#but even he did. would he really blame him?

[illyrianbitch]

Breathe

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel has a panic attack. You help him through it.

Warnings: panic attack pov, symptoms of anxiety (heavy breathing, dissociation, bad mean internal narration), lots of talks of fear, breathing exercises, comfort/care

Word Count: 3.6k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel didn’t notice it at first— not really. 

But his shadows did. 

They curled in close, drawn silent and taut, as if bracing for something, getting ready to soothe him like a newborn babe.

It always started quiet. Or, it used to, when it happened more often. Like pressure building— something soft at first, something creeping.

Azriel shifted in his seat at the end of the table, half in shadow as he often was.  

He blinked once. Twice. 

He realized, rather quickly, that he was too warm.

Not the kind of warm that settled into your bones on a sunny day. Not comfort. No, this was the kind of warmth that crawled across his skin. Under it. Sticky, stifling. His leathers suddenly felt too tight, like his chest couldn’t fully expand. 

He shifted again, pushing himself to focus on Rhysand’s voice once more. On the words his brother, his High Lord, was speaking.

Nothing was wrong. Not really.  He was seated where he always sat, in the same chair, in the same meeting room, listening to the same details about the same rotations and intelligence reports. Nothing was out of place. Everything was all as doomed, as dismal, and as hopeless as it had been recently. 

They were losing a war. And Azriel knew it. 

The conversation turned toward intelligence failures– intercepted reports, broken leads.

Azriel couldn’t stop his thoughts from growing louder. Faster. Those were another failure on him. On his abilities, his spies. He’d fucked up. Again, and again. The one thing he was good at, the one thing he was supposed to do— and he couldn’t. 

No, no. Stop. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He’d been doing better. Azriel, deep in his rational mind, knew it wasn’t his fault. Not entirely, at least. Koschei was unpredictable. His devoted followers hadn’t been something anyone could’ve predicted — Children of the Blessed who had found another ruler to worship. Another god to bow to. That wasn’t on him.

But it was… wasn’t it? It felt like a failure.

His shadows stilled around him, began calling to him in the way only they could. But Azriel couldn’t pay attention. His mouth was dry now. His hands were cold.

And there was something curling in his chest. A pressure. A discomfort. A wrongness inside him, like something off-center. He was sure of it. A flaw, like some thread pulled too tight. 

Az tried to anchor himself. Tried to focus on the sound of his brother’s voices, the crinkle of paper beneath his hand. But his thoughts were racing ahead — spiraling. 

The room was too loud.

He gripped the edge of the table. Attempted to draw in a deep breath. When it resisted, when his lungs protested against the strain of his ribs— broken many times before, he opted for flexing his fingers. Uncurled them. Tried to breathe through it once more.

This was pathetic, Az thought bitterly, the sharpness of his own anger swallowing up all other thoughts. The soft voice that tried to tell him he wasn’t to blame for everything was drowned out. It sounded so much like a younger version of himself. And something else, too— a voice that sounded awfully like his mother. 

Azriel had been fine this morning. Hadn’t he? 

So why, now, was he in such pain? Why was his throat tight? Why couldn’t he breathe?

He needed to breathe.

None of this was real. It was all in his head. It would pass. 

He was fine, he repeated in his mind, even as his wings twitched– betraying him before he could catch them. A subtle flex at first, a slight stiffening in his membrane. Defensive, instinctual. 

He tucked them in closer to his back, as if he could subconsciously make himself smaller, less visible. 

He was losing it. Gods, he was losing it and he couldn’t even stand without drawing attention—without someone noticing, without Rhys or Cassian giving him that look.

His wings spasmed again—this time sharper, a visible shudder that raced down the spine between them. Panic, the primal kind, began to bleed into the edges of his breathing.

Not real. Not real. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

He barely noticed when Rhysand’s voice faded into nothing, when the world outside of his own body dulled to a low hum. His vision blurred, not outwardly—no, that would’ve been merciful—but inside his mind. Thought tangled over thought until all that remained was one screaming, splintered thing: move.

Azriel refused to give in to that weaker, fearful side. He refused.

So, instead, he forced himself to lift his head– to act like he was still present. He gripped the edge of the table harder, forcing another breath through lungs that refused to expand. He forced his body to stay still even as every part of him screamed to run.

His eyes caught yours immediately.

You weren’t speaking. You hadn’t been speaking for a while—Az realized dimly that you’d fallen silent when he had.

You were staring at him, a brow furrowed in confusion, eyes darkened with worry. Real, devastating worry— written across your face like you’d felt his unraveling in your bones, like you knew exactly what he was fighting.

You always did that, Az thought briefly. Noticed things. Noticed him. Even when he tried to disappear, buried himself in shadows and distance and the anger only he knew how to hone, you still saw him.

And you were another thing he’d fucked up. Another thing, another person, he’d failed.

His panic hit him like a punch to the chest.

A wild, churning thing inside him lurched loose—sharp and wrong and too much.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. 

Not here. Not now.

Azriel tried to push to his feet smoothly, tried not to let the room tilt sideways around him. The scrape of his chair on the floor was deafening. His wings flared slightly behind him — a startled, instinctive reaction — before he forced them down again with trembling effort.

He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Couldn’t.

He just needed to get out. Get out.

By the time he stumbled into the hallway, the panic was a roaring thing in his chest. His wings kept twitching, muscles seizing like they couldn’t decide whether to shield or flee. His shadows seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, gathering in dark, frantic swirls at his feet, then dissipating and flickering against the walls, like they were trying—desperately—to anchor themselves, to pull him out of the fear gripping him.

The world narrowed to the thud of his boots and the pain in his chest. He was shaking now — his hands, his arms, his breath. He couldn’t get a full inhale. He couldn’t slow down. His mind was spiraling. He didn’t know where he was going.

Get out. Just get out. Get out get out get out.

He reached the end of the corridor, but his vision was still tunneling. He staggered sideways, shoulder slamming into the wall. They were getting closer. Tighter.

Get out.

He needed air. Real air.

Needed out.

He winnowed. All instinct, like a broken wild animal on the run from something it knew it couldn’t beat. And then—he landed. He didn’t even know where he was going until the cold hit him.

Dirt. Grass. Night air.

He fell to his knees in it.

Hard.

It knocked the breath out of him. He doubled over, fingers clawing into the earth. Trying to ground. Trying to focus. Trying to breathe.

Stupid. Stupid. This doesn’t happen. You’re fine. You’re not a child.

But he couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t stop the rising panic clawing up his throat.

You’re a joke. You’re unraveling. You’re slipping and they’re going to see. You’re a liability. A fucking mess. You’re going to ruin everything—

He shouldn’t have been like this — he’d trained for worse, he’d handled worse. His shadows crowded him, trying to ground him, to pull him back, just as they did when he was three hundred and covered in blood. Twenty-two and angry. Eight and afraid.

It didn't work. They were just more noise. The pressure behind Azriel’s ribs sharpened. His skin itched. He couldn't tell if it was sweat or fear crawling over him.

A cold wind rushed over his skin, sudden and powerful. And for a second—just a second—it grounded him.

Then the panic surged again. Harder.

His fingernails dug further into dirt, the movement straining and pulling at the tight skin at his hands, the raw tendons and everything that was wrong with him. 

He couldn’t fucking see anything. Couldn’t focus. Azriel was sure his heart was breaking itself against his ribs. He pressed his forehead to the ground, desperate to disappear into it. The skin between his shoulders was buzzing, crawling with invisible ants. The old, familiar impulse to tear his way free, to snap bone and tendon if it meant getting out—getting away—scratching out the thing inside him he couldn't reach.

Somewhere, deep in the marrow of him, the boy he'd once been was crying. Somewhere, even deeper, the soldier he'd become was roaring at him to stay still, stay quiet, get over it.

Azriel was vaguely aware of the wetness on his cheeks. Of a choked gasp that sounded too much like him. His shadows were scared now, concerned, louder as if they were trying to be louder than the voice in his head. But it was no use. 

His body was too small and the panic was too big.

And then—

A sound. A shape.

His name, maybe.

But it didn’t sound right. Didn't sound like anything.

It felt, almost, as if Az was trying to hear underwater— trying to breathe it in and choke.

He jerked away from the voice, instinctual. He didn't want to be seen. Not like this.

But then it came again. Warm. Gentle. Familiar. His shadows darted towards it.

“Azriel?”

And for the first time, he felt it. Felt you.

His eyes blinked open—wild, unfocused—but the world began to sharpen.

Not all at once. Not clearly, at least. But enough. Enough to see you there, from the corner of his eye, approaching him slowly, breath white in the cold air. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and pressed his palms flatter against the earth. His wings half-flared without permission. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It wasn’t working.

You’re weak. You’re not enough.

Your failures are going to get them all killed. Koschei. Koschei. Koschei. What if he kills them all? 

A flutter of heat brushed against his shoulder. He briefly registered the movement, somehow coherent enough to piece together the fact that you were crouching beside him. He could only imagine how pathetic he looked, a warrior, a spy— a feared male brought to his knees by his own damaged mind. 

For one harrowing moment, he wanted to snarl at you. To bare his teeth and tell you to go where you’re needed, to leave him alone— Because he didn’t want your pity. He didn’t want your help. He didn’t want to admit that he needed it. If he admitted it now, so vulnerable and exposed in front of you— embarrassingly so— you’d realize, for a second time, he wasn’t worth it. 

But he would never do that. He didn’t want to push you away again. 

A wave of shame hit him flat in the chest—flooding his system. Azriel forced his wings against his back until the muscles screamed. He gave a tight shake of his head, managed to say between jagged breaths, "I'm fine. Go home."

Your hand hovered at his back, near his wings. Gently pressed. He was shaking. 

He turned his face away. “Please.”

“Azriel,” you said again. Closer. 

Something crumbled in him when his shadows returned to his wrists, floating in soothing circles. He squeezed his eyes shut. Breathe. He just needed to breathe. Count, like his mother always taught him to. Trace the patterns of his shadows. 

But gods, it wasn’t working.

“I can’t,” Azriel rasped. His voice was barely there. 

A few seconds later, your hand was on his cheek, thumb brushing his jaw. You tilted his face toward yours.

“I’m right here,” you said. Your eyes were wide. Pleading, almost. Like he was lost and you were begging for him to find you again. 

And he would, wouldn't he? Find you, that was. In every lifetime. 

He blinked. It didn’t feel real. He didn’t deserve this tender touch.

 “Az, can you look at me?”

“I can’t—I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” 

You reached up, brushing a hand through the strands of his hair at the front — a soft, slow rake of your fingers like you were trying to soothe him back to himself. The touch startled him. His eyes opened wider, found yours again, even as his chest still heaved with shallow, broken breaths.

“I’m—” he sucked in a breath, but it hitched, harsh and shallow. “I’m not okay.  I’m— I’m scared and I don’t know what I’m doing and I can’t keep pretending—”

He was unraveling. Words spilling out of him like blood from a wound.

“I’m not enough. I’m not—stable. I can’t help with Koschei. I can’t find anything. People are dying. I’m letting everyone down and—fuck—” he squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t breathe—”

You shifted without hesitation, lowering yourself to your knees before him, so you could meet him at eye level. Gently, delicately, you reached for one of his hands — still clawed into the dirt like an animal — and began to uncurl his fingers from the earth. He shifted his position with the movement. 

He blinked again at the sensation, disoriented, his brows furrowing as you guided his hand up and placed it over your chest. Over your heart. And covered it with your own.

“Feel that?” you whispered, taking an exaggerated deep breath. His hand rose with the motion. “All that air coming into my lungs. It’s really nice, Az. Refreshing. Don’t you think?”

He nodded. Or thought he did. It was hard to tell where his body was.

“I want you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”

He swallowed hard. His lungs still fought him. But he would try. Gods, for you — he would always try.

You inhaled again, slow and deep, and he followed — or tried to. Again. And again. Until something in his lungs finally loosened, like a muscle unclenching.

He closed his eyes.

The panic didn’t vanish. But it ebbed. Enough to come back into his body. Enough to feel the weight of the earth, the throb of his heart. The gentleness in your touch. His wings gradually relaxed. His other hand stopped trembling against the grass.

When he opened his eyes, he found yours already waiting.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, he could see you. Not through panic. Just… you.

His hand twitched under yours. You interlaced your fingers, pressing his palm against your skin even firmer. Finally, Azriel took a deep breath. A proper one. Felt the refreshing night air fill his lungs. 

And when you smiled — soft and aching and full of something he couldn’t name — he felt the last of the panic slip out of his bones.

He realized, with excruciating clarity, exactly where he was now. Realized that he was touching you. That you were so close. That somehow, impossibly, despite everything he’d ruined, you were here. 

He almost forgot to breathe again.

You shifted your free hand up slightly, brushing it back through his hair — a tender, absentminded thing, like it was instinct for you now. 

“There we go,” you said softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Azriel took advantage of his proximity to take you in— the curve of your mouth, the way the moonlight caught the shine of your hair. How close you were to him, how real it felt. It was almost enough to make him believe he had died after all— that this was some kind of fragile heaven he wasn’t meant to keep, a dream created by a brain deprived of oxygen. 

He let out a breath. His body went lax, sinking into the earth. Into you.

You glanced back at him again, your hand still in his hair, and for a moment, neither of you moved. He studied your face like he could memorize it all over again — the faint crease between your brows, the tremble you were trying to hide in your jaw, the way your eyes softened when you caught him looking.

Something inside him cracked open wider.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then to your eyes. And then his gaze dropped once more, landing on where his hand still rested over your heart, your smaller one covering his. Without thinking, Azriel brushed his thumb across your skin. A slow, reverent sweep. He felt it immediately— the sudden, sharp skip of your heartbeat under his hand. 

“Your heart,” Azriel whispered, “It’s...beating really fast.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” you murmured, giving him a sheepish, crooked little smile.

“Why?”

Azriel swore he caught the faintest tint of pink at your cheeks.

“It tends to do that around you.”

Something inside him stumbled, caught on a beat he didn’t recognize. "Oh," he breathed out.

A few moments passed. And then, slowly, you shifted — separating just enough to ease down beside him. Azriel mourned the loss of your touch, of his hand on your skin. He settled into a similar position, watching as you tucked your knees to your chest and rested your head lightly atop them. 

The silence that followed felt easy. Comforting. Azriel was grateful for it, despite his longing to touch you again. His breaths, now more regular, were still slowly coming back to him. 

You turned to look at him, your cheek pressed against your knees. “What happened, Az?” 

Azriel squeezed his eyes shut. Shook his head once, almost imperceptibly.

Out of everyone, you were the only one he'd ever truly opened up to about these episodes. These small attacks — flashes of terror, of helplessness — they'd started creeping back after the second war against Hybern. A strange, ugly pattern.

