gently into the soft curve where your shoulder met your neck, marking you possessively.

You gasped, feeling the sting bloom under his mouth, his hands soothing over your hips, squeezing the meat of your ass appreciatively.

"So pretty, mama," he murmured against your skin. "So fuckin' pretty when you're all whiny and needy."

You wiggled your hips, desperate for more, grinding back against him.

"Please, Toji," you whispered, voice breaking with need.

He hummed thoughtfully, trailing kisses down your spine.

"Since you're askin' so nice... maybe I'll let you have just a little bit," he said wickedly.

Before you could process it, he tugged your panties aside and pressed the thick head of his cock against your slick folds — not pushing in, just sliding along your wetness, coating himself in you.

You cried out, trembling.

"So wet and needy... bet you could cockwarm me all night, couldn't ya, sugar?" he teased, pressing teasingly at your entrance but never breaching.

You whined, pushing back, trying to make him slip inside — but Toji was faster, grabbing your hips and locking you still.

"Nuh-uh," he murmured, voice dark and indulgent. "Not until you say sorry. Real sorry."

You whimpered into the cushions, pride warring with desperate need.

"I... I'm sorry," you whispered finally, almost petulant.

He tsked.

"That don't sound real to me."

You sniffled, clenching around nothing, hot tears pricking your eyes in frustration.

He was so mean. So good at making you lose.

"Please, Toji," you choked out.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I missed you so bad, I just— I just wanted you home—"

Toji groaned, thick and guttural, finally pushing the head of his cock inside — just a little, just enough to stretch you slightly, not enough to fuck you properly.

"There she is," he rasped, sliding deeper until he was just seated halfway, the fullness making you sob into the couch.

He stayed there, cock heavy and throbbing inside you, refusing to move.

"You’re gonna keep my cock warm like a good wife, mama," he whispered into your ear, voice dripping with wicked satisfaction.

"No movin'. No whining. Just sittin' pretty till I decide you've earned more."

You whimpered, clenching helplessly around him, every muscle trembling from the restraint.

This was gonna be torture.

And you loved it.

to be continued in the next chapter ...

.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

29: WORDS THAT HEAL

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Summary: A quiet evening interaction between you and Bucky reader takes an unexpected turn when you find your elderly neighbor in distress. At the hospital, with emotions running high, the night uncovers more than either of you anticipated, leaving you with a deeper understanding of each other.

Warnings: Medical emergency, anxiety, heavy emotional themes, past trauma, implied sexual intercourse

Word Count: 4874

The lobby had always been dimly lit, giving off a horror movie vibe on late nights, worsened only by the faint hum of the elevator and the occasional flicking of the old fashioned lights that the landlord refused to bring into the modern era. The eerie quietness was broken by the shuffle of letters being sorted. You slowed your stride and glanced over to see Bucky standing in front of the row of mailboxes, sifting through envelopes with a furrowed brow.

“Hey,” you said softly, coming up beside him.

He glanced over, eyes softening just a little. “Hey.”

You took the opportunity to open your own mailbox, flipping through the usual stack of bills and flyers. Then, something bright caught your eye— a thick envelope with a gold seal. You ripped it open, skimming the contents before letting out an excited squeal.

Bucky tensed on instinct, turning toward you. “What—?”

"I won!" you exclaimed, holding up the paper. Not that he could read it with the way you were bouncing up and down “I actually won something! A whole set of vouchers to that fancy chocolatier downtown!” You fanned out the vouchers to display.

He watched, bemused, as you practically jumped up and down on your feet. There was something about seeing you like this— so genuinely happy, eyes sparkling and mouth curled into an unrestrained smile— that made his chest tighten in the best possible way. He lifted his own mail with a dry smirk. “Meanwhile, I’ve got bills. Exciting, huh?”

Without thinking, you blurted out, “Come with me?”

Bucky stilled. “What?”

“To the chocolatier. You should come with me.” You shifted on your feet, suddenly feeling shy about your forwardness. “It’s not an imposition or anything. I just…” You hesitated, voice quieter now. “I miss your company. And I… we’re still friends, right?”

His heart stumbled over your last words. Still friends. But it was the soft way you said it, the slight unsteadiness in your voice, that caught his attention. The unspoken still lingering in the air between you. For a moment, he just looked at you, trying to figure out if you meant more than you were saying. Then, he nodded. “Alright.”

You exhaled a relieved breath, offering a small smile. You turned towards your apartment, stepping towards the stairwell. Bucky raised an eyebrow, glancing at the elevator doors before looking back at you.

“So, you not taking the elevator anymore?” he asked, his tone was light but curious, like he already knew the answer.

Your steps faltered slightly before you recovered, giving a nervous little laugh. “Better not to risk it,” you answered, focusing on the steps ahead, trying not to think about the way the elevator had trapped the two of you together. Then, more quietly you confessed, “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been in there with me.”

Bucky stopped for a second, watching you. There was something in your voice, something unguarded, and it made his chest tighten. “You got through it,” he said. “With or without me, you would've figured it out.”

You huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t know about that.”

“Yeah, well,” he murmured, taking another step up beside you, “I do.”

You peeked over at him, meeting his gaze for just a beat too long before you cleared your throat and kept climbing. There was something different in the air between the two of you. It lingered over you, just out of reach.

You were still smiling as you climbed the last few steps to your floor, the warmth of Bucky’s presence beside you. The conversation had been easy, almost light— something you hadn’t felt in a long time. The two of you were almost at the end of the corridor while he was teasing you about the vouchers, and you were playfully rolling your eyes when you heard it.

A thump. The sound was heavy, sudden— just wrong. Your smile vanished in an instant and the air shifted between you.

Bucky stilled beside you, his entire body tensing. Your stomach twisted as you glanced around, trying to pinpoint the source. It had come from somewhere close. Another beat of silence as you listened. It was too quiet. Your skin prickled. Bucky's eyes darted across the hall, his instincts razor-sharp. And then you both realized— you were standing right outside Winnie’s apartment. Your breath caught in your throat and a cold dread seeped into your chest.

“Winnie?” you called out. There was no answer.

You knocked. Hard. “Winnie! Are you okay?”

Nothing. A terrible feeling settled in your bones. You reached for the doorknob, your pulse hammering. It was locked. You turned to Bucky, and before you could even ask, he was already moving.

“Move,” he said, gently pushing you to the side. Before you could protest, he braced himself and slammed his shoulder into the door.

The door gave way with ease, the force of Bucky’s shoulder knocking it clean off the latch. The sound was loud, echoing in the stillness of the apartment. You had stopped breathing before you even saw her.

Winnie was on the floor, her gray cardigan bunched beneath her, one arm bent awkwardly at her side. Her hair had fallen forward, obscuring her face, and for a horrible, breathless moment, you couldn’t tell if she was breathing. A cold dread clawed up your spine.

“Winnie?” Your voice wobbled as you dropped to your knees, hands trembling as you reached out. You rolled her onto her back, trying to dredge up the basic CPR training you’d had years ago. You opened her mouth, but there was nothing there other than her tongue which had fallen backwards and she was making the most terrifying noises whenever she took a shallow breath.

“She’s alive,” you managed, though it barely felt like relief as you tilted back her head and lifted her chin and the grunting noise stopped.

Bucky was already pulling his phone out, fingers flying over the screen. “I need an ambulance,” he said, voice clipped and steady, though you could see the tension in his jaw, the sharp set of his shoulders. “Elderly woman, unconscious, breathing but unresponsive.” His eyes flicked to you.

“She’s clammy,” you supplied, feeling the damp chill of her skin against your fingertips. “Pulse is weak.”

He relayed the information with practiced efficiency, but your own hands were shaking as you pushed Winnie’s hair back.

“Winnie, can you hear me?” you murmured. You checked her pupils, ran through possibilities in your head. She had told you she was diabetic. Was it hypoglycemia? Was it a stroke? Maybe something worse?

She didn’t respond. And the silence was unbearable. Bucky knelt beside you, his hand hovering near your shoulder like he wanted to ground you, but didn’t know if he should.

“We should put her in the recovery position,” you said, voice tight. “Just in case.”

Bucky nodded, and together you moved her as gently as possible. Her breathing stuttered, and your stomach lurched, glancing toward the door, willing the ambulance to get here faster. Every second dragged out like an eternity while you waited. The weight of worry was suffocating as it pressed down on your ribs. You felt helpless… and you hated feeling helpless.

Then— finally— the distant sound of sirens cut through the quiet.

The rest of the evening passed in a strange, hazy blur. You and Bucky trailed after the paramedics, watching as they lifted poor Winnie into the ambulance, their actions efficient but controlled. Someone asked if you were family, and when you hesitated, Bucky spoke up, his voice calm and confident. “We’re her neighbors. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

They let you come. But the ride to the hospital was silent… and tense. You sat across from Winnie’s supine form, your hands clenched in your lap, the cold plastic bench beneath you grounding but uncomfortable. The ambulance rocked over a pothole, and your stomach lurched with it, making you feel rather queasy. Bucky sat beside you, shoulders hunched, his hands clasped between his knees. He didn’t say anything, but the pressure of his thigh against yours felt like a steadying force.

At the hospital, they wheeled Winnie through double doors where you couldn’t follow. Now came the waiting.

You sank into one of the stiff plastic chairs, emotional exhaustion settling deep into your bones. The adrenaline that had propelled you through the past hour was fading fast, leaving you drained and cold. You folded your arms over your stomach, trying to contain the restless, gnawing worry. Bucky sat down beside you. To your surprise, he didn’t fidget, he didn’t pull out his phone, he didn’t try to fill the silence. He just sat, still and quiet, his knee brushing against yours now and again.

You stole a glance at him. His face was unreadable, but you saw the subtle signs of his distress— the tightness in his jaw, the dullness in his eyes.

“She’s tough,” he said finally, his voice low. “She’ll pull through.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to tell him that this reminds you too much of another hospital, another night, waiting for good news that never came. You wanted to tell him that you hate how fragile everything feels. Instead, you just nodded.

Minutes stretched into an hour, maybe more, you had lost all track of time. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, the waiting room half-empty except for a tired-looking receptionist  at the front desk and an older man dozing in the corner.

At some point, Bucky shifted. “You should eat something,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “I can’t.”

His brow furrowed, like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossed, staying close. You didn’t realize how much you needed that until now. Your stomach was twisted in knots and you lowered your head into your hands, fingers tangling into your hair. The waiting was unbearable— the time dragging on like feeling like an eternity as the uncertainty gnawed at you.

"Why is this taking so long?" you whispered in a strained voice. You leaned forward again, elbows on your knees, trying to steady yourself against the overwhelming weight of your own fear.

Bucky sighed beside you. “I don’t know.” His voice was quiet, but there was something in it, something tired that told you he’d been here before. Waiting. Hoping. Dreading. You heard him shift in his seat, then you felt a warm, steady hand pressed against your back. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. No attempts at false reassurances, he just rubbed slow, grounding circles between your shoulders.

Your breath hitched, the tension inside you threatening to spill over. "I can’t deal with this," you choked out, your voice cracking.

Bucky didn’t answer. He just kept rubbing your back, slow and steady, anchoring you in place and letting your tempestuous thoughts calm. 

Just as your mind settled, a different thought hit you.

“Oh, shit,” you groaned.

Bucky froze, his hand stilled for a fraction of a second before he pulled it away, giving you space. You sat up abruptly, heart hammering in fresh panic.

“Fuck, I was supposed to text Aditi and Hanna when I got home. I promised them.”

You dug through your bag frantically, fingers fumbling for your phone. But when you pulled it out, the screen stayed dark. The battery was dead. “Dammit,” you growled in frustration.

