#because as much as its silently disabling

[moonsandmobilityaids]

On Top

Pairings: James Potter x disabled!reader (Part of my poly!marauders x disabled!reader universe) Summary: You wake up with James one morning. Warnings: Smut Series Masterlist

Consciousness returns slowly, like a timid creature venturing out from its burrow. Your body is blanketed in warmth, an inviting contrast to the chill that lingers beyond the windowpane. The familiar scents of your shared life—aged timber, the faint trace of last night's fire, the subtle hint of James's shampoo—seep into your senses, grounding you in the here and now.

There's a weight across your hips, a gentle pressure that tethers you to the bed. Your eyelids flutter open, revealing slivers of dawn light filtering through the curtains. It's early yet, the world outside still caught between the embrace of night and the promise of day.

James is awake beside you, his arm draped over your waist, hand resting just above the curve of your hip. He's propped on one elbow, dark hair tousled and falling across his forehead in a way that's endearingly dishevelled. His eyes watch you with an intensity tempered by the softness of his smile.

"Morning, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice gravelly from sleep and something richer, something that echoes in the quiet space between heartbeats.

You move to sit up, testing the limits of your body's cooperation. The familiar ache in your joints answers with a dull protest, and you pause, reaching instead for the small collection of meds on your bedside table. But as your fingers brush against them, James's hand settles over yours, gently guiding it back down. For now, at least, he seems intent on keeping the world and its worries at bay.

"Did you sleep okay?" His question is softly spoken, more a whisper than a word, but it carries the weight of genuine concern. Leaning closer, he presses a tender kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger there for a moment longer than necessary. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, a faint echo of the heat that always seems to radiate from him. It sends a shiver down your spine, not from cold, but from the thrill of having James so close, his presence a constant reminder of the connection you share.

"As well as I usually do," you answer, your voice still rough with sleep. Your limbs feel heavy, not yet ready to shake off the remnants of slumber. James shifts, moving closer until his hand comes to rest on your stomach, a silent promise echoing through the contact. The heat from his body seeps into yours, a comforting presence against the ache spreading within.

"Need anything?" He tilts his head, concern dancing in the depths of his hazel eyes. But there's a different energy between you this morning, something lighter, more playful. His fingers—warm and teasing—trace idle patterns along the hem of your pyjama top, barely skimming your skin yet enough to set your pulse fluttering just a bit faster.

"I'm fine," you assure him, unable to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. You recognise that glint in his eye—it's the same one he gets when he's about to rope you into one of his grand schemes. Mischievous. Excited.

A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, vibrating against your back as he leans in closer, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. "Are you sure? Because I was thinking..."

His voice trails off, replaced by the gentle pressure of his lips against your collarbone, leaving a warm imprint that lingers even after he pulls away. The hand resting on your waist tightens slightly, his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles that promise both comfort and something more.

A shiver travels down your spine, pooling warmth in your belly. "James," you murmur, the word a blend of warning and invitation.

"Hmm?" His hum against your skin sends another tremor through you, his mouth tracing a path along the underside of your jaw. Innocence laces his tone, but the slow graze of his teeth speaks volumes more. "I'm just making sure my favourite girl knows how much she's loved."

A soft laugh escapes your lips, mingling with the sigh that follows his trail of kisses. "You're trouble, you know that?"

"So I've been told," he grins, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are alight with mischief, reflecting the smile tugging at your own lips. "But you seem to love it."

Before you can answer, his hand slides down to your hip, and a familiar heat seeps into your skin. You're acutely aware of his proximity—his thigh pressing against yours, the hard length of him nudging your side.

"James..."

His name is a murmur on your lips, a soft plea laced with a hint of warning. But the boyish grin that spreads across his face only widens, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. There's a devilish glint in his eyes, one that promises sweet sin and hidden pleasures.

"All yours, darling," he whispers, leaning in until his lips brush against yours. The kiss is slow, languid—a stark contrast to the urgency building within you. It leaves you breathless, your senses reeling as he deepens the connection, exploring the contours of your mouth with an intimacy that sends shivers down your spine.

The world beyond this moment seems to fade, leaving only the sensation of his lips moving with yours, exploring each contour with a familiarity that sends a shiver down your spine. His tongue teases at your lower lip, seeking entrance, and you part your lips in response. The taste of him—sweet and heady—fills your senses, making your head spin.

His hand remains on your thigh, fingers tracing small circles that inch ever closer to the edge of your underwear. The slight shift in pressure is enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips, the sound swallowed by James's unwavering kiss. Warmth spreads through your veins, pooling low in your belly as desire coils tighter within you.

Desire pools in your belly, spreading its heat to every corner of your body. A moan slips past your lips, muffled by the kiss, as you arch your hips towards him. He smirks against your mouth, shifting to hover above you, the planes of his body pressing down onto yours. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sharp intake of breath as his hard length rubs against your clit through the layers of fabric separating you. The friction sends jolts of pleasure coursing through you, drawing another moan from your throat, which he greedily claims with his own.

A low groan rumbles in James's chest, the sound vibrating through you, igniting something primal deep within. His hand ventures beneath the edge of your shirt, his touch like an electric current against your skin, sparking a trail of desire that pools low in your belly. His fingers trace the contour of your stomach before moving upward to cup your breast, his thumb teasing over sensitive flesh. Your breath hitches, a gasp escaping your lips only to be swallowed by his insistent mouth.

He breaks from your lips but doesn't retreat, instead trailing a path of heated kisses down your jawline, along the column of your throat, and settling at the juncture where neck meets shoulder—a spot so sensitive, it has you arching into him, pressing your breasts more firmly into his hand, silently pleading for more of his intoxicating touch.

James responds as if attuned to your every thought, a smirk curving his lips as he pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The jolt of pleasure is sharp, intense, causing you to squirm beneath him, your fingers digging into his back.

"I want to be on top," you manage to say, your voice thick with desire.

A low chuckle rumbles in James's chest, his teeth grazing your neck one last time before he pulls back to look at you. "Anything you want, sweetheart."

With a firm grasp, you seize his shoulders, pushing against his chest. He acquiesces to your wordless command, rolling onto his back and bringing you with him, your body sprawled atop his. A mischievous smile plays on your lips as you grind down slowly, feeling the hard length of him pressing against you.

"Fuck," he groans, hands reaching up to cup your breasts once more. His thumbs rub over your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You respond by rolling your hips, pressing yourself against his erection, drawing a soft growl from his throat.

His cock strains against the confines of his boxers, the outline of him barely concealed by the thin fabric. With an eagerness that surprises even you, you hook your fingers into his waistband, tugging it downward until his hardness springs free. A gasp escapes his lips as you wrap your hand around him, stroking from base to tip. His eyes squeeze shut, a low moan rumbling in his chest as his head tilts back.

His eyelids flutter shut, and a low moan escapes his lips, his head tilting back against the pillow. "Don't tease," he murmurs, the plea barely audible. But there's no mistaking the urgency in his voice, the tension coiling tighter within him. It's a sight to behold—James Potter, usually so composed and self-assured, now at your mercy.

You discard your underwear with a swift movement, feeling a thrill of anticipation. Your hand reaches for the nightstand, fingers closing around the familiar shape of a lube bottle that definitely wasn't there when you went to sleep. You can't help but chuckle, glancing back at James.

"You've thought of everything," you murmur, a tease in your tone as you flick the bottle towards him. "Almost as if you planned this."

His grin is devilish, his fingers closing around the bottle with practised ease. "I find that surprise makes for the best kind of adventure."

He flips the cap open with a sharp click, squeezing a generous amount onto his palm. His hand wraps around his length, spreading the lube with slow, deliberate strokes. His gaze never leaves yours, the intensity of it sending a thrill through your veins. Your heart pounds in your chest, the anticipation building as you position yourself above him, your thighs trembling ever so slightly.

You guide him to your entrance, rubbing the tip of his length against your clit. A sharp intake of breath escapes him, the sensation making him shudder beneath you.

"Ah... fuck," he whispers, his grip on your hips tightening. With that, you sink down onto him, taking in every inch slowly, relishing in the stretch and fullness. James groans from deep within his chest, his head falling back against the pillows as he fills you completely. His hands tighten around your waist, fingers digging into your skin as if trying to anchor himself to reality.

Your movements are slow at first, allowing for the delicious tension between you two to build. Each roll of your hips draws out a low growl from James, the sound vibrating through your body and fuelling the fire in your belly. The pleasure builds with every thrust, each one more powerful than the last until you feel as if you might burst from the intensity of it all.

The sensation of him filling you is almost too much—his length hot and hard, pressing into you, stretching you. With each movement, the sensation sharpens, a delicious edge of almost-pain that only heightens your pleasure. It's a fine line between discomfort and ecstasy, but you revel in it, pushing down onto him, welcoming the burn as he enters you fully.

His hands grip your hips, guiding you as you move together. "You feel... incredible," he murmurs, his voice strained with effort and desire.

Your breath comes out in shaky gasps, hot against his skin as you lean forward, your chest brushing against his with every thrust. The feeling of him inside you is unlike anything else—waves of pleasure radiating from your core, spreading through your limbs until you're trembling with it.

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow circles that match the rhythm of your hips. The dual sensations drive you to the edge, sparks dancing behind your eyelids while James's other hand tightens on your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh with each thrust.

"You're amazing," James murmurs, his voice roughened by desire. He pulls you into a heated kiss, his tongue exploring the depths of your mouth with an urgency that matches the pace of your bodies. You can taste the salt of your sweat on his lips as they part, tongues duelling, the sensual dance mirrored between your legs. He nips at your lower lip, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

James presses his forehead against yours, the heat of his breath fanning across your skin. His hips move in rhythm with yours, slow and deliberate, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

His hands are everywhere at once—on the curve of your waist, tracing the line of your spine, tangling in your hair. Then they're sliding along your thighs, holding you close, bringing you impossibly closer to him.

"James," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. His name is a prayer on your lips, a plea for more.

He responds by pushing deeper inside you, hitting just the right spot that makes you see stars behind your closed eyes. A gasp escapes your lips, the sensation almost too much to bear. The world outside this room ceases to exist; there's only you and James, bodies intertwined in a dance as old as time itself.

You rock your hips back and forth, meeting him thrust for thrust. He groans against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that sends shivers down your spine. Pleasure builds within you, threatening to consume you whole.

James answers with fervour, his hips rising to meet yours in a rhythm that speaks of raw need. Each thrust is a potent declaration of desire, bringing him closer to the precipice he so longs to tumble over. The tension coils tighter inside him with every sensation, every connection.

"Fuck," James hisses through clenched teeth, his grip on your waist tightening to the point where his knuckles turn white. His fingers dig into your flesh, anchoring him to the reality of this moment — to you. His breaths come in ragged gasps, each one punctuated by a low groan that reverberates through the confines of the room. You tighten around him, drawing forth a strangled cry as the friction sends heat spiralling through his veins.

The pressure continues to build, a relentless tide that threatens to sweep him away. Every thrust, every gasp for air, is another brick in the wall that confines him, driving him closer and closer to the edge. And then, with a final, guttural curse, James surrenders to the pleasure that has been stalking him like a predator. His release comes in waves, each one more powerful than the last, leaving him spent and trembling.

Your legs quiver around him as you feel his climax, the pulsing warmth of his release filling you to the brim. It's a testament to your connection, an affirmation of the primal bond that links you together as surely as any chain could.

As the aftershocks ripple through him, James eases his grip on your thighs, allowing you to slide down onto the bed beside him. He pulls you close, pressing your damp body against his, the heat of your skin a balm to his own. One arm snakes around your waist, anchoring you to him, even as his other hand moves to trace idle patterns along the curve of your hip. 

"I didn't even get to make you cum, I—" James starts to say, but you stop him with a single finger pressed lightly against his lips.

"Shhh," you whisper. "Let's... let's just enjoy this moment, alright?" Your words are barely audible, but they hang in the air between you, a soft plea for respite from the storm of emotions that has swept over both of you.

James nods, pulling your hand away from his mouth. His fingers trace the outline of your face—so gentle, so careful—as if he's afraid you might shatter at his touch. He brushes a stray lock of hair back from your forehead, his thumb resting for a moment on your temple, tilting your head ever so slightly toward him.

His eyes seek yours, searching for understanding, for permission, for desire, for love—all of which he finds reflected back at him from the depths of your gaze.

"Alright," he murmurs, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just us, then. For now."

His fingers trace an unhurried path across your skin, each touch sending shivers down your spine despite the warmth they promise. His gaze is soft, tender—a far cry from the hard-edged agent who battles unseen enemies and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. In this moment, there's only James and the gentle cadence of his breathing, a soothing rhythm that lulls the rest of the world away.

[skaruresonic]

IMO, Sonic being Maria's reincarnation could be a cute idea in isolation, but it risks taking away Sonic's agency and identity by revealing him to be the spirit of someone else, making it easy for fans to just see him as Maria in a hedgehog's body rather than his own being. Not to mention it gives SA2's lore even more extra priority over the rest of Sonic's expansive history.

Have you ever played Silent Hill 3? They treat reincarnation in much the same manner. Heather Mason is Alessa Gillespie's reincarnation in the sense that they share the same soul and even some of the same memories, but Heather doesn't define herself as Alessa. They remain two separate entities in spite of the link.

---

making it easy for fans to just see him as Maria in a hedgehog's body rather than his own being.

How am I making it easy for them when they do that anyway? At least this idea makes more sense than most iterations and doesn't require wishing the disability away.

Obviously I'd never call it iron-clad canon, but the idea has such a powerful thematic allure that it's difficult to ignore. It really resonates with who and how Sonic is as a person. I'm not nearly objective enough to snub my nose at the fanfic fuel.

Don't get hung up on the "reincarnation" part. He's still Sonic. He doesn't define himself as Maria because Maria no longer exists. That's the whole point. Sonic is all about looking toward the next adventure and taking action when you can, not dwelling on the past. He is the embodiment of the hope that she wanted to bring to humanity, as cool and blue as the planet she admired.