He hated them. Hated the way they made him feel: weak, broken, like he was still the trembling boy locked away in a lightless cell. But he’d been doing better. He had been. And now — this — it felt like a step backward. Like a fall from a cliff he'd barely managed to climb. He felt like a failure. Like a burden.

“I…I don’t know. I just…”

He looked at you then. Really looked. At the way your eyes urged him to go on. And somehow, his thoughts came easier. More honest. 

The truth was — Azriel had spent most of his life benefiting from the image of someone fearless. The cold, steady blade in the dark. The one who didn’t flinch.

But Azriel was afraid all the time.

He moved through his fear like a second skin — worked off it, thrived off it. Fear of losing someone. Fear of being weak again. Fear of being proven wrong. Fear of being left behind. It sat in him like something feral, something sharp-toothed and restless, always on the edge of recognition.

He knew fear the way an animal knew the shift of the wind before a storm.

And lately, it was starting to take more than it gave. 

He hated it. Hated that for all the years he'd spent learning to master it, it still had the power to master him.

“I hate this,” Azriel said finally. Barely audible. “I hate that I can’t control this panic. That it’s still in me. That I freeze. When I’m needed most.”

“You’re not frozen now,” you said. “You came back.”

He shook his head. “I’m supposed to protect people. I’m supposed to keep our court safe. That’s what I’m for. If I can’t do that... if I’m just afraid…then what am I?”

“You’re still you. Even when you’re afraid. Especially then.”

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment. Nodded, just barely. “I think you’re the only one who thinks that.”

“The fearless don't win wars, Az. They just die faster. The ones who love... the ones who are afraid — they're the ones who survive. They're the ones who save people."

He blinked, like you’d struck him, and a wave of relief ran through his body. Azriel let out a rough breath — almost a laugh. “Since when did you get so philosophical?”

You shrugged, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “I used to date this guy…”

He arched his brow and you tilted your head, pretending to think. “Taught me a few things about war. About fear. About how important it is to find people worth being afraid for.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched upwards. “Sounds like a piece of work.”

You breathed a soft laugh and the quiet stretched again. He ran his fingers idly through a blade of grass, taking in the calm night surrounding him. 

“How did you know where I went?” Az asked.

Your arms were wrapped around your knees, chin resting on them, eyes tracing his shadows dancing along the grass. “I made a lucky guess.”

“Well… thank you," he said, his heart glowing. "For finding me.”

You glanced at him, your eyes softening as you replied,  “Always.”

Then you tucked your chin back onto your knees, looking up at the sky again. The stars spun lazy arcs overhead. Azriel watched you instead— for a few indulgent moments, at least. 

Eventually, Azriel’s gaze drifted from you, scanning the patch of grass beneath you both.  A soft smile tugged at his lips as the memory surfaced—of the first time he kissed you—here, in this exact spot.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: posting this randomly as i am...crawling...slowly....from the grave.... where uninspired writers.... and my abandoned wips.... go to rot...

as a girl who has suffered w panic attacks my whole life (thank u traumatic events!) i would rather die than have someone like...kiss me for example, but i cannot tell u how intimate those moments are after someone sees you so vulnerable and theyre just like so...casual abt it? so i simply had to write a lil something, idk anyways enjoy this random lazy ass work <3 onto my series i go!!!!

fun fact.... this is actually a scrapped scene from one of my drafted series (anatomy of dependence), that full exes to lovers, second chance romance, best friends to luvers goodnesssss!!!!

permanent tag list 🫶🏻 (im going to revamp this soon, so if you wanna stay on it, let me know!!)

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli  @mrsjna

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[bambisnc]

(   ➴ ) 𝖪𝖨𝖲𝖲 𝖧𝖨𝖬, 𝖭𝖮𝖳 𝖬𝖤! ♡

୨ৎ. 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 .. 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌.

### . STARRING ⌢ p.sh ⋆ oneshot + 1.2k // kissing + reader has an ex + i need you guys to j trust me on this please ˖ ✧

[ 陰 🤍 ] ─── i have nawt read the manga before anyone asks; i found the name super funny & then a little lightbulb in my head went "!!" ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‹ FILE.ZIP 𝟹

park sunghoon usually prides himself on being a man of dignity and honor.

he’s heard people around him say this; multiple remarks of how his moral conduct seems totally unshakable. a pillar whose boundaries not one single temptation could consider breaking, they'd say.

but, he finds himself thinking, if all that were really true, he wouldn’t really be in this position—with heeseung's girlfriend all pretty in front of him, pinned up against a wall—would he?

not that he's complaining about the sight in front of him, of course. 

you are nothing less of a divine vision with slightly swollen and spit slicked lips, your delicately applied gloss now smudged from the earlier … activities.

his eyes take in the loose strands of hair framing your features, the way your eyes are delectably glazed over and the lightest sheen of sweat highlighting it all. it’s a wonder he’s able to resist diving right back in and claiming your lips in another kiss, really.

heeseung should've known better. 

he should've known that leaving you alone with sunghoon could not possibly lead to any good outcomes.

one doesn't harbour unrequited feelings for months and leave scott-free, with zero after effects. there’s bound to be some catches.

sunghoon blamed many other things too.

firstly, the sun. for subjecting him to its sweltering heat and for rendering him into a half-dazed stupor. for being the reason you were wearing that gorgeous sundress, casual but enough to catch the attention of all the others lazily roaming around the open shopping complex.

secondly, he blamed ni-ki. like, did the boy really have to drag heeseung away because he saw a michael jackson DVD (limited versions only) on display?

granted, that particular compilation was seemingly not available anywhere else without having to pay a price so scandalous that it hurt to think about. and the singer did happen to be ni-ki's favorite.

but gosh, how selfish could people be?

most importantly, though, he blamed your ex.

for? his mere existence.

it had been going just fine, peachy even, right until that person showed up, he recalls, absentmindedly tracing your lower lip—doing his best to ignore the expectant gaze you were directing towards him lest he end up doing something he'd regret.

well. regret more than he does already, that is.

when your previously cheery smile had suddenly been replaced by a pall of worry, he couldn’t help but immediately mirror your concern. you had anxiously clutched the edge of his sleeve, murmuring that you had just happened to see song eunseok. also known as your ex. 

“i just… i really don’t want to face him right now.”

that was understandable. sunghoon wouldn’t want to see the face of the man who had been such a horrible boyfriend to you (your words, not his; circa last july, pre-heeseung era) either, lest he end up lobbing a punch his way.

“do you think you could hide me?” he could practically see the unease wrapped in a sheath around you from the way you chewed on your lip, “please?...”

what was sunghoon supposed to reply to that? say no to your plea? as if he could ever.

so he did what any dutiful friend would do. he let you use him. 

an arm braced against the wall and another awkwardly fidgeting by his side—he wasn’t sure where it was considered appropriate to keep one’s hand while helping their friend’s girlfriend hide from an ex—he stood leaning towards you. 

his broader, taller frame could cover yours with laughable ease. should the ex boyfriend happen to glance your way, he wouldn’t even realize there was another person there.

it was fine even up until that point. it wasn’t like sunghoon couldn’t control himself and immediately took advantage of the situation. no matter how much he really, really wanted to.

he would never do that to heeseung or you. 

all he needed to do, he thought determinedly, was to not make eye contact and hope that this was over soon. 

but suddenly, you were tugging him closer, saying the position seemed way too odd, too awkward. and now he was closer to you than ever, and quite aware of the fact that he was sweating bullets. 

“hoon?... are you okay?” you had piped up, voice slightly muffled due to quite literally being pressed up against him, “you seem so flushed… is it because of the sun?”

no, it was most definitely not because of the sun.

he vaguely recalls replying back with some offhanded agreement to your words. you, bless your heart, had immediately brushed the back of your hand against his forehead, checking if he was truly okay.

sunghoon swore his breath hitched at the contact. noticeably.

only then did it sink in. the reduced proximity, the charged air brewing between your bodies. he really shouldn’t be getting any ideas.

"?..."

“i’m fine.” his voice was low, cautious. he ran his tongue across his lips, wetting them—a nervous tick of his. “you need to stop this.. a guy can get the wrong idea, you know?” 

you had only giggled at that airily, “no wrong ideas here, i promise.”

then, as if it was the most natural thing to do—it might as well have been, with how perfect it was—you had tipped your head upwards, placing a soft kiss right at the corner of his mouth.

“am i still being unclear?” your head was tilted at a 45° angle, playing off a cute innocence. 

... there was no way he could say no to that, rationality and morals be damned.

and so instead of gracing your teasing remark with a dignified comeback, he simply let you close the distance between your lips once again.

-

park sunghoon usually prides himself on being a man of dignity and honor, sure. but right now? right now, the only thing he’s sure of is that he’s fucked up. big time.

heeseung… one can only imagine how his friend would react to this information. none of the possible scenarios that run through his head are any good.

with a jolt, he jerks away; the hurt look on your face doing nothing to break his resolve. (mostly.) 

“this isn’t—this isn’t right. you have a boyfriend, heeseung… he—he’ll be devastated.”

“what?” confusion spreads across your face, genuine enough if he stopped to take it in. “sunghoon, no that’s not it—”

“we—it’s best we forget this happened. i, um,.. i won’t say anything to him.”

a blink. and you’re laughing. wait what?

“ah…” the way your head is thrown back as you struggle to keep a straight face almost distracts him. “heeseung is actually going to burst out laughing, oh my god.”

before he can even comprehend what that could mean, you show him your phone screen opened to a chat between you and your boyfriend (?).

fake boyfie hee ☝🤓 : dude if you’re planning on making out w/ hoon rn do NOT do it in front of me and niki i beg.

fake boyfie hee ☝🤓 : cause like it’s one thing having to hear ab how u bad u want him 24/7 (it gets to a point oh my god?)

fake boyfie hee ☝🤓 : go get ur man by all means but i do nawt need to be seeing allat !!!!!

“see? i only made him pretend we were together because eunseok was being a little bitch. it was super funny seeing his reaction, if that helps!”

sunghoon’s not sure if he wants to now laugh himself or instead cry. maybe both at the same time? he would rather not scare you off already though. hence, he does the next best thing. 

he kisses you once again. softer this time, as if he’s taking the time to savor the moment.

you part for air only when it becomes an absolute necessity. “what was that about?”

“i need to make up for lost time. all this while, i really thought i had no chance. and…” a pause that indicates he’s struggling to find the right words.

his tone is sheepish when he finally says what’s on his mind. 

“and... i could’ve been a better fake boyfriend, by the way. for the record.”

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit @douqhnxtss @soona-huh @amoressb @nicholasluvbot @manariee @rinrinninnin @ddeonuswife @douqhnxtss @lovenha7 ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[munsonsmixtapes]

You Were Never Mine

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

After finding out that your boyfriend has been cheating on you with Eddie, you invite Eddie to breakfast to talk things over which leads to more.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut ( p in v) unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) public sex, mention of cheating, mention of emotional abuse

The only sounds in the diner that can be heard is the clinking of plates as well as the chatter amongst the other customers. You lift your head from your pancakes to look at the man sitting across from you. Neither of you have touched your food, too much tension in the air between you to do so. You want to say something, to ask him why he did it, but you can’t get yourself to speak. 

Eddie already feels like a piece of shit, but he feels even more like one when he looks into your eyes. He can tell that you’ve been crying and that knot in his stomach gets even bigger. The pain almost rivals the black eye you gave him, but he thinks he deserves it which is why he wouldn’t let you help him when you realized what you had done. 

He should hate you considering the circumstances, but he just can’t. You’re so fucking nice and he can’t stand it. You asked him out for breakfast after finding out that he had been sleeping with your boyfriend and maybe he’s mad because he knew he wouldn’t do the same. He doesn’t even know why he agreed to it in the first place.

Maybe it’s just because he wants closure. To talk it out then move on with his life. He also wants to apologize to you. He doesn’t know what good it would do but he feels like it’s the right thing to do. He wants to assure you that he really didn’t know about you. He just thought he was hooking up with a guy who bought weed from him every once in a while.

“I hate him,” is all you say and the words are filled with so much bitterness, so much pain that it feels palpable. Eddie doesn’t know what to respond or if he even should. You have every right to hate Henry and he’d never tell you that your feelings are invalid. Especially right now. 

“Me too,” Eddie responds. And Eddie does hate Henry. Mostly for what he did to you. That’s all Eddie’s cared about since the two of you found out the truth last night. He didn’t think anything of Henry wanting to keep the whole thing a secret because he’s used to that. Nobody wants people to know that they’re hooking up with Eddie “the freak” Munson. Nobody’s ever been hurt by that besides him, so seeing your tear stained cheeks is hard for him to take in. 

He can’t imagine how you feel. Years gone just because of a stupid mistake that wasn’t even yours. And you’re here blaming yourself for Henry’s actions. Last night after he kicked Henry out, he invited you to stay for a drink and you accepted. After a few beers, you loosened up a bit, going on and on about how you should have seen it coming, should have loved him more, put in more effort. 

The whole thing made Eddie sick. You got cheated on and you’re the one who feels guilty? How fucked up is that? He tried to tell you that it wasn’t your fault but you wouldn’t listen. And why would you believe him? You don’t know him and quite frankly, you don’t want to. 

Or maybe you do. You don’t even really know why you invited him to breakfast. Maybe it’s because you feel bad that he got dragged into this whole mess because Henry can’t seem to keep his dick in his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him and his eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

“You’re what?” He asks, actually offended by your apology. 

“I’m sorry.” You repeat the words with more confidence because you are sorry. You know about his reputation around town but you seem to be the only person who’s gotten close enough to know it’s not true. He’s sweet and kind and you wish more people could see that. That’s he’s not the scary guy everyone thinks he is.

“Why are you sorry? You walked in on your boyfriend and I having sex and you’re sorry?”

“I just feel bad that he did this to you.” You have a pained look on your face and this time, it’s for him. He doesn’t know why, but that almost makes him want to cry. No one besides his uncle has ever cared for him like this so he’s not entirely sure how to feel. 

“Why should I care? We were just using each other for our bodies, but he was your boyfriend. So really, I should be apologizing to you. Which, I am sorry.” Eddie would never admit how hurt he truly is. That would require being vulnerable and he refuses to do that. He just can’t get himself to open up about his true feelings and he’s especially not going to do that now.

“You didn’t know.” You’re saying the words as if you’re defending him and Eddie’s getting really tired of you being so nice. If you were any other woman, you would have treated him like shit, called him all the names in the book. But you didn’t. You haven’t. 

“I’m still sorry. I feel awful, especially since you found out…that way.” He can still hear your screams, the look of horror on your face as tears pour down your cheeks. That image will haunt his dreams forever, he’s sure of it. 