Before you could spiral any further, Bucky wordlessly, he held out his phone. You accepted it slowly looking surprised that he had Hanna’s number and the message app open. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard as you started typing a message to your friend, reassuring her that you're okay, that you're at the hospital, that you’re sorry for not checking in sooner.

But as soon as you were done, you noticed that your message wasn’t the only one on the screen. You scrolled up slightly. There were messages. Not just yours. Not just from tonight— but from before. Your fingers stilled. Your stomach tugged with unease. You didn’t read them, but you could see enough to know that there had been exchanges between Bucky and Hanna

You frowned, tilting your head to look over at Bucky. “You’ve been talking to Hanna?”

He hesitated, only for a second, before nodding. “Yeah.”

You searched his face, trying to make sense of it. A flare of apprehension sparked inside you. Why? What had they been saying? What had he told her? 

“About what?”

He exhaled, rubbing a jaw before meeting your gaze again. “You, mostly.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Me?”

“They were worried about you,” he said simply. “I guess… I was too.”

You gripped the phone a little tighter and cleared your throat, looking down at the phone to skim over Hanna’s reply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bucky watched you carefully. “Would it have changed anything?”

You didn’t know if it would have then. But now… 

Something inside you changed, know that despite everything, despite the hurt, despite the walls still standing between you— Bucky had been looking out for you. In ways you hadn’t even noticed.

Bucky shifted in his seat once more. “And… I've been trying to help them get visitation with Mr. Sharma.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

“It's been complicated,” he continued, his eyes fixated on his hands. “Not easy to arrange, especially with everything still so fresh. But I’ve been pulling some strings, trying to make it happen.”

You blinked, struggling to process it. He’d been doing this? Helping your friends without telling you? “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bucky exhaled softly through his nose. “Because I didn’t want you to think I was just doing it to get in your good graces,” he admitted. “That’s not why I did it.”

You stared at him for a moment, completely baffled. Your initial thought would have been that he had done it to curry favor with you but now, you believed that he had really done it for them. He watched you carefully, then sighed, rubbing a metal hand over the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “One of the conditions of my pardon was seeing a therapist— to help me with the whole Winter Soldier thing. She came up with this… statement. Some ridiculous mantra for me to say when I tried to make amends with the people I hurt when I was… him.”

His voice dropped slightly on the last word. Then he gave you a small, sad smile before looking at you directly, eyes impossibly blue under the harsh hospital lights.

“I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Bucky Barnes, and you are part of my efforts to make amends.”

The words sounded rehearsed. Not because he didn’t mean them, but because he’s clearly said them before. Maybe to others. Maybe in that same exhausted, pained tone. But something about this moment felt different. Maybe because you could hear what remained unspoken beneath them.

You stared at him, not even realizing you’re shaking your head slightly, like you’re trying to piece something together. Like there was something still missing in all of this.

“You keep saying that,” you murmured. “Making amends. But it’s not just about Mr. Sharma, is it?”

Bucky’s lips pressed together, staying quiet.

You took a slow breath, gripping his phone tighter in your hands. “This is about HYDRA.”

The silence between you stretched out further and Bucky looked away. His fingers flexed slightly, like there was a ghost of something he wanted to hold onto, but he didn’t move.

You swallowed, a new understanding dawning on you. “That’s why you did what you did at the wedding.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously, eyes still fixed on some invisible point beyond the waiting room. His voice was rougher and more quiet when he spoke again.

“I needed to stop them.”

You waited, your heart pounding, because you knew there was more. You knew him better now.

“I needed to make sure they never got the chance to evolve,” he whispered.

Your breath hitched.

“HYDRA isn’t gone,” he sighed. “They’ve just gone underground. Regrouping, waiting. They don’t need to start from scratch— they’re already there, in the shadows, gathering their forces. I know how they work. They don’t stop. They adapt.”

His fingers tighten into a fist.

“If I let them keep going— if I don’t cut them off before they get strong enough again—” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “I know what happens next. I’ve seen it before. And I’ll be damned if I let it happen on my watch .”

The implication of his words sunk deep into your chest.

Bucky looked over at you and then away, looking like he was struggling to decide how much more to say. His shoulders tightened, like he was carrying the weight of the world on them.

“Do you think stopping them will change anything?” you asked quietly. “That it… I dunno, balances the scales?”

The breath that left his mouth sounded almost like a bitter laugh. “Nothing balances the scales,” he muttered and shook his head. “Not after what I’ve done.”

You stared at him, feeling the weight of his crushing burden.

“So this isn't just about stopping HYDRA… It's about proving that you’re not still—”

He looked at you then. No anger. No defensiveness. Just exhaustion painted across his face. “That I'm not still a weapon.”

The words hit you harder than expected.

Bucky exhaled, leaning back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them,” he admitted. “The people they sent me after. The ones I didn’t save. And I think about how easily it could’ve been someone else… someone like you.” His voice softened on the last three words.

You froze.

Bucky shook his head slightly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “If things had gone differently… if the wrong people wanted to hurt me, or use me again—” His jaw clenched, his voice going quieter now. “They’d go after you just to get to me.”

Something cold ran through you.

You’d seen some of what HYDRA was capable of. What they did to him. To others. And even if you weren’t someone they’d target for their own use— there was another risk entirely.

If they knew what Bucky cared about, if they saw you as a way to control him… the thought was suffocating. You exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of your chair.

“I couldn’t let them do it again.” His fingers flexed slightly against his knee and his voice was rough in his admission. “So, yeah. I wanted to stop them. And maybe that doesn't fix anything, it certainly doesn’t erase what I did. But at least this time, I wasn’t the one pulling the trigger.”

For the first time, you realized that Bucky wasn’t just trying to make amends. He was trying to rewrite the narrative.

To prove to himself and to the world that he could still be something other than what HYDRA had made him.

Your chest ached.

“Bucky…” you murmured, not knowing what you even wanted to say.

He shook his head, offering you a small, sad smile. “I’m really sorry, Princess. For all of it.”

And for the first time you felt like you could accept it. He wasn’t saying it just to fulfill some part of his redemption. He was saying it because he meant it. Because he wished he could take it all back. Not because it was an obligation, but because he truly cared. Because Bucky Barnes was still trying to figure out how to be more than what HYDRA made him.

And maybe, just maybe you were willing to let him try. There was an understanding in your silence now.

Bucky exhaled slowly again, leaning his head back against the wall. His eyes were heavy and his sagging shoulders showed the exhaustion in his usually strong body. He had been carrying so much for so long.

You weren't sure if it was the weariness of the day, the conversation, or just the healing effects of time, but you found yourself wanting to be closer to him. You leaned back against the chair, inching closer until your shoulder brushed against his.

He didn't move away. And at some point, without you realizing it, your head was resting lightly against his arm. He was so still, but the tension he carried seemed to ease. He exuded warmth and safety and you allowed yourself to close your eyes. Just for a moment, you told yourself.

You didn't know long your eyes stayed closed, only that when you woke up, Bucky hadn't moved. He was the same warm, steady, solid man who you'd fallen for.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes?”

The doctor's voice snapped both of you back to awareness. You blinked blearily, sitting up, your heart galloping in your chest as Bucky straightened beside you. Neither of you quite corrected the mistake that the doctor has made about your relationship.

“Hi, I’m Dr Robinavitch. You’re Mrs. Winifred Burke’s family?

You and Bucky nodded without hesitation.

“Well unfortunately Mrs. Burke suffered a heart attack,” he explained, his voice gentle and calm. “But, you should know that your prompt action saved her life. The cardiologists performed an angioplasty, and she’s stable now— resting and sedated.” She gave you and Bucky a small nod. “She’ll be in the ICU overnight for observation, but she won’t be awake until tomorrow.”

You didn’t quite understand half of what the doctor had said, but the words stable and resting were reassuring. Winnie may not be totally out of the woods, but she was fighting, and that’s what mattered. You exhaled slowly, your shoulders sagging in relief.

Bucky nodded, but he still had a question. “So she’s gonna be okay?”

The ER attending offered both of you a reassuring look. “We’re optimistic. But, it’s late. She’s asleep. So I suggest you go home and get some rest. You can come back to visit her tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Both of you mumbled and watched Dr Robinavitch walk back into his ER.

Slowly you looked up at Bucky, only to find his eyes already on you. There was so much in his gaze— relief, exhaustion and something softer.

You nodded, exhaling softly. “Okay… tomorrow…” you murmured. And for the first time since you’d arrived, you felt like there was room in your chest to take a breath.

Surprisingly, Bucky was able to call a cab at 1am and you rode home in shared silence. The night’s events were weighing heavily on both of you and neither of you had anything left to say. But you still craved the comfort of each other’s presence and you found yourself sitting close together in the back of the cab, barely any space between you. The backs of your hands brushed against each other, the touch almost accidental— neither of you made any effort to pull away, but not quite finding the courage to close the distance, either.

When you reached your apartment building, everything felt eerily still. The two of you made your way up to your floor, where Winnie’s door remained ajar, a quiet reminder of the chaos from earlier. The place was a mess— a knocked over chair, overturned pill bottles when the paramedics had taken stock of Winnie’s condition. The atmosphere was still filled with remnants of fear, it clung to the empty space. Together, you and Bucky straightened up what you could. It wasn’t much but at least now it felt less like something terrible had happened. You grabbed Winnie’s keys and slipped them into your pocket and Bucky pulled the door back into the frame. 

And then, finally, it was just the two of you again. Standing outside your respective doors, like you had done so many times before.

You turned to Bucky. “She’s gonna be alright, isn’t she?” You voice quiet and uncertain, despite Dr Robinavitch’s reassurances.

Bucky nodded, offering the faintest smile. “She’s a pretty tough cookie.”

“I’m glad you were here,” you said, trying to let Bucky’s words reassure you. “Not sure I could have done this alone.”

Bucky tilted his head to one side, assessing you. His expression was soft and his eyes gentle. He only hesitated for a second before stepping forward slowly. When you didn’t step back or stop him, he wrapped his arms around you. You melted immediately, falling into his solid, warm chest, letting his steady presence ground you. His arms tightened around you, like he needed this just as much as you did… maybe more.

“I don’t wanna lose anyone else,” he murmured. “Not again.”

You reached around his back and under his jacket, your fingers curling into his shirt, anchoring him to you. “Me neither.”

You pulled back just slightly, just enough to look up at him. His deep blue eyes looked down into yours, his ruggedly handsome features looked so soft in the dim light. You could just make out the faint freckles dusted across his tanned skin from the hot summer months, they were barely visible but you knew them. Your eyes flicked to his lips, the way they curved beautifully, looking impossibly soft despite the cracks from forgotten hydration. They were so inviting.

Gods, you missed him. Not just his presence, but the closeness, the comfort, the intimacy. The way it felt to be held by him, to be known by him. The weight of the past couple of months pressed down heavily in your chest— grief, fear, longing, pain, love— all of it trying to escape. 

Before you could stop yourself, before you could even think, you closed the distance between you.

Your lips met his, and every feeling you’d been holding in, everything you hadn’t been able to say, spilled into the kiss— desperate and aching, a silent plea for comfort, for the familiarity in all the chaos.

Bucky froze, startled by your forwardness. But then, with a quiet, almost broken sound, he was kissing you back. He pulled you in, arms tightening around you like he was afraid to let go. And right here, at this moment, nothing else existed. No fear, no nightmares, no betrayal or ghosts of the past— just this, you and him, holding each other, keeping each other from falling apart.

You needed more, pushing your body closer to him, into his, seeking more— more warmth, more closeness, more of him, all of him. When you grinded against him, a guttural moan escaped his lips and his arms tightened around you instinctively. Your hands slid up his back, tangling into his hair, pulling him down to deepen the kiss.