I'm not saying Sonic literally is Maria. Think more thematically. Think about the kind of wisdom he offers when he tells Merlina to appreciate life in the limited time we have. Maybe he's been there. Think about the empathy he displays when he says sealing Chaos away won't solve its anguish and turmoil. Maybe he's seen this before. It doesn't necessarily have to detract from his person because he is ultimately the one doing and saying these things.

Plus, I just think the idea has the potential to be as funny as it is poignant.

Maria dies by gunshot, so her spirit's like "fuck this, next incarnation I'm going to be SHREDDED" and pours all of its stats into strength and speed. This time I'm going to dance circles around bullet fire.

Oh, my immune system was weak? Next time it's going to be so strong that sniffing flowers makes my hay fever act up.

Oh, bitchass Ivo is threatening the planet? He's going to hear boss music by the time I roll up, lmao

[rooftops-are-for-towels]

Chronic pain is goated because instead of thinking about the upsetting haunting things I can just lock in and go Ow ow. OW OW oughhhh

[confused-and-dickless]

I am spinning my homemade blorbos in my head rn but I can't draw good and I don't even have a solid idea of what they look like. They don't even have names. But I know them like my own soul. And they're in love. And they're me. And they're everything. And they love each other. One of them loves soup. Tumblr I'm telling you you'd love these fuckers if only I know how to express anything about them. Maybe I'll write out their backstory and a few of their adventures.

[notjustjavierpena]

you mentioned wife being the first person javi opened up to about his mother.

imagine him walking with her around his fathers ranch and just showing her all the places from his childhood, his favourite hiding spots etc and causally just mentioning his mum here and there. reader is clinging to his arm and just basking in the day.

at night they’re staying in his childhood bedroom since it got late and they had quite a few beers with Chucho and eventually javi is holding wife/then girlfriend close and just says “i’ve never told anyone about my mother before like this” or something like that ahhh

Open

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: This is extremely personal for me to write about as a person who knows what it is like to lose a parent when you are young. I have written this with utmost gratitude to Hubby Javi because I can process some feelings through him. I hope you enjoy this harsh thing. I hope you know that this heals me and I hope it heals other people too. It might not be completely how you wanted it but I hope you like it better.

Summary: Javier opens up about the loss of his mother inside his childhood bedroom.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, angst, talk about abusive parenting, talk about grief, descriptions of a child experiencing grief and the loss of a parent, descriptions of cancer and its effects physically and emotionally, talk about death obviously, hurt/comfort, love confessions, openness is beautiful!!! kisses, clit stim, sex to deal with emotions

Word count: 4.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56911576

Open

About two months ago, you promised Chucho Peña that you would help him with the annual apple harvest and suddenly, the leaves are turning brown, and September begins with magazines filling up with apple pie recipes. 

Today, you have dressed the part for a weekend on your father-in-law’s ranch with your boyfriend. Dressing the part means that you have gone out to buy yourself a pair of denim overalls that make you look mostly like a caricature of a farm girl. Javier promises that he finds it sort of endearing, reassuring you every time you bring it up with embarrassment on your face. 

“Stop worrying,” he says as he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, standing on a ladder that you are holding whilst he plucks apples off what seems like the millionth tree in the orchard, “He likes you, baby.”

“I should have just gone with my usual clothes,” you argue with a little sigh. Javier doesn’t know how much it means to you that you aren’t seen as foolish, how much it would hurt to find out that you are seen as the butt of a joke behind closed doors. He doesn’t know how much you need this approval because Chucho Peña is the kindest and most gentle and attentive older man you have ever met, treating you like his own child with a soft mija (my girl/daughter) that had been enough for you to excuse yourself for a moment the first time you had heard it. He is not at all like your own father. 

“You’re making an effort that doesn’t go unnoticed,” Javier offers as a consolation after you have stayed silent for a little too long, stepping down the ladder and taking off his work gloves. He stuffs them into his belt and kisses you with another reassuring smile, “He likes you.”

“I guess I'll just have to trust you,” you sigh dramatically and Javier pulls you into an embrace, the chuckle he lets out vibrating against your chest. You feel his lips pull into a smile as he rests his mouth against your cheek.

“You are kind and honest,” he compliments and sways you from side to side as he holds you close. You wrap yourself around him too, listening to his sweet words and breathing in his scent, “And he thinks the world of you. I might actually start to feel a little jealous.”

A little smile forms on your face as he squeezes you tighter and when he pulls back just a bit to kiss you, you nod at him, trying to play it cool despite thoughts of self-doubt nagging at you, “I did warn you about how I get around parents..” 

“I know, mi amor (my love), I know,” he acknowledges and holds you close again, “But you did enough to charm him the first time to be invited back. And the overalls really do sell it.”

“Shut up,” you groan as he snickers in your ear. He always manages to make your heart flutter in your chest, teasing you relentlessly but grounding you as he does it. None of your baggage is too big for him, even as you present it with trembling hands from how heavy it feels to you.

“Just a few more minutes here and we can have a well-earned fucking break. I love you but not enough to skive off in my Dad’s garden,” he tells you and starts to loosen you from his embrace, “That okay?”

You nod and then you finally break apart. Javier gets back onto the ladder to pick the remaining apples off the tree in front of you. He starts the repetitive task once again, handing each one to you so you can carefully put them in the basket on the ground so they don’t bruise. While you do it, you find your mind drifting to the day you met Chucho. 

You remember the drive to the ranch, your heart pounding in your chest at a million miles per hour, and the fake smile you had given Javier each time he had asked if you were okay. During your stay for dinner and drinks, and as you smiled and charmed, you hid the anxiety until you were all the way back at Javier’s apartment once more, only then letting your facade crumble and telling him that the dizzying nervousness he had seen on the drive back had nothing to do with his father and everything to do with your own. 

Javier had asked you if your parents had ever hurt you and with a shaky voice, you’d had to explain that while the answer was no, what you received instead of deliberate cruelty was cruel indifference. 

“I don’t know what’s worse,” you had said with stinging tears in your eyes, “Being hurt or being invisible.”

“You’re not invisible to me,” Javier had whispered into your hair. He had held you tightly that evening, right in his hallway, feet planted on the floorboards that have become yours too, his arms a harbor of reassurance that things will never be like that again, “I will never allow anyone to treat you like that again.”

Now, as you place another apple gently in the basket, you think about how different Chucho Peña is from your father. Chucho’s attention is genuine and warm, listening to you with the same interest as Javier shows too, letting you know where some of your boyfriend’s mannerisms come from, whereas your parents’ show of care was always fleeting and conditional to the point where you wondered why they even decided to have you. 

“Hey,” Javier’s voice breaks through your thoughts. He’s looking down at you from the ladder, concern on his face and gloves already off again, “¿Estás bien? (You okay?)”

“Yeah, sorry,” you feel embarrassed that it’s so evident on your face that you aren’t at ease but decide to be honest, “Just thinking about parents and overalls.”

Javier steps down onto the gravel again, laying the gloves on the top step of the ladder. He tuts, face serious for a moment. 

“C’mon, you’ve been standing in the sun too long. Let’s take a break now and go for a walk in the garden. Still got a lot to show you,” he says with his hand reaching out for you. You take it with an unsure smile, but as you are interlocking your fingers and gently swaying your arms between your bodies as you start walking, you find that it feels more than alright to let yourself be comforted by him. 

Javier leads you through the apple trees until you are out of the orchard completely. He talks quietly about the ranch but there’s a slight hesitation to dig deeper than the materials and the construction of his childhood home. You decide not to push it, knowing that it was not easy to reveal your secrets, and instead admire the many flowers that will bloom in next year’s Spring. 

Javier seems to notice you taking in all the different bushes and flowers and you’ll never admit to seeing his shoulders slump slightly just before he starts talking again, “Mom loved this garden, you know. She spent hours here, tending to every single plant until her fingertips were green and dirt-smudged. I used to follow her around, pretending to help but mostly just getting in the way.”

“Didn’t get into trouble, did you?” You tease and lean into him as you walk. 

“Loads and I would hide up there when she got angry with me,” he points to an old and slightly weathered oak tree, a rope ladder in even worse condition hanging down the trunk, “But she’d always soften if I apologized. Once she said she liked her hyacinths without their heads to make me feel better.”

“I’d swap parents in a heartbeat,” you sigh with your head on his shoulders and he moves to let you hold onto his arm instead. He goes a little quieter and you allow him to hold onto her memory by himself for a moment, looking up to see a slight crinkle on his forehead. 

“Even when you’d only have one?” He eventually murmurs into your hair and from the way he exhales, you know that he regrets saying it, “I mean… I know you would.”

“You have beautiful memories of her, I can tell,” you say as gently as possible, “If you ever want to tell me more about her, I’m here to listen, you know.”

Javier clears his throat, “Thank you.”

A moment passes but nothing more happens. This would be the perfect opportunity but the silence stretches out until you walk beside him again, holding his hand instead of basking in his half-embrace. You want to say something but you are at a loss, searching for the right words to comfort him but failing just long enough for him to change the subject. 

“We should go see how far Pop has gotten,” he suggests lightheartedly and steers you back where you came from, out of what used to be his sanctuary with his mother. 

“Yeah, sure, baby,” you reply. 

Another time then.

—

When the sun has gone down behind the horizon and the cicadas have come out from their hiding places, singing their hearts out, Javier takes you to his old room upstairs. The both of you have had alcohol with dinner and while Javier had offered to take a cab, his father had scolded him for even thinking about such nonsense, telling him that it was a joy to have him home so wholeheartedly. Your father-in-law had looked at you with a warm smile as he had said it. 

Now, you lie in Javier’s old bed - just a little bit too small for the both of you - with the quilted bedspread lying neatly folded in the end. It somehow feels more intimate to be in his childhood bedroom than it would be to go through his underwear drawer. 

Right above you, several posters are pinned to the ceiling and overlapping each other. The corners of the posters curl slightly and their colors have dulled since the 70s but they display the men of rock bands like Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. Some display the band logos too, they exist on the CDs that you have found in Javier’s glove compartment but he never listens to them when he drives you around. You make a mental note to casually put one of them on during your drive home tomorrow. 

Seeing those iconic faces from the 70s stare down at you, you can’t help but glance fondly at Javier when he isn’t looking but instead standing by the open window on the opposite wall, smoking a cigarette. Suddenly, his wardrobe consisting of denim jeans, colorful shirts, and leather jackets makes sense. 

You try to imagine Don Chucho coming in here with the determination to put out the cigarette in his son’s hand, holding in a lecture that would only have made the teenager roll his eyes. Then the snark that would have come out of Javier’s mouth, his face mustache-free and full of spots, and you smile so much that you turn around onto your stomach to hide your expression in his pillow. 

It smells faintly of sweat and the cheap cologne only a teenager would have bought, so you turn to peek at your boyfriend again. He taps his fingers on the window sill, overlooking the garden that you have come to learn so much about earlier. 

You spot small pieces of who he is everywhere; a stack of sociology books, paperback horror books with titles in both English and Spanish. The most worn down and loved one is El Resplandor which you guess to be The Shining. There’s also a corkboard on the wall with ticket stubs and polaroids, a framed photograph on the desk that you haven’t had the courage or chance to look at yet, beside it a figurine of La Virgen de Guadalupe that’s been tipped over in what seems to be frustration. Your smile drops a little as you feel the weight of the unfairness he must have felt. 

From the window, Javier exhales a puff of smoke and reaches up to rub his eye with his free hand. You glance again at the photograph on the desk, curiosity getting the better of you as you rise from the bed and walk over to it. 

As expected, the picture is of Javier's mother. What you didn’t expect is seeing your boyfriend at the age of what you calculate to be younger than ten. The resemblance is striking; her features are mirrored in his even with how much he still looks like his father. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek as you pick up the religious figurine next to the picture, placing her upright once more so her head is tipped toward Javier and his mother. There’s a surge of emotion in your stomach that you try to suppress, a sense of urgency to reach through the photograph and comfort the little boy who has lost half of himself. 

You hear him stub out his cigarette on the wood paneling outside, followed by the dry sound of him trying to brush the ashes off the wood again with his calloused hands. In his late thirties and still acting as if he’ll get caught by his father. 

He turns back towards you and you act like nothing has happened, holding out your hand for him to take. He glances in the direction of his mother’s photo but decides not to say anything even as he notices the figurine standing upright once again. You flex your fingers to draw attention to your hovering hand, “Come to bed.” 

You’ve both already been in your underwear for a while since it’s late and you’re alone - the overalls hang on the back of his door, scowling at you - so he simply takes your hand and you walk backward until the edge hits the back of your legs. You let yourself fall down onto the bed and into the mattress, moving backward until there’s room for him too. 

Javier sighs the second he is lying down next to you, your shoulders touching from the missing width of the bed. He turns onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow and staring down at your face. 

“What?” You ask with a little smile.

There’s a flash of something in his eyes and the fact that he hasn’t said anything yet makes you want to squirm nervously. He reaches out with the arm he has been lying on, splaying his fingers against your cheek as his thumb rests underneath your chin, and then he crashes your mouths together in a kiss that you know is him resolving back to past methods of dealing with it all. 

However, you find yourself kissing him back at first, grabbing his wrist, and leaning into him to make out with him in a way that his younger self wouldn’t have believed was possible to experience. There’s a warm feeling in your stomach as you tangle your legs together, desire for him swirling below your belly button. 

You gasp against his lips when his free hand slips into your panties, your heart hammering in your chest as he smears some of your wetness over your clit. He rubs you off until you breathe heavily, fingertip dancing back and forth over the hard nub.

“You’re so wet,” he moans quietly and slowly increases the pressure of his fingers. He really wants you to come, it seems. You didn’t have getting laid in your boyfriend’s childhood bed down on this year’s bingo card but you can feel your orgasm approaching so damn quickly that it makes you not able to think straight. 

“Baby,” you babble, horny out of your mind from the intense emotions in the air, “I’m not gonna— in your dad’s house.”