“It’s okay,” you shrugged. Your shoulders slump as you sit there, hands underneath your thighs and Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look so pathetic. He wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Especially not you. You’re so sweet and nice and he can’t see why anyone would want to hurt you. It’d be like hurting a puppy. 

“It’s not okay,” Eddie says, anger rising in his chest. He’s not even angry at you, he’s angry for you. Because you don’t seem to be mad enough for his liking. He wanted to see you yell at Henry, to hit him, to take out all your anger on him like people usually do when they catch their partner in that kind of situation. He just hates that your bottling it all up. It’s only a matter of time before you explode. 

“That asshole hurt you. But I guess that just shows how much better you are than me because I would have beat his ass. I should’ve. I can’t believe he tried to blame you, y/n. This isn’t your fault. At all. He knows he fucked up but he doesn’t want to accept the blame.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” You ask, raising your voice and it catches Eddie completely off guard. “He did it constantly and I let him because I thought that was the kind of love I deserved. I know now that I deserve better.” You say the last part more quietly, your gaze lowering to the table. And just when Eddie thought his heart couldn’t break any more. 

Silence settles between the two of you and Eddie pays the check despite your argument and when you both end up in the parking lot, he doesn’t want to leave you. He wants to pull you in his arms and never let go. He wants to protect you, to make sure that you never get hurt again. He’s not sure he could handle it if you did.

He doesn’t know why, but he invites you to sit in his van. Maybe it’s because that’s where he feels the most comfort so he’s hoping you’ll feel that way too. You seem surprised when he opens the passenger door for you and that tells him everything he needs to know about Henry. If he didn’t open doors for you then what other stuff did he not do for you that you clearly deserved? Bring you flowers? Now he kind of wants to buy you some just to see your pretty smile. 

The van is quiet besides the metal music that’s playing at a low volume on the radio as the two of you sit in silence, neither of you sure what you should say. You don’t know why he invited you to sit with him but you’re grateful when rain begins to pour down, hitting the vehicle rather loudly. Eddie would never tell you that’s actually grateful so he has an excuse for you to stay.

He hates that he’s now thinking about how well he’d treat you. How he’d never even think about cheating on you if you gave him a chance. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about it because he knows you wouldn’t. No one ever does. He’s just someone that they want to see between the sheets then turn right around and whisper the meanest things behind his back. 

Eddie knows that you would never be so cruel, but he still can’t get himself to make a move no matter how pretty you look sitting in his passenger seat. You just broke up with your boyfriend anyway and he can still see the bandage over your heart so maybe getting close to you in that way isn’t the best idea. 

So why are you scooting closer? Why is your thigh pressing against his as you lean your head on his shoulder? His arms hesitantly wrap around you which gives you room to fully lean into him and without thinking too much about, his hand reaches up to scratch the back of your head gently. It’s something he loves being done to him so he’s hoping that it brings you the same comfort. 

You stay like that for a minute and when you lean back up, his face is so close to yours. You watch his eyes widen as he gulps, his lips parting. His ips that you now so desperately want to kiss. He seems to be thinking the same thing as he leans forward, his eyes flicking to your own lips. 

He brings his hand up to rest on the back of your neck as he pulls you close as your hands press against his chest, the two of you slowly leaning in until his lips finally slot between yours. It’s gentle and sweet but awkward. It’s almost like neither of you have kissed anyone before and the awkwardness of it just makes you both giggle, especially when you acknowledge how weird the whole thing really is. 

But that doesn’t seem to stop either of you as you lean in again, more hungry this time as his hands move up into your hair and his shirt is bunched in your fist as his tongue slips into your mouth. You let out a moan and you’re not sure how you ended up there, but no you’re straddling his lap as he bunches up your dress around your waist as his hands press against your bare back. 

You begin to grind against his crotch and he lets out a moan of his own as he tries his best to buck his hips against yours. He doesn’t know when you ditched your cardigan but it’s now in the passenger seat and he’s kissing the now exposed skin of your shoulder as you continue to grind on him. 

“I need you,” you whine into his mouth when he reconnects your lips and hearing you be so needy for him is making him unbelievably hard. 

“I’m yours,” he breaths and you immediately move to pull down his sweat pants and underwear. You then reach down and pull the lever to lean the seat back, letting out a loud laugh at how it jerks back, causing you to fall forward on top of him. Eddie’s convinced that hearing your pretty has added ten years to his life. 

You kiss him again and gasp when his fingers push your panties to the side, pushing inside and you let out a sound that’s so hot that he’s trying to commit to memory so he can replay it in his head over and over. He pumps in and out, moving slowly, trying to figure out what you like and when you grab hold of his hand and push it farther, he gets the hint. He moves fast and hard, looking up just in time to see you throw your head back, another pretty moan escaping your lips. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Sound so pretty. Wanna make some more noises for me?” 

“Please,” you beg and he keeps his eyes on you, wondering how you’ll react when he gets inside you considering that just his fingers are already making you crazy. He pumps even harder and you grab onto his shoulders, squeezing them tightly as you’re already orgasming and it makes you realize how selfish Henry really was in bed.

As Eddie gives you time to catch your breath, you realize how crazy this whole thing really is. How many people end up sleeping with the person their partner cheated with? And how many times does it feel even better than it did with their partner? 

When he asks you what you like and you almost want to cry at how sweet he’s being, how he actually wants to make you feel good. You can’t believe that this is the same man who people are convinced is a vessel for the devil. 

“Can we go slow?” You ask and Eddie smiles, making your heart melt. 

“We can do whatever you want, sweetheart,” he replies as his hands move up and down your hips as his hands slide up your dress to help you remove your panties before you toss them onto your cardigan. 

Once he gets inside, you begin to ride him, slowly moving up and down as your dress comes off to reveal your bare chest that Eddie so desperately wants to get his mouth on. He can’t help but watch your tits bounce as your pace picks up just slightly, his hands resting on your waist as he guides you while bucking his hips against yours. 

The windows are progressively fogging up as the rain continues to hit the roof, but your moans and panting seem to down out the sound. Eddie let his eyes flutter closed even though he knows he could watch you for hours. He can’t believe that Henry actually told you to your face that he was only fucking Eddie because he needed what you couldn’t give him. 

This is easily the best sex he’s ever had and he doesn’t know how he’s going to move on after this. He wonders if he’d be going too far if he asked you to come to his place. He wants to explore all the ways he can bring you pleasure, to show you how lucky he feels to have such a beautiful woman in his bed. 

“Oh my god,” you whine and Eddie knows what’s approaching. He can see it as he gets fully seated inside you, watching you cry on his cock as you take all of him as another orgasm courses through you, his name falling from your lips this time. 

“Eddie,” you practically scream and he's not that far behind you, reaching his own peak, pulling out in just the knick of time as he leaks out all over the both of you. 

“Guess this means we’ll both have to shower,” you tell him and he can’t help but smile widely. 

“Guess it does,” he nods and reaches into his glove box for some napkins to attempt to clean the both of you up as best as he can before putting your dress back on before helping you back into your seat. He then pulls up his pants and puts the car in drive before taking you to his apartment so you both can get cleaned up amongst other things. 

As you sit in Eddie’s passenger seat, coming down from the best orgasm of your life, you can’t believe that you just slept with the guy your ex boyfriend cheated on you with. And you can’t believe even more that you’re about to do it again. 

Eddie’s hand lands on your thigh and he gives us a squeeze as he turns out of the diner parking lot, both of you actually thanking Henry as fucked up as it is, because it led you to each other. And both of you couldn’t be more grateful for that. 

[tiktw9]

I feel like a major factor people are forgetting to include in the "did Gabriel write the letter" discussion (the answer is no) is that Gabriel committed suicide. Anyone who has ever been suicidal can tell you that that doesn't usually come about randomly. We already know Gabriel was stuck in his grief and deeply depressed for a long time, possibly years, prior to the canon start of the show, so already there was an element of risk in that regard.

And then his falling out with Nathalie happens.

I don't think, based on his initial response to that, that it's a coincidence he got himself cataclysm'd shortly after. I don't think it was an accident, I don't think he intended for chats cataclysm to miss him. I think he did what he did on purpose, on a sudden impulse, anticipating that he would die immediately upon contact, since historically anything that Chat Noirs cataclysm has touched has crumbled to dust instantly.

That was his first attempt.

And just as someone who has struggled with depression and suicidal ideation myself, I'm doubtful that Gabriel would have written a letter to Adrien after that, telling him to become the new Hawk Moth so that he could bring him back to life. Gabriel wanted to die. He did a long time before he even made the wish, hence why he ends up making the wish he does instead of choosing to save himself (and Emilie) along with Nathalie. Which, to reiterate, was possible. He could have done that.

And while it can be argued that he would want to come back to life in the case that Emilie was also resurrected, I don't see that being the case either. While Gabriel's devotion and grief over Emilie is a large part of his story, it's hardly the only element to his downfall. I think the guilt and shame he felt over everything he's done both before and during canon also played a major part in the depression and self-hatred that would end up consuming him— it's a little understated, so I don't blame more people for not really factoring it in to their analysis of him. But Gabriel did canonically turn his back on all his core values, and became someone he undoubtedly would have despised at another point in his life.

So, really, this along with all the other points I've already highlighted in other posts...I just don't see him writing that letter.

[1d1195]

Buttercup - Extra II

Read Buttercup here and Extra I here ~3.3k words

From me: centered around this ask entirely. Thank you SO much for the idea. I'm a little too obsessed with the idea 😍🤭

Warnings: SEXTRA, oral (she (me) is a little obsessed with his dick, sorry not sorry), smut smut smut

Summary: Harry's so good to her. For her. She just wants to give him as much pleasure as she gives him and as much he deserves.

Harry was the best boyfriend. If she had been told how good of a boyfriend he would be when she moved in and was subject to his pranks and his constant, irritating presence, she never would have believed it. But instead, he was truly the best. He was so thoughtful, so gentle, and every time he saw her, the smile on his face grew and it was truly heart stopping.

He took care of her and worried about her. He cooked her food and helped her with whatever task she had around her house. Never did he complain or care about what she asked. Everything he did was done with kindness and seriousness. Nothing was too small or too large for him to do for her.

It was so sweet and so different than what she was used to. It was overwhelming at times for him to love her so much in the best kind of way.

But one of the nicest and best bonuses about her new relationship was sex with Harry. The first time she saw him naked in her bedroom, she practically drooled like a cartoon character. How could she not? He was all lean muscles and green eyes. It was impossible to focus on anything for too long. Her primal instincts took over and she wanted him all over her.

“Do y’want me to take y’clothes off, Buttercup?” he hummed, his body radiated with heat. He was so close to her, his dick pressing against her leg as he leaned in and kissed her lips so gently but eagerly. It was hot and made her body vibrate. He slowly moved his lips down, nipping at her skin, pressing kisses along her neck and across her collarbone. His fingers fiddled with the hem of her dress just above her knees, but he waited ever-so-patiently for her consent. Because he always waited for it.

Jus’ because y’give me permission once, doesn’t mean I always have it. But she couldn’t fully explain to him that by saying that specific phrase, he did always have her permission. It made her weak in the knees to hear something so sexy and safe come from his mouth. She nodded. “Please.”

He slid her dress over her head quickly and he pushed her toward her bed. “So pretty, Buttercup,” he murmured and kissed over the swell of her breasts. He reached beneath her as he laid her down unhooking her bra and ridding her of the fabric that kept him from her nipples aching for his mouth.

“May I?”

“Please,” she whispered again.

He lapped his tongue against her left nipple and then kissed across her chest to the right one. He moaned softly nipping and sucking it expertly. For half a second, she thought of all the practice she witnessed as he flaunted the women leaving his house to make her jealous. But experiencing it firsthand, she couldn’t blame the women before her or Harry because he was really good at what he did, and it would have been cruel if he didn’t please them this way. Fortunately, now, she was very happy to know she was the only one receiving this kind of attention—his attention.

His dick was still pressed against her leg, and she was overcome with wanting it in her mouth so badly. She wanted to give Harry a fraction of the pleasure he gave her on a regular basis. “Kneel,” she pressed on his chest, gently pushing him away from her. He smirked so cutely—devilishly, even. She guided him back to kneeling on her mattress, sitting on his heels. The tattoos on his thighs flexed along with his muscles ever so slightly. The movement made her throb between her legs, and she could feel her mouth ready to fall open in preparation for what he wanted.

“What d’you want, baby?” He mumbled. She repositioned herself; the front of her body pressed to the mattress. She arched her upper back slightly, falling onto her elbows so that she was eye-level with his hard dick. It was downright pretty; thick and veiny and she all but licked her lips in anticipation. She gripped the base of it causing Harry to hiss quietly. “Y’want t’suck it?” She nodded, glancing up at him. He was already gazing at her, his eyes hooded, as he watched her with lust-filled eyes. “Go on,” he whispered. “Suck it up, Buttercup,” he encouraged.

She smiled, her cheeks burning at the nickname and the way he sounded already completely gone for her. It was reassuring; in that, she didn’t need to be embarrassed by how bad she wanted him in his mouth. She licked her lips then, a little too aggressively perhaps, but if she did, Harry didn’t say anything. He was watching her every movement very closely. It made her a little self-conscious, but he gently cupped the side of her head. “Y’look so pretty, Buttercup,” he sounded a little spaced-out already.

She wrapped around her lips along the side of his dick, dragging her mouth down the length of the side from tip to base. Licking every inch as she went along. “Holy,” he murmured, and she glanced up to see his head tilt backwards. “That feels so good, baby,” he whispered breathlessly. She followed the same path on the other side getting him thoroughly, completely, and soaking wet with her mouth. As she returned to the tip, she took no time to swallow him down in one movement. It made him gasp and moan. The hand on the side of her head tightened ever so slightly and his other hand went to the back of her head. “Fuck, Buttercup,” he groaned.

She felt immense pleasure from making him moan like that. It was good for her psyche and all the noises he made further encouraged her sucking. She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose as she relaxed her jaw as much as possible. Harry was big and felt heavy on her tongue as she strained slightly to get her all the way in her mouth and what felt like half-way down her throat.

As able as she was, she moved her tongue around his length, doing her best not to gag. He grunted quietly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered. It was like music to her ears. She moved her mouth up and down him, alternating between shallow and deep bobs creating an insane amount of pleasure that was indescribable to his blissed-out mind. She sighed dreamily from the feeling which made Harry all but whimper. “Baby, baby, baby,” he croaked. “Oh my God, please,” she moaned quietly hearing how pleased he sounded. But the vibration, the wetness of her mouth, the hollowing of her cheeks and lips wrapped so tightly around him was nearly too much.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pulled her off him quickly. She gasped, a string of drool clinging to the end of his dick and her mouth as he did.