Bucky’s grip shifted and he straightened, and suddenly your feet were no longer touching the ground. His hands had slid down under your ass, pulling you flush against him, sparks flying between you. Without thinking, you wrapped your legs around his waist, gasping as his arms secured you against him.

Your fingers fumbled over the keys in your pocket and you pressed them into his palm, a silent plea. He understood. Without breaking the kiss, he maneuvered the two of you toward your door. He blindly found the lock, the metal clinking as he pushed it open, and then you were stumbling inside together, breathless and wanting. The door swung shut behind you.

He didn’t stop, lips still on yours, hands holding you close. He carried you through the darkened apartment. Every step he took sent waves of anticipation and need rushing through you. And then, you felt the edge of your bed against the back of your legs. He lowered you down, his weight on top of you.

You’d missed this. You’d missed him. And tonight, you weren’t going to let him go.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and rolled over, instinctively reaching for the warmth of Bucky’s embrace that had been beside you only hours ago. Except his side of the bed was cold and empty. Your stomach sank.

You lifted your hand up to touch the spot where his head had been. And that’s when you felt it. A note. Folded on the pillow where he should have been. You sat up slowly, picking up the paper and smoothing out the creases. You had ignored his last letter for too long, you wouldn’t make the same mistake again. His handwriting was messier than the last note, like he had written it in the darkness and in a hurry, but the words were more thoughtful than you’d expected.

Princess,

I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to leave, but Sam called— he needs backup, and I owe it to him.

That doesn’t mean I wanted to go.

I’d give anything to stay, to hold you a little longer. This is a part of who I am, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you.

I love you. I hope you know that.

I’ll call as soon as I can.

Bucky

You traced the words with your fingertips, a smile tugging at your lips. He was trying. You realized that now. And despite the ache of loneliness in the cold sheets, you believed him.

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[ghostedbyalex]

jealous suits you | bucky barnes x reader

summary: Gossip has it that Bucky Barnes is single—and closer than he should be to another woman. But you don't share what's yours. | warnings: (+18), smut, jealousy, possessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, domestic intimacy, non-binary reader, canon divergence "thunderbolts" (contain spoilers).| words: 2.163k

-&-

You stare at your phone screen, the glow harsh against your face in the dim corridor of the elevator. The headline blinks back at you: “Is Bucky Barnes Off the Market? New Flame Rumors Spark After Spotted With Melissa Gold Again!” Another ping. Another article. Another picture. You don’t even bother reading the captions anymore. They all blur into the same narrative — “eligible bachelor,” “lingering glances,” “something brewing?” It doesn’t matter that you know the truth. Doesn’t matter that you’ve been waking up next to him for months. That his dog adores you. That he once cried in your arms after a mission gone wrong and whispered, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” None of it matters when the world doesn’t see you. When they write you out like you don’t exist. Like he’s still waiting for someone.

The elevator dings. You step out. Your keys rattle in your hand as you unlock the door to your shared apartment, jaw tight, breath shallow. Inside, the lights are low. Bucky's jacket is slung over the back of the couch, his boots abandoned by the door. The TV hums quietly with some news channel playing reruns of today's announcements. He’s seated at the dining table, elbows propped, fingers tangled in his hair. Papers spread around him. His phone, face-down. A coffee mug — cold and forgotten. He looks up when he hears you. Eyes a little tired, beard a little overgrown. Still beautiful. Still yours. “You’re home,” he says, voice warm, but edged with exhaustion. You don’t answer right away. You drop your bag, walk toward him, slow and steady. He watches you approach, something flickering in his eyes. You see the moment he notices the tension in your jaw. The way your fingers curl into your palm. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

You stop in front of him, standing between his knees. “You tell me,” you say quietly. “Something you want to confess, Barnes?” His brow furrows. “What are you talking about?” You reach down, take his phone from the table, and flip it over. “Melissa Gold?” You press it into his palm. “Is that the narrative now?” He blinks, surprised — then sighs, leans back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Oh. That crap. Again?” Again. Like it’s nothing. You lean forward, placing your hands on his thighs, squeezing them with just enough pressure to make him look at you. “You might be too tired to care about rumors,” you murmur, voice low, “but I’m not. And if the world needs reminding, maybe you do too.” His lips part — to protest? Apologize? You don’t give him the chance. You straddle him in one swift move, your knees tightening around his hips. He exhales hard against your mouth when you kiss him, slow but heavy. Possessive. “Y/N,” he breathes, hands coming to your waist, grounding, trembling. “Wait—what are you—”

“Reminding you,” you whisper, grinding your hips into him deliberately, “that you’re not on the market.” You feel him harden beneath you, his fingers tightening reflexively. You bite his bottom lip — not enough to hurt, just to make a point — then kiss down his jaw, your voice a husky whisper against his skin. “You’re mine, James Buchanan Barnes. And I don’t share.” He groans your name, pulling you closer, hungry now — and you let him. Because this? This is where he remembers. Not from headlines or PR lies. But from the press of your body, the nails on his shoulders, the way you ride him slow and deep until he forgets every name but yours.

Bucky’s hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear — as if you’re the only real thing left in a world spinning too fast. You can feel the tension leave his shoulders slowly, replaced by a different kind of heat as your lips trail down the column of his neck. “You really think I’d look at anyone else?” he asks, his voice rasped, barely above a breath, like he’s afraid to break the moment. You don’t answer — not with words. You shift, grinding against the hardness straining in his jeans, your breath catching at the friction. He groans, deep and guttural, his fingers digging into your waist as his head tips back against the chair.

Your hands find the hem of his shirt, and with one tug, you pull it up — over his head, off his arms. The fabric hits the floor, forgotten. Your eyes rake over him. The scars, the muscle, the story his body tells — a story only you get to read like this. “You’re mine,” you repeat, slower this time, each word a deliberate vow. You lean down and press your lips to the center of his chest. “No matter what they say.” He cups your face, his metal thumb stroking your cheek. “Always,” he says, voice cracking with it. “I don’t care what they print. I care about this. You.” You roll your hips again, slower now, deliberately cruel — drawing a hiss from his lips. “Then prove it.”

The chair scrapes back as he suddenly stands, lifting you with him — your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The papers scatter to the floor as he plants you down on the kitchen table, lips crashing into yours like he’s starving for you. “Don’t ever doubt it,” he growls into your mouth. Your shirt’s off before you can even breathe. His mouth is on your chest, your stomach, his teeth scraping possessively across your skin like he wants to leave a trail. A map. A claim. You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan. “You’re not allowed to be pretty in paparazzi pictures with other people.” He chuckles — dark and hoarse — between kisses down your body. “Jealous?” “Deadly.”

He looks up at you through thick lashes, pupils blown wide, jaw tight. “Good.” You gasp as he sinks to his knees on the kitchen tiles, dragging your underwear down with aching slowness. His hands part your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. “This is mine,” he murmurs, voice reverent and filthy all at once. “No cameras. No rumors. Just this.” And then his mouth is on you — hot, skilled, relentless. The table shakes under you. Your hand slaps against it for balance, the other fisting his hair as you arch into the wet heat of his tongue, the low growl vibrating through your core. He worships you there like he needs to make you forget every headline. Every doubt. You come apart like a wave crashing, his name spilling from your lips in broken, desperate gasps.

But he doesn’t stop. When he finally rises, his lips glisten and his eyes are heavy with need. He unbuttons his jeans with one hand, never breaking eye contact. “I want you to scream it,” he rasps. “That you’re mine. That no one else gets to have this. Gets to see you like this.”

You bite your lip, your chest heaving. “Then fuck me like you mean it.” And he does. Right there, on the damn kitchen table — papers and coffee mugs forgotten, the TV muttering nonsense in the background. The only truth in the room is the sound of your moans, the rhythm of your bodies, and the way Bucky clutches you like you're home. Because you are. You push him back by the chest, firm and commanding. “Sit,” you order, voice low, breathless but steady.

Bucky obeys without hesitation, stumbling slightly as he drops back into the chair. His pupils are blown wide, chest rising in quick, shallow bursts, lips parted like he’s already begging. You climb into his lap again, slower this time, deliberate. You reach between you both, grip his length through the undone denim, and watch him shudder. Only you can do this to him. Only your touch makes his jaw clench like that. Only your voice, thick with heat and purpose, makes him forget every command he’s ever taken — because now he only answers to you. You free him from his jeans with a flick of your wrist, letting your fingers wrap around him, guiding him to your entrance with a smirk that feels like fire. When you sink down onto him, his hands shoot to your hips with a bruising grip, a strangled curse falling from his lips.

But you don’t move yet. You stay seated deep, walls pulsing around him, your hands on his chest, holding him still as he trembles beneath you. “You feel that?” you whisper, leaning close enough to brush your lips along his ear. “No one else gets this. No one else can make you fall apart like I do.” He groans your name, hips twitching up, desperate for friction. But you hold him down.

“Say it,” you demand, rolling your hips once — slow, dragging. His head falls back, teeth grit. “Say you’re mine.” “I’m yours,” he gasps, voice wrecked, eyes wild. “Fuck, Y/N—please.” You start to ride him then — a steady, grinding rhythm that builds with every bounce of your hips, every needy moan that slips from his throat. His hands clutch at your thighs like you’re all he has left to hold onto. Your name is a litany on his tongue — no title, no pretense, just raw, open devotion. “You think Melissa Gold could do this?” you pant, grinding down with delicious pressure. “Think she could make you beg like this?” “No,” he chokes, completely undone. “Only you. Only ever you.”

Your pace quickens, pleasure twisting tight in your core, his nails digging into your skin, bodies moving in perfect sync — frantic, desperate, right on the edge of breaking. And when you both fall, it’s not quiet. It’s a cry, a claim, a collapse. He spills into you with a groan that sounds like surrender, like worship. And you hold him close through it — forehead to forehead, breath to breath — until your bodies still and the world goes quiet again.

You don’t move for a long time. Just stay there, tangled, claimed, whole. Because in this moment — messy, breathless, intense — he doesn’t belong to the rumors, or the headlines, or the world. He belongs to you. Your breath is still uneven when you finally ease off his lap, careful, tender. The room is warm with the scent of sweat, the hum of the fridge, the soft thrum of your heart slowing back to its rhythm. Bucky exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

You reach for the kitchen towel draped on the counter and hand it to him with a small smile. He chuckles, breathless, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was…” You settle beside him, one thigh pressed to his, your arm resting over his shoulders. “Necessary,” you finish for him. He nods, but there’s something behind his eyes — not lust now, but weariness. Old shadows rising again. “I hate that you had to see that stuff online,” he says finally, voice rough. “I hate that it got to you.” You’re quiet for a second, watching the way his gaze drops to the floor like he can’t bear to meet yours.

“It wasn’t just the photos,” you admit, fingers brushing lightly over his metal hand. “It’s that they still don’t know. About us. About what we have. Like… I’m invisible in your life.” His brow furrows. “That’s not true.” “I know,” you say, softly. “But it feels true, sometimes. And it messes with my head. Makes me wonder if it’s easier for you that way — to pretend we don’t exist, so you don’t have to defend it.”

Bucky turns toward you, fast. “No. No, Y/N—don’t ever think that.” He takes your face in his hands, warm and cold, flesh and steel. “You’re the only part of this life that makes sense. The rest of it — the noise, the press, the expectations — none of it matters. You matter.” Your chest tightens, and your throat threatens to close, but you hold his gaze. “Then let them know,” you whisper. “Let the world know I exist.” There’s a long beat. And then he nods. “You got your phone?” he asks. You blink. “Yeah?”