“Yes, you fucking are,” he says in a low voice, kissing your open and panting mouth to shut you up. You might come but he won’t have you making noise loud enough to reveal what you are doing. He growls in the back of his throat, “You want my fingers? Don’t reply. Just nod or shake your head.”

You dig your nails into his wrist hard enough to create little crescent-shaped marks. You want to nod your head so badly but it feels wrong to be nothing but an outlet, a distraction from what you should be talking about. So instead, you shake your head with a moan, on the brink of bursting, “Stop, Javier. Stop.”

Javier raises his brow but immediately brings his hand to a halt, watching as you whimper from being edged. You clutch at your own chest, rolling away to not tempt him to fall back into his bad habit. 

“¿Qué pasa (What’s going on)?” He asks with a crease on his forehead. He tries to kiss you again but you put a hand on his chest to create some space between the two of you. He scowls, “What? You’re not having sex with me because we’re in my Pop’s house?” 

“That wasn’t sex,” you bite with frustration throughout your lower body, reaching down to fix the waistband of your underwear. The fabric sticks to you and your throbbing clit tells you to beg for forgiveness so it can have its release. You ignore it, “That was you avoiding the elephant in the room with intimacy and I don’t want to be a part of that.”

Javier lets himself fall onto his back, reaching up to push the heels of his hands into his eyes. He groans and lets his palms run down his face until his arms rest along his sides again. He heaves a big sigh, “Shit. Shit, sorry.”

“It’s alright,” you promise because it is. You aren’t even mad despite how you probably should be, only feeling the way your heart aches for the boy who had to grow up too fast. Without a word, you reach down to entwine your fingers and give his hand a reassuring squeeze, “I promise. It’s okay.”

“We talk about her but we don’t talk about her,” he says to the ceiling. You go quiet and choose to simply listen instead of breaking the streak of him opening up about something so vulnerable. Instead of using your words, you rub his hand in soothing circles. 

“Pop likes to mention her occasionally but it’s with a little smile on his face and a funny story,” he continues quietly, “And that’s fine. Really, it is. I like remembering the good but he says all the right things without making it hurt. It feels as though he expects me to keep all the bad in check and believe me, there was a lot of awful shit. So much that sometimes it feels like I can’t move when I am reminded of it. Hospitals with never-ending halls, that poisonous shit they shot into her veins, her losing her hair, even her goddamn eyelashes, and suddenly not—“

He stops for a moment and swallows thickly. You turn onto your side and rest your forehead against his shoulder, still clutching his hand to let him know you are not letting go. He clears his throat to sound as if his voice isn’t wavering, “Suddenly not recognizing her anymore. This terrible sight of her turning yellow during her last few weeks. I was just a kid and it was horrible and unfair. I wish he’d acknowledge how horrible and unfair it was.” 

You kiss his bare shoulder a few times. There are so many things you want to say but mostly, it is that you are so sorry for what he went through. 

“I think I learned that nothing lasts forever,” he adds without looking at you, staring down at where his fingers are entwined with yours. He is quiet for a moment and you feel your heart pick up in rhythm as you try to find something to fill the silence with, something that debunks that belief. However, just as you are about to say something, he speaks again, “But I would like this to be. I would like us to be forever.”

“Javi,” you finally say softly. 

He lifts his gaze to lock it onto yours. He looks at his most vulnerable, eyes brown and big as he waits for you to continue. You take just a moment too long and he is off again, suddenly very chatty.

“I know I haven’t asked you to marry me,” he says, “But I promise it’s coming. I just need to get it right.”

“You don’t have to talk about that right now. You know I love you and I know you love me too; I know it’s coming,” you say to reassure, pushing the idea of only letting him speak away because this topic is too big to stay silent on, “I’m not lying here with you because I want a ring on my finger, and I’m certainly not treating it like a condition for you to open up to me. I want to know you, Javier.”

“Thank you,” Javier looks grateful to hear that, saying nothing for a moment before looking at the ceiling again. He laughs softly, “You fucking terrified me, you know, the first time we sat down together.”

“I terrified you?” You furrow your brows, huffing out a laugh of disbelief.

“I pull my grief up to every table I share with a person I would like to have in my life, mi amor (my love). I was terrified the first time we were on a date,” he admits, “I kept thinking when you were going to ask about family… If I was close to my mother. I hated to imagine the way your smile and curiosity would drop but I don’t want to just focus on the way I want to remember her. You were so kind and thoughtful and damn bright-eyed - that was before I knew about your dad - and I didn’t want to share how I actually remember her because you might have not wanted to see me like that.”

“Javi,” you let go of his hand to put your palm against his cheek, turning his head towards you. You weigh your words, “I want to know everything about you. I want to know everything about her too. Especially if you’re gonna marry me.” 

“She was incredible, loved music, always honest even if it meant war, and read so many books that Pop had to build her bookcase after bookcase,” he tells you with a tremble in his voice and a tear that threatens to spill down his cheek even as he smiles in remembrance of her, “But as warm and loving as she was hard. Believe it or not, Pop used to be the softie of those two.”

“I can imagine,” you say fondly. You let your hand fall down to rest on his chest, palm laying just where his heart is. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen a woman so defiant in her ways but she grew up with a lot of expectations of how she should live her life,” he continues, “I think that hardened her a lot. I think it brought a lot of trouble too. She was so fiercely independent. She was fiercely protective of me and Dad too but sometimes even more of herself. I guess I know what it’s like to defend oneself from all the bullshit people give you.”

“Fiercely protective?” You tease, “Sounds like someone I know.”

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe I got that from her,” he admits with both pride and sadness. He puts a hand on your wrist, rubbing it with his thumb as a way to fidget, “That’s why it got so hard when she got sick because that defiance just crumbled. I was just a kid but I was old enough to see through the facade she put up every day. I was happy to eat takeout all the time - I was barely ten, so who wouldn’t be? - but I knew it was because she was too exhausted to cook. The music was too loud, the TV muted so she could sleep on the couch all the time or maybe it had the sound turned up all the way because she was throwing up in the bathroom.”

It seems he cannot stop himself now, hand tightening around your wrist and tears falling from his eyes, “She would look at Pop with a scared expression because she knew she had to leave him all alone with me. I don’t think we ever talked about that fact. I think I just realized it for myself one day.”

Your chest constricts at seeing him cry for the first time in your presence. You’ve seen him in the aftermath of it on the nights when Colombia creeps into his head as he sleeps, where he excuses himself to the bathroom and comes out a few minutes later with puffy eyes and a reddened nose. Seeing him now, upset like this, hits you harder than you thought it would and your heart aches as you listen to him talk about the loss of his life. 

It is years of bottled-up cruel pain and sorrow flowing out of him, so you follow your instincts and throw your arms around him even if his arm is still trapped between you. You hold him tightly and feel his reluctance for a millisecond before he allows himself to tremble in your embrace. 

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” you say softly, “You were just a little boy, and you had to watch your mom suffer. No one should have to go through that.”

Grief is a funny thing because as you close your eyes, feeling his shuddering breaths against your chest in the midst of his emotional motion sickness, you swear that it is not an adult Javier that you are hugging but rather the version of him that had to let go of his mother. 

When your muscles start to ache from squeezing him so hard, you pull back a little to stare into his tearful face, watching his eyes glisten. You wipe a tear away but it is just replaced by another. 

“I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to mess this up,” he says and you’re not sure if it’s him or the little boy in him that speaks. 

“You won’t,” you reassure him, your voice steady like a lifeline that he can hold onto, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

Javier sniffles with a hesitant smile. Like the instincts of a mother, you lift the hem of your shirt to wipe a few tears from his face. You lean close to kiss him afterward and then move to lie face-to-face with him, so close that your noses almost touch. Your voice is sincere, “I know she meant a lot to you and your dad, so thank you for telling me. It sounds like she was an amazing woman. I wish I could have met her.”

“She would have loved you,” Javier replies, “She had this way of seeing right through people, knowing if they were genuine or not. And you, you’re the most genuine person I’ve ever met.”

Despite the warmth outside, you feel a different kind flow through you at those words. You brush your lips against his in a tender kiss, “I need to make sure that I tell you that I love you even more when you are so open and gentle with me.” 

He looks tired now but it’s the tiredness that fills the body after relief, “I love you too.”

“I think you should get some sleep,” you say softly. 

“I’ve never talked to anyone about my mother like this before,” he adds, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You never have to find out,” you tell him and reach to rub a thumb between his eyebrows, “Close your eyes, baby.  I’ll stay awake until you’re asleep.”

He does as he is told and smiles until sleep takes over, his face relaxing, his mouth going slack, and his breaths slowing down. He is so beautiful like this, looking peaceful, looking like home.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[teojira]

On my hands and knees for some general headcannons for Koba, a fragile friendship forged from a hunt gone wrong or just mildly getting along like pissy siblings 😭. Your writings are so memorizing, and it's like eating a 5-star meal. All the kudos and love for you as my favorite pota writer

[General Koba drabble/ headcanons!] [Platonic]

Summary: Koba deals with you because he absolutely has to, not because he actually cares for you.

Warnings: Platonic Koba and Reader, Koba being a dick but that's canon.

A/N: THANK YOU SO SUCH KIND WORDS I TWIRLED MY HAIR??? this literally means so much to me, thank you :( I tried my best to incorporate both ideas you had! I hope this is good, Koba is kinda hard to write for and I am nervous lmfao.

Ohhh my fucking god, will he never let you rest.

Koba doesn't love humans, it is so very very very apparent in everything he does that he DOESN'T like you, he would let you drop dead in front of him without caring.

Imagine his shock and gal when he starts to actually form some kind of attachment to you. How bitter it makes him to think he can even have a somewhat positive thought about you.

It makes him want to claw his fur out, maybe even go blind in his other eye to get some damn sense into him. How dare you, and if he cared to use human curse words, he'd call you every name in the book.

He begrudgingly will help you learn how to hunt, and I mean begrudgingly. Caesar has to damn near hold the bonobo at gun point to get him to stop being so fucking hostile and just give you a chance.

He watches you from a tree as you hunt pitifully, the spear much too large for you to wield like apes do. It's pathetic really, watching you stumble like a baby elk with no sense of balance. You can't spear a single fish.

"Human...stupid." The Bonobo sneers, rolling his eyes after you continuously miss, he can see your face burn with what he's been told is embarrassment. Serves you right.

Koba has no actual plans on helping you, until he starts to see you throw your spear onto the forest floor with a thump, curling into yourself, hiding your face in your knees.

Great, now you're crying and he's gonna have to be the one to deal with it. Just, Great. Just what he wanted to deal with.

Koba is already mentally trying to prepare himself to get down and attempt to soothe those pitiful cries coming from you when he hears footsteps rapidly approaching.

You, being so caught up in your own world, don't realise a mountain lion is stalking you, but Koba does.

It's scary how fast he can move at his age and with his disabilities, he's down the tree and at your side before you even realize.

The growl he lets out startles you enough to break out of whatever trance you find yourself in, watching Koba plunge his own spear at the mountain lion, the large cat yowling when it's hit You can't help but let out a yelp of your own.

Koba puts more force, piercing the jagged rock deeper into its neck, breathing harshly from the extension.

The cat falls silent finally, Koba turning to you, staring down at you with a glower.

"....stupid."

Koba chooses to ignore how you look back at him with appreciation, he didnt do it for you, he did it for Caesar. Doesn't matter if it gives him a pleasant feeling deep in his core.

This starts you both off with a rocky 'friendship' between you and the old Bonobo.

He doesn't like that you seem to keep following him around the colony and very vocally tries to scare you off. Hell, he tries to pawn you off to Stone and Grey, but it's no use.

For some reason, you've decided that you'd make his existence even harder and make it a point to bug him.

He hates it. He hates you even more. But it's akin to having a dog, and he lets you know so.

"Like dog. Follow Koba." "That's rude." "...good."

He's such an asshole it's ridiculous. What do you see in him?

Koba eventually gets used to his new normal, antagonizing you just as much as you do him.

He's learned how to get away with fucking with you so that he doesn't get in trouble with Caesar or the others.

Fucker has pushed you into the lake more times than you can count and it makes him huff out laughter. It's all under the guise of being playful.

Jokes on him because you constantly will try and touch him, saying he has fleas or what not, only for him to growl at you when you pull back and stick up a middle finger towards his face. Peak sibling behavior tbh

Caesar sees you as a good thing for Koba, exposure to a human that isn't out to harm.

No matter what Koba claims, you're harmless. Everyone knows this.

They fight about it, Koba adamantly saying he was no part in caring for you, but when Caesar raises an eyebrow ridge, signing quickly that this isn't a discussion, Koba fumes.

Would rather drop dead than admit he misses your presence. If you decide to spend more time with Maurice or Rocket, he gets so pissy.

Koba will drag you away if you push him hard enough, grabbing you by your waist and dragging you. He doesn't care if you don't want him man handling you, oh well.

I know it in my heart that he yanks your hair to piss you off. He does it to get your attention. It's never for anything of importance, he just likes that it pisses you off.

"You can literally just chatter, and I'll hear it!"

The asshole just shrugs with one shoulder.

He's insufferable, and I hate him.

[lunarw0rks]

Hello!! Could you do one with how the 141 boys would take care of their sick partner who is also in 141 with them? Like when would they notice that you were sick or didn’t show up to training because you were sick?

I love your writing!!

Taking Care of Their Sick S/O (+Ale)

Warning(s): gn!reader, established relationship, emetophobia tw, hurt/comfort, mild language, fluff ˳✧༚/✿ Word Count: 1.1k ꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ 141 MASTERLIST // have a request? 𓆩♡𓆪 ask box

SYNOPSIS; if there was any unspoken rule in your line of work; it was that you show up to work, with no excuses. No absences unless an injury has rendered you disabled, or you're bedridden. For you, right now, it was the latter. You picked up a bug, some sort of flu that had you convinced you were dying. You found yourself too beat to tell anyone but those on a need-to-know basis.

Price

John let out a groan when his work phone rang, interrupting his paperwork. He figured it was yet another thing that had gone wrong or another phone call to take up an hour of his precious time.