He gently pulled her toward him, turning her in the process so she was no longer laying on her stomach. Instead, he cradled her. Cupped the side of her face again, this time without his dick halfway down her throat. He examined her face quickly for any sign of discomfort or overwhelming emotions. Satisfied he hadn’t hurt her, he kissed her deeply, his tongue tracing her lips one at a time. He rested his forehead against hers pressing the most chaste little kiss to the tip of her nose, before he bent lower and peppered several kisses along her jawline.

He blinked slowly, a smile stretching across his lips. “Do you like doing that, kitten?” He asked.

She nodded. “I like making you feel good,” she whispered.

“Well fuck Buttercup, y’do a hell of a job,” he mumbled rubbing his thumb along her lower lip. His eyes were so wide and green as he gazed at her, leaving only the smallest amount of space between their faces just so she could see him without his face being altered from being too close. “I love you,” he kissed her sweetly.

“You’re just saying that because I didn’t gag on your dick,” she giggled.

“S’absolutely false, kitten,” he chuckled and kissed her again. Harry enjoyed the way her body relaxed into the kiss. “Let me return the favor,” he suggested.

Harry pushed her backwards this time, gently moving her so she was seated with her back propped against the pillows and headboard. He slank down her body, placing kisses along her skin and warming her from the outside in. His fingers deftly hooked around the waistband of her thong, and he slipped it off in seconds.

“Y’want me t’lick you the way y’licked me?” He asked his mouth right at her belly button. He slowly kissed across her stomach.

As much as she loved the way Harry’s tongue felt on the most sensitive parts of her body, she wanted his dick inside her again and now that her mouth had been quenched of it’s thirst for him, there was only one other place she wanted him. “Not now.”

“No?” He frowned. “Not good enough?” He asked, his question muffled into her skin.

“No,” she laughed and cupped the side of his jaw as he peered up at her through while he kissed down her ribcage. “It’s by far one of my favorite things you do to me,” she admitted. “But I’d really like to come on your dick.”

He groaned, dropping his head down to place a kiss lower. “Y’sure, Buttercup? S’hardly fair... nearly made me finish in your pretty mouth, y’know...”

“No,” she whispered shaking her head. It wasn’t going to be a fair fight if his tongue dipped much lower. He spread her knees apart, settling between them.

“A real no?” He asked, pausing his kisses right as his breath fanned over her clit. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “Or is this a shy no, baby?” She knew if she actually said no, he would stop instantly.

He was too good. Too hot. Too sexy.

“No thank you,” she whispered feeling a little unsure only because she was so conflicted by what she wanted but Harry watched her intently and made her feel like she could decide with just her eyes.

“Another time,” he winked and worked his way back up kissing the path he started on his way down. “Y’jus’ want m’cock, hmm?” He asked instead. Undeterred and still way too pretty for words.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”

He groaned. “So polite, Buttercup... But y’don’t need t’beg, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna torture me,” she smiled sheepishly. “Condom?” He asked, reaching for her nightstand drawer.

“Um...” she noted that they were out while she was cleaning the other day. She also realized they had been together for a little over six months. Harry had himself tested, for ease of mind and full transparency. She’d done the same. Granted, she figured Harry was clean, but she was little worried still of all other factors from her past relationship. She preferred to be safer than fully necessary, and Harry was extremely supportive and kind about it.

“Um what?” He asked, immediately alert to her hesitation. His eyebrows pinching together. “Are we out?” He frowned. “If we are, you’re gonna have t’let me go down on you, Buttercup. S’no way m’letting y’out of this room without coming.” His selflessness was almost enough to make her come without him even touching her.

She smiled, blushed, and shook her head. “Um... no, but it’s...it’s just it’s... it’s been a while, yeah? And I feel like it’s... well, we... we don’t need a condom if you’re okay with it because we got all the tests and if you would like to do it witho—”

He shook his head quickly. “Don’t even finish that sentence, kitten. M’gonna come all over you, embarrassingly.”

“Well, that could be kind of fun too,” she admitted, looking away from him.

“Jesus,” he moaned softly and took a moment to breathe. Gently he turned her chin to face him again. “Are you sure, Buttercup?” He asked. His eyes held a look of seriousness, but they were soft and comforting too. There was no lust in his look, but one of pure adoration. “M’more than comfortable with—”

“I’m sure,” she nodded confidently. “I can beg if you want,” she shrugged.

He chuckled and the wicked glint in his eye reappeared as he dipped forward and kissed her sweetly. “Another time,” he offered. “I love you. Very much, Buttercup,” he whispered.

“Because I’m letting you do it without a condom?”

“It’s so much more than that, Buttercup baby, and you know it,” he shook his head at her joke. “I don’t want t’be mushy right now because m’only going t’last long enough t’make y’come all over me and I don’t like making y’emotional because s’harder t’make y’come... but you know. You know why I love you and you know it has nothing to do with your pretty pussy about to be wrapped around me with nothing in the way.” She swallowed believing every word he said wondering how he could be so sinful and sweet in the same breath. That should be studied. By whom, she wasn’t sure because she wasn’t going to allow anyone close to Harry like this ever again to witness it firsthand. “You’re sure, you’re sure?” He repeated lightly rubbing the tip of his dick against her clit and making her moan. He responded with a gasp and groan of his own.

“Yes,” she nodded confidently.

Harry sank into her. She made a noise she never heard herself make before. She wanted to feel embarrassed but God it felt too good for her to really care. “Oh fuck, yes,” he held one hand on the outside of her hip and the other onto the headboard for leverage. “That’s so good,” he groaned. She felt herself clawing at the sheets beneath her, trying to find purchase to cling to her sanity but it was long gone. Harry slowly slid in and out at a tantalizing pace. His eyes closed and his brows pinched together in concentration.

“Harry,” she whimpered.

“Oh God, don’t say m’name like that, kitten,” he begged.

“But—”

“No, no, baby, please jus’ a minute. Jus’ one minute t’get m’bearings,” he pleaded. “Please, please, please,” he groaned. “Y’feel so good, so, so good, I’m not gonna make it if y’say m’name like that,” he admitted. Harry made it feel like sex with him lasted for only twenty seconds and also thirty hours in the best possible way. It was some weird time dilation that she only witnessed in movies about space.

And apparently when Harry had his dick in her so deep, she thought she would seriously split in two. He tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling for an answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. “Can I talk yet?” She asked quietly.

“Yes, baby, of course,” he turned his attention back to her and his eyes found hers instantly. “M’sorry, s’it to much? Do y’want t’stop?” He slowly slid backwards his gaze unmoving from hers, and he was so ready to just stop it made her heart flip over in her chest.

“No, never, ever,” she shook her head and grabbed at his hip to pull him back toward her. “I just, want to say your name,” she said sheepishly. “That’s all I really meant.”

He smiled, a breath of laughter escaping him. “God you’re perfect,” he moaned and slowly pumped himself back into her.

“Back at you, Harry Styles.”

He groaned and his fingertips dug into her hip and he dropped his head lower as he leaned against the headboard on the wall for support. “Go easy on me, Buttercup baby. M’seconds from coming, I promise,” he warned. “Y’feel so good. M’starting from scratch on m’stamina and y’heavenly mouth didn’t do me any favors today in savoring this,” his hips continued a delicious push and pull of stretching her without anything between their skin. He alternated between small pumps where he barely exited her body and just pressed the same perfect spot inside her over and over again making her head spin. Then he followed it with long torturous strokes, snapping his hips so all but the tip of him was inside her followed by a deliriously hard and fast pressure built in the pit of her stomach.

“So good, kitten. So, so good,” he mumbled as he thrusted and pumped into her like it was his job. God she wished it could have been.

“Harry,” she whimpered and began meeting his thrusts with her own, her feet digging into the comforter for more stability while she clawed at his hip and the bedsheet. “Baby,” she croaked. “I’m so close,” she pressed hard against him.

“I know, Buttercup, I know. Can,” he choked off speaking as her walls fluttered around him in warning that she was about to tip over the edge. “Can feel you so good,” he mumbled doing everything in his weakened, pleasured state to maintain the pressure and everything she needed to come. “Can I touch you, baby?” he asked.

“Anything, please, anything you want,” she whimpered and Harry moved the hand on her hip to settle between them so his thumb pressed small circles onto her clit gently but perfectly. “Oh yes, yes, yes,” she cried and felt the euphoria snap through her in waves she was certain she briefly went blind and deaf. Harry groaned, thrusting in and out of her faster than he had before while she clamped around him.

“Baby, I’m gonna—” he moaned and pulled from her afraid to come inside her while she wasn’t full coherent and they hadn’t discussed it. She sat forward and wrapped her lips around the tip of him without much warning and he groaned again as his own orgasm wracked his body. She swirled her tongue around the tip of his dick licking every last drop of him from his skin. He twitched for what felt like hours while she sucked him again, her lips wrapping perfectly around him. She slowly pulled away swallowing and looking up at him with the sweetest smile that contradicted everything they just did. “Y’didn’t have to do that,” he cupped her face and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

She shrugged. “Well... You said suck it up buttercup.”

He chuckled. “Naughty,” he murmured and kissed her softly on the lips. “That was really lovely, baby.”

She nodded eagerly in agreement. “I thought so too,” she blushed as she looked at him.

“I’ve never done that with a girlfriend before,” his voice was gentle as he looked over her face with so much... adoration. It made her stomach flip.

Her heart sparked with hope that there was something she encountered with him first. Something good and would always be theirs. “No?” She questioned quietly.

“Nope,” he brushed his thumb on her cheek. “I’ve never trusted someone this much.”

She felt her chest swell. Like her heart was going to burst. He was too sweet. Just like her favorite candy. “That’s very sweet, Harry,” she grabbed the hand holding her face and brushed a kiss into his palm.

“I know,” he shrugged with an impish smile. She shoved his hand away with an eye roll but couldn’t help but smile at him all the same. “I love you, Buttercup.”

“Thank you,” she giggled. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Say it,” he ordered dropping his face to her neck and kissing her what felt like a hundred times over in a matter of seconds.

“I love you,” she responded.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

He dropped to her side, pulling her close to his chest and she traced the outline of his face. “Hey Harry,” she mumbled.

“Yes, baby?” He answered instantly sensing the slightest amount of insecurity in her tone. He frowned as she refused to make eye contact with her.

“I think maybe now it’s your turn to ‘suck it up buttercup,’” she glanced at his eyes quickly and then darted her gaze to across the room. Harry groaned and began his path of kisses south along her body.

“Anything for you, Buttercup.”

--

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I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

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[colouredbyd]

Broken Vases

poly!moonwater x fem!reader

Summary: When a vase slips from your hands, it’s not just glass that shatters — it’s years of fear, buried under a childhood that taught mistakes meant pain. Remus and Regulus are left trying to show you that love is gentle.

Warnings: Mentions of abusive childhood, abuse, hitting, scarring, broken vases, graphic mention of blood, mention of injuries, childhood truama, victim blaming, manipulative parents, overall graphic and has very intense mentions of an abusive childhood. read with caution.

Word count: 4.0k

Authors note: moonwater is my new fav ship idc what anyone says.

masterlist

You loved Remus and Regulus before you even understood what love was meant to feel like. It crept up on you slow and careful, the way sunlight softens a frozen field. Regulus and Remus held pieces of you long before you realized you had given them away. You trusted them because something in you recognized something in them — a bruised sort of knowing, a gentleness that came not from a life of safety but from surviving things no one should ever have to survive.

Regulus understood in a way that frightened you sometimes. His childhood had been lined with gold and knives, beautiful from a distance and lethal up close. Love in his house was something to be earned with obedience and silence, something sharp-edged and glittering that left more wounds than comfort. The Black name carried weight, and it had pressed down on his small shoulders until he learned to carry it without ever showing the cracks. He had clawed his way free of it, but the scars still clung to him, quiet and furious just beneath his skin.

Remus was softer where Regulus was sharp, but the softness had been carved out of him by loss, not given freely. He had known hunger and loneliness, fear and shame, but somewhere in the hollow spaces of his life there had been hands that cradled rather than struck. His mother’s touch, a father’s murmured apologies — flawed, yes, but real, and for all the ways the world had been cruel to him, he had tasted love enough to know it was supposed to be kind.

You had not. You had been born to a house where love was something shouted or withheld, where silence was a punishment and affection was a prize dangled just out of reach. You did not come from grand halls or ancient bloodlines like Regulus, nor from hidden cottages and worn sweaters like Remus. All you had known was that whatever you received came with conditions, and you learned early that need was dangerous, that wanting too much could be used against you.

But you did not know it was wrong. Not really. Not the way they knew. You had built a life out of survival, brick by brick, teaching yourself that pain was normal and loneliness was inevitable. You thought everyone grew up like you did. You thought every home was a battlefield stitched together with brittle apologies. You thought every child learned to walk quietly, to measure the weight of footsteps, to make themselves small and silent when anger crept through the walls. It was not cruelty that kept you from seeing it. It was simply what you had always known.

There were things you said that should have been warning signs, sirens screaming into the hush between you, but you spoke them so lightly, so carelessly, that it broke something inside them every time. You would laugh, thinking you were sharing something small and harmless, and you would not understand why Remus’s smile would falter or why Regulus’s hands would clench into fists small enough to leave half-moon scars on his palms.

You did not know. But they did. And they loved you too much to let you stay in the dark forever.

It slipped out in the way you laughed, head tipped back against the couch cushions, utterly unguarded, when you said, "Yeah, when we used to get locked outside, Mum said it built character." The words fluttered into the air so casually, so lightly, as if they weighed nothing at all.

Regulus stiffened where he sat beside you, the book he had been lazily flipping through falling forgotten into his lap. The soft thud of it hitting the cushion barely registered over the way the room seemed to tilt, the way the light seemed to dim. Across from you, Remus's hand froze midair, the steaming mug he had been about to offer you tipping precariously in his fingers, a slow spiral of tea unwinding into the air.

But you only smiled, unaware, bright and easy, as if the memory was nothing more than a harmless anecdote. As if it were a badge of survival you didn’t even realize you were wearing, the blood beneath it invisible to your own eyes. As if it wasn’t a wound at all, but a joke.

It kept happening, slipping from your lips like water through cupped hands, so small at first that they almost managed to convince themselves it was nothing. Almost.

"Dad said crying was for cowards, so he made us stay out in the snow till he eventually got bored and let us in." you said once, almost laughing, as if it were a funny little story instead of something that hollowed out Remus’s chest until he could hardly breathe. His knuckles went white around the spine of his book, holding it like an anchor, like if he could just grip hard enough the whole world wouldn’t split apart.