“Then pick your favorite picture of us,” he says, lips lifting at one corner. “And let’s show them who I belong to.” You scroll through your gallery, heart thudding as you find it: a photo from a lazy morning on the couch, your head tucked under his chin, his arm wrapped tight around you, both of you wearing sleepy smiles and mismatched pajamas. He’s kissing the top of your head, and you’re laughing — soft and free. You add a caption.

-yn.ln just a reminder that bucky barnes is very much taken — by someone who isn’t a headline. 🤍 You tag him. Bucky watches as you hit post, then pulls you back into his lap, holding you like he has no plans of ever letting go. “Think they’ll get the message?” you ask. He grins against your temple. “I think they just did.”

[deadundedwhatsitmater]

Part 1 (Danny's Rough Day)

Danny was having a rough day. First, he was up till 3 am chasing some Ectopodes causing trouble in the school. Then showed up late to school (again!) He was doing so much better this year too! It’s his third tardy so he’s got detention after school. His parents were working with the GIW and he still hasn't found any good evidence of what kind of weapon they’re making! He doesn't have time for detention. It's been 3 weeks of them working together and hacking into the GIW didn't prove very useful since the projects were not uploaded, it seemed bad, like they are tryna keep it under lock’n’key for some reason. He’s so close to the exit, that he’ll skip today. It might land him with more detention but he needs to figure out what his parents and the GIW are up to before it's too late. But alas! Before he could make a run for it Mr. Lancer turns the corner and smiles as he insists on escorting Danny to detention. So here he sits in detention, watching the clock tick seconds off with bouncing knees and fidgety hands. 

Finally, detention is over, He races to the door, bolting towards home, before he makes it. Amity GIW alarms blare across town and his phone buzzes with a phone call. Tuc-Tuc his phone screen reads, he answers. “Tucker wha-”

“Danny! I need you to listen to me..um-shit I don't know how to tell you…” 

“Tell me what Tuc? Don't leave me hanging, are you ok?”

“Danny, your parents, they..”

“What do you mean? My parents? Did Dad hit someone with the GAV?”

“They’re dead”                       

“What? Common Tucker this is serious”

“ No, Danny the GIW, the weapon your parents were helping with… malfunctioned? I- I don't know, ok but it’s bad and I can’t tell you, it’s all over the news, I don’t know what to do.”

His breath hitches, What?

“I don’t understand-I gotta go” He hangs up the call and pulls up the news app, they’re near the lake. A blur of red is shown on the news broadcast. He transforms faster than he ever has and is up and racing towards the lake, invisibility and intangibility so he has straight shot from here to the lake. And Oh too suddenly is he there, oh god here's there. He can hardly take in the scene, 3 Ambulances, and 6 cop cars surround the small clearing near the lake, Emts, Paramedics, cops, and detectives run around all having a job to do, whether it's taking GIW Agent away in handcuffs or taking in the injured. Danny can hardly think as his eyes finally zero in on his parents or what's left of them he thinks to himself. People surround them specifically. He stares, watching as people take evidence and clean up what's left of his parents. He should probably call Jazz. Wait Call? He looks down and his phone is buzzing with a call from Sam, he doesn’t answer, he can hardly move. He watches as it finally ends and sees he has 27 missed calls from Pharaoh, 38 from the Goth, and 65 calls from Fruitloop. His phone buzzes, it's Tucker. “Danny?”

“Hmmm”

“Oh my god. Are you at the scene?” I can’t answer that “It’ll be ok, I just need to call Jazz, can you tell Sam I need a moment, come over later or something, and block Vlad for me... Please?”  “ I- ok yeah, can do . But Danny, I’m here, me and Sam are both here for you ok? We’ll be over tonight.” 

“Ok, Goodbye Tucker” “Bye Danny” 

With that, he ends the call, and before he can back out he hits Jazz’s contact, it only rings once. “ Danny? I saw the news, the quickest flight takes off in 3 hours, I’m on my way little brother” She’s on her way. Jazz will know what to do, and she always knows what to do when it’s important. I need her more than anything right now. I just have to wait for Jazz and everything will be fine. Maybe it’s just all a bad dream? Yea a nightmare, if nocturn got me again-

“Danny, it’s not a nightmare, but it’ll be ok. I’ll be there as soon as I can, I want you to get home, I love you little brother” She sounds so calm, I don't know how she does it, how is she functioning. I gotta say something “I love you too Jazzy-Pants” He choked at the end but Jazz ignored it to keep telling him that it’ll be ok, that she’ll be there soon, that he’s not alone, she loves him, and that he is allowed to feel however and whatever he feels right now but I don’t feel anything and that's just the worst part isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be sad? Shouldn’t I be angry the GIW killed my parents Yet Danny just stands still staring at the carnage that's been left, he feels empty and it’s so much worse. Is he so volatile he isn’t even upset by his parents being murdered? They’re gone and he is just staring at the remains. I’m a monster But Jazz’s voice brings him back as she rambles on, comforting him, and oh how he needs her right now. 

Eventually, he ends the call with his sister, telling her Sam and Tucker are waiting. He flies back home head empty, as he robotically flies home and through his roof into his room, not yet ready to face reality. 

[dragonridersandhighlords]

Chasing Shadows | F I V E

masterlist | CS Masterlist

Summary: Xaden’s POV of Ch 4 up until the ‘Battle Brief’ with Mira.

Notes: Surprise! Have another update!

Warnings: Violet is still a bitch (no I can’t off her but I wish I could), thats it

Word Count: 3.8k

previous part

X A D E N 

I hammered my fists into the training post in the farthest corner of the gym, a sanctuary of shadows where the harsh lights couldn’t penetrate. The wooden post shuddered with each strike, splinters threatening to break free, but the pain I inflicted on it was nothing compared to the turmoil raging within me. My mind churned, relentless, replaying Wrenley’s words from the other night like a haunting melody I couldn't escape.

We should just call it now, Xay. We weren’t going to survive after graduation.

You wouldn’t be doing it because you love me. You’d be doing it to prove a point.

I do still care about you. I just can’t in the way I always have.

“You always did choose pain over answers,” Garrick's voice broke through the haze, flat and devoid of sympathy as he approached. 

I refused to look up, my fists moving rhythmically against the post, the dull thud echoing in the hollow gym. “Didn’t ask for company,” I muttered.

“Good,” Garrick replied coldly, his words slicing through the tension. “I’m not here to keep you company.”

As I stilled, the silence draped over us like a thick fog, the air charged. Garrick's boots echoed against the stone floor, drawing closer, each step a countdown to the inevitable confrontation. 

“Why did you do it?” he finally asked, a question heavy with accusation.

My shoulders tensed, a visceral reaction to the sharpness of his inquiry. 

“You think I wouldn’t find out? She’s been closed off for days. Desa’s threatening to scorch anyone who even walks near her.” His exasperation crackled in the air, thickening the silence. 

“It’s better for her this way,” I replied, my voice tinged with a desperation I couldn’t quite hide.

“That’s bullshit,” Garrick spat, the venom in his words hitting me like a physical blow. “You don’t get to play with her heart like that. Not after everything. Not after she trusted you with the parts of herself she won’t even show me.” 

The truth of his words clenched around my heart, but I steeled myself. “You think I wanted this? You think this is easy for me?”

“No, I think you’re a goddamn coward,” Garrick shot back, his tone sharp as glass. “Because that girl loved you like you were the very oxygen she breathed. And you dropped her like it didn’t mean anything.”

“She was going to get hurt!” I shouted, my voice raw, bleeding like my fists against the post. “Every day she was around me, she was more at risk. You know what’s happening out there, what we're trying to do. She’s safer without me.”

Garrick stepped closer, an unyielding force of emotion that crackled in the stillness of the gym. The shadows clung to him as if they recognized the weight of his fury and hurt, painting his features with a grim determination. “You think she wanted safety?” His voice trembled, bitter with the grief that hung in the air like a storm cloud poised to unleash its wrath. “She wanted you. And now? She thinks she’s disposable.”

The words felt like another strike against my chest. I flinched, the imaginary impact forcing me to look away, my breath shallow and ragged as if I had been the one struck down. In that moment, I felt the icy grip of guilt coiling around my heart, tightening with each heartbeat.

“You think she’s better off without you?” Garrick pressed. “You don’t get to decide that for her. That’s not protecting her. That’s control, fear.” He paused, letting the silence settle, a heavy shroud that threatened to suffocate me. “And you don't get to say you love her and then destroy her to keep her safe.”

The words hung in the air, laden with truth, and the weight of them pressed down on my shoulders, threatening to crush me. I was lost in the echo of my failures, the shadows of my choices swirling like smoke around me.

“I trusted you with her,” Garrick continued, the raw edge of betrayal seeping into his tone. “And yeah, that’s on me.” With that, he turned, the silence stretching between us like an unbridgeable chasm. But before he could walk away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, his voice iron-hard and resolute.

“You ever want to fix what you broke, you better start with telling her the truth. Because the version you left her with? It’s killing her.”

I’ve been avoiding Violet whenever possible. Jack nearly killing her during her challenge today wasn't helping that. Each time I glanced in her direction since we got to the infirmary, I felt the weight of guilt pressing down harder, especially after Wrenley witnessed me scoop Violet out of Ridoc’s arms in a panic. 

I fidget with one of the daggers Wrenley had gifted me just before we were separated after the executions. The cool metal felt reassuring in my grip, a tether to a time when I felt more in control. The dim light flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls, mirroring the turmoil within me. It was then that Violet stirred, her eyelids fluttering open, revealing a confusion that quickly morphed into recognition.

“Oranges?” I ask her.

“How many stitches?” she asked, concern weaving through her words as she propped herself up, a subtle wince betraying her pain.

“Eleven on one side and nineteen on the other,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light as I leaned in closer. “You turned oranges into a weapon, Violence?” 

“I worked with what I had,” she shrugged, a flicker of pride glimmering in her eyes even amidst the hurt.

“Seeing as it kept you alive—kept us alive—I can’t really argue,” I said, leaning back in the chair, the wood creaking under my weight. “Telling Ridoc allowed Emetterio to get him here in time. Unfortunately, he’s five beds down from you, and he’ll live, unlike the second-year a row over. You could have killed him and saved us all a lot of drama.”

“I didn’t want to kill him,” she replied, her voice steady despite the pain etched on her face. She rolled her shoulder, a grimace crossing her features. “I just wanted him to stop killing me.”

“You should have told me.” The accusation tore from my lips in a snarl, fueled by frustration and fear.

“And you could have done nothing about it besides make me look weak. And you haven’t exactly been around to talk about anything in weeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that kiss scared you.” My heart sank at her words, an uncomfortable truth I wished I could erase from everyone’s memory. 

“That’s not up for discussion.” I stated, trying to deflect, but the tension between us crackled, thick and suffocating.

“Seriously?” she pressed, and I could feel the ground shifting beneath us, the fragile lines we had drawn beginning to blur.

“It was a mistake.” I snap. “Not only are we going to be stationed together for the rest of our lives, never able to escape the other, but I am—was—in a serious relationship. What we did, even under the influence of our dragons, was wrong.” A cold weight settled in my chest as I realized the gravity of my actions; I can’t take it back, but I will make it right now.

Violet scoffs, a sound laced with disbelief, her expression a mixture of defiance and hurt. “This is because Wrenley broke up with you?” The mere mention of her name sends a sharp pang through me, and I fight the urge to lash out, to silence her before she digs deeper into the wounds that still throb beneath the surface. I can feel the tension coiling in my muscles, the instinctual urge to snap her neck so she'd shut up rising like bile in my throat.