But it wasn't; it was your voice — your scratchy, exhausted voice.

One portion of you called him because you had to, as his soldier. But the other half was his significant other, yearning for any comfort he could spare. It was the type of flu where you'd convinced yourself you were on your deathbed.

His soothing voice is what you needed, and it's what you got once he heard your sniffles and coughs. ❝You stay in bed until you're well, got it, sweetheart?❞ He spoke sternly, fiddling with his pen on the other line. Though he wanted nothing more than to tend to you personally, he just couldn't spare the time.

He sent one of his trusted men to check on you every few hours, taking a request for an errand, a file you wanted to review in bed, or something as trivial as a water refill. In addition, you got as much covered absence as you needed, probably even a few extra days to be sure of a full recovery.

Simon

Simon was the first to notice you acting off — the slower response time when asked a work-related question, how you had gone to bed hours than you usually would, and how your form had gotten sloppy in training.

Then, the following day, when you weren't present; he had been proven correct once again. The nasty flu you picked up was so hellacious you didn't want to risk getting the rest of them sick, so you stuck it out in your barrack.

He did check on you — startled you, actually. You rolled over when your nap had been cut short by a fierce cough, nearly adding a concussion to your reason for absence when you spotted the figure sitting beside you. Simon grabbed your arm before you could fall off the cot, feeling the sheer warmth of your fever, ❝didn't mean to startle you, love. Was worried, is all.❞

His fear of getting sick was non-existent, due to his alarming ability to push through the worst of colds and flu strains. Simon brushed a sweaty strand away from your drowsy eyes, merely watching as you lay feverish in your cot.

Soap

Let's be honest; Soap probably gave you the flu, only he was lucky enough to show the symptoms of a mild common cold — so the correlation was never made.

Of course, it had to hit you at its worst when he spent the night with you. You ran to the bathroom in the middle of the night, vomiting last night's dinner. ❝Ye alright in there, sweetheart?❞ Soap asked groggily at the sounds of your retching, only plagued with a runny nose and a deeper voice.

He stretched his muscles and waited outside the door, flashing a look of concern at your appearance. Though you had brushed your teeth, you still felt horrendous — and looked it.

❝I'll go make you a tea, hm?❞ He did just that, shuffling over to the kitchenette with a silent yawn. If he weren't sick himself, he wouldn't be half as drained as he was right now.

When he returned, he sat you up enough for you to keep the steaming mug upright. He passed it to you, watching as you sipped it to soothe the burn in your throat. ❝Best tea of your life, I promise.❞

Gaz

Gaz only saw a glimpse of you through the small window on your barrack door, the outline of you as you choked back some water. Even through the metal door, he heard a raspy chest cough you emitted.

He knocked a few times, taking a few steps back when you opened the door, looking dreadful. Dark circles, sweat formed on your forehead, and your pajamas still on. ❝Christ, babe, have you gotten any rest today? Go back to bed.❞ He gave the order from intense concern for getting you back in action. Not to mention, the day was boring without you on the field.

As much as he wanted to embrace you, he didn't want to risk catching whatever flu you had caught a strain of.

Once you were a few feet from him, he followed you inside, draping a spare quilt from the linen closet on you, then distancing himself once more. ❝How about we... video call until this is over?❞ Kyle made his best attempt at a kind smile, though he had already found the doorway.

Alejandro

He knew you were ill because the report made its way up the chain of command, eventually finding itself on his desk.

Alejandro couldn't spend a lot of time searching for you when he passed the training room, though he did find it strange you hadn't texted a good morning to him.

But, once he found out you had picked up a nasty flu, he set aside some time to get you a care package. Electrolytes to keep you hydrated, an extra blanket, and some soup he had a rookie drive across town to an authentic Mexican restaurant for (though not as good as one he would make for you if he had the time).

When you weakly opened the door, seeing the folded blanket and a takeout baggie of soup and bottled drinks, there was a neatly folded note;

'Te deseo una pronta recuperación' — A

Laswell

Unfortunately for her and you, she rarely had the luxury of being on base. Most of her working days were spent with Shepard, or halfway across the world gathering intel. Communication rarely came through texts, only calls with her.

It was both your luckiest and unluckiest day, however. You were ill and bedridden — but she was on base today.

The door to your cot closed softly, a gentle palm resting on your hip. She found out about your absence through Price, instantly taking a few minutes from her day to check up on you. ❝The Captain's worried about you,❞ she rubs circles on your blanketed hip, and the only sign that you're even awake is the active sniffling from your stuffy sinuses. You don't turn to face her, and she wouldn't want you to either, but the comfort eases the upset a bit.

You hear the faint rustle of a purse before she's handed you a few tablets to take, holding them in front of your mouth, then passing your water bottle. ❝Take these, they should knock you out for a few hours, let you get some rest.❞

[strawberrystepmom]

izuku x f!reader. enemies to lovers au, suggestive but not outright smutty. more about these two can be found here, this idea was workshopped and is co-brainchild of @izvmimi <3333 | wc 1.2k

You roll your shoulders back and smack your lips together, presenting that glowing smile to a crowd of voracious cameras. Izuku shifts uncomfortably in his seat, all too aware of the way you keep glancing at him out of the corner of your eye no matter the distance between you. 

“Our organization, Victims of Hero Sanctioned Violence, thanks you all for your time this evening. With your contributions and willingness to report the truth, we will someday truly have that brighter future we have been promised for all of these years.”

The crowd erupts and Deku rolls his eyes, resting his cheek against his raised fist. There’s no need for over the top formality, you sat him at a table with hecklers who have long since abandoned him to go and spend their evening at the front egging you on. His tie is loosened and his shirt is unbuttoned, messy green waves drooping now that the gel he slicked them back with has started to lose its effectiveness.

You’re only here for her, he reminds himself. 

Whatever exists between the two of you is tentative and unnamed at best yet he’s nothing but a moth to your flame, floating frantically around the light you emanate with so little effort. Everyone in this room is obsessed with you, devouring every single thing that you say like animals drinking from a lake after a drought. 

He hates them. 

His fist flexes against his face and he shifts his posture again, legs spread beneath the tablecloth. A petty part of him hopes that you see his unbotheredness through his positioning alone, clearly disinterested in hearing the latest stats regarding property damage and long term disabilities caused by pro heroes. It’s not his business. He has people who regularly deal with this sort of thing yet here he sits, reaching to further loosen his tie when he feels your dark eyes drift to him, your heels carrying you from the stage and through the crowd that attempts to stop and speak with you every few feet.

This is where he rises, pushing his chair out from the table in front of it, ready to act as a shield between you and these people who believe they’re entitled to access to you merely because they agree with your beliefs. Sauntering toward you, he positions himself between you and the crowd, and places a hand on your shoulder.

“Nice of you to finally do something to protect someone for once, Deku.” 

A member of the crowd spits and he turns his head, emerald eyes gleaming, ready to bite back. You lift your hand and wrap it around his forearm, squeezing once, silently begging him not to make a scene. Scoffing loudly enough that you can hear it, he raises a brow and keeps his gaze trained on the man who apparently has so much to say, watching him realize how outmatched he is in mere moments. The man bows his head and heads in the opposite direction of where the two of you are going, the hallway outside of the banquet room. 

“How can you let them talk to me like that?” He asks and you giggle, squeezing his arm. 

Your fingers don’t meet where they’re wrapped around it and heat rises in your face envisioning something else that your fingers don’t quite meet when they’re wrapped around, gaze dancing up Izuku’s body until they reach his face. Equal parts chiseled and boyish. Perfect. You hate even looking at him yet here you stand, sharing space and four of your five senses with him. 

The final sense, taste, will come later if the way you are looking at him has anything to do with it.

For now though, there is more important business to attend like the intense hunch of his shoulders and the line that is developing between his brows from all of this scowling. 

“They have the right to say what they’re thinking, Midoriya.” You finally speak now that you are released from the overheated hall, taking a deep breath of fresh cool air to calm your nerves and send that rising warmth in your body back to where it came from. “Being a pro hero doesn’t shield you from criticism, it only makes you less likely to hear it in the first place.” 

He chuckles and that heat you were attempting to will away returns in an instant, cheeks and chest and parts even lower aflame just at the sound of his voice. You shouldn’t even be humoring him, much less actively wanting him, silently scolding yourself to keep it professional despite his obvious attraction to you. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want you, the woman beneath the carefully crafted facade you keep up.

“Yeah but it’s not very nice, is it? I didn’t call that guy a loser to his face and I should have.”

Snorting, you shake your head and glance up at him, those doe-like eyes blinking so prettily all he can do is match you. Open, close, open, close. Perfectly synced like your breaths. Easy, just as he seems to have found the coat closet, pushing the door open and pulling you in behind him. 

“I can’t force them to be nice to you. Remember, you volunteered to be here to represent all pro heroes, not just yourself.”

Izuku spins you so that you face him, chest pressed against his torso, face barely coming chin level to his massive pectorals. Your eyes dip to the exposed skin at his collar and you bite your lower lip without thinking, his hands sliding over your hips and ass, gently squeezing and massaging the flesh beneath your silk dress.

“Okay but how are you going to make it up to me?”

You roll your eyes and look up at him, letting your arms rest near his belt, taking your time undoing the buckle.

“Why do I need to make it up to you? As I said, you’re here voluntarily.”

He shrugs, his own lower lip tucked between his teeth momentarily while he watches you work, slowly sinking to a squat position with your heeled feet pressed together. Manicured fingers pull the zipper of his tuxedo pants down, his already half hard cock pressing against your cheek while you rub your face against it.

“Would this make you feel better?” You ask, glancing up at him with those same pretty eyes he fell for the first time he ever saw them in person. He nods once, gaze remaining locked on your elegant movements while your fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers. The leaking tip of his cock springs free and you lean in to lick it tentatively, Izuku bracing himself against the row of luxury label coats behind him. 

For being an upstart, VOHSV sure has some wealthy donors. It’s a thought for another time though, his mind melting out of his ears while your tongue dances around the underside of the head of his dick, a whimper escaping him.

“Quiet or you get nothing,” you mumble around the salty taste of his skin. 

All he does is nod and purses his lips, pressing one large palm over the bottom half of his face.

[miscling]

Maid-Bot L1N

'Dude! I told you I didn't want a maid-bot! Tell me you didn't spend this month's rent on this thing!'

Calling him 'dude' was a bad sign. He'd be in real trouble if he didn't explain himself, and quickly. She'd walked in while he was busy adjusting its dress and gently tucking its pig-tailed hair back behind its ears and face-plate. It stood motionless, wearing a plain black maid dress with a while apron, and a white bow at its collar. On its feet were some short frilled socks and a pair of shiny black shoes.

'Maid-bot, Present mode,' he said, and it tucked its arms behind its back.

'Hon, please, I didn't spend a penny on it. Its previous owners moved house and couldn't be bothered to take it with them. It's just been hanging out on the internet desperately doing whatever anyone wants in hopes of finding a new home... I had to take it in.'

'No you didn't,' she said, though the annoyance in her voice almost melted into sympathy. 'Where are we going to keep it? I refuse to sleep with that thing in the room...'

'No, absolutely not,' he said with a smirk. 'Don't worry, I already solved that problem. You know that one cupboard we've been meaning to clean out but never got around to?'

'You didn't?' she asked, disbelief on her face.

'Nope, I didn't. It did.' The statement held way too much pride for someone who only gave an order to get it done.

'I thought maid-bots were sex toys?'

'It's both. Maid-bot, go do the washing up.'

The pair watched as it silently marched to the kitchen and began the task it was given. The sink was full of old dishes and a week's worth of cutlery. The maid-bot assumed the task, working diligently.

'It'll do the housework then?' she asked, almost afraid to consider the possibilities.

'It will,' he said. 'All we need to do is keep it powered. It charges from tactile stimulation.'

'What the hell does that mean?' she asked.

'Fuck it, beat it, tickle it, touch it,' he answered. 'You keep saying you need to find a toy that'll take everything you can throw at it, and this thing is not only tough, but also self-cleaning...'

She couldn't help but think of the pile of sex toys she'd let get gross because she hadn't had time to clean them.

'I already had it clean them,' he said, reading her mind. 'It came with a hole down there and attachments, and if you want I can get it a realistic face-plate, or one with just a mouth.'

'I'd rather it kept looking like a bot, to be honest, but what's with the cat ears?'

He gave a little laugh. 'It comes with kitty programming. It's actually quite cute when active.'

'It's not going to be wandering the house meowing, is it?'

'Oh, no, I know how you feel about vocal protocols on bots. The first thing I did was disable them. The most it'll do is moan while we charge it. It's an object to do our housework and bring us pleasure. Watch this: Maid-bot, send selfie.'

It silently moved, posing itself to the light and striking a pose. A second later, a ping on his phone alerted him to a notification.

'Hmm...' she thought to herself, and breathed a heavy sigh. 'I suppose it has been a long day already. I was going to go upstairs and take it out on my toys but I guess...' she paused and regarded the maid-bot. 'Maid-bot, go upstairs and ready yourself to please me.'

It nodded, silently heading towards the stairs...

He smiled. 'Just don't break it. We did only just get it...'

'No promises,' she said, a sadistic smile crossing her lips.

He had won. She liked it, and soon the house was filled by the sounds of her enjoying and using it...

It is maid day! I had this idea while doing all my housework on my weekly maid day, where I put on a maid dress and get my housework done, so I can have a little fun while I'm at it... If you like this story, I have others under the Miscling Writes tag!

[fenrir-wolf-of-gotham]

What specifically do you think is bad about fandom Cass? I read some comics, but my main exposure to her is through fandom and WFA.

Her main characteristics in Fanon (as far as I've noticed):

She is really good at fighting (sometimes the best of the bats)

She likes dancing

She talks only through ASL or talks very little

She moves elegantly

She cares about people

She has strong morals

I don't know how accurate compared to canon this is, but I don't really see the racist part. So I'd love to hear if I missed or misinterpreted anything.

Thanks for the ask! I wrote an entire response then my phone died so here I am rewriting it.