Another time you shrugged and said, "One time I forgot to say ‘good morning’ and had to sleep in the garage. It was funny, actually. I made friends with a spider," and Regulus, who had suffered the cold precision of a pureblood upbringing, felt his throat close like he was swallowing broken glass, sharp and merciless. You didn’t notice. You only grinned, eyes bright, as though loneliness and punishment were things that built fairy tales instead of scars.

You laughed, light and unconcerned, when you said, "Everyone gets hit every few days. It's not a big deal," and missed the way Remus’s mouth tightened into a thin, colorless line, missed the way Regulus reached for you without thinking, fingers ghosting your sleeve like he could shield you from memories that had already happened.

Every word you dropped was another stone sinking into the river of you, another crack spidering through the foundation of what they thought they knew. Another shard they had to pretend not to see, because you didn’t see it. You didn’t know. You had never known anything else. You had been too busy surviving. You had always been too busy surviving.

And then it all cracked open.

It started so stupidly, with Quidditch and pride.

You were stretched out lazily on the couch, bare feet tucked comfortably under you, a chipped mug cradled between your hands as you took slow sips from it. The faint scent of tea lingered in the air, mixing with the soft warmth of the evening. Regulus and Remus were on opposite sides of the room, their voices rising and falling in playful debate, each word sparking the kind of heated exchange only they could have. You listened with half attention, smiling softly as their banter filled the space around you, a rhythm that felt almost like home.

The sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon, leaving behind the coolness of the night, but the warmth inside the house was a sharp contrast. The only light was the golden spill of the lamps, casting shadows on the walls that seemed to pulse with life. The house, the three of you, the rhythm of familiar voices, was like a second skin—protective, comforting, real. This was home.

"I am telling you," Regulus said, tossing a Quidditch paper onto the table with a soft thud, "if the Harpies had just switched Seekers at the start of the season, they would have wiped the floor with the Cannons."

"You cannot just swap out a Seeker," Remus said, half-laughing, arms folded stubbornly across his chest. "It is not a chess piece, Reg."

Regulus gave a soft, scoffing noise, a glint of something teasing in his grey eyes. "You Gryffindors are all sentiment. Sometimes you have to cut your losses."

"And sometimes loyalty wins games, not betrayal," Remus shot back, rolling his eyes and pushing off from the doorframe. He crossed the room in two easy strides, standing toe-to-toe with Regulus now, their words heating up, not cruel, just stupid and bright with old affection.

You smiled to yourself, watching them with a kind of fondness that warmed your bones. You loved them like this, alive and careless, sparking off one another like dry tinder. It was the kind of playfulness that had become second nature between the two of them, something you'd witnessed a thousand times and always adored. A safe, familiar rhythm of back-and-forth that filled the space between them, the unspoken bond of shared history and love.

You didn’t even register the way your heart started to beat harder, the way your muscles tensed, the way old instincts uncoiled themselves slowly from where they slept inside you.

"You are insufferable," Regulus said, jabbing a finger lightly at Remus’s chest, the action teasing but laced with warmth.

"And you are infuriating," Remus answered, swatting at his hand with a laugh that was more tired than amused, the spark between them alive but the edges worn down from time.

You hummed softly to yourself, feeling the weight of the quiet contentment that had settled around you. It was easy to feel at ease when the world was just these moments, when the only thing that mattered was the teasing back and forth of the two people you loved the most.

Then it happened.

You weren’t sure how, exactly. It was like a spark that ignited the room, and suddenly everything felt sharper, colder. You had been so used to this—Regulus’s dry humor, Remus’s playful frustration. It had always been just noise, a part of the air you breathed. But this time, it was different. There was a weight behind it now, something you couldn’t ignore.

It was Remus, laughing just a little too loud at Regulus’s remark, his voice cutting through the air with that familiar edge of mockery. "Sometimes you have to let go of the idea of being right," he said with a grin, eyes dancing with mischief.

But there was a flicker in Regulus’s eyes, something hard beneath the surface, and suddenly the tension between them seemed to snap tighter.

"Maybe you should stop assuming you know everything," Regulus bit out, his voice low but cutting, something raw edging into the words.

It was sharp. Too sharp. And the way Regulus’s eyes flashed made it feel like the laughter had been sucked out of the room. Remus’s smile faltered, his hand falling away from his chest, his posture shifting as if he was sensing something in the air that had shifted.

"I’m not assuming," Remus replied, voice quieter now, just a touch of strain in the edges. "I’m just saying, not everything is as simple as you make it out to be."

Your breath caught, your chest tightening, the conversation somehow too close, too sharp for comfort. Your fingers curled slightly into the cushion beneath you, the urge to interrupt rising up from some deep place inside of you. But you didn’t. You stayed silent, watching, feeling the invisible line stretching tighter and tighter between them.

"You always have an answer, don’t you?" Regulus’s words were laced with something harder now, something that flickered just beneath the surface of their usual dynamic. "Maybe not everything is meant to be solved. Maybe some things are just the way they are."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was nothing but the pulse of the tension, heavy and thick, wrapping around you. You opened your mouth to speak, to smooth it over, but before you could, the sharp crack of the vase toppling off the coffee table pierced through the silence.

Regulus stepped closer, his movements sharp, pointing his finger at Remus with a precision that was meant to be theatrical, to emphasize his argument. The action was calculated, meant to be playful, to incite a laugh, to turn the moment into another shared joke between them. But then Remus, always ready to match Regulus’s energy, raised his hand in a gesture of exaggerated defense, an act that was supposed to keep the air light, to stop the rising tension before it could break through.

You couldn’t breathe. The warmth that had once wrapped itself so securely around your chest suddenly felt suffocating, a weight pressing down, trapping you in a moment that had shifted so subtly, but so violently, that you couldn’t reconcile the warmth of the room with the chill crawling down your spine.

It was a blur then. You stumbled backward, your feet suddenly unsteady as your heart pounded too quickly in your chest, the world spinning just slightly too fast. Your hip slammed into the side table, the impact jarring, but you barely registered the pain. The only thing you could focus on was the vase—the one Remus had given you for your birthday, the one that Regulus had looked at and said reminded him of some ancient art piece he saw in a muggle movie that Sirius used to make him watch.

The vase wobbled once, twice, each movement of the fragile porcelain making the world feel slower, as though everything had fallen into a brief moment of suspension. You could see the way it teetered at the edge of the table, teetered at the edge of disaster. The world seemed to stretch, just for a heartbeat, and in that stretch, you could almost believe you could catch it, could stop it from falling. But it did.

The sound it made when it shattered was deafening, louder than anything you had ever heard before. It rang in your ears, a crash that felt like gunfire, sharp and cutting, as though the noise itself had torn through the fabric of the room. Time seemed to hold its breath, the shattered pieces of the vase scattered across the floor like broken dreams, the wildflowers that it had once held now lost in the jagged shards.

Your hands flew to the pieces, trembling and frantic, moving in a blur of desperation. The shards of the broken vase littered the floor, their sharp edges gleaming menacingly in the dim light. You tried to piece them together, each movement a frantic attempt to make it whole again, to make the world stop spinning, to put everything back into its perfect place before the inevitable consequence arrived. You couldn’t let it stay broken, not like this. You couldn’t let it be your fault, couldn’t bear the thought of their anger, their disappointment, the crushing weight of whatever punishment you were certain would follow.

"I will fix it," you gasped, the words spilling out in a high, thin tremor, your voice cracking under the strain of the panic rising in your chest. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I swear. Please, please don’t be mad, I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it. Just give me a second, i'll fix it. I promise,"

You didn’t know who you were pleading with—Regulus, Remus, yourself—but you couldn’t stop. Your hands shook as you gathered the jagged pieces of ceramic, your fingers too clumsy, too frantic, trying to make sense of the broken fragments scattered around you. The panic rushed through your veins like fire, sharp and unforgiving, and all you could think was that you had to fix this. You had to make the brokenness disappear. You had to undo the mess you had made before they could get angry, before the shouting escalated, before it turned into something worse.

Your hand closed around a jagged edge, the sharp ceramic biting into your skin, the sting of it so sudden and intense that you flinched. A large line of blood bloomed across your palm, the red quickly darkening, but you hardly felt it. The pain of the cut was nothing compared to the chaos spiraling in your mind, the frantic need to make everything right. You didn’t even register the blood at first, didn’t stop to assess the damage. It didn’t matter. You didn't even notice how the pieces of the once white and blue vase turned a deep crimson red. Nothing mattered but the pieces of the vase in front of you, scattered like your thoughts, like everything you had ever been told to fix or endure or hold together.

"I’ll fix it," you whispered again, this time more to yourself than anyone else. The words were a mantra, an echo of the things you had been forced to say in other times, in other places, when things broke, when things were shattered, and you were left to pick up the pieces, no matter the cost.

You didn’t know how to stop. You didn’t know how to make yourself stop scrambling, stop trying to make the mess disappear, as though your very worth depended on it. All you knew was that the shards were too sharp, the blood too bright, the panic too thick in your chest. You had to make it right. You had to make it stop hurting.

The world felt like it was slipping away from you, the edges blurring and twisting as you kept reaching for the shards, gathering them up, trying to fit them together, trying to turn them into something whole. But nothing fit. Nothing was whole. Nothing could be fixed.

Regulus’s voice reached you, soft at first, but thick with concern. "Stop, please stop," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "You're hurting yourself, amour,"

But it was too much. It was all too much. The shattered pieces, the blood, the suffocating pressure to make everything okay—it was all too much for you to bear. And the tears finally spilled over, hot and fast, as your chest heaved with the force of them.

Remus was beside you then, kneeling down in front of you, his hands catching yours gently, pulling them away from the shards. "Love, no, stop," He said sharply, horror strangling the words.

"Darling, please," Regulus said, his voice cracking down the middle.

They were both on their knees beside you, not caring about the broken shards cutting into their own hands, reaching for you with such tenderness it made the room tilt.

"Look at me," Remus said, reaching out slowly, palms up, voice gentler than you had ever heard. "You are not in trouble. You are not in trouble."

"You did nothing wrong," Regulus said, crouching low, his eyes wide and wet. "It is just a vase. It does not matter. You matter."

But you were still shaking, your hands red with blood and fear, your chest heaving with little broken sobs you could not swallow down. You tried to gather the larger pieces anyway, tried to fit them together with trembling fingers, crying harder when they refused to become whole again.

"I am sorry," you whispered over and over. "I did not mean to. I swear I will be better. Please, please do not leave."

Regulus made a sound then, a wounded, helpless noise. Because had he been that bad at loving you that you thought he would leave you over a vase? Remus caught your wrists before you could hurt yourself again, holding them lightly, not restraining, just there, solid and warm and unmovable.

"Sweetheart, no," Remus whispered, his voice a soft caress that wrapped around you like a blanket. "We are not angry. We could never be angry with you, baby." His words were so tender, so filled with warmth, that they made your chest ache in a way you didn't know you could feel. His thumb brushed over your arm in slow, calming strokes, grounding you to the moment, to them.

"You are safe," Regulus breathed, cupping your bleeding hand with such care that it made you want to crumble, to sob harder, as if his touch could undo the years of fear and hurt that had clung to you for so long. "You are safe, you are safe, you are safe." Each repetition was like a gentle promise, a lullaby meant to ease you, but you couldn’t breathe easy just yet. Your heart raced, a flutter of panic that was impossible to still, not when the shadows of your past still lingered, pressing against the edges of every moment.

You shook your head, trying to pull away, trying to slip out of their reach, lost somewhere deep inside, somewhere where love had always meant pain and mistakes had always meant loneliness. Somewhere where you had learned to protect yourself by pushing others away, never letting anyone get too close. You didn’t know how to let anyone in—not like this, not with such tenderness. But Remus, with his steady grip, only tightened his hands on you, a quiet insistence that you didn’t have to run anymore.

"You do not have to fix anything," Remus said softly, his voice full of such conviction that it almost made you stop and listen. "You are not broken. There is nothing to fix." His words, so simple yet profound, hung in the air between you like a promise. For the first time, someone was telling you that you were enough, as you were, and that feeling—such an unfamiliar one—made your throat tighten.

Regulus, always the quieter one, brushed the hair from your face with hands that shook just a little, as if afraid to hurt you, even in the smallest way. "Let us take care of you, please," he murmured, his voice raw, like it was a prayer whispered into the night, fragile and desperate. The tenderness in his tone wrapped around your heart, pulling at something deep within you. His touch felt like a balm, soothing, even when it made your pulse quicken in fear.

Slowly, as if they were afraid to move too fast, they guided you away from the blood and the glass. Regulus cradled your injured hand against his chest, holding it like it was the most precious thing in the world, fragile and tender. Remus gathered you into his arms with such gentle strength that it left you gasping. His embrace was safe, unyielding, but kind. You didn’t know how to let go, how to lean into that kind of love, but somehow, in the silence that followed, you found yourself doing just that.

They sat you on the couch, close together, their presence wrapping around you like a shield. Still, they whispered to you, murmuring words you could hardly understand but felt deep in your bones. Remus pressed a soft cloth to your palm, the cool fabric a contrast to the warmth of his hands, as he worked to stop the bleeding. Regulus, as if every movement had to be slow and deliberate, wiped away the tears that had escaped your eyes, his sweater sleeve gentle against your skin, as if trying to erase the hurt you hadn't meant to show.

"You are alright," Remus said over and over, his voice rhythmic, like a lullaby meant to bring calm. Each repetition was in time with the frantic beat of your heart, which was struggling to steady itself, to accept the safety they were offering you. "You are alright."

Regulus pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment, then another, his lips brushing against your hair, the air near your temple. His touch was so careful, as if you might break if he held you too tightly. "We love you," he said, his voice barely a whisper, but filled with a certainty that settled deep into your chest. "We love you more than anything. No broken thing will ever change that."

The floor was still littered with shards of glass, the blood a reminder of what had just happened, but none of it mattered. Not anymore.

The only thing that mattered was the way they looked at you. It was a look that made you feel seen, truly seen, in a way you had never known before. Like you were something sacred, something worth every broken part of you, even the ones you didn’t know how to heal. They didn’t see your scars as flaws, they saw them as pieces of you—the person they loved, the person they wanted to protect.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself believe that you could be loved like this—completely, unconditionally, without fear. It was terrifying, but it was also beautiful in a way that made the tears feel like they were washing away everything you’d ever known, making space for something new. Something good.

[camradacheri]

leona kingscholar x reader

you are cold in savanaclaw and leona is your warm boyfriend. based during book 5 when the sdc posse takes over ramshackle.