“Getting involved—even on a physical level—is a colossal blunder.” The weight of my voice presses down, a finality that echoes within the small room. “You were a mistake that I will not repeatedly make. So there is no point talking about it.”I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind, the memory of our shared kiss—how I pulled her into my arms—taunting both of us with its undeniable intensity.

“What if I want to talk about it?” Her challenge is quiet, yet fierce, as she shifts to the edge of the bed, an instinctual movement that suggests she’s already plotting her escape.

“Then feel free, but it doesn’t mean I have to be a part of the conversation. We’re both allowed our boundaries, and this is one of mine.” My tone hardens, and I can sense her discomfort, the way her resolve falters at the finality of my words. 

“I’ll agree that keeping my distance didn’t work out so well, and if today’s little stunt was about getting my attention, then congratulations. It’s yours.” I glance away, the admission weighing heavy in the air, a reluctant acknowledgment of the truth that I had tried to deny.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She deflects, but I know she’s searching for the boots so she can get as far away from this conversation as possible.

“Apparently I can’t trust Liam to report deadly situations or Rhiannon to train you on the mat, seeing how easily Barlowe had you pinned, so as of this moment, I’m taking over.” The words feel like an ultimatum, and I know deep down that this isn’t going to help me at all. But if I want to live long enough to convince Wrenley that it’s only ever been her, this is what I need to do.

“Taking over what?” Violet’s curiosity mingles with skepticism, and I brace myself for what’s to come.

“Everything when it comes to you.”

The bitter chill of the wind whips through the training grounds, biting at my skin, as I stare out over the distant horizon from the parapet. The last remnants of winter linger in the air, but it’s more the weight of the past weeks that settles heavily on my shoulders. Since the moment Wrenley learned about my intentions to train Violet, I felt a rift begin to carve its way between us. It was subtle at first, a fleeting glance turned away, a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. But now, it’s an expansive gulf, and I’m not sure how to bridge it.

February slipped by in a blur of early morning training sessions and late-night sparring matches, each one punctuated by Violet’s persistent attempts to close the space between us. The thought of crossing that line again clawed at my insides, a constant battle between desire and the guilt that held me captive. Would Violet ever understand why I had to keep her at arm's length? 

With March now drifting towards its end, I find myself alone, my thoughts swirling like the clouds above me. It’s my birthday, a day that should be filled with laughter and camaraderie, yet I’m isolated in my own head, wrestling with the choices that have led me here. Garrick, my best friend, barely acknowledges my existence outside of class. 

Bodhi, ever the silent mediator, hovers nearby, but I can see the inner turmoil reflected in his gaze. He’s been forced to choose between his best friend and his last living relative, and I can’t help but feel like a shadow hanging over their friendship. If he ever asked me, I'd tell him without hesitation to choose Wrenley. I don’t deserve their loyalty, not after the way I’ve let everything spiral out of control. Wren deserves better than the mess I’ve made of our lives.

After what feels like hours of brooding, I make my way back to my room, the familiar walls closing in as I reach for the door. But the moment I open it, my heart skips a beat. There, on my desk, a single slice of chocolate cake sits, accompanied by a simple note:

Happy birthday. - Wren

The air hums with tension as cadets line up for the next Squad Battle challenge, the charged atmosphere thick with a mix of excitement and the sharp tang of fear. As I lean against the cool stone wall, my gaze sweeps over the sea of faces, each one a tapestry of anxiety and determination. 

Then my focus is drawn, like a moth to a flame, to a familiar figure amidst the throng—a head full of auburn waves that glisten in the sunlight, my favorite shade. Wrenley shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her posture attempting nonchalance, yet the fidgeting of her fingers tells a different story. The little details—the way her brow furrows and the subtle quiver of her hands—betray her nerves.

“She looks like she’s gonna puke,” Garrick mutters beside me, his voice laced with a blend of concern and sarcasm.

“She’ll be fine,” I reply, though my eyes remain glued to her. I watch as she steadies her grip on the blade, taking a deep, grounding breath, and I reach for the area of the Aretian Cliffs in my mind where our connection usually resides, but I find nothing like usual.

And then Emettario calls for the match to begin and she moves like she was born for this, every motion fluid and instinctive, yet it’s not merely her physical prowess I’m observing—it's the strategic decisions she makes in the heat of battle. Her attacks are quick and calculated, her movements sharp and sudden, sending her opponent reeling. She plays them, baiting them into underestimating her, appearing weak while she strikes with fierce precision.

I feel my jaw tighten as her opponent fakes a drop and lunges toward her blind side. In an instant, Wrenley drops, spins, and connects with a kick to his ribs that sends him sprawling to the ground. My heart races, but I refuse to let my worry show. 

When Emettario declares her the winner, I can’t help but notice the way her shoulders drop in relief, a weight lifted from her. I suppress the urge to smile, though warmth blooms in my chest, betraying my carefully maintained facade.

“She fought like she had something to prove,” Garrick remarks, breaking the silence.

“She does,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper. 

To herself. To me.

She doesn’t need saving. She never did. But I’ll be damned if I don’t burn the world down for her, anyway.

Then I watch her run from the crowd, the jubilant cheers and claps fading into a distant hum, and my breath catches in my throat like a stone lodged deep within. Her movements are fluid and electric, every stride echoing her triumph, until she collides with Dain, their bodies connecting with a soft thud that feels like an eruption in my chest. 

She lands against him, her momentum carrying her into his chest with a grace that suggests it’s the most natural thing in the world. He catches her effortlessly, a broad grin splitting his face like he’s the one who won. My heart sinks as I watch, arms instinctively clenching at my sides. His hands slide around her waist, the intimacy of the gesture sending a surge of something sharp and unsettling twisting in my chest. There it is, that radiant smile—so bright and unrestrained—that she once reserved solely for me.

I feel frozen in time, every instinct screaming to surge forward, to break through the thrumming crowd that separates us, to pull her back into my orbit, to explain the unbearable truth behind my silence. But I stand paralyzed, rooted to the spot, because I promised myself she’d be safer without me—and now, standing here, I have to confront the agonizing proof that she doesn’t need me at all.

Wrenley leans into him, head tipped back, the flush of victory painting her cheeks a vivid rose. She laughs at something Dain says, the sound ringing clear like a bell, slicing through the last vestiges of my resolve. They begin to walk together like it was always meant to be just them.

Beside me, Garrick watches the scene unfold, his expression a mask of contemplation, his jaw ticking rhythmically in a way that tells me he’s grappling with his own thoughts. “She’s allowed to be happy,” he finally says, breaking the thick silence that envelops us.

“She is,” I reply, though the words leave a bitter taste on my tongue, as if tainted by the very reality I’m struggling to accept. 

As they disappear down the corridor, laughter trailing behind them, I remain in the shadows of the arena, grappling with the hollow ache inside me, wondering if this is what it feels like to win a war but lose the reason you fought it.

I’m pissed at Sgaeyl for dragging me to Montserrat just three days after Flame Section Second Squad departed to claim their prize for winning the Squad Battle last week. The air is thick with the salty tang of the sea, a bitter reminder of the excitement I’m missing. Each breath feels heavy with unspent adrenaline, and I can’t shake the feeling that I should be among my comrades, celebrating their victory instead of lurking in the shadows of this outpost.

As I make my way through the dimly lit halls, I stumble upon Violet and Rihannon sneaking back in with Mira. Before I can retreat to my own room, a cascade of hushed laughter wafts from the gates, pulling me closer, curiosity piquing my senses.

Wrenley slips in first, her bare feet soundless against the cool stone. Drops of water glisten in her hair, catching the light and shimmering like tiny stars trapped in the strands. She wears a jacket that swallows her whole, the fabric sagging at her shoulders. The sound of her laughter is soft and sweet, the kind of melody that wraps around the heart like a warm blanket, yet it stings to hear it aimed at someone else.

Dain follows closely behind her, both of their boots cradled in their hands like trophies, their faces alight with the thrill of rebellion. They look like teenagers, caught in a moment that feels both innocent and reckless, a stark contrast to the rigid expectations of marked cadets.

They don’t see me until it’s too late.

“Interesting choice of company,” I say, stepping from the shadows, the tension crackling in the air around us. 

Wrenley freezes mid-step, her laughter evaporating like mist. Dain’s head snaps up, his entire demeanor shifting, a predator caught off guard in enemy territory. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she stammers, blinking, her voice stripped of its usual steel, revealing a vulnerability that tugs at something deep within me. Guilt dances in her eyes, and I seize the opportunity.

“And you’re supposed to not be sneaking around at an outpost that you’re visiting.” My tone is even, each word a calculated jab. “What kind of leadership are you considering when I caught two of your cadets doing exactly the same?” Silence envelops us, heavy and charged. My gaze zeroes in on Wren. “Really? With the son of your father’s murderer?” Dain tries to interject, but I cut him off. “Don’t defend it.” 

Wrenley steadies herself, her breath a deep inhale that seems to anchor her. She takes a step forward, and I can see the strength in her resolve, even as it wavers. “You don’t get to ambush me and throw my father’s death in my face, Xaden.” 

“No?” I challenge, closing the distance between us. “Then explain it to me, Wren. Explain how the same girl who used to flinch at the name Aetos is now barefoot and grinning with his son.”

Wrenley’s jaw clenched, her emotions flickering behind her eyes like lightning across a stormy sky. “Because I realized I was being hypocritical when it came to Violet. And she’s done worse to me than Dain did.” The words hung in the air, heavy and jagged.

“That’s rich coming from you,” I retorted, my voice a low rumble of disbelief. “When your entire adult life has been built on hating what his family did to yours.” 

Dain stood there, caught in the crossfire of our confrontation, the tension thrumming around him like a taut string ready to snap. He sensed this was no longer a conversation he belonged in, yet his presence added a different weight to the moment—one that wavered between uncomfortable and necessary.

“This isn’t about his father,” Wrenley declared, her voice firm, but I could see the cracks forming in her facade. “This is about Dain.”

“Exactly,” I hissed, my patience unraveling like thread pulled too tight. “And he’s not some neutral player. He is who he was raised to be. You think he doesn’t carry the same loyalty? The same blind obedience? You think you’re safe with him just because he’s nice to you now?” My words lashed out, sharp and cruel, and I watched as Wrenley flinched at the truth of them.

She stood her ground, her resolve hardening in the face of my aggression, but I could see the hurt playing across her features. “At least he chose me,” she said, her voice steady.

I stepped back, feeling as if she had pushed me with a force I couldn’t contest. The air between us crackled, charged with all the unsaid things that swirled like a tempest.

Dain cleared his throat, the sound awkward and misplaced amidst the palpable tension. “We should go.” His words felt like a lifeline, but they were also an admission of defeat.

Wrenley looked at me one last time, her eyes unreadable, a storm of emotions swirling just beneath the surface. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

“I don’t care how I found out,” I replied, my voice slicing through the lingering silence like a blade. “I care that you forgot.” 

“Forgot what?” she whispered, confusion mingling with hurt, and I felt the weight of the moment press down on us like a heavy fog.

“That you’re not just choosing him. You’re choosing his name. And everything it cost yours.” My heart ached as I watched her, a fierce battle waging behind her eyes. 

Without another word, they left, the space between us widening like a chasm, filled with unspoken feelings and uncharted regrets. I stood alone in the empty corridor, the echoes of our exchange reverberating through me like a haunting melody. I felt like a ghost, lingering in a place where warmth had just departed, wondering if I was losing her for good—or if she had just lost herself in her desperate attempt to forget me.