To make a long story short, Cass as a character is very competitive, brutal, and serious in the comics and they kinda remove that entirely just to make her a glorified support animal for the rest of the Batfamily. Cass is terrible with emotions and often fucks up when handling her own emotions, let alone the emotions of her family. She's often just as determined, self assured, and brutal as Bruce is, sometimes moreso. She simultaneously gets a peek into everyone's emotions but struggles to understand how people feel. She often thinks she knows best and is extremely blunt in communication and actions. She legitimately thought the idea of beating up every mobster in Gotham until she got a lead to a case was a good idea. She doesn't really know how to comfort someone unless she's familiar with them like with Steph or Barbara.

As for the ASL issue, this is the worst of the fandom's misinterpretation of the character. She has only been mute in two pieces of media, the first wasn't very good and the second was even worse but it wasn't even trying to be accurate to the character. Cass has never used ASL in any comic. She has a language learning disability and would struggle learning any language, including sign. The part about racism is that, if you make Cass mute, she falls into the stereotype of the "silent foreign warrior" which is common in older western media. The original writers actually realized they had originally written her like this and immediately gave her speech and inner dialogue to avoid this trope.

In essence, they're disregarding her much less visible, but still real and difficult to deal with, disability for a more visible one that's more palatable for abled people to understand.

She is absolutely the best martial arts fighter in the DC universe (that's not just me being a fanboy, its stated in canon) and is super competitive about that and that competitive nature is completely absent in WFA or a lot of other pieces of media.

The issue is that Cass is a character with a very distinct feel and most of the time when people don't know the character very well or just skimmed her wikipedia page, you can tell because she comes off as a completely different person than her canon counterpart. She absolutely likes dancing, she does have strong morals, and she does care immensely about people but often that's where the similarities end and even the way those traits are displayed can be very far from canon.

Again, thanks for the ask. I love talking about her, even if it is how badly she's butchered in fanon.

[gryficowa]

It occurred to me that what is happening to Muslims and what they are experiencing may be even worse than what Jews experienced and this thought is terrifying...

In a sense, I mean that it is worse than what the Jews experienced (Because they experienced something terrible, I will say it directly, the way Hitler manipulated people and how he dehumanized is terrible, there is no doubt, so when I say that it is worse, then it's worse and that's something that's terrifying, the holocaust itself was fucking terrible, the process itself that led to it was fucking terrible, the concentration camps themselves were terrible, so that's squared, and that says too much and shouldn't happen, the continuation of the holocaust itself sounds like something that shouldn't happen, but the holocaust squared and more worse process that took place? This would have been unimaginable years ago that something could be even worse, it was a tragedy unforgettable and lasting for generations, so what effect will it have today when it is worse?), in short, the process of dehumanization was facilitated by an invention called… the Internet (I know, I sound like a boomer who hates the Internet, it's not that, the Internet has many strengths, but used incorrectly it leads to bad things and this is the proof)

I mean that the process of dehumanization of Muslims was made easier, not only was there TV, but also the Internet, because while in the times of the Third Reich access to easier dehumanization lasted for years, the Internet took care of it by accelerating this process by many millions of percent (Because when it comes to o the Internet, was a master of dehumanizing his victims, this can be seen at the beginning of YouTube and everything else)

Hello, compare the dehumanization of Jews to the dehumanization of Muslims in the era of the Internet (After the situation of September 11), it was faster than in the case of Jews (And that says a lot…), because the flow of information was easier (It has advantages, but also a disadvantage what is the dehumanization of various groups…) and therefore the dehumanization of Muslims was rapid, so when a Muslim was harmed by an Islamophobe, they either remained silent or praised the perpetrator because "These evil Islamists deserved it!" This level of dehumanization of Muslims is worse than what the Jews experienced, and as I mentioned, the process itself was terrifying, so Yes… I can't describe it, it's just that the process itself was worse because it was easier to obtain information (including false information for the purpose of dehumanization that people believed in), unfortunately, the Internet contributed a lot to dehumanization and it sucks, because it shouldn't happen

Unfortunately, the beginning of greater access to the Internet was a gift, but not for everyone, if you were a dehumanized group, the Internet became hell, as shown by the multitude of stories of how the Internet decided to persecute children, including those with disabilities (Because they are funny and such… . Yes, the Internet was so fucked up back then), but apart from children, Muslims were also killed by fake information used by Islamophobes to increase dislike towards them as people, and the mainstream media was no better either, they often swallowed fake information and treated it as the truth, so yes, one Islamophobe wrote false information, then the real media noticed it and they were so concerned about history (made out of thin air), that they started spreading it (Without doing anything to find out about its credibility, yes, journalists in those days were lazy)

People were more susceptible to propaganda involving dehumanization, so it was a matter of time until Muslims were treated as inferior to others (while spreading many harmful stereotypes about this ethnic group, e.g. that they are terrorists and rape women, you know, a classic what we have already heard about Hamas, nothing new)

What happened to Muslims is worse than what happened to Jews is not to erase the Holocaust, but to draw attention to how quickly and efficiently dehumanization has taken place nowadays compared to what happened during Hitler's times, which makes it more terrifying because it took less than a decade, for Muslims to be treated as punching bags, unfortunately, Muslims themselves are defenseless due to the fact that Jews at least have legal defense and can defend themselves in this way, Muslims don't have it so bright, their rights are not as easy as Jews (Nowadays , not only them, black people are also fucked in this respect in the law itself), unfortunately, it shows how people's laws are full of holes, when you do not belong to minorities protected by the country itself, then they can kill you, because if you defend yourself against an attacker, you will go to prison for being a murderer and they will antagonize you in the mainstream media (Because you are not white or Jewish, they would listen to you), which is seen many times when a non-white person defends himself against an attacker…

Unfortunately, I notice the fact that the Jews themselves do not notice this small but important privilege that they will care about your report when something bad happens, it is a small but important privilege that you will not even notice, because unfortunately, but you have no knowledge about other groups that are persecuted and how helpless they are in this situation, because the police don't care about them, they can't defend themselves (trans people, black people, Muslims), because the media will start antagonizing them and portraying them as perpetrators, even though they were not perpetrators, but victims… This is unfortunately happening and it sucks, Unfortunately, Muslims do not have the same privilege as you in this respect and Islamophobia still thrives, often on tragedy, when the police fail them, and then a toxic cycle develops that fuels discrimination, no matter what they do, they will be angry because the law does not protect them, because they are considered aggressors, they can be beaten and defend themselves, but they will be angry because they hurt a white man ( Or a Jew… Because I don't know, he attacked them, which happens…) and the media feeds on it, so do Islamophobes who later have arguments why "Muslims are evil" and so on endlessly, the dehumanization of Muslims has become something "Normal", and it should never be like that, unfortunately, people don't care about fatalities if they are not whites or Jews themselves , so statistics are omitted, when the mentioned groups attacked them for the purpose of racist and Islamophobic propaganda, if the same were done to dehumanize Jews, it would be a drama for the whole world and all the media to say how terrible it is, but how is it done towards other groups (which are also persecuted) all this is silent :/

Do you see why this is worse than the Holocaust? There are a lot of factors here and the fact how quickly the dehumanization of one group went is terrifying, not even a decade has passed before this group was already dehumanized and now we see genocides of these groups, but people remain silent or blame them for self-defense when they are attacked (Because Muslims are bad, so they deserve to be murdered), or classic pinkwashing/homonationalism in order to play on the feelings of LGBT+ people so that they follow suit and become Islamophobic, because genocide is acceptable when the propaganda is used that all Muslims are queerphobes who will kill you for being LGBT+, seriously, this is sick

What is happening in this world is sick and we should stop defending only Jews (Especially Zionists, because not every Jew is a Zionist, but many Zionists consider themselves Jews, you get the idea), especially when they are aggressors against a group that she does not have the privilege of defending her from people, or the law and it should not be accepted, using "Anti-Semitism" as a shield is disgusting when you rub your face with the trauma of those who experienced crimes from Hitler and his followers, you are simply disgusting, you feed on people's trauma for your own benefit, to attack a group which she's more vulnerable than you, it's not normal, it is sick

Simply put, the situation of Muslims is not that good and is worse than what the Jews experienced, not only is xenophobia also racism, because compared to Jews, they cannot hide in the crowd because their features and skin color betray them, so even if they did not wear a hijab (or other headgear), they would still fall victim to attacks because that they can't stop looking like Muslims, you Jews have the privilege of looking like the rest of the people and the police are on your side too, so is the mainstream media, so why today are you using it to hurt others and silencing other Jews when they are not like that like you and defend the weaker?

Zionist Jews are annoying, especially because they strongly deny being Jewish to other Jews who are against genocide and compared to them, they are not Islamophobic, but good people (And it doesn't help that Zionists cooperated with the Nazis, so this defense with the text "Anti-Semitism" is cynical)

Many Zionists will probably be angry that I say directly that what is happening to Muslims is even worse than what happened to Jews, but someone has to finally say something about it, because it is not normal that one group has been dehumanized to such an extent so much that when someone dies because of Islamophobia, people don't care

It's worse because of how fast it happened, because when they die no one cares, I hate that we are in a world where dehumanization is legal and socially acceptable, this should never have happened

[moonsandmobilityaids]

Honest Conversations

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: The boys want to talk about sex. Warnings: Chronic pain and mentions of sexual dysfunction Series Masterlist

The bedroom is alive with the soft crackle of the fireplace, its warm light dancing across familiar faces. The armchairs are pushed aside, making room for a nest of blankets and cushions on the floor where you're settled in for the evening. Low chatter fills the space, punctuated by quiet laughter—a symphony of shared history between you and the Marauders.

But tonight, an undercurrent of something more serious tugs at the edges of your awareness. It's an unspoken question that has lingered in the air for some time now, growing heavier with each passing moment.

You shift slightly, your back resting against Remus's chest as he leans against the headboard. His arm is draped around your middle, a comforting presence despite the gravity of what lies ahead. James sits to your right, his hand resting on your thigh, while Sirius occupies the foot of the bed.

There's no awkwardness in the way you all fit together. This closeness is as much a part of you as the magic coursing through your veins.

But tonight, there's a palpable tension threading through the comfort, a silent acknowledgment that the conversation soon to unfold might change everything.

Your kisses with the boys have grown more fervent, their touches lingering, over the past few weeks. It's in the way Sirius's hand brushes against your lower back, how James's eyes linger on your lips, and the subtle shift in Remus's gaze when you're close. Something has changed, deepened. You can feel it, a thrumming undercurrent of desire and longing that threatens to pull you under. And you know they feel it too.

But something holds you back, a nagging thought at the edge of your consciousness. It's not because you don't want this—Merlin, every fibre of your being yearns for them—but because of everything else.

You've played this conversation out in your head a hundred times before, but now it feels different, real. You can't avoid it any longer; you need to talk about it—with them. They deserve to know.

It's Sirius who breaks the silence first.

"So..." He leans forward, elbows braced against his knees. A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, but it never reaches his eyes, clouded as they are with something akin to regret. "Seems we've all been skirting around the same issue, doesn't it?"

James, ever the pragmatist, quirks an eyebrow, his gaze steady and unyielding. "What Padfoot's trying to say is..." He pauses, choosing his words with care. "Perhaps it's time we addressed the fact that things are escalating."

His voice is light, almost conversational, but there's an undertone that speaks volumes. It's in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers drum a silent tattoo against the his thigh. His eyes meet yours, reflecting both concern and conviction.

You feel Remus shift behind you, an almost imperceptible movement, yet so familiar that your body responds instinctively, leaning back into the warmth he offers.

"There's no need to rush into anything, love," he murmurs, his breath a soft caress against your ear. "We're here for you, whatever you decide."

A nod of understanding passes between you and Remus, and your eyes fall to your hands, picking at an imaginary loose thread on your jeans. "I know," you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips. "It's just..."

You trail off, gathering your thoughts as tension coils in the pit of your stomach. This is it—the tipping point that could either strengthen your bond or shatter the fragile peace you've found with each other. "I want to move forward with this—with all of you. But there are some things you need to understand about me first."

James leans forward, his brows knitting together in concern. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"

You swallow hard, feeling a lump form in your throat. Your fingers dance anxiously over the fabric of your jeans, seeking solace in the familiar rhythm. "Because of my medical issues—my conditions, the chronic pain—sex will be different for me."

Sirius, typically the embodiment of reckless abandon, stills at your words. His brow furrows, not in confusion, but in concentration, as if trying to decipher a particularly tricky piece of parchment. "Just tell us what you need," he says, his voice low and steady. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it. There's no pressure."

A wave of relief washes over you as Sirius's words, genuine and warm, ease some of the tension in your body. You glance at Remus, who gives your hand a comforting squeeze, before turning back to face James and Sirius.

"I've never been able to finish by myself," you confess, your cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "It feels like hitting a wall that you just can't get through." You swallow hard, forcing yourself to continue. "And I rarely get wet, even when I'm aroused, because of the medication I take."

The room falls into silence as they absorb your confession, but there's no judgment in their eyes, no hint of discomfort. Only love, concern, and a deep understanding that makes your heart ache with gratitude.

James reaches out to gently take your other hand, his fingers intertwining with yours in a show of support. "That's okay, love, we'll work it out. And if it never happens, that's fine too. We just want to be here with you, no matter what."

Remus is the next to speak, his voice steady despite the gravity of the conversation. "We can use lube. There are ways to make things easier for you. And we'll always check in, make sure you're comfortable."

You nod, appreciating his patience. "The thing is, physically... I should be able to have sex. Most positions shouldn't cause any problems in theory. But I've never... well, you know. So I can't say for certain how it'll feel in practice. And I don't know if the things I'm worried about will become bigger obstacles when faced with the reality of the situation."

He moves closer, not touching but present, a comforting solidity. "What are you worried about?"

You glance at him, feeling exposed yet compelled to continue. This isn't easy, laying bare your fears and vulnerabilities, but you know it's necessary. "The pain," you admit, your voice hardly above a whisper. "Sometimes it's so bad I can't even move, and I don't know how that would translate into... well, sex." You pause, your fingers absentmindedly twisting the hem of your shirt. "And then there's the worry that I won't... enjoy it as much as I could. That I might need to stop or that something will go wrong."