“this is like low grade torture! maybe i should just go back to ramshackle.”

the goal of the savanaclaw dorm seemed to be to freeze you to death tonight! usually the cool nights were a gift after the hot sun gave you a beating throughout the day. but tonight, you were turning into an ice cube!

“you’re fine” leona said in response, his voice came from the left of you, half muffled by him laying face down into his pillow. he turned his head towards you to be heard more clearly. “you said it yourself, babe. you’d rather die than spend another minute with those “heathens.”

it’s true…you did say that…but that was before you knew savanaclaw was a whopping 10 degrees tonight.

“well, you know, i’d rather have vil fuss over my lack of a self care routine than get hypothermia! also did i tell you that rook can’t sleep without listening to whale noises? i swear, every night for the last week i’ve been having this dream where i’m on a little sailboat and i’m trying to row myself out of this big ass whale’s mouth! i didn’t really know what to do the first time it happened, but i think tonight is the night that i will be able to defeat that monster! he won’t know what hit h-“

you’re cut off by glancing over to see that leona had opened his eyes and was making a face at you. it’s not a look of annoyance over you keeping him awake by complaining about getting frostbite to detailing the events of your reoccurring, traumatic, nautical dream. it’s something softer than that, adorned with a small smile, it’s a look of adoration.

“…stop it.” you say, not knowing how to deal with tender moments like these just yet in your relationship.

you had grown a mutual fondness for each other last fall after the ‘seize ramshackle’ conundrum when he so graciously let you and grim sleep on the floor of his room.

it was a time of feeling like there was a greater power working against you while you fretted over the fate of your friends and the threats of the damn octavinelle fish mafia. simultaneously, it was also a beautiful time of feeling blessed by fate when you got to hear leona’s raspy morning voice and see him come out of the shower wet and shirtless every day. who could blame you for flirting! i mean, you didn’t think you’d actually stick the landing!

it came as a shock, but you knew you had him when he sweetly offered for “only you and not that damn cat” to sleep beside him on his bed on the last night of your stay.

seasons have changed since then and you have found yourself beside him more often than not. freeing the tangles in his hair with your fingers after spelldrive practice, sitting between his legs as he braids your hair, laying on top of him as he runs his hands up and down your bare back, and very simply living alongside each other.

leona never struck you as someone who would shy from physical affection and you were right. he was leaning on your shoulders and wrapping himself around you before you two had even shared your first kiss. you just weren’t expecting his words to be as dear as his touches. not quite honeyed, but sweet enough to make your eyes light up.

“you’re so pretty, especially when you’re yapping, baby.” leona says softly. he lets out a hum before pulling himself towards you. warm arms encircle you and cold hands instinctively encircle him back. you tuck your head into his chest and let out a sigh of contentment from the cocoon of warmth your boyfriend has wrapped around you.

“…you’re warm, ona.” you say with a smile.

“mm hm. don’t go anywhere.” you hear him respond from above your head.

“don’t cry, little baby boy. i was just teasing, i know you wouldn’t let the love of your life turn into a popsic-HEY!” the bullying of your boyfriend came to an abrupt stop by him tightening his hold on you and abruptly rolling you overtop of him and to the opposite side of the bed.

“…what the fuck just happened?” you say, gripping at his shoulders as you try to get your bearings.

“well i was just laying there. it’s still warm. you wanted to be warm, didn’t you?” he says and you look up to see him smirking with half lidded eyes.

you roll your eyes as you feel him fixing the positioning of the blankets around you to keep you cozy before he nestled himself closer to you and you moved further into your lion’s warmth. silence overtook you both as you bask in each others presence.

“…..”

“you know…rolling like that just now…it really reminded me of somersaulting around in that bitch whale’s mouth…” you mumble out before losing consciousness.

leona let out a barely audible chuckle before kissing your forehead.

“night, baby.”

[imnez-daydreams]

"(you’re a little different—he wants to make you believe in yourself more. he wants you to prove it to yourself. make yourself say it and mean it, not just because he’s telling you. that you are capable, that you were meant for this. that this is where you belong. that you have a safety net in the form of your attending—that he’ll be there with an outstretched arm, waiting incase you need him. you won’t, he knows. but you still need to feel him there. it’s working, he knows it is.)"

need me an older man who praises me and believes in me. but its so sweet how even though jack knows reader wont need him, that they are more than equipped to handle things and get it done, he still hovers near. just in case.

"that’s something he’d worked you out of, he thinks, a certain smugness seeping into his veins, satisfaction rolling through every muscle."

grr hes so sure of himself i mean hes right but grrr. i like the inclusion that reader was looking around for him, but that jack knows that reader is more than capable of doing this. and still watches after. and how reader is still watching too. these idiots in love.

"and jack swallows hard. it’s one thing to have a flirtation, to teach you, to mentor you. to make you cups of coffee and tea and buy a box of those protein bars that you like the best, because the other ones taste weird. to defend your yellow cup with his best glare, to stop in the aisle at costco and buy a duplicate pair just incase he ever needs to replace it. you love that yellow mug, and well, he loves—"

acta of service !! defending reader's cup is so sweet wadaheck. it really do be like that in the office but the fact that jack has thought about buying a duplicate in case anyth happens ?? :"(( and also that. that "he loves-" GIVE IT TO MEEE.

he is entirely unworthy of your love. he knows it, deep down. loving him would break you. trying to piece him back together would drain you dry. and he doesn’t want to do that to you, you deserve better. maybe he can take care of you at work, but outside of these four walls, if you saw what he was like with idle hands and an empty apartment, or if you saw him up on that roof-

crying. jack abbot listen to me you are not unworthy of love !! sunshine reader is gonna fill your heart with so much happiness and youre gonna take it >:( !! i that next line of how reader snaps back jack to reality. reader has become his lifeline that reels him back to the present. im soft.

"would you do that? would you tease him about the age difference? or would you prefer to ignore it, set it aside and try to forget about it? it’s a heavy question for breakfast after twelve hours on. "

its realistic to have jack think about the age gap i feel ! (not that id have any problems with it lololol) and i love these small peeks into his mindset, how he thinks he doesnt deserve reader's love, how he's scared of what reader thinks about their age gap. it helps to build more on his character !

"how could he have been so stupid? trying to fight what you did to him when it was like gravity, like the tide, like every other force in this world that he knows about and cannot control. you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and so is he."

that is such a beautiful beautiful description omg. jack coming to realise that their love, him being loved was inevitable. that it was fate, destiny, bound to happen. how they fit together like 2 peas in a pod.

jack bought matching yellow cups !! the domesticity of it all im so :"((

op/shea this was sooo warm and fluffy to read :). im so soft now !! thank you for writing such a sweet story about jack being taken care of and loved (because he deserves it). i really enjoyed it !! day by day i fall deeper into the rabbit hole of shawn hatosy/the pitt/animal kingdom and the urge to watch gets stronger, i blame my moots haha (affectionate)

𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞

summary: jack abbot thinks he's too broken to fix. you just want to take care of him the way he takes care of you.

author's note: here it is! the first longer night shift reader and jack fic ♡ i hope everyone enjoys!

word count: 3.7k

tags: night shift reader x attending jack, comfort and angst, people are making bets (guess who wins!), patient death/loss, age gap relationship (implied but no ages specified!), idk i went a little crazy for two hours

it’s not an easy thing to take care of him. 

he knows that. there haven’t been that many people in his life who have been able to manage it. his wife was one, robby’s sort of another. jack has this thing—he has to at least try to take care of those around him before he can accept any of their help for himself. it’s almost a test of worth, to determine that it’s not a burden he’s placing unduly on anyone. it’s an exchange, he decides, a fair exchange. that way he’s not forcing anyone, because he knows how hard it is, how hard it can be. robby sees a side of it. his wife saw another.

and out of the black, heading into the blue, you are beginning to see it. he doesn’t know how it happened this way, just knows that the sweet resident who had come onto his night-shift because the day shift was beginning to be too much, was now the very reason he doesn’t head straight up to the roof after a very, very long night. 

he knows it’s not easy, that every time he loses a patient, he glances at the clock. the moment someone’s life was over, and the very moment that is going to ruin the lives of all the people who loved them. before he’d start the countdown—how many hours left on this shift? how many until he can go to the roof and breathe, scream and yell and sit in silence and watch the city wake up beneath him. 

it’s selfish. he momentarily checks out after time of death is called. robby does moments of reflections. maybe that’s how he’s able to manage it sometimes, break up the grief into little pieces throughout the day. 

jack isn’t like that. he’s always been the kind to bury, nestle it somewhere deep inside and keep adding, adding, adding. add until it’s about to burst, and then go to the roof and let some of it out. maybe if he tried robby’s way, he wouldn’t have felt like this for so long.

where can so much grief go? there’s no outlet for it, not the way jack does it. some of the things he buries are lost inside him forever, no escape, no exit.

and then you come along. 

jack’s prided himself in the fact that he’s good to the residents. they get more confident under his tutelage, make decisions more firmly, make them quickly and execute them correctly. that’s why robby had sent you over to him, hadn’t it? because you doubted yourself too much. because you felt like you weren’t making the right call.

from seven in the morning to seven at night, the place is crowded. it’s all hands on deck but there’s just a smidge too many hands, especially when there’s students. you were able to blend into the background for a couple months, but it’s just plainly wrong to let it hinder your education.

that’s why robby had sent you to him, right? for your education. to make you a better doctor, better than you already were, which was saying something. 

because jack abbot thinks that you’re incredibly gifted. gifted in the things that he can’t teach someone, in ways that he can’t explain. you have a special touch. patient-care is your forte. if he had to pick the nicest resident, it would be you. but you don’t believe in yourself. 

and he had sent himself to the task of fixing that. it’s what jack does, what he’s always done. patch it up and send it out.

(you’re a little different—he wants to make you believe in yourself more. he wants you to prove it to yourself. make yourself say it and mean it, not just because he’s telling you. that you are capable, that you were meant for this. that this is where you belong. that you have a safety net in the form of your attending—that he’ll be there with an outstretched arm, waiting incase you need him. you won’t, he knows. but you still need to feel him there. it’s working, he knows it is.)

it had been working perfectly fine so far. you build your routine, get yourself settled, start answering trauma calls with a run. 

one time he has you and ellis start the incoming together. tells parker to ask you questions, justify all of your decisions to her, but let you call the shots. when the charge nurse tells you the details, you head straight outside. you pull a yellow gown for yourself and the gloves in your size—those ones are baby blue. and then you pull another gown and the black gloves—the ones in his size. he watches from the nurse’s station, watches ellis take them and watches you look around, like you’re waiting for him to show up. he doesn’t, not this time.

you handle the case perfectly. oddly enough, he can’t seem to remember any of the specifics about it, even though he’s the one who signed off on your detailed note. 

jack watches from the door. you’ve got your back to him, and ellis looks up and sees him, but he shakes his head. he wants to see how you do without him, after so many with him. and you’re perfect—just like he knew you would be. the nurses move in tandem around you, listening closely to your orders. ellis asks questions and you answer, and you don’t sound like your answers are questions themselves—though you had at one point, not too long ago. 

that’s something he’d worked you out of, he thinks, a certain smugness seeping into his veins, satisfaction rolling through every muscle. 

you look out the other door, the opposite of where he’s standing. you stretch your neck like you’re trying to see what’s out there, and then you turn your attention back to your patient right away.

and once the patient is stable, that’s when he comes in. you’re doing it again, looking out the wrong door and as much as he wants to deny it, as wrong as it is, he knows you’re looking for him.

“good work, doctor,” he says, and you jump a little. you turn to look at him, but he’s looking at your senior resident for the assessment.

“dr. abbot, i-” 

“she did great,” parker comments, and you stop to beam at her.

“thank you.” ellis peels off her gloves and gown, black gloves that had been meant for him going into the bin. she gives you further instructions and you nod, and when it’s just the two of you, he finally turns to meet your eyes.

and the way you smile at him blows him away. it’s all over your face—from your gleaming eyes to the cheeks that must hurt, the lips that he can’t stop thinking about. there’s something else there too. neither of you want to say it, though you try.

“thank you, dr. abbot. i-” the words falter and die on your tongue. but in your joy, how pleased you are with yourself for once, you find the confidence he’s been wanting you to have all along. “i was looking for you.”

and jack swallows hard. it’s one thing to have a flirtation, to teach you, to mentor you. to make you cups of coffee and tea and buy a box of those protein bars that you like the best, because the other ones taste weird. to defend your yellow cup with his best glare, to stop in the aisle at costco and buy a duplicate pair just incase he ever needs to replace it. you love that yellow mug, and well, he loves—

“dr. abbot? you okay?” 

and it’s normally him asking you that.

“i’m fine, kid. you did great.” 

“so did you.” 

-

when jack walks by dana at around seven-ten, her and the other nurses go remarkably silent. 

“yes?” he asks, grabbing the black thermos from the counter where he’d been finishing his notes. it’s also from costco—chipped and bent all over the place, little flecks of silver making an appearance around the bottom. you’d made a joke about it once—even your cup is salt and pepper. and now he thinks about it every time he picks it up.

“what? i didn’t say anything,” dana replies, settling an ipad back in the charging port, moving around papers at the station. “but just so you know, the pool’s up to three hundred.”

jack sets his cup down a little harder than he means to, forearms resting on the sterile counter.

“what pool?” he demands, and dana shrugs. if he didn’t love her so much he would kill her.

“i’m just saying. if you’d like to help your favorite nurse contribute to her retirement fund, then you can—”

“oh? i can what?” 

it’s just not this easy for him anymore. you are full of all the good things that he so clearly lacks, made of so much sunshine it’s pouring out of you. you have love in stores, ready to be doled out at any time, to anyone. patients, coworkers, even the medical students you just met a couple minutes ago. he hears you—offering the flashcards you made for boards and the interview tips that got you to match at your top choice. 

he is entirely unworthy of your love. he knows it, deep down. loving him would break you. trying to piece him back together would drain you dry. and he doesn’t want to do that to you, you deserve better. maybe he can take care of you at work, but outside of these four walls, if you saw what he was like with idle hands and an empty apartment, or if you saw him up on that roof-

“dr. abbot?” 

your voice seems to always be enough to snap him out of it. 

“goodbye, dana,” he says, walking up next to you, thermos in hand. your eyes briefly glance down at it, smiling. “what’s going on, kid?” 

“remember what you had said? about breakfast?” and you smile at him like getting breakfast with jack abbot sounds like the great thing in the world right now. it’s almost seven-thirty and you probably haven’t slept in fifteen hours, and yet you keep smiling, big eyes blinking at him while you wait patiently for an answer.