I hoped she realizes that Dain is up to something. I don't know what it is yet, but I will figure it out. Because I won't let her slip through my fingers, and get burned in the process.

next part

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[sirfrogsworth]

Falling into the AI vortex.

Before I deeply criticize something, I try to understand it more than surface level.

With guns, I went into deep research mode and learned as much as I could about the actual guns so I could be more effective in my gun control advocacy.

I learned things like... silencers are not silent. They are mainly for hearing protection and not assassinations. It's actually small caliber subsonic ammo that is a concern for covert shooting. A suppressor can aid with that goal, but its benefits as hearing protection outweigh that very rare circumstance.

AR15s... not that powerful. They use a tiny bullet. Originally it could not even be used against thick animal hides. It was classified as a "varmint hunting" gun. There are other factors that make it more dangerous like lightweight ammo, magazine capacity, medium range accuracy, and being able to penetrate things because the tiny bullets go faster. But in most mass shooting situations where the shooting distance is less than 20 feet, they really aren't more effective than a handgun. They are just popular for that purpose. Dare I say... a mass shooting fad or cliche. But there are several handguns that could be more powerful and deadly—capable of one bullet kills if shot anywhere near the chest. And easier to conceal and operate in close quarters like a school hallway.

This deeper understanding tells me that banning one type of gun may not be the solution people are hoping for. And that if you don't approach gun control holistically (all guns vs one gun), you may only get marginal benefits from great effort and resources.

Now I'm starting the same process with AI tools.

Everyone is stuck in "AI is bad" mode. And I understand why. But I worry there is nuance we are missing with this reactionary approach. Plus, "AI is bad" isn't a solution to the problem. It may be bad, but it is here and we need to figure out realistic approaches to mitigate the damage.

So I have been using AI tools. I am trying to understand how they work, what they are good for, and what problems we should be most worried about.

I've been at this for nearly a month and this may not be what everyone wants to hear, but I have had some surprising interactions with AI. Good interactions. Helpful interactions. I was even able to use it to help me keep from an anxiety thought spiral. It was genuinely therapeutic. And I am still processing that experience and am not sure what to say about it yet.

If I am able to write an essay on my findings and thoughts, I hope people will understand why I went into the belly of the beast. I hope they won't see me as an AI traitor.

A big part of my motivation to do this was because of a friend of mine. He was hit by a drunk driver many years ago. He is a quadriplegic. He has limited use of his arms and hands and his head movement is constrained.

When people say, "just pick up a pencil and learn to draw" I always cringe at his expense. He was an artist. He already learned how to pick up a pencil and draw. That was taken away from him. (And please don't say he can stick a pencil in his mouth. Some quads have that ability—he does not. It is not a thing all of them can do.) But now he has a tool that allows him to be creative again. And it has noticeably changed his life. It is a kind of art therapy that has had massive positive effects on his depression.

We have had a couple of tense arguments about the ethics of AI. He is all-in because of his circumstances. And it is difficult to express my opinions when faced with that. But he asked and I answered. He tried to defend it and did a poor job. Which, considering how smart he is, was hard to watch.

But I love my friend and I feel I'd like to at least know what I'm talking about. I want to try and experience the benefits he is seeing. And I'd like to see if there is a way for this technology to exist where it doesn't hurt more than it helps.

I don't know when I will be done with my experiment. My health is improving but I am still struggling and I will need to cut my dose again soon. But for now I am just collecting information and learning.

I guess I just wanted to prepare people for what I'm doing.

And ask they keep an open mind with my findings. Not all of them will be "AI is bad."

[elodieunderglass]

I received an extremely informative and well-researched ask on the topic of the modern UK cavalry, referencing a question about how Killie would do in a cavalry AU. I didn't have much of an answer myself, but a really informed person popped into my inbox with an essay about modern warfare!

It goes to my heart to anonymise the research as the asker should receive credit for their hard work, but that’s what they asked for and I would hate to be the vessel of work shoelaces stolen from the president, etc.

Hi, hello, I'm so sorry for the lengthy special interest lore dump but I saw the "Killie in the cavalry" post and couldn't hold back from my chance to contribute to a possible Killie AU.

Please consider anonymising this, because a work friend follows you, I've so far successfully concealed my Tumblr from them and if they see this ask they will KNOW it's me--

So yes absolutely the UK still has a cavalry!

I’ve popped the rest behind the cut with a TW for military discussion.

I am not a supporter of any military, or the military-industrial complex, but I fully appreciate it as a topic of research (I could easily get obsessed with bits of it myself) and I think it's important to be informed about how the world operates. I'm very appreciative of the information and the time it took to compile it.

Today the cavalry's operational role centres around armoured combat i.e. getting in tracked, heavily armour-plated vehicles and using them to fight the enemy.

This pretty much comes in two flavours: heavy vehicles like the Challenger tank

which are designed to fight, and light reconnaissance like the Jackal

which is designed to go forward, look at the enemy, and then run away before they can get blown up.

I can see Killie in either of these roles - obviously the instinct is recce (light, fast, sneaky) but one mustn't underestimate the extent to which a main battle tank has elements in common with a thoroughbred! It's a highly advanced and specialised killing machine which can nevertheless go *catastrophically* wrong in the most unexpected ways.

For example, tanks break down every few hundred miles, so reliably that they're followed by a huge baggage train of mechanics ready to replace the broken bits; this is a standard part of all military planning and so "normal" that any officer would look at you funny if you suggested you might perhaps be able to drive their beloved vehicle, say, half the length of the UK without calling the tank equivalent of the horse vet.

The Challenger sometimes throws a tantrum if it's too wet ( https://www.msn.com/en-ie/money/other/britain-s-challenger-2-tanks-face-setbacks-in-ukraine-war/ar-AA1uC047 ) and if something goes wrong (drove over barbed wire too quickly) the crew have to spend hours "track-bashing" - removing the tracks by hand and putting them on again:

Main battle tanks like Challenger have incredible and highly advanced armour, but once something goes wrong with them in combat, it tends to go horribly wrong. The ammunition for the main gun is all carried inside the vehicle, and if enemy fire DOES penetrate the armour, it often "cooks off" the explosive ammunition inside, leading to a chain reaction. Not a good time to be inside a sealed box.

Space is VERY tight inside even modern tanks. Four people (loader, gunner, commander, driver) are working in a space smaller than the average box room full of lethal recoiling and rotating metal that loves to eat fingers (sound familiar?). Small troopers are at a big advantage here - Killie is the ideal size; tiny enough to fit comfortably in all the crevices but strong enough to sling the (20kg) rounds for the main gun around (biceps!).

Big tanks have personalities in the way that small recce vehicles don't. Some regiments also have traditions of naming their tanks - this is more of a US thing in modern times (the UK did it in WWI but I'm not aware of it happening today) but you could absolutely bend reality a little. And O Holy Thunder is a *great* name for a main battle tank.

(Side note - in WWI, tank names started with the same letter as the squadron they belonged to. So "F" Squadron tanks would all be called things like Frolic, Firespite, Ferocious. I can see a skit where the crew desperately want to call their tank Holy Thunder but the boss won't permit it because they are part of "O" Squadron, leading to...)

Going a little further, you can put Killie in the modern cavalry and STILL have him on a horse! The Household Cavalry have a dual role as operational and ceremonial troops ( propaganda here: https://www.army.mod.uk/learn-and-explore/about-the-army/corps-regiments-and-units/royal-armoured-corps/household-cavalry-regiment/ ). Troopers rotate between the two roles. The soldiers you see outside Horseguards patiently stopping their horses from eating unwary tourists are from the Household Cavalry - Killie could be one of those troopers one year, and deployed in the desert in an armoured vehicle the next.

Note that again, while those horses are trained to be disciplined, patient and very smart, when they go wrong, they do tend to go horribly wrong, sometimes in distinctly Thunder-esque ways. You may remember the Household Cavalry horses who ran amok in central London twice last year, streaked in blood and getting into fights with buses: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c886qel3wdxo

You may also remember Obelisk, the Household Cavalry horse who got sufficiently bored that he started luring pigeons in with oats dropped from his mouth and then stamping them to death. He was subsequently taken for "psychological re-training". Peak Thunder behaviour.

As a final note, while you rightly mention the class boundaries that would make a cavalry *officer* an unlikely career for Killie (these still exist today, albeit unofficially - Cavalry officers tend to be "Country Life" types from good families called Tarquin and Hettie), there's no such restriction on the soldiers, whose demographic skews more working class and urban.

Cavalry regiments tend to have wonderfully evocative and antique names (Queen's Dragoon Guards, Royal Lancers, King's Royal Hussars) and bags of tradition, battle honours, and ceremonial kit and champagne bills that cost a good deal more than the average officer's monthly income. You don't have to have an independent income - but it helps...

If the AU needed Killie to be an officer, he'd be more likely to serve in the Royal Tank Regiment, which is armoured but *not* Cavalry. This distinction is entirely a matter of tradition & history, not operational role. The RTR is the youngest armoured regiment (founded during WWI, barely 100 years old, Johnny-come-lately compared to the 3- and 400-year legacies of the Queen's Dragoon Guards etc) and nicknamed the "Chav Cav" because it does the same job as the Cavalry without any of the class hangups.

I'd suggest, however, that Killie's... style... is more suited to Trooper Killie than Lieutenant Killie. I can't really see him dealing with the pressures and strains of being responsible for the leadership, discipline and welfare of 30 young Troopers and their vehicles. He'd have a heart attack, the poor boy.

I don't even know if Tumblr will post this monster ask but the Spirits seized me and demanded I post it before going to find breakfast. I hope it brings some joy!

Thank you very much for sharing your knowledge!

[morcez]

IFHY

Synopsis: You are forced to work on a project with the man you hate the most, Satoru Gojo. Satoru is the campus fuck boy, but what happens when he tries to add you to his roster?

Content: College au, Fuckboy!Gojo x Nerd!Reader, Nanami Kento x Reader, rejection, mature, suggestive, Gojo is a huge asshole.

enemies to lovers. enemies to even bigger enemies.

wc: 2.4k

Satoru Gojo is the biggest asshole known on campus, the standard fuck boy. He’s a spoiled brat. You hated him. You hated him the same way oil hates water. You hate the way he’d get praised like a god for the bare minimum, you hated how he treated women like mating holes, you hated how damn fine he is. He wasn't fond of people like you either. Girls who don't throw themselves at him and much rather focus on their peace. Guys like him found quiet girls like you as homework answers or a checkpoint to brag about to their douchebag friends ‘Yeah dude, I fucked loser in me lang class.’ It makes you shiver thinking about how gross those types of guys are, and how pathetic you must be to let one in your pants. You’ve had very minimal interactions with Satoru. You weren’t his usual type, so why bother speaking to you?

It was a normal day for the most part. You sat in the back of your ethics class, the class you happened to share with Satoru. You’re not quite sure why he even takes this class, as if he’s ever thought critically a day in his life. He sits in the very front of class, likely to Kento's request. He sits with his two roommates, Suguru and Kento, who couldn’t be any more different from him. 

As class starts, the professor announces that there will be a project that must be worked on with a partner. Nothing out of the ordinary. You look around the class, seeking who you would partner up with. There weren't too many promising options. Maybe Nanami? You've partnered with him before in other classes. He’s probably the only one who’s on the intelligence level. You’re eyeing the handsome blonde so intensely that you don’t even notice Satoru standing in front of you.

“You got a thing for Kento?”

You jump at the sudden sound, then groan, realizing who it is.

“Ya’ know he’s way less classy than he displays himself to be.” He says, looking down at your seated frame.

“I was just going to ask to pair up with him,” you say quickly, hoping Satoru would just go away.