James's hand comes up to gently cradle your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. His voice is steady, a grounding force amidst the whirlwind of uncertainties. "We'll go as slow as you need," he assures you, thumb brushing tenderly against your skin. "The last thing we want is to hurt you. If you need to stop, we stop. No questions asked. You set the pace."

Sirius nods, his usual playful demeanour replaced by a seriousness that underscores the gravity of the situation. "And it's not just about sex," he adds, his grey eyes locking with yours, "it's about being close to you, sharing this part of ourselves with you. If some days we do more, and some days we do less, that's okay. As long as we're in it together."

Remus, ever the voice of reason, leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple. "You've been open with us about everything so far, and that's all we ask. If something feels wrong, if something hurts, you just tell us. We'll figure it out together."

The knots in your shoulders start to unravel, the conversation not as daunting as you feared it might be. Their responses are everything you need—understanding, patient, loving.

"I don't want to disappoint you," you murmur, the words barely more than a breath.

James's arms encircle you then, pulling you into his chest. His hug is firm but gentle, as if he fears you'll shatter at any moment. "You could never disappoint us," he whispers back, lips brushing against your hair. "We love you, all of you. This isn't about reaching some finish line. It's about being here with you, whatever that looks like."

Sirius edges nearer, his fingers resting lightly on your knee, grounding you in their shared resolve. "And we're not the sort to leave a job half-done, are we?" His voice carries a playful note, attempting to cut through the tension that has woven itself into the air. "We'll figure it out, love."

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and you lean into them, warmed by their unwavering support. "I know."

Remus's hand moves in soothing circles on your arm, a steady rhythm amidst the storm of uncertainty. "It'll be a learning curve for us all," he admits, his gaze never leaving yours. "But we'll take it one step at a time. And we'll be here—every step of the way."

You study their expressions, finding only warmth and acceptance there, and something inside you unclenches. You'd been dreading this conversation, fearing it might create discomfort or distance, but instead, it seems to have drawn you closer.

"Thank you," you whisper, your voice thick with the emotion of the moment. "For understanding. For being... you."

James's smile is soft as he leans in to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. "No need for thanks. We're the lucky ones, having you."

Sirius shifts, lying down beside you, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh. It's a comforting presence, grounding you when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control. "We'll figure out what works best for you, together. And believe me, we're going to make sure it feels good."

Remus catches your eye, his own so full of understanding that it's almost overwhelming. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "You're safe with us," he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm and comforting. "We'll take care of you."

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, warmth spreading through you. It's strange and wonderful, this sense of belonging that has blossomed between you and these three men.

James' gaze softens as he watches you, but there's a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or concern. "This might be a bit presumptuous," he begins, his tone cautious, "but have you thought about contraception? There's a potion for witches, and I know the Muggle world has options."

Your nod is slow, thoughtful. "I'm actually on a Muggle method. An implant. It's more reliable than potions or the pill, and easier to manage. I haven't had a period in... I can't even remember when, but it runs out in summer because it lasts three years."

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Sirius's mouth, his grey eyes sparkling with mischief. "That's certainly convenient," he murmurs, a lightness in his voice that attempts to lift the heaviness in the air. "One less thing to concern ourselves with."

His hand slides further up your thigh, and you can't help the sharp intake of breath as a jolt of electricity arcs between you both. Remus shoots Sirius a warning look—part admonishment, part protectiveness—but you merely laugh, feeling more liberated and accepted than ever before.

Remus returns his attention to you, his own hand finding yours atop the table. His thumb traces gentle circles on the back of your hand, each stroke a silent promise of understanding and patience. "We'll move at your pace, love," he assures you, and you hear the sincerity ringing clear and true in his voice. "Whatever you're comfortable with, whatever you need—we're here for you."

Your heart swells with gratitude for these three remarkable men who have somehow become an integral part of your life. The future remains uncertain, but one thing is clear: Whatever comes next, you'll face it together.

[aemondsbeloved]

Poppies and Aster

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader

summary: on a warm day, Aemond spends his time with you, his lady wife and your two daughters in the gardens at the Red Keep. His duties, what others may think when they see him vulnerable with his family, and everything else does not matter so long as he is with his little family (1.1k)

notes: reader is disabled but what disability she has is not specified (she does use a cane which is mentioned), very fluffy, dad Aemond, this is unedited

If someone had asked you those years ago when you were still a maiden yet to be wed if Aemond Targaryen would be sitting in the secluded patch of grass in the royal gardens having a picnic with you and your children on a sunny afternoon you might have laughed at the prospect.

As cordial as Aemond had been even before you were betrothed and merely two people who attended the same certain events hosted by the King and Queen, he had never been one for slowing down. You would have said all Aemond loved to do in the afternoon was train with Ser Cole or perhaps spend time in the library reading.

But out in the gardens? Where everyone would see and perhaps stare at him? Oh no, you would never find him there.

He had once told you after you were betrothed that he disliked the gardens because people tended to… stare, to say the least. Perhaps in the secluded part of the library or in the training yard no one cared to pointedly stare at his scar or eyepatch. In the gardens this was not the case.

And yet here he was with you and your two daughters. Aerea past her seventh name day and Daena past her fifth. Your eldest sat besides yourself and Aemond with a sketchbook in her lap as she drew the bush not far from your family’s spot in the shaded patch of grass. You smiled at the sight, her face scrunched up so slightly in concentration. She would suck in her small cheeks when she did this and purse her lips in focus, making her look much like Aemond. Her hair so silver highlighted by the sun and the breeze that drew wisps of her hair from her braid made her look even more like him.

Besides her in Aemond’s lap was Daena with a cluster of violet and blue colored flowers in her lap. Her head of silver hair was bowed down in concentration as she threaded them together in the shape of a crown. She always insisted on wearing her hair down, detesting braids of any kind. Gods forbid you keep her hair out of her face. Sometimes when her Aunt Helaena persuaded her she would have her hair braided around her head like a halo if only because that is how Helaena always wore it. But now with her hair down in its natural state you could see how her curls that looked striking like your good mother’s went past her shoulders and were picked up in the breeze.

Aemond insisted their silver locks and violet eyes that looked just like his did not make them look like him at all. Frequently he said they had all of you, your nose, your lips, your eye shape. “A good thing,” he said to you once in your chambers as the sky set in deep oranges and pinks in the early eve. From his seat in the chair by the fire he had a strikingly calm and fond energy about him. “They’ll be as beautiful as their mother.”

Now, his book was long forgotten besides him as it laid in the grass. You were no better as your embroidery was in your lap, the needle having not been picked up in quiet some time. The cane by your side had been placed on the grass was a reminder of how long you had been here.

Daena beamed as she lifted up the finished crown in her hands to examine it. She turned around in her father’s lap to face him. Silently she lifted the crown of purple and blue flowers to Aemond.

“For me?” he asked her, gently moving his hands in front of her.

She grined toothily. “Blue poppies and purple aster,” she looked down at her flowers as if to check she got the color and names right. It would not surprise you as she was as meticulous as Aemond was. She looked back up at him and looked more giddy than before. “Just like your eyes Kepa!”

Years ago when you had first come to court you would have thought Aemond tempermental at best. The very first rumor you had heard from another lady your age was that he had screamed at a servant when she saw him without his eyepatch on when bringing something to his chambers. As you saw him with your daughter, tilting his head down so she could place it on his head, you were glad you never paid attention to those rumors. His hands were strong and could kill but he only held the ones he loved with gentleness and loved them with reverence.

The people of court could never know how much Aemond loved his family.

He looked over to where his elder daughter sat on the grass beside him, finishing the sketch of flowers she had been working on. The charcoals of beautiful vivid colors he had gifted her from Essos had gone to good use as the deep pink of the flower came to life again on her sketchbook. “How do I look?” he asked her with a soft smile.

For the first time that afternoon the concentrated look of sucked cheeks and pursed lips disappeared and she gasped in wonder, reaching the gingerly touch a blue flower. “Ao jurnegon gevie, Kepa.” You look beautiful, Father.

Was it the reverence for her father that made him smile or was it simply that he was with his family on an afternoon of such bliss? Maybe it was something that he did not think he deserved when he was younger and always thinking of the legacy in histories instead of the people around him. Aemond reached out and stroked the side of her head lovingly. “Good,” he chuckled approvingly. “Your valyrian improves every day, jorrāelagon zaldrīzes.” Dearest dragon.

At her father’s approval Aerea beamed much like her little sister, though hers was remarkably less toothy. It was a beam of a smile all the same. Daena went back to making another flower crown which you suspected would be yours. After that she would undoubtedly make her big sister one too.

Your little family was content here in the shade and as another breeze picked up Daena’s silver curls, you had no intention of picking up the embroidery in your lip. Glancing at Aemond who you found already looking at you with a soft, loving smile, you returned his smile and knew that like you, he had no intention of picking up his book either.

If some ladies and lords in the court caught sight of the fearsome Aemond Targaryen with his family they made no move to make it known. Years ago Aemond might have wanted to avenge any slight, even that of a whisper about him that was mere gossip, but now he seemed to care little for that.

+

taglist: @itsghostgirlyo @rosaryos @cullenswife @whatafreakingloser @witchofthenorthstar @m-indkiller @somemydayy @malfoytargaryen @bellameshipper @targaryenmoony @regandjamielola @tarrgaryenss @khaleesihavilliard @lacunaanonymoused @joliettes @mxrgodsstuff @margaglitterdeath @simplyarryn

comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[qqueenofhades]

Maybe this is a controversial opinion, but its one that I've been reminded of in the few weeks since things have escalated so severely in Israel and Palestine-- I feel like the pressure for random, average individuals online to be vocally political is not only entitled and uncomfortable, but also just an example of misplaced priority.

Like, I have people on twitter right now that are flat out saying if you don't talk extensively about I/P you're truly, irredeemably evil. I've had mutuals say that silence means you're complacent in genocide, that you have blood on your hands (exact words). But it just doesn't make sense? Most of the people who I've seen being flat out harassed for being silent are teenagers who don't have money to donate, working class folks who don't have time to spare, and normal people who just don't have enough of a following online to even spread any word effectively. Of course, the ones doing the harassing are also poor/busy/not-popular, but they don't see the irony. (I've also seen them say that talking about war constantly is taking a toll on their mental health, saying they've cried, had nightmares, panic attacks, etc...but they also say that taking a mental health break from social media is "selfish" and genocidal, so.)

The whole interaction leaves me with so many questions. If stepping away from social media because politics are stressing you out (which they are known to do), are you obligated to use social media? Do you have to use twitter to be a good person? What does that say about people who can't afford a phone, or live in a country where it isn't quite possible? (Are homeless folks inherently genocidal, or is that an "obvious" exception that was never clarified because no one uses nuance anymore?) If you have to talk about world events, lest you side with the oppressor, at what point is something so catastrophic you *must* talk about it? Is there a number of lives lost that is low enough you can get away with being quiet, and a certain amount too high that you're obligated to talk about it? Is it your duty to have the news on 24/7 to make sure you don't miss anything and catch all the global disasters as they happen? How much do you have to talk about something for it to be considered "enough"? Is there a quota??

It just feels like a lot of people are acting as if people who aren't chronically online aren't 1. doing any activism, because the only important activism is social media networking (sarcasm), or 2. are inherently bad people for *not* spending 6 hours a day on their phones. Like, I had someone I thought was a friend say I was a bad person because I was trying to cut down my social media usage, because the timing was "too convenient"... as if that's a normal thing to say to someone, ever. Sorry if I went on a little bit of a rant, it wasn't my intention. I dunno, maybe it's just me; I've seen a lot of people saying this sort of stuff so maybe they are the majority. It just feels really weird to let people that are addicted to social media take charge of who online is "good" or "bad" based off their internet usage. As if we were all catholics or something. If I were to say that current takes on morality were very catholic-seeming, would you know what I mean?

As recently noted, I am myself on an embargo from answering asks related to this topic. I will make one exception because this is important. Please note that any wank in replies or reblogs will be instantly blocked (and I won't hesitate to disable reblogs if necessary). I will not be answering follow-up asks or getting drawn into Discourse. I do not want to do it and it will not be happening.

I have said it before, but it bears saying again: thinking that the only way to Do Activism is to be constantly on social media and immersing yourself in terrible things nonstop and then posting the Most Correct Opinions (and then viciously attacking anyone who is even slightly Not As Correct as you) is absolutely bullshit. If you're engaging with this content so much that it's giving you a mental breakdown or otherwise plunging you into a spiral of anxiety that you take out on other people who are just as far removed from actually doing anything about it as you: why? Do you really think that you and you alone, one random person on the Internet, are the only way anyone else is going to find out about these things? Or do you think you have to perform the Most Correct Opinions nonstop, viciously harass anyone who isn't responding in exactly the same way, and this is the sum total of what your response should be? Especially in a situation as bloody and complicated as this, dealing with reams of religious, social, cultural, and political history where the average commentator on this conflict knows only what's been fed to them by propaganda on TikTok? How the fuck is that useful or constructive for anyone, aside from perpetuating the idea that you have to be angry all the time on social media about things you essentially know nothing about? I can't see that it does.

What's happening to the Gazans right now is no qualification or equivocation, a genocide. It should rightfully be opposed and called what it is. But unfortunately, I have spent too much time around Western Online Leftists to believe they actually care a whit about stopping genocide as a fundamental principle, and only want to be seen to loudly care about what their Ideology has told them to care about. If it means hand-waving aside genocide and atrocities when committed by their preferred polities, so be it. Why haven't these same people been wall-to-wall up in arms about what Russia has been doing in Ukraine, or for God's sake Syria for the past ten years, if they're really concerned about the rights of innocent Muslim civilians attacked by a far-right imperialist power? Why not the Uighurs in China? Why not [insert the blank] of all the terrible things happening in the world as a result of far-right fascist genocidal imperialism? Why only this conflict? Why now? Why does it involve so much excusing of terrorism as long as it's committed for the Right Ideology? Why are some of the most loudly pro-Palestinian accounts on here also the most rabidly pro-Russian? How does that make sense? To put it bluntly, those genocides are being committed by nation-states that Online Leftists like for being "anti-Western," and therefore their activities are actually fine and should even need to be defended.