“yeah.” he clears his throat, looking back at dana momentarily. she’s smiling at him, and then she turns to smack the side of robby’s arm, pointing him the direction of you two. “that sounds great. after you.” 

he shouldn’t have said yes. he knows what’ll happen if you start thinking that you can fix whatever is wrong with jack abbot, and he would like to avoid that entirely. but you beam at him again like you had earlier with ellis, and jack is a lot of things, but one thing is he is not, is a jerk. he won’t disappoint you about this, not when he’s secretly relieved you’re eating after shift. he’s seen you with sugary granola bars and pastries when you should be filling up on protein after a shift like this.

so he follows you out, ignoring the exchange of money behind him. 

breakfast is nice. you get chocolate-chip pancakes and he makes you get eggs too, and then hands you strips of bacon from his plate too. he hasn’t seen you like this before, and he tries to soak it into his memory. 

(something deep inside says that he should cut the tether before you get too attached. it’ll only hurt more to prolong it, to let it linger. the possibility of something between the two of you. and then you offer him a bite of a pancake drenched in syrup and everything in his head goes silent.)

breakfast becomes a weekly recurrence. there’s a twenty-four seven diner he loves just up the road from the hospital, and he’s been before with shen once, robby a couple times if their schedules lined up. it’s not particularly unusual to see him there with you, though he feels like he’s committing some sort of a crime.

you wear pullovers from your alma mater. the backpack you bring to work is the same one you used all four years of college and medical school, a fact you are very proud of. when he looks at it—his chest hurts. it’s hardly worn, looks like it’s in great condition—a couple of pins tacked on the side where your water bottle sits and a pocket for your badge and wallet in the front. he has to force himself to remember that you’re younger than any woman he’s seriously talked to before. his wife had been two months older than him, something he used to tease her about all the time. 

would you do that? would you tease him about the age difference? or would you prefer to ignore it, set it aside and try to forget about it? it’s a heavy question for breakfast after twelve hours on. 

you take him to another place that you like, too, closer to your apartment. you both eat bagels and sip on juice—orange for him, apple for you—and that’s where you learn more about his time as a medic. the breakfast burrito place near the park is where you tell him about how you’ve wanted to be a doctor since you were twelve, that you thought you’d had a calling for pediatrics and you’d even been the president of the peds club in medical school. and then you’d rotated through the emergency department third year and completely changed your plan.

you share a stack of waffles—chocolate chip with strawberries and whipped cream, at your insistence. he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say no to you, not when you ask him so sweetly. he learns about your kitten and how you’ve always been scared that you’re going to do the wrong thing and until very recently, that you’ve just been playing pretend and you’ll get caught one day. 

and back at the diner is where he tells you about his wife. and you listen intently and nod and hold his hands when his voice breaks and run your fingers over his knuckles. you don’t let go of his hand the entire walk back to your apartment, and outside the door, you give him a hug. and the two of you stay like that for a while. that’s when you and jack kiss for the first time. slow, steady, a kiss that you’ve been dreaming of for months. it takes all the air out of your lungs and when you finally go inside, you realize your shoulder is a little wet and your lips are swollen. 

even hours later, jack can still taste apple juice on his tongue.

another week after that, you both answer the incoming trauma together. it’s six-thirty, so someone might come and take over, but it doesn’t work out that way. it’s a man who got t-boned at an intersection on the way to school drop-off. his wife and daughter are getting their cuts stitched, you think, and the patient had been slurring at you when he came in. thank god i put her behind her mom today. thank god, thank god- and jack does something he doesn’t always do. 

“get the mom, get the kid. let-let them talk.” 

and while you do the ultrasound and the e-fast and order for type and cross-match, you hear his daughter crying and a wife telling her husband how much she loves him. 

and you and jack try everything, everything you can think of, but sometimes, there’s just no coming back. he doesn’t even make it to surgery. jack walks out first, and then you, and you see his daughter turn away from the medical student that’s tending to her wound, standing up with hopeful eyes like you and jack have good news for her.

and you feel incredibly broken. your day hasn’t even started yet. and you lock eyes with jack for a second—just a second, and he stares back at you, hardened, in a way you haven’t seen before. you’ve both lost patients, lost patients together. sometimes it’s just different, in a way that you can’t explain. 

it must have been an hour, an hour and a half you spent in the trauma room. the entire day shift is there now. 

“head home, kid,” jack says. “i’ll talk to the family.” 

you bring your hand to his shoulder, pulling back until he turns to face you. 

“i’ll talk to the family.” 

it’s not an easy thing to take care of. he tries to tell you something but you shake your head at him, the hand on his shoulder lingering. people are looking, he thinks. but then again, he’s never cared that much. and in this moment, neither do you. 

you head over to the family, excuse the nurses and the student doing the stitches. you pull the curtains, and all he hears is sobbing. 

and when you come back out, he know you held it together in front of them, but your shoulders are shaking, your chin is wobbling. and in front of all those people, he brings you in for a hug. 

a real hug—like the one you had in front of your apartment. jack’s grip is tight on you, his arms caging you in, covering everything so you can’t see anything, can’t think about anything else but him. he rests his chin on your head, and closes his eyes, and then the two of you walk back to the lockers together. 

it’s not an easy thing to take care of him. and somehow, without ever telling you, you know all about how to do it. you know a lot of things about him. you know what this job does to him and that if he had gone to tell that family they lost their father and husband, that he would’ve ended up on the roof this morning. you know that jack abbot doesn’t halve any of his burdens, that he’s been afraid to rely on you like how you rely on him. to need you in the way that you need him. and you know that he won’t tell you what he needs, but you’ve gotten somewhat adept at figuring him out, just like how he has with you.

that day you leave holding hands. neither of you are in the right mood to go out for breakfast, so he elects to take you back to his apartment, an arm swung around your shoulder the entire walk there. you’re still a little teary-eyed, wiping them away at his front door while you head inside with him. 

you’ve never seen the inside of jack’s apartment, but he’s mentioned it in one of your many conversations. the record collection, his wife’s plants that he takes care of, the kitchen that’s too big for one person. 

the morning light hits the place beautifully. you stare out of his window while he heads to the kitchen, and you look around. first the records, then the plants, just like he’d described. there’s pothos and peace lily and little succulents along the windowsill. you look at the rest of it—incredibly fitting. a brown leather couch and a bookshelf with medical textbooks and a couple of mystery thrillers. you laugh to yourself, imagining jack curling up with one of those books at night.

when you turn back, he’s cracking eggs and laying out strips of bacon on the pan. you head over to the other side of the island, taking a seat on one of the stools. 

“no pancakes?”

“you’re gonna get cavities, y’know,” jack says, and you smile at him. 

“it’s worth it.”

“i love your smile the way it is right now. don’t go changing it on me.” and that does make you smile, staring at jack making breakfast for the two of you. it all feels so domestic. like you’re just walking into the life that was meant for you all along.

you’ve only been on the night shift for a couple of months. 

how could he have been so stupid? trying to fight what you did to him when it was like gravity, like the tide, like every other force in this world that he knows about and cannot control. you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and so is he.

“mel texted me. she won the bet,” you say, setting your phone down. you lean against your hand, inhaling the smell of the first of many home-cooked meals you’ll eat, made by jack abbot.

“that so? i thought dana was a shoo-in.” 

“dana got the timing wrong. thought it’d happen during the night shift. but technically, you hugged me at eight-thirty, so..” 

“and what was the winning combo?” he stares at you, probably for the millionth time since you met him. and still, somehow, it’s enough that you feel it in your bones. you want to look away but you don’t. “you want toast, kid?” 

“yes please. she didn’t say, but i’ll ask. later.” 

you and jack settle at his wooden dining table ten minutes later, a plate full of protein and a promise that he’ll get you something sweet when you wake up later. jack lifts up his pant leg and takes off his prosthetic, setting it against the chair and relaxing a little bit more. you can see his shoulders loosen up. when he catches you staring, he smiles back.

“what?”

“nothing. do you have juice?”

“i think there’s some apple in there. i can-”

“no, i got it.” you get up, walking towards to the fridge. “i thought you didn’t like apple.” you know he doesn’t—he prefers orange. 

“i changed my mind.” you smile back at him, finding the apple juice and setting it on the counter. 

“cups?” 

“the cabinet on your right. no, your other right.”

you laugh and open it up, your laugh dying in your throat as you stare at two yellow mugs sitting front and center in the cupboard. you pick them up, bringing them over to the table with jack, and stare at him.

“oh,” he says. “i can explain. it’s incase-” but you don’t want to listen for another second, so you sit on his lap, pressing your lips together and forgetting all about breakfast and apple juice.

♡ thanks for reading!

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

How would Bruce be affected after the kidnapped fic ?

So many people liked this fic, I have to do a follow-up post! But here's the post if you all want to see it again. Kidnapped fic

Reader is avoiding the bats at every chance they get. Like, you're not even 6 ft apart; isn't that enough? You need them far away from you. They're the reason you got kidnapped in the first place. You weren't a child of Bruce Wayne; if you weren't associated with him, this could have never happened. Not only that, you start to blame yourself. Like a lot, you think maybe if you were strong like Damian, you could have fought them off. Maybe if you didn't rely on them for almost everything, then you would have been safe. You're spending every waking moment and every hour with your mom. She's holding you tight, saying everything is going to be okay. She sleeps with you in your bedroom and never leaves your side. It's crazy how you feel so much safer with her than you'll ever feel with the bats. But since you're at a distance from them and won't even speak to them, their yandere tendencies are literally skyrocketing. Bruce is using the Batcomputer to find the goons that kidnapped you and ruin their entire lives. Dick is literally outside of your room asking—no, begging—for you to let him in. He leaves little notes at your door, trying his hardest for you to talk to him. At one point, he's going to bust down that door just to try and comfort you. Jason knows what it's like to be abandoned and forgotten. He did call you a spoiled brat, but he never really meant it. He's your big brother. Please let your big brother help you when you need him the most; he can relate to how you're feeling right now. He swears just let him protect you; he wants to be the one to save you, whether you like it or not. Tim is watching your every move. You finally feel confident enough to go out alone by yourself, but he's two steps behind you, staring. He had a nightmare that you were taken away again. He opens your door and watches you sleep for hours, just to make sure that you're still there. Duke is trying to help you gain confidence by going outside and being out at night, but every time he tries to hold your hand or keep you close, you pull away instantly. It breaks his heart to know that he has to keep you at arm's length because that's the only way you guys can connect. But don't worry; he'll be the night light in the city of darkness just for you. You and Damian have a tough relationship; really tough. But he just doesn't find it fair that you're confiding in Alfred or your mother or everybody else except him. When he tries to get close to you, you flinch away. He's not going to hurt you; he swears he's not. He may be the grandson of the demon head, but he's nothing like Ra's, and he's trying to prove that to you and to himself. It doesn't matter; he's chaperoning you no matter where you go, forcing you to hold his hand or stay close. As Robin, it's his job to keep people safe, especially the people he cares about, even if they don't know that he cares about them.

[illuminetic]

Some thoughts about Mel King, Kingdon, autism, and sexuality under the cut.

So I can't help but get a little peeved by this because it's personal for me — as an autistic woman who loves sex yet often gets infantilized by people who know me in real life because I'm supposedly so 'cute' and 'pure' — but GOD. I cannot stand when I see comments from people about Mel King being so 'sibling coded' with Langdon. And the thing is, I understand not everyone will ship them, and that's not a problem at all. I have a life outside of the internet so I don't really care in that deep a way lol. And I don't even entirely blame people who say they're like siblings, because Patrick Ball DID said he felt that way about Taylor and that was how he kind of conceptualized the Mel/Langdon relationship to begin with. But at the same time, I just feel like a lot of the 'omg they're so siblings!' chat is based in the belief that Mel can't be sexually desirable to a man who is traditionally handsome in the way Frank Langdon is. Or people are uncomfortable imagining Mel might have sexual desires or a sexual life at all, with Langdon involved or otherwise.

And then also there's this fine line too of some people saying they head-canon Mel as asexual and/or aromantic — and it's like. I'm not necessarily pissed at that or think it's a problem, because we all want representation and project our own traits onto characters to better understand ourselves or draw comfort. And again — I've heard that apparently Taylor Deardon said that's a valid interpretation of the character. And it is! But it's also like. Oh. So we're completely de-sexualizing the autistic girl. Cool. That makes sense — she's a little socially awkward and nerdy so of course she's not interested in sex! And even if she was interested in all that icky stuff her handsome coworker would never be into sex with her omg that would be so weird they're so siblings coded!!

Idk. This is nuanced — because again, if you're asexual I would never want to say it's wrong to conceive of Mel that way. We're all just playing barbies in our heads with our blorbos, I get it. I'm literally projecting my own sexuality onto Mel because I relate to her, so I guess I've actually just entirely talked myself out of being angry at all lol. So to any and all asexuals who headcanon Mel that way, keep doing you.

It's just a personal annoyance for me more than anything to see comments that imply Mel is a non-sexual being, as someone who sees myself in her a lot and also happens to really like sex. I feel like, because of the social cues I miss sometimes, and the way I am at work and in my personal life with friends and stuff — I am constantly fighting against the belief that I'm somehow 'innocent' or 'naive' when it's like. bud. I've literally had the kinkiest sex. I go to a sex club fairly regularly where I have sex with and/or in front of strangers. In fact, I'd argue part of the reason I like sex so much — and particularly kinky sex — is BECAUSE of the autism. I've noticed, from my time being in the community, that the kink world is filled with people on the spectrum lol. Makes sense — kink is all about rules and structure, controlled and safe (yet intense!) physical sensation. All things that attracted me to the lifestyle because I'm autistic, and the straightforwardness and clarity of communication about sex in the kink community felt like such a god-damned relief to me after struggling to have a sex-life out there in the neurotypical world.

Anyway. Long story short I'm just saying it's absolutely Frank who is the vanilla one in the Kingdon relationship. He's been married for years to someone I assume was probably his college girlfriend. 'Kinky' for him is breaking out the fuzzy hand-cuffs for anniversary sex or something, maybe some light spanking thrown in idk.

To end — I need someone to write a fic where the Pitt-crew plays never-have-I-ever during a night out, and Mel gets shit-faced and has to put down all her fingers before anyone else because there's so little she hasn't done. People keep throwing out more and more outrageous things, eyes going saucer-wide, and Mel's ears are burning but also she just keeps putting fingers down, throwing back shots, and raising a scornful eyebrow at anyone who dares to doubt her or make some comment like 'but Mel you don't seem like that type at all!!'

And Frank is. Sitting there quietly vibrating. Horny as hell. Having some thoughts and feelings about the fact that he knows Mel owns a strap now.