“He’s already partnered with Suguru.” Something in his blue eyes twinkled with mischief. Satoru and Suguru are two peas in a pod. You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen one without the other.

“Why aren’t you paired with Suguru?” You ask with your eyebrows furrowed with confusion. 

“I’d much rather you be my partner.”

ughhhhhhhhhhhhhh. ewwwwwwwwwwwww. You aren't sure what game he’s playing, but you sure as hell weren’t going to let him use you to win.

“No, thank you, Satoru.” You stare him straight in the eye. Expecting him to have a harsh reaction. But he stood there looking at you with the same smug smile on his face.

“Everyone else already has a partner,” he bites his lip to attempt to contain his giggle.

You look around the class to see everyone already seated with another person.

He won.

He begins to turn and walk away, a smug grin still on his face.

“I’ll see you soon, partner.”

It’s been two days since you were forced into being group partners with Satoru. You had Satoru Gojo blocked on all your social media; he had to get your number by begging Kento. Satoru insisted that you should come over and study because "libraries and cafes cause too much distraction." You smelt bullshit from a mile away, but school is too expensive to be fucking around with your grades, so you reluctantly agree.

You honestly contemplated ignoring him and the assignment altogether, but here you are, standing outside of his apartment door. You knock on the door a few times. Part of you hoped that he forgot so you could just go home. The door unlocks and opens carefully. You're greeted by Suguru, his sharp eyes stare at you for a minute before flashing a kind smile.

"Satoru, your partners here!" He yells before letting you in.

Their apartment is huge, it might as well be considered a house. The kitchen and living area are spacious and surprisingly clean. Their home is gorgeous; you couldn't help but compare it to your compact dorm. Both Satoru and Kento are seated on the coach. Satoru gets up once he notices your presence. Kento gives you a small smile and wave, then looks at Satoru in disgust. Satoru gives Kento a cheeky smile in response.

The air felt heavy, and you sensed there was some type of bickering occurring before you arrived. Too scared to say anything, it felt like you were standing on fragile glass.

"Let's get some privacy," He says, staring straight at Kento. He places a hand on the small of your back and guides you to his room. " I wouldn't want us to have any distractions."

Satorus' room is isolated from the rest of the home, standing at the end of a long and empty hallway. His room is actually decently decorated. Posters and Vinyls littered his walls. His desk set up was neat, with expensive gaming equipment, of course. There are flourishing plants decorating his windowsill. You wondered which girl he screwd helped him decorate. Soundproof foam plastered to his wall, you didn't want to think too hard about what he had it for.

You’re sitting in the Satoru Gojo's bedroom. He’s sitting on his bed, a huge textbook sprawled across his lap. You’re sitting at his desk, on his overly pricey gaming chair. You tried to create as much space as possible between you two. You didn't say a word, as if you hoped he’d forget you're there. Hold your breath; scared to breathe too loudly. The man releases a dramatic sigh, finally breaking the loud silence in the room. 

“Ya’ know, the whole point of being partners is to work together.” He says, slightly annoyed. You give a hum in response. You refuse to turn to look at him, opting to look at the words on the computer screen in front of you instead.

He lets out a scoff. “Why so far? Hm?”

You choke on air. You haven't entertained him whatsoever. Why is he trying? Is he that committed to being a whore?

“C’mere." He pats his navy blue sheets, the space next to him. This textbook is sooo confusing. I need your help.” 

You turn to face him. Greeted by a sinister grin. You knew it was a ploy to get you in his bed, but you weren't going to let this horny bastard ruin your grade. With a groan, you stand up from his comfortable gaming chair and make your way over to his bed. You sit as far as you can, while still being able to see the textbook lying on his lap. So not far. He scoots closer to you, closing the already small gap between you two.

“What were you confused about?” You say trying to steady your voice. 

He grabs your hand that's closest to him and drags it to the page, using your hand to point to the portion he was ‘confused’ about. Your breath hitches at the contact.

The nerve of this guy.

“Explain it to me? Please, Smarty?” His bright eyes lingered on you, as if he were not allowed to look away. You refuse to maintain eye contact any longer. Mumbling the explanation he asked for, as your nervous eyes try to find anything else to look at. He continues to look at you, intently and amused, as if your anxiousness was entertaining. His thumb lightly rubs over your hand sensually. 

“So much knowledge in that pretty head of yours.” He coos.

Is he allergic to reading the room? So damn sure that every woman that crosses his path wants to fuck him. 

You're angry. So damn annoyed. Who even is he?

You scoffed and aggressively retracted your hand from under his. You expected him to be angry, annoyed, or surprised. But when you look at him, he has confidence written all over his face. He closes the textbook and removes it from his lap. He turns his body to completely face you.

“Think you’re too good for me, smarty pants?” He teases.

You turn to face him completely.

He’s fucking unbelievable.

“I know I’m too good for you.” You state

“Oh yeah?” He chuckles, “What’s the ethics behind being a stubborn know-it-all?”

“Want to tell me what’s the ethics behind you being a dick for a brain whore?” You snap.

He has that flirtatious grin stapled on his face, as if he’s plotting something mischievous. Satoru places his hand on your knee, then slowly glides it up to your thigh. A chill shoots down your spine.

“Want me to show you instead?” 

His words make your stomach flip. His blue eyes make you freeze as if he were Medusa.

Your brain was yelling at you to go off. To scream at him. To hit him. To move his hand. But you didn’t stop him, and neither did you want to.

“You’re gross.” You mutter under your breath. Looking everywhere but at his face. Fearing that if you looked too long, you would've folded.

He chuckles amused. His hand travels up to the waistband of your pants.

“Sooo fucking disgusting.” He mocks

 He hooks his finger over your waistband, using it to tug you close to him.

Sitting face to face.

So close you can feel his breath. You wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear how fast your heart is pounding.

His hand plays with the elastic of your waistband a bit more like it’s a yo-yo toy. 

“You’re impossible.” You snark at him.

He laughs a bit, then lets go of your waistband. Letting the elastic slap your skin. You flinch at the impact.

“Is that so, smarty pants?” He asks with that filthy grin on his lips.

You give a small nod.

“real cute.” His hand slithers to grab your waist.

“I fucking hate you.” You say this, yet your actions are contradictory to your words. Your body is moving closer to him. Your arms move to rest on his shoulders. “I’m sure you do, sweetheart.” He lifts your hips and moves you closer to make you sit on his lap. You’re straddling the Satoru Gojo. His hands wander around your waist, your hips, and gives your ass some attention too.

“No, I mean it. I really do hate you.” Your hands once again betray your lips as you glide your hands over his muscular shoulders and pecs.

His hands slide underneath your shirt. You slightly jump at the sensation of his warm hands against your cold back.

“I hate how cocky you are, and how you think the whole world revolves around you. I hate how you think rules don’t apply to you…”

His eyes linger on you. The look on his face was unreadable. Was he getting upset? His hands grip on your waist slightly harsh, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your skin.

“I hate how you-“ suddenly his hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb landing on your lips. You finally shut up. He traces his thumb along your lips. He looks at you, engrossed in every single slight movement you make. 

“Well, I hate how you don’t know how to stop running that smart mouth of yours.”

He giggles at your silence.

“Hear that, smarty?” He pauses, referring to the silence. “Much better, right?”

You give him an annoyed glare, not daring to say another word. 

His other hand grips your hip securely. His glowing eyes glance down at your lips with a grin plastered on his.

He's ready to go in for a kiss. The move that solidifies his entry into any girl's pants. He's heard countless 'I would never sleep with him.'s Yet they all end up in his bed. Words couldn't express his excitement to finally add your name to the long list of bedbugs. He didn't care that Kento was upset about his little bet with Suguru to get in your pants. All that mattered was that you're exactly where he wanted you to be. He leans closer to you as he pulls you in. He closes his eyes. He’d never have thought he’d be this close to you, feeling your fluttering breath on your face. He hasn’t even kissed you yet, and he’s already enjoying himself way more than he expected, way more than he should.

So very close to the two of y’all’s lips meeting, when suddenly he feels pressure to his forehead pushing him back.

Did you just push him?

Did you just reject him?

He lies back, his elbows holding his upper body up. He looks at you with confusion. His big blue eyes look up at you for answers, just to see you grinning. Satoru looks like a big, sad puppy.

He quickly sits up to be on the same level as you. His hands grip your hips tightly.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” He whines. He fucking whines. His eyes look at you desperately. 

“Real cute.” You mock.

He looks at you as if you’re pure evil. How could you be so cruel, and look beautiful doing it?

“Don’t look so mad." You coo, "I was trying to tell you all the reasons I hated you, but you didn’t want to listen.”

He glares at you, and all the admiration in his eyes is gone.

“You’re such a fucking smart ass.” He barks.

You giggle with amusement.“You’re just mad I didn't get your cock wet.”

 He rolls his eyes at your words. 

“I should get going.” You sing with a sweet smile on your face, in contrast to Satoru’s sharp grimace. You give his shoulders two friendly taps before getting off his lap. His hands loosen their grip on your hips. It was weird. Even though he was seething with frustration, he didn’t want to let you go. He felt despair wash over his body once you were out of reach.

You make your way to his bedroom door, giving him a simple “See you around, Satoru.” Before walking out.

 

Soon after you left, Suguru and Kento went to Satoru's room, finding him lying on his bed, defeated. His hands covered his ashamed face.

Geto leans on the doorframe of Satoru's room. "Never thought you'd finish so fast." Geto calls out to him mockingly.

"Shut up," Satoru mumbles into his hands. "She rejected me."

Kento lets out a loud sigh of relief, and a "thank god" slips from his lips. Suguru laughs loudly at the platinum's defeat. "Smart girl." He says in between chuckles.

"She's not even that smart."

lie.

"She's not cute either."

Another lie.

"I fucking hate her"

Loud incorrect buzzer.

dividers from @v6que

A/N: I haven't made a piece this long in forever, so please spare me. I might make a part 2, so lmk if you'd like to be tagged! Thank you for reading!

[dcxdpdabbles]

Will you expand on that, Reverse Robin, with Tim? I just found it!

I don't have too much plot for the Cuckoo in a Robin's Nest Au (the Name is a WIP) yet, so I can't write a dabble for you. For those wondering, this references the DC-only story I was thinking of writing. It can be found here.

Tim glances up as the bell on the door chimes. He knows who it is before he spots the head of dirty blond hair and the warm smile stretched against a freckled face.

Little Freddie rapidly became a regular after Tim set up a side table for him to comfortably eat and do his homework. Tim didn't know much about the kid besides the fact that he was being raised by a single father and had two older brothers. Apparently, the three were constantly working yet barely making ends meet leaving the small child to his own devices.

That wasn't an uncommon story around these parts. Not many employers were willing to hire anyone with a Crime Alley address, and those that did often only wanted to overwork them while underpaying them.

The fact that the boy still actively went to school during the day surprised the Crime Alley dwellers more. He was a School Kid, which meant something different to the people here. If Ex-Bat had to bet, Freddie's family put his future before theirs, since the boy won a scholarship to Gotham Academy.

He had to tell the boy to cover his uniform when walking home. He never knew who would mistake him for a rich kid and what they would do for a bit of quick cash in these parts.

Freddie now always came after school without his blazer and uniform shirt. He always changed in the bathrooms, throwing on a faded oversized band t-shirt and a baggy, run-down hoodie.

Even with his uniform pants, Freddie easily changed from a Gotham Academy School kid to a common Alley Crime Kid.

Tim himself had two part-time jobs, but they weren't enough to get him out of the city. He missed his resources like a missing limb, but he had survived with less before, and he could now.

The idea of creating any link between himself and the heroes made his skin crawl, even if it was to hack into the bank accounts he once had access to. Tim was already risking so much by moving through the city without documentation.