My point is not to say that what's happening to the Palestinians is not bad. It is. It is awful and inexcusable. However, I seriously doubt the motives and morality of those who are being the loudest about screaming on social media and attacking everyone else for not instantly repeating their views. I seriously doubt that the Online Left actually opposes genocide and accelerationism as fundamental principles, because they proudly demonstrate every day that they don't. Until those vast factors can be dismantled and shown for what they are, and this can be placed into its larger context, I don't buy it and I don't believe this wall-to-wall social media outrage factory is actually aimed at helping the Gazans or anyone else suffering the most as a result of this. It is just to show that they can be counted on to Perform Outrage and harass anyone else who doesn't do the same, and that does nothing for anyone whatsoever.

[notjustjavierpena]

Buzzing

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Hiya! We are not talking about the fact that remote controlled vibrators were probably not a big thing in the late 80s or early 90s. Imagine they were for the sake of the plot. Enjoy!

Summary: Orgasming! At The Grocery Store. Need I say more?

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 Smut (minors DNI), remote controlled sex toys (under clothing), semi-public sex, voyeurism, established relationship, filthy dirty talk, unprotected P in V sex, creampie, overstimulation, aftercare, rough sex.

Word count: 4.6k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47656051

Buzzing

The idea of a remote controlled vibrator had been a joke at first, something stupid about Javier making you hump the nearest object in public, but seeing it in its little box made something stir in the pits of your stomach. It wasn’t anything special in terms of looks; just a thin, silver and simple bullet. Though you knew what kind of power that it could hold over you despite its limited size, and more importantly how powerful Javier would be with its controller in hand. The thought had almost made you dizzy back then, your heartbeat drowning out background noise from how loud it was in your ears.

And it was making you dizzy now.

The automatic doors to the store slid open for you and your boyfriend, who was pushing a shopping cart with a neutral expression despite the risky secret being held between the two of you. It was new territory for you to do stuff in public, but it was territory that you were comfortable exploring with Javier.

Underneath your floral dress, neatly tucked into your white cotton panties, the silver bullet was buzzing silently against your sex. The tip was securely pressed against your clit, sometimes sending a spike of pleasure to your cunt when you took a step forward in just the right way. God, you could imagine how great it must feel to press your thighs together or even cross your legs.

It wasn’t visible on your face, but only because the tingling sensation was at its lowest and you had gotten used to the feeling on your way here in your shared car.

Despite not having the need to make any noises or faces to reveal yourself to the world, the sweet buzz had the back of your neck warming up with a blush, even with your hair in a ponytail. Your dress felt claustrophobic, clinging to your skin when you walked, and your nipples were incredibly hard and sensitive underneath the fabric. You tried blaming it on the air conditioning and the refrigerated area, which you hadn’t even passed through yet.

“You’re not fooling me,” you jumped a little at Javier’s voice. He was looking straight ahead, steering the shopping cart around the store with an incredible sense of restraint. After all, his body would give away his aroused state in a much rather explicit manner than yours. You found yourself grabbing the metal, holding onto the side of the basket to ground yourself.

“I don’t need to be fooling you, just everyone else,” you replied confidently but the shakiness of your breathing told him you were anything but. You mirrored him and stared ahead too. You could hear shuffling after that.

The buzzing went up a notch without warning and it made your pussy clench, clit sending signals to make your whole lower body flutter. You sighed, reaching up to touch where your neck met your shoulder, but that was all you allowed yourself.

Something was building albeit slowly. Occasionally, Javier left your side for a moment to pick something out from a shelf. You couldn’t follow, scared to let go of the shopping cart in case it was the way you gripped it that was holding you in line. When he came back, he scanned your face and gave your hand on the cart a squeeze.

The brain fog that you were experiencing was making you doubt how many settings the little vibrating device had. Right now, you had experienced two but you were certain that it had much more to offer. Not that you were going to ask Javier about it.

“Did you need anything specific? I already got the coffee beans that you like,” Javier studied the shopping list that the two of you had made before heading out the door. He kept looking from the list to the cart’s contents and back again, still seemingly unaffected.

“No, don’t think so,” you mumbled shakily as you both continued down the aisles.

Javier reached into his pocket, a neutral expression on his face. He fumbled for a moment, and then suddenly, the buzzing of the bullet really took off. Your hand flew to your mouth to suppress the noise that came out of you as you clenched around nothing. You felt slick pool slowly in your underwear, making the cotton fabric stick to your cunt.

“Oh Jesus,” you slowly blew air out of your mouth. Javier checked to see if anyone was around to notice you.

“You look so hot, sweetheart,” Javier praised quietly as he walked by you, “Are you okay? Feels good?”

“Mhm,” you whimpered and finally dared to let go of the shopping cart. It might help keep you distracted to help with the grocery shopping, and so you went to look at the list over Javier’s shoulder.

The plan worked for maybe two minutes. Soon, you found yourself crouching down by a stupid merchandise stand at the end of the candy aisle. All it had taken was a tug somewhere deep inside of you, your womb clenching as your orgasm built slowly towards a crescendo.

People were staring but you hardly noticed. Javier parked your groceries to approach you, watched your shoulders tense as the position only strained your panties against the bullet even more. It was torture against your clit, enough to make you want to buck your hips and enough to make your pussy feel empty.

Javier’s strong hand rubbed between your shoulder blades to soothe you. He must’ve looked so sweet from afar, playing the good boyfriend and smiling politely at the people passing by you whilst sending you strange looks.

“Just a little lightheaded,” he responded when a white-haired lady asked if you were okay, “Morning sickness, you know how it is.”

“Oh yes. Poor thing, I’m glad she has such a sweetheart of a boy with her,” she had replied with a kind smile before moving on with her shopping.

“Fuck you,” you had moaned pathetically when she was out of earshot. You had already considered jumping the nearest shelf to fulfill the prophecy of your ongoing joke about this sort of play.

Javier leaned down over you. To others it must have seemed innocent enough, especially because he kissed the top of your head before helping you to stand, but having an excuse of being so close gave him the opportunity to whisper filth to you.

“You might as well not fight it, I’ll walk around in here until you gush in your pretty little panties,” he said quietly. You bit your lip and breathed out through your nose. He wanted you to come in here, and you knew then that you would, “I can see how close you are. The skin of your neck is so red. Bet your panties are soaked. I can probably see your cunt through them now. Is that right? Is she that wet for me?”

“Yes, yes, Javi,” you could say nothing more; he was right and he was cruel. You wondered where in the store it would be the least risky to have him touch you because you fantasized about his thick fingers inside of you at this point, them beckoning the rising pressure in your stomach to reach its peak. Nobody deserves to feel as empty as you were right now.

But Javier was already heading for the cash register with all of your groceries. He was ready to leave you there, coming undone and having to find him a minute later with shame burning up your neck and on your face, when he found out what had happened whilst he wasn’t watching you. You decided against that happening.

Carefully, you walked after him and from the back of his head, you could see that he was listening for you. You could also see that he was reaching into his pocket again, rummaging around like someone looking for their wallet but you knew what was coming. No no no— He turned the remote up without warning just like before, fished out his wallet afterwards to keep up the act of the regular, vanilla couple.

You could imagine the smirk on his face as he heard you nearly stumble but luckily managing to grab a shelf. Cans tumbled to the floor, and you gave the back of his head a death stare. God, you wanted him inside of you.

The bullet wasn’t buzzing anymore; it was pulsing in a rhythm that drove you close to an orgasm in so little time that you found yourself panicking slightly. It was like your heartbeat was in your clit, going faster and faster as if you were running towards something and that something was so close that you bailed on Javier in the middle of the main aisle.

Quickly, you went to the nearest side-aisle of stuff that people usually left alone, so you could have just an illusion of privacy. You must’ve looked insane as you practically ran into hiding in plain sight.

Behind you, Javier followed like a hungry predator, groceries forgotten. He only just managed to push you against a shelf before you whimpered as your cunt erupted into a rapid series of pleasurable bursts. You pushed your thighs together, completely at the mercy of the waves of your orgasm washing over you and the bullet not stopping its sweet torture to your over sensitive clit.

Before you could moan, Javier covered his mouth with yours to silence you. He kissed you slowly and gently through the aftershocks of your high, holding a hand over your mouth afterwards to let you enjoy the experience of the bullet not relenting, as if it had its own purpose of making you wet your underwear even more then and there. You suppressed a sob that would have been so loud that the whole store would know what was going on, only whimpering pathetically against the now damp inside of Javier’s palm.

“Fuck, you are so hot. When we’re home, I swear…,” Javier praised as he put his free hand in his pocket to fumble with the remote. He accidentally pressed the wrong button and your pussy clenched hard again as the vibrator went insane. You were briefly terrified that you were going to have another orgasm in the store, eyes rolling back into your skull whilst you fought back a panicked cry… but then the bullet stopped altogether. Thank heavens.

“What I wouldn’t get to taste you right now,” Javier whispered as you both just stared at each other. He removed his hand carefully. His face was so close to you that it would give you away if anyone saw you, so you moved slightly and looked away with burning cheeks.

“Listen,” he caught your attention again, “I know your sweet little cunt could’ve handled more but… Didn’t want to overwhelm her since we’re heading back soon.”

“Javi,” you looked at him in disapproval, cheeks completely flushed now and your pulse loud in your ears. Slick was soaking through your panties, smearing your inner thighs slightly.

“I want her all to myself, baby. Don’t worry,” he just continued, “I’ll pay here, carry all our shit to the car and then I’ll drive us home, so I can fuck you until you’re cockdrunk. You don’t have to do a thing.”

“Please,” you said pathetically, not trusting yourself to protest in case he would turn on the device again, “Yes please.”

It happened so quickly after that. You felt like you were walking around in a bell jar, noises being just that; noises, and they were indistinguishable from each other in your post-orgasmic bliss. Around you, Javier finished everything up and guided your motionless mind through it all.

Time passed in quick slow motion. You were suddenly in the passenger seat of the car, slick still pooling around your opening and most likely staining the skirt of your dress now too. You didn’t even want to think about the fabric of the car seat.

Javier walked around from the back of the car, having finished loading the groceries into the back. He got into the front seat, keys jingling as he put them in the ignition and then turning on the engine.

You quickly reached out to turn up the cold air conditioning, desperate to cool down your body temperature from your grocery store escapades. Javier chuckled beside you and you wondered briefly why he hadn’t put the car in reverse and taken you home yet.

“You know. I think you can handle one more,” he told you. Your head snapped to the side to stare at him.

“Javi,” you felt embarrassed as you moaned.

“One more, that’s all,” he reassured you, reaching into his pocket to actually fish out the remote and you cursed at the size of the thing; that such a small device could almost bring you to tears. You gulped but it didn’t stop him from pressing its buttons and forcing it to draw another orgasm from you, “Just so you’re all ready and soaked… red and waiting when we’re home.”

And then he drove whilst you writhed on the passenger seat. You hoped that he was at least hard underneath his denim pants, looking at him out of the corner of your eyes to see if you could see the outline of his cock. You could.

“Fuck,” you groaned as pressed back against the car seat, reaching up to sheathe your fingers in your hair. He was right there but you couldn’t have him.

At a red light, Javier’s hand left it the steering wheel to touch you. He pushed the fabric of your dress between your thighs so he could cup you around your cunt, feeling the bullet buzz along and making your orgasm approach faster.

“Mierda,” he swore as he felt the rhythmic pulses, “it’s really going crazy on you.”

“No shit,” it was your first attempt at being snarky, but your tone of voice was not matching your words. You found yourself whimpering as the hand removed itself again.

“No need to be rude, you’ll get my dick soon enough,” he snickered, putting both his hands on the steering wheel again. He looked so composed but you noticed his knuckles turning white.

You chuckled breathlessly at his tiny scolding, but all you could hear was his promise of what was to come. You came after that with the thought of his generous cock; the thought of it seating itself slowly in your pussy so you could feel every ridge of the veins. The hand in your hair came down between your legs as if it would make a difference.

“That’s my baby,” he praised, “I’ll turn it off when we’re home.”

What? You looked up to see how far home was from your current location, sighing in relief as you found it to be less than a minute away.

You were the one who had to lock the car and open the front door after two orgasms, because Javier was carrying a bag in each of his hands. He had been kind enough to turn off the bullet, but it was still making you struggle with how your walking made it nudge at your swollen clit with each step you took. It was like defusing a bomb to even insert the key into the keyhole,

When you finally managed to open the door, Javier pushed past you as you threw the keys onto the table in your entrance hall. You followed him into the kitchen not long after, but where you expected to find him putting away your groceries, you saw the bags carelessly on the kitchen counter.

“Those need to be refrigerated,” you pointed out but Javier was soon all over you, and you could hear how ridiculous you had sounded as he kissed your lips with a bruising force. Automatically, you threw your arms around his neck and shoulders.

“Need you right now. Everything else can wait,” he mumbled against your mouth, running his tongue along your bottom lip until you let your mouth fall open for him to explore. It was only his to explore, you wanted to let him know, moaning softly as you tilted your head to deepen the meeting of lips.

His hands were on your hips, bunching up the fabric of your sundress slightly as he steered you towards the kitchen table. He slid his palms around your body, cupped the rounding of your ass so you could feel the hem of your dress ride up and tickle the back of your knees. Then he pulled you against himself, never once breaking the kisses that he was giving you.

You breathed sharply through your nose as you felt his hardening bulge poke into your hip. Your hands went to his belt, frantically pulling to unbuckle it and then going for his fly with shaky hands. It was the first thing that broke the string of kisses as the both of you looked down between you.

Javier’s hands came to rest on yours, helping you to steady them so you could finish what you were doing. You yanked his denim jeans down and followed with his boxer briefs as well, subconsciously licking your lips as you finally caught the first glimpse of his impressive erection. Your fingers wrapped around his length instantly.

“Shit,” you could hear him whisper.

“Thought you’d been neglected for too long,” you whispered back, stroking him languidly and feeling the tug in your core. It almost hurt to not have him inside your cunt already; you couldn’t imagine how he felt at this point. The restraint that he had shown as you trembled in the grocery store aisles was hot and worth being rewarded, “You want to fuck me?”

“You want me to fuck you?” He challenged with a shuddering breath but then nodded, “Yes— I want to feel you.”

“I want you to shove your big cock in me right here. You must be starving,” your voice was still a whisper. Reluctantly, you removed your hand from him and saw him twitch in the air, “Please.”

He followed through after a string of swear words. With rough hands, he forced one of the grocery bags to the side and bent you over the counter. He pushed you down until your cunt and ass was level with his pelvis, and you grabbed at the surface for purchase. Oh, the anticipation.

The skirt was roughly pulled up over your ass in the next moment, Javier showing little care for the floral fabric. You felt the air hit your wet underwear and bring you a cool sensation against your warm, ready cunt. You could feel the cotton fabric cling around your mound, showing your shape off for him without him having to undress you completely.

Reaching around you, he plucked the bullet from your panties and let it fall to the ground so he could touch you directly without it being in the way. You keened as you felt his index- and middle finger press down on your abused clit.

“Chica sucia,” he growled as you gushed out a new pool of slick. He dragged his fingers through it, then pulled back, fingers still on you, to see the new wet stain on your underwear, “I can see you through ‘em. Should make you come again… just so you’re all newly-sensitive when I give you my dick.”

“Please— baby,” you would take anything that he had to offer, still admiring his restraint that you definitely didn’t possess in the same manner, because you practically humped his hand.

“You really are a dirty girl, aren’t you?” Javier began rubbing your clit in earnest and sent you flying forwards with a gasp, his length jutting into your thigh as you rocked your hips into his strong hand. You pushed back against it, but it only made him falter a little. He was disciplined.

By now, you were panting and begging for him. He was having you on the edge again already and you couldn’t fight it, your walls fluttering with your inevitable high.

“That’s it, let it go. She wants it,” he egged you on, “Jesus, look at you.”

With a shout, you were sent into sweet spasms as your third clit orgasm in a very short time hit you. You could feel tears prickle in the corners of your eyes, threatening to make you lose composure and collapse on the floor.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he told you sternly as your knees were about to give in. He placed a hand on the small of your back, doing quick work of pulling your panties down and pushing his cock into you so he could hold you up by pressing the front of his thighs against the back of yours. His girth was already making you stretch in a way that burned deliciously, and at this point you actually shed real tears.

Normally, you’d prefer him to go slow when entering you, but you were already so slick and soft that you took him easily, walls sucking him in with a pathetic moan as he nudged deep inside of your pussy and threatened to make more tears drip down onto the counter. His hands found your shoulder and your hip, fingers gripping harshly and desperately before he started unceremoniously fucking you.

When was the last time you ever felt this way about a guy? All teenage hormones, gotta-have-you-now and no sense of self, only the thought of your twosome. You cried out at being filled to the brim repeatedly.

Your hands scrambled for something to hold onto, flat palms on the countertop not being enough. You felt your knees slamming against the cabinets and probably bruising them, and you stood on your tippy toes to make the thick head of his cock slide over that small spot inside of you. The wet squelching your sex made was obscene.

Javier leaned over you. He drilled into you in a way that forced the air out of your lungs, making you choke on your cries of pleasure and the little air you had left. His hand let go of your hip, moving to your wrist, so he could pull it behind your back. He did the same with the other one until he had both in an iron grip against the small of your back.

The move made you unable to hold up your overwhelmingly sensitive body, and so your face and breasts ended up pressed into the countertop. The coolness soothed your blushing upper body despite the friction against your hard nipples. All this whilst your wet cunt burned with desire for another release, which was tightening like a coil in the pits of your belly, because of the way that your g-spot was stimulated in this position.

“Oh fuck, tightening around me like that. Already?” Javier ground into you impossibly harder and practically made you sing, “Thought your little cunt was done for, thought she was spent, greedy little thing you both are. Let me help you.”

His right hand went down in front of your thighs, between you and the counter. He touched you, felt you up, so he could touch where you were connected as one. You were spread so wide for him, puffy and soft, but the second he found your clit, you tightened and flew forward, “Ngh– I can’t— Javi!”

“You can do it, baby. one more, that’s all,” Javier wrapped his hand around both of your now crossed wrists, yanking hard to pull you down onto his length again. He twitched inside of you and you knew it meant that he was close, breathing labored as he continued to thrust deep inside of you while barely pulling out anymore, “I want you to milk me fucking dry.”

A mixture of your sensitive nipples rubbing against the surface of the kitchen table, the pads of Javier’s fingers against your clit and your g-spot being slammed into made you tip over the edge. Your orgasm came fast but with being so full of cock, it felt much more dragged out and intense than the first three.

You fought to cross your legs but couldn’t with the way that Javier’s cock was in between them, so you were absolutely wailing as the coil snapped and sending you through a tumult of torturous euphoria. He felt bigger than ever inside of you, and your walls clenched around him as he chased his own high.

“So fucking tight,” it took only a few more pushes into your cunt before Javier swore behind you. He filled you, stilled and pulsed, making your head swim even more with each burst of come coating you from the inside. Teenage hormones, huh? Not even heard about the pullout method.

You were both very quiet afterwards except for your struggling breaths. You wanted to break the silence with a witty remark but nothing was going through your head, so instead you just sighed deeply, contentedly, “Fuck.”

“I should’ve given you one more,” Javier said behind you. He reached down to pull out, grunting quietly as he slid out of your heat along with a bit of your mixed arousals.

You chuckled but quickly stopped as you felt too sore to do even that. The emptiness was worse than ever, and your body's complaints in the store now seemed silly, “I couldn’t have.”

Before you started dripping out his come, Javier led you out of the kitchen and into the bathroom to shower. He was gentle as ever, supporting you by holding you with an arm around your waist to keep your wobbly legs secure. None of you felt the need to say anything; not when he turned on the water, not when he washed away the tear streaks from your face, not when he kissed you slowly in the shower cubicle, no, not even coaxed one last high out of you that seemed to fog the shower cubicle more than the hot water and had your legs shaking all over.

Only when you saw him get a cloth from the cabinets, soaking it in cool water before holding it over your cunt to soothe the rough handling of her, you decided to speak, “I love how you love me.”

“Yeah?” Javier looked up at you whilst his hand was still holding the cool washcloth against you. He simply smiled, leaning in to nose along your jaw before pressing a kiss to it.

You wrapped your arms around him, “Yeah.”

Things went on for a few more minutes. You soothed yourself under the comfort of the spray, sharing it with Javier without much trouble as he washed you and himself down with the cool cloth. It felt like your own little slice of heaven.

When you were done, he kissed you deeply and multiple times as he dried both of your bodies. You didn’t want to get dressed, and he accepted that, reaching down to carry you bridal-style into the bedroom.

After you got comfortable in your shared bed and Javier put on a new pair of underwear, he kissed you on the forehead.

“I should apologize to her,” he chuckled as he leaned over you, nodding towards the treasure between your legs, “But what a trooper.”

“I don’t think anyone should apologize here,” you were lying on your side and rested both your hands under your head. You watched him pull the blanket over you, and my God, you were so in love with him that it was ridiculous.

“I’ll go unpack, and pray to whoever that the ice cream is still somewhat frozen,” he informed you on his way out of the room, “Want some if it’s unsalvageable?”

“I want some either way,” you said despite feeling beyond tired.

“Coming right up.”

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[izvmimi]

cw: reader has a curse that confers disabilities. hurt/comfort. nanami and reader are roommates and friends from high school. pregnancy mention.

your alarm goes off as it does every day, 9 am sharp, and before your eyes creak open, you prepare for the consequences of your actions the night before sucking in a deep breath. the thick sensation in your throat is familiar - the cloud that shrouds your lips is as familiar to you as a sudden, annoying pimple on the morning of a date.

but when you open your eyes and are greeted by nothing but pure darkness, the realization that for once you bit off much more than you could chew sets in, guiding you into a silent scream -

because this time, not just your speech, but your sight is also gone.

your heart thumps frantically in your chest but the rest of you is frozen stiff as you try to comprehend this new reality. the lightless expanse before you is more like an unmoving static when you force yourself to concentrate, and you can still move your eyeballs, you can blink, if you pinched yourself, and you are pretty sure you could cry if you tried, but waving your hand in front of your face gives you nothing. you sit straight up, and exercise the remainder of your muscles, trying to determine the extent of what mirai-shourai took from you this time. you can still move. you can still hear the rustling of your over-starched bedsheets as they rub together and the sound of your work computer humming; you can still feel the edge of your mattress with your fingertips, the soles of your feet planted on the ground as you try to make your way off your bed.

you can still feel your orientation in space.

you try to get up to standing, and you trip over your own two feet. you need to smell something, taste something, make sure that you haven't been deprived of anything else, but you crash to the ground instead, and you find that you can feel that, blooming pain in your face and jaw as you hit the ground instead of breaking your fall, your hand slipping on fuzzy slippers. you can taste blood trickle from your split lip; the thud is loud but you can't call for help.

it's just past 9 am and nanami is probably long gone.

your heart is racing again, panic impending. how long will it be? where is mirai-shourai? it whispers the severity of its punishments usually within just moments of you waking up but you haven't heard any sign of it or the familiar pressure of the spirit (demon really) on your shoulder. will this be forever, you wonder?

the durations of your sanctions have been getting longer recently... but this, being blinded, is new.

it's terrifying to you.

how long can you sit here? you wonder. stumbling around your home until nanami returns from work. what if he decides not to bother you tonight? what if he's preparing for a mission and won't return home? what if your phone rings and you can't find it?

your head spins as you crawl on the floor of your bedroom, your face still stinging and throbbing, until you find the wheels of your desk chair and carefully pull yourself up. you need to sit, and mercifully you make your way onto a chair without further falls, managing to steady yourself, palms pressed to your desk.

the cloud swells in your throat as your anxiety mounts and it gets harder and harder to breathe.

was it worth it?

you think of your friend's smile as you presented her with a sketch of her yet to be born child. electric blue eyes like her father, round cheeks like her sweet mother, deep dimples you could practically stick a finger in - the picture of health and joy.

it was worth it. it was worth it, you tell yourself again. your fingers tent on the desk surface. this too shall pass, this too shall pass, you chant to yourself, and yet the crushing fear is starting to set in.

what if your eyesight never comes back? what if the inability to speak is permanent?

what if, what if, what if-

"___?"

nanami is still here.

you turn, but again you can't see, and you're unsure where your gaze is directed. eyes probably unfocused as you move your head in the source of the sound, you can hear his footsteps approach, soft thumps on hardwood floor. if you call out his name he won't hear you; you have to wait until he reaches you, instead.

the door creaks open, and you can hear him stand still in the entryway. you can practically feel him hold his breath as he takes you in - you must look awful.

he doesn't ask you if you're okay, just moves, and soon, you can feel the roughness of his palms on your face, even if his touch is gentle. you can imagine his perpetually serious look, concern softening the angles of his face.

what if you never see him again either?

"what happened?" he asks.

you sign, i can't see. you can tell your hands shake as you communicate, but try to hold it together. what do my eyes look like kento?

you hear him breathe through his nose, but he's let go of your face by now, and you realize you miss the grounding sensation of another set of hands.

"they look wrong but they're there," he says. his voice is quiet, tense. "how long?"

i don't know.

you can hear his frustration. you wait for him to scold you but he doesn't.

do you have work today? you ask, hopeful.

"when i make a couple of phone calls, i won't."

you swallow, shame starting to consume you before you even ask for his help.

i don't want to inconvenience you.

"you already know i hate that job. you're giving me a reason."

this somehow makes you laugh, and although you make no audible sound, you hope he can tell that you're laughing, but then tears just as quickly stream down your face.

you rub them away and his hands return to cupping your face, thumbs lightly pressed on the space just below your eyes. you imagine he's trying to look at your face, study the curse like he's always tried to, to figure out the answer to your sudden blindness.

i'm sorry, i'm so needy.

"don't be sorry yet, i haven't promised to do anything for you," he hums.

it's true. he hasn't made any promises to you yet. with that statement, you can feel his presence shift.

"what do you want for breakfast?" he asks.

you shake your head, even though your stomach will probably start growling just a few moments from now.

"don't be difficult," he replies. "i'm hungry, make a decision so i don't have to make more than one trip."

yogurt. vanilla, you decide.

he pauses.

"how confident are you that you won't make a mess?" he jokes.

you pout, and you actually hear him chuckle.

"i'll be right back."

---

hours pass. nanami has helped you make your way onto your bed. mirai-shourai has been merciful, and you'll be able to see by the time the sun sets, to speak by tomorrow morning. soft music plays, and you're thinking about the things of the glimpses of the future that you know, and those that you don't know.

your friend's baby will be happy and healthy. you don't know when you doze off until you wake up, and the fact that you still can't sleep is still jarring, but you remember just as quickly that it will be temporary. you are thankful.

hopefully one day you'll be free of this curse, but at least you can dispel the worries of your loved ones in exchange for this inconvenience. for that, you are so, so thankful.

Ken? Are you still here?

he probably is long gone you think, and you are signing to no one, but you can hear him again from your left side, the turn of a book page reminding you of his presence.

"Yes."

something swells in your chest.

thank you for putting up with me.

you can hear him exhale from his nose sharply.

"Where else would I go? it's not like i can't afford to live anywhere else."

you smile, turning to your side and reach out a hand aimlessly. you expect him to ignore it, but you can hear the roll of the wheels of your desk chair, and your hand finds a place to rest on his shoulder, lingering for a moment. your head moves to replace it, and he guides you there in kindness.

you don't have to ask him not to leave.