If he created a fake paper trail, he worried the Bats would pick up on it. Tim was done with them all. He died for them. They let him die.

He would never let them back in again.

That is why he chose to stay in Gotham.

It was one of the few places that didn't bat an eye at the fact that Alvin Draper only had his name and homeless shelter address. His apartment was a shed in someone's backyard, barely legal to count it as a rental space. It had a bathroom, a tiny sink, and a stove, but not much else.

It was the best he could find with what little he had to prove himself.

His big, mountain-of-muscle Russian landlord thought Tim was a runaway or rent boy because of how he talked, but he took the risk of letting him live there anyway. He at least felt safe when the man pulled out a receipt book to give him proof of payment, and after a vague confirmation that Tim wouldn't bring any trouble around the house.

He only cared that he could turn in his rent in cash and that if he needed to work odd hours, he should not make any noise past ten p.m. He also offered to care for any troublemakers who couldn't understand that Tim was only working if they followed him home.

It was oddly sweet how Crime Alley had both empathy and self-preservation deep in their bones for each other.

"Hi Alvin!" Freedie chips, throwing his scruffed-up backpack in the chair closest to the wall. He bounces in his seat, digging into the Pepperoni pizza Tim sets on the table for him. It's only three slices, but with his employee discount, it's less than a soda from a vending machine.

Tim wasn't sure how much Freddie's family was struggling, but he didn't mind providing the boy with a meal if he could.

"Hi Freddie," he answers warmly, pouring the boy some water. Since they were the only ones in the restaurant, he lingered near the table, placing his hands on his hips as he regarded the boy's appearance. Three weeks ago, he caught a bruise, concealed by makeup, near his neck, and has been hyper-aware of any reappearances since. "How was school?"

"It was pretty good. John tried to throw me in a locker, but I punched him in the nuts like you taught me before he could," the boy reveals with a proud puff of his chest. "His friends tried to grab me, but I swung my shoulder bags at them and they got scared."

Tim sniggers, pride pooling in his gut. His fake Crime Alley accent is rougher than normal, further disguising him. No one who heard him ever thought he was born with a silver tooth. "Good. Teach those prep losers not to mess with ruffians."

Freddie's smile is crooked with both a mischievous nature and the edge of barely concealed violence. "My Dad and brothers think I shouldn't let them get under my skin."

"It's important to be the bigger man," Tim confirms, refilling the boy's cup after he chugs it nearly all in one drink. "It's also important to defend yourself before things escalate."

Freddie is silent momentarily before carefully offering, "My second-oldest brother used to say that, too."

Tim doesn't know what happened to the second oldest, but he has noticed that Freedie always speaks of him in the past tense. This was another common thing in Crime Alley.

People died all the time, and everyone who called this hell-hole home had personally experienced loss at least once before turning eighteen.

"Your brother had the right idea." He settles on grinning at the boy. Freedie's blue eyes are searching, tracing over Tim's face as if searching for a lie, but the door chimes again, and he has to turn away to greet the new customers before he can ask what the boy is searching for.

He offers Freedie a slight nod while returning to the cashier. He pretends he doesn't notice how the twelve-year-old pulls out his homework after finishing his pizza slices. More specifically, he ignores how the boy occasionally attempts to take his picture between math questions.

It's cute how hard he tried to be sneaky about it and how his frustration grew with each failed attempt. Tim was having far too much fun carefully dodging his camera, making sure to move in a way that made it appear like an accident that his face was never captured correctly.

It reminded Tim of himself when he was twelve. Ah, memories.

[johamfated]

Harry considered the man before him, the way he had just left himself an open book. Would he really answer anything he asked? Harry wasn't sure why he was surprised. If one thing could be said for Albus Dumbledore, it's that he had always answered Harry's questions. Well, more or less.

Harry recalled the moment at the end of his first year, where he'd asked Dumbledore about why Voldemort had wanted to kill him.

"Sir, there are some other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me…things I want to know the truth about.…”

“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you’ll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.”

“Well…Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?”

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.

“Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day…put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older…I know you hate to hear this…when you are ready, you will know.”

And all throughout their relationship, Dumbledore had continued down this pattern. And Dumbledore had indeed kept his promise and told him why Voldemort had tried to kill him, though it had taken him another four years to do so.

"It's funny because, the moment you told me I can speak to you about it, all the damn questions just left my head." Harry finally says to the younger Dumbledore in front of him. He stays silent for a few moments, trying to work out what it is he really wants to know and if the answer would be good for him.

"I suppose the one thing that has been poking at me all these since is, why him? And please, don't use his name. I don't want to hear it. For two reasons, actually. Where I come from, Tom Riddle had a habit of putting a charm on his chosen name. He knew and could track down whoever used it. People became so terrified of using his name, that that never did. They called him You Know Who, and He Who Must Not Be Named. It's funny though, because one of the first things you ever taught me, is that I should use his name. That not doing so would only create a more intense fear for the man. But that doesn't take away from the fact, that while a monster is still at large, we should be careful. So please, don't call him by name. And tell me, why him? Because I know you. I know you don't believe in what he is doing. So, why didn't you see what was happening from the start? Was he seriously just that good looking? Because, you're quite handsome yourself, sir, but it certainly doesn't blind me to your faults."

Harry stopped, wishing he hadn't said that last part. But now it was out there, there wasn't much he could do about it. Not that it really mattered though, he was only pointing out a fact. Albus Dumbledore was a good looking man in his youth. It didn't mean anything. Harry shook his head, trying to dispel his thoughts. This wasn't the time.

@regretismyconstantcompanion

Albus Dumbledore was sitting on the couch, staring into the fireplace that was across from him. The crackling of the flames was the only sound breaking the silence in the cottage that was nestled in the Scottish Highlands. It was isolated, miles away from even the nearest village. He had chosen it for that very reason, desperate for solitude even if it wasn't something that had been forced upon him. He had lost the duel against Grindelwald. He had known that had always been a possibility. There were equals after all and had known each other painfully well. They had spent that summer duelling, friendly but pushing each others boundaries. They had grown and changed and become more powerful but their tendencies had lingered. The fight had lasted well over an hour but in the end, Gellert had just gotten the better of him and managed to disarm him and send him flying backwards. His only minor consolation was the fight had left them both panting and injured. But it had been clear who the winner was. There was no backing out of the agreement they had made. His time in Nurmengard had been brief. A chance to recover from the duel before Gellert gave him an ultimatum. He could remain free if he agreed to leave Hogwarts and retreat from the Wizarding World. Albus had already known he would leave the school, for certainly he had lost that right when he had failed his students and the Wizarding World as a whole. He had agreed, knowing Gellert wasn't giving him a choice and not agreeing would result in either his death or being imprisoned in Nurmengard forever or the deaths of those he cared about. And so here he was, over a year after the duel. Staring into the fire, sitting beside a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Books had been removed from the overflowing bookshelves, scattered around the room. Some had been read, some he hadn't even yet opened. Plain parchment piled up on the desk. Few knew where he was and so letters came rarely. He had picked some of the fruit and vegetables he grew in a small garden he tended to. Perhaps he would make some jams and chutneys if he could find the strength and motivation. It came sometimes, mixed in with the heavy weight of despair that seemed to fill his waking hours. He had failed. He had let down the wizarding world and now he banished just beyond the world he loved so much. He knew what was happening there, of course. He did his best to learn of Gellerts ongoing plans and rise to power. Without him there, there was nothing to stop him. He knew the few Ministries that still existed moved against him but it wouldn't take much for them to fall. Everything would be lost then and Albus knew he was powerless to stop it. @johamfated

[furiouslysleeping]

Hello esteemed mutual. If you are reading this, then that means my propaganda is working. But you might still have questions, so I am here to answer them.

What is Spatort?

Spatort, aka that show about the Sad Gay German Cops, aka Tatort Saarbrücken, aka 90% of my blog over the past month, is a German detective show. It's about the latest Saarbrücken team within the tv show Tatort and can be watched completely separately from the other Tatort teams. It features a team of four homocide detectives (Leo Hölzer, Adam Schürk, Esther Baumann and Pia Heinrich) who solve murders amidst all their personal drama in the city of Saarbrücken in the South-West of Germany. It's a murder of the week style show, but with personal drama of the protagonists as an overarching plot line.

Our dream team posing with a very dead girl and Rechtsmedizinerin Henny Wenzel.

Why should I watch this?

Because it's gay. There are a few canonically gay side characters, but the real meat is the relationship between Leo and Adam. They are childhood best friends who went through some rough shit together and are reunited after having spent 15 years apart. They like to have sleepovers, stare deeply into each others eyes, have dramatic break-ups and tell each other how much they mean to each other in convoluted ways. They are two co-dependent wrecks and I love them with all my heart. Will they ever become canon? We don't know. The canonically bisexual Tatort Berlin protagonist Robert Karow was allowed a gay sex scene on primetime German television though, so there is hope.

Because it's gay 2: ESTHER! As soon as she gets more than two lines of exposition (Episode 3), she starts flirting with every living woman in sight. I love her.

Apart from that, it's also just a good show. Speaking as someone who isn't overly fond of detectives, I think it has a good balance between murder mystery and character drama. The actors have great chemistry and are just so much fun to watch. There has been some criticism claiming that too much time is spent on the lives of the protagonists instead of on the murder cases, but that's exactly what makes me like this series.

This series made me fall back in love with the German language again and I heard multiple people saying the same thing.

Why is it called Spatort?

Because "Die letzte Reihe von Tatort Saarbrücken" takes too long to say and there's this shovel (in German: Spaten) that plays an important role in the first episode. (And Spaten + Tatort = Spatort).

Are there any content warnings?

Murder, violence, some episodes get pretty bloody (not quite gore but @yuespropagandablog don't watch it), abusive parents, intravenous drug use (one shot in episode Der Fluch des Geldes), overdose, and of course they're all cops.

Are there German characters in this German show set in Germany?

Yes :D

Do they all speak German?

Yep, the show is in German but there are a few scenes where some French is spoken.

But Furious, I don't speak German. How on Earth am I supposed to watch it if I can't understand it?

THEN LEARN The lovely Tumblr user @nerd-on-duty made subtitles for the first 5 episodes. You can DM them (or @krukel or me) for a link.

If I know German well enough to watch German television with German subtitles or no subtitles at all, where can I watch it?

At the moment of writing this, the ARD Mediathek has most of the episodes with German subtitles, but these are only available for a period of time. You can pay for ARD Plus for access to all Tatort episodes ever made, or you can put on your pirate hat and scourge the internet. (All the episodes are on the Internet Archive as well.)

I'm not fully convinced yet, but I do like men's tits. Is there anything you can show me to convince me to watch it?

You're in luck! This is our protagonist Leo Hölzer:

(GIF credits to @thisfeebleheart, more in this post. Also thanks to @krukel for helping this lesbian select these tits for this propaganda post.)

I'm still not convinced by the men tits. I do like pathetic blond men being put in Situations though.

You're in luck! Meet Adam Schürk:

(GIF credits from right to left, top to bottom: @thisfeebleheart, @leoholzer, @vaschbaer, @a-way-we-go.)

Okay. I've started it. Why does this intro look like it's from the 70s?

Because it is. Tatort started airing in 1970 and they just. Never changed the intro. Don't worry though, the rest of the show does reflect the time the episodes were made in.

I watched it and I love it! I need to know what happens next! When will the next episode air?

At the moment of making this post, the next episode is set to air January 2026. The one after that in 2027. Yes, you read that right, there is one episode per year.

PER YEAR????

YES. JOIN US IN OUR SUFFERING.