[randomness-is-my-order]

can’t stop thinking about how sieun starts the season with this monologue: “what i have to do... i have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff. i mean if they’re running and don’t look where they’re going, i have to come out from somewhere and catch them” and it beautifully summarises what sieun ends up doing during the entire season. we get an impression at the start that sieun’s wading through the living world in a numb stupor but the moment the cracks show up, the moment someone is about to go over the line, sieun steps up and stops the violence before it can cross the point of no return. last season, we saw sieun exact his revenge but this season, sieun is avoidant of conflict and deadset on forgiving people if it can prevent further escalation (note that this isn’t even a new trait, sieun forgives beomseok, yeongbin and yeongi when they initially wrong him in season one).

he doesn’t actively fight hyoman because his objective was not to defeat the guy but to stop him from irreversibly damaging juntae. he advises baku about the unbreakable cycle of violence and how they HAD to end it. he refuses to back out of their search for baku because come hell or highwater, he wasn’t going to let a friend of his fall off that cliff edge and we know baku was hovering a little too close for comfort after joining the union. it was sieun who approached and mended things with hyoman and seongje despite both of them having wronged him and his friends because again, sieun isn’t trying to seek revenge at all. not even in their fight with baekjin. his goal was sketched out to us, plain and clear: sieun is trying to catch all these students wrapped up in the casual and cruel violence of the union and give them as safe a landing as possible.

(even the purposeful shot of sieun stopping gotak and walking into the final fight himself shows this; gotak’s knees would probably not have survived the intense fight).

i think what’s really important about sieun’s arc this season is that it is not just his guilt over suho that haunts him but he also blames himself for beomseok going over the cliff edge and him not being able to help him. he forgives himself twice this season. first is obvious: juntae’s words rid him of his guilt over suho and it’s the decisive moment that we know he will now not consider himself at fault for suho being comatose. the second instance of sieun forgiving himself, imo, is during his imaginary talk with beomseok while he himself in a coma. the boxing ring earlier held memories of both suho and beomseok and now only beomseok remains there, holding him down. but now, sieun is finally able to unburden himself of beomseok’s presence and his guilt over him. i think it’s very telling that his dream version of beomseok asks him whether his new friends are more important to sieun than him because that is exactly what beomseok himself would have dwelled over, given his insecurities. it just reiterates how well sieun understood beomseok but at the end of day, sieun realises that he needs to reconcile his past with his present and overcome the guilt so he can act on the philosophies he wants to follow. sieun forgives himself once more and accepts that beomseok is now out of his life and he has other friends he needs to worry about, friends he holds dear.

sieun’s been through this once. he knows what the consequences of repetitive grudges and violence are. the “happy” ending we got for season two wasn’t a fluke but a culmination of every small and big effort sieun took to safeguard this very ending. he really did catch so many from falling off the cliff.

[critifan-666]

People don't hate Catra & Stolas because they're lgbt.

People hate Catra, because the narrative is saying "abuse is ok. Abuse is love. A harmful person who does nothing but harm gets to come out on top and find happiness anyway. She doesn't deserve it. She didn't earn it. But she still gets it! Isn't she good and redeemed now?"

People hate Stolas, because the narrative is saying "abuse is ok. Actually, he never did any of it; he thinks it's love. We think it is, too. And he just, well, gets to have it! Isn't our abuser cute little guy so cute and precious? Oh also, he's redeemed now."

One thing in common: A story changing gears to completely revolve around a villain who "isn't really that bad", or just wanted happiness. Their sad backstory becomes the excuse, and an abused love interest becomes the justification. Which points to something even worse. The ignorance, and possibly even the values, the writer themself holds.

If you're trying to rationalize and turn abuse into something totally positive in fiction, who's to say you don't practice those exact values in your real life? Who's to say this isn't how you actually view queer love and abusers who just happen to be queer? It just gets excused because they had a sad life and want a boyfriend?

To me, all either character says is, "Abuse can't happen to queer people. And if it does, no it doesn't. Now ignore the depictions of a real life abuser and ship the gay ship already." It's the injustice, the betrayal of the viewer's trust, and a lie so many have been convinced is true. It's the depictions of real life abusers we've all run into before.

Catra and Stolas could've been the greatest characters ever, if the writers didn't lie to themselves about who they've written and the very real people they are depicting. Forget the fact that both have nonsense, loveless, chemistryless relationships that only get rooted for out of being LGBT. Sorry but sprinkling on a little gayness won't cover up the fact that they abuse their own partners & then cry about it (when their partners are ever granted the agency to retaliate).

The better version of both stories would be if the writers weren't strangely fixated on making the villain the suddenly flawless, precious main character. If it stuck to it's themes, if it had any sort of message to say other than "queer love".

I mean, who knew abuser x victim was just that revolutionary? All you gotta do is gay-ify it, and now it's basically the greatest cutest relationship ever! Forget that Stolas coerced Blitz then blamed him for not loving him back (and consequently the narrative), forget that Catra hated Adora so much that she'd smile seeing her "girlfriend" dead, forget that both of them should've been killed off like any ol' Disney villain, becaaaaauuuse Gay Saves The Day!

It might be fiction... but it is just so weird, so fascinating, and such a striking pattern to see in modern writing such as this. The need to redeem everyone, to prioritize making real-life abusers the good guy... Many stories push forward some main idea, theme, or message, and fiction clearly impacts reality. Is Helluva Boss, or SPOP, trying to say something good here?

That's all I can wonder.

[rosetyler42]

Ericka: It's not super obvious especially with her cheery and bouncy persona but if you really start looking at her backstory it's pretty messed up. Raised as a monster huntress for as long as she can remember, her parent mostly treating her like a soldier and not being the warmest person when she clearly craves connection, high standards, her fear of doing something her family disproves of being raised mostly in isolation practically growing up on The Legacy, her parent being able to kill her with little remorse...not to mention her being partly responsible for an attempted genocide. She doesn't show it, but she IS messed up.

Lucy and Simon: No, not really. Most of their issues is just family stuff, discrimination, etc. But they have as loving family and not NEARLY the trauma Mavis, Ericka, Drac, or Dennis do. Simon does get picked on some and has some anxiety. Both Lucy and Simon are ND, queer, mixed species as well as multicultural. But most of their trauma is GENERATIONAL. Particularly from Drac's loss of his wife due to human fear, but Ericka's Van Helsing trauma has it's echoes too. Even so, they're probably the least traumatized members of the pack. I would not say they have an inherently tragic backstory.

Alice: Oh, HELL yes. Both her identities have been through alot: Alice was basically rejected by fans to the point of her dolls almost being destroyed - all this after being told she could be bigger than Bendy. And Susie was rejected by Joey as the voice of Alice with no notice...and after she seemed to have a thing for him too. And her other possible love interest, Sammy, didn't notify her of the change either. Then LATER, there's the implication she was killed and corrupted by the ink, possibly attacked by the ink demon, to the point of her killing amd cannibalizing other characters to fix her own half melted body. And at least our version of Alice was sharing a body with Susie the whole time, forced to go along with all this. BOTH Alice and Susie are traumatized as heck.

Audrey: Again, heck yes. Mainly because of the "Killed by Wilson and thrown into the horrors" thing, but she also had her father die twice - once being crushed to death in front of her while she was in the body of the Ink demon. The first time had already possibly led to a mental block. And THEN, Wilson lied to her and tried to kill her AGAIN to make her a god and further his own ends. VERY traumatized.

@lovelylivelyv 's Jack Nephalem: A bit, though less so than his mother and "Aunt." In his original verse, he's the reincarnated soul of Wally Franks, though he doesn't really remember being Wally much. He's had to see what happened to his father and mother as they were corrupted into the Ink Demon and Twisted Alice. This trauma led to him taking on his Hijack form, and if it weren't for Henry things may have gone worse for him. That said, he's more stable and sane than most characters, and fiercely loyal to his friends and desire to help his family. Matter of fact, his biggest fear is losing his parents to perma-death. Especially due to Wilson's plans. He's somewhat traumatized, but hides it well. He probably has the best time handling the inky hell that is the Cycle. His WIR-Verse version is much less traumatized, being merely the bio son of Bendy and Alice...although few get out of the Cycle without SOME form of trauma.

Mabel: I wouldn't say her backstory is inherently tragic beyond the possible child of divorce aspect and worry of Dipper leaving, but I would say she's DEFINITELY traumatized by the events of her summer in Gravity Falls. Particularly her involvement in Weirdmaggedon. Now, I don't bash her as much as the fandom tends to. I can't really blame the kid for this. She was manipulated by Bill and thought she was being helped by a friend. But her actions DID lead to Weirdmaggedon.

Ford: Oh, lord yes. The toxic relationship with Bill, Stan, and Fidds. The bullying for his hands, the portal incident and 3 decades afterwards. The being the one to "kill" his brother with the memory gun. Him blaming himself for everything. Feeling like he's destined to be alone. Trauma from Bill...there's ALOT.

Bill: Heck yes. Mainly from the Euclidian massacre he inadvertently caused and clearly sent him on a dark path, along with the medical trauma as bad bullying prior. But alot of other things too. Of course, this is kind of balanced our by his history of lying, manipulation, abuse, and wanton destruction. But he's definitely both tragic and traumatized.

Fidds: OH, where do I BEGIN with this one? His whole relationship with Ford, the divorce, the estrangement from Tate, the Memory gun and the society of the blind eye...he destroyed his mind so much even BILL couldn't stand to be in it. And it took him about 30 years as the town laughing stock to get his memories back and start putting himself together. He, Stan, and Ford are probably the MOST messed up characters in the SHOE

Mr. Ring-A-Ding/Lux Imperator: Possibly tragic, not sure if Traumatized. Basically he's a god in the form of a cartoon character that got locked away for 3 months, never going outside, and he feeds on light (with an expressed preference for Moonlight and Sunlight.) He was also pretty eager to make himself a body, get out and cause nuclear destruction, AND at least expressed feeling alone in the world. So I can imagine being cooped up for 3 months feeding off movies kinda got to him a bit. Thankfully he had Mr. Pye and his wife for company, but still. That SAID, it's hard to tell if he actually had trauma about any of it being a god of light and chaos beyond mortal understanding. He did finally get what he wanted: All the light he could ever want, and ultimately became one with the light if creation at the expense of his ego death. But he was quite happy when he went and seemed to have no hard feelings. It's also unknown if he's truly GONE or if he can come back if he so chooses. Honestly one of the best endings for a malevolent Doctor Who bad guy I've seen, even if it DID hit you in the feels. At the least he's alot more likeable and relatable than Bill Cipher even with similar energy. Though not quite as tragic and traumatized.

Eclipsa: Definitely a tragic backstory, though she hides her trauma well under her often cheery demeanor. Basically hated for falling for a monster and merely studying the dark arts to the point of being locked away in a crystal for 300 years and having her daughter taken away and raised by a robot in an evil princess reform school. Has a very upbeat attitude but has learned mostly to do what she has to for her and her family which can lead her to but heads with others and make her seem creepy and self centered.

Meteora: One of the most DEVISIVE here. On one hand, she was raised by an evil robot princess reform school headmistress to hide her peculiarities and brainwashed as well to the point she couldn't remember she wasn't fully human (or mewman) And had her rightful throne taken away. Clearly ending up with self image issues as well as messed up morals. But she also destroyed Mewni in her rampage and had a fixation on Marco after he started a rebellion at her school. VERY repressed and damaged this one. And her fandom perception is often either "She's evil and should have died" or "She did nothing wrong."

Shego: I do feel she's more affected by leaving her brothers and starting a life of villainy than she lets on, clearly wanting respect and a place she can be herself. Not sure I'd say she's inherently tragic though.

Cora: ...I mean she had her parents kidnapped and almost got fed on and became a ghost tied to the Other World if she had agreed to get the buttons. And then The Other Mother tried to almost KILL her to stop her from freeing her parents and the ghost kids. She saw Other Wybir get his mouth sewn into a smile. Even without that she clearly doesn't trust grownups much. I wouldn't nessecarily say her story is inherently tragic: things get better with her parents and she does defeat the Beldam. But like...yeah, definitely traumatized.

Bloo: Definitely yes. @lovelylivelyv has talked about this more than me, but the short version is Mac being forced to give him away has made him worry he's replaceable and worthless. Ontop of this, he's treated as a jerkish troublemaker by most everyone in the cast except Mac.

Caine: Clearly has some issues with needing to be seen as a good caretaker for the player characters. He starts glitching during he and Zooble's therapy session when he reveals if he's not entertaining and good at keeping their needs meant, he doesn't know who he is. Beyond that, it's hard to say.

Pomni: Like Audrey, one of the most tragic TADC characters. Basically a young lady who's been thrown into an existential horror trying not to go insane.

Every poll on this blog is about fictional characters only. This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[softtdaisy]

living the fantasy / Aaron Hotchner

summary. watching bodyguard with your bodyguard leads to you finally living your fantasy

words count. 2 011

what to expect. a very brief smut (not even sure we can call it that) but they have sex yes

a/n. this was absolutely not supposed to end like that but I got too involved with the scene so here it is (this was just a joke about the bodyguard watching bodyguard at first)

bodyguard masterlist | criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

Hotch had seen you angry before.

Because of something you had read online about yourself—or about him—you were even more defensive with him than when it’s about you.

Because your stalker made you change your plan—and you hated changing your plan, especially because of him.

Because things weren’t going the way they were intended—and it caused you some stress you clearly didn’t need.

So he wasn’t much surprised to see you like this. With a closed expression on your face, a look that could kill, and your fists tight and hidden under your crossed arms on your chest. Like you were ready to punch someone even though you weren’t the violent type. It wasn’t a first for him. 

No, Hotch was much more surprised by the fact the reason you were upset seemed frivolous to him.

“Are you really that upset?” he asked from the sofa, still watching you from there, preparing the popcorn. Poor Corn was paying the price of his mistake if he was listening to you.

You opened your mouth from the surprise and the shock that he was again acting like this was nothing. “How dare you ask? You have never seen Bodyguard!”

That was it.

The reason for your “fight.”

Your bodyguard had never seen the movie Bodyguard.

You learned this information through a very random conversation. 

You did an interview the other day where you had to go through a list of rom-com movies: the ones you had seen, the ones you didn’t, your favorites, and those you wouldn’t recommend. You were known by your fans as an expert on rom-coms, so it was no surprise that you had seen most of these movies and could give very detailed explanations on why you preferred one or another. 

When you came home, you made Hotch go through the same list just to tease him. He said he had seen Dirty Dancing at the theater because “I had dates when I was younger, you know,” Mamma Mia because one of his exes was a big musical fan, or Notting Hill with a British client who was nostalgic for home.

Yet, he hadn’t seen many recent ones—which you weren’t surprised to learn.

And then he confessed his betrayal. “Why would I have seen a movie that parodies my job?” He justified it very casually.

You took that personally. 

And decided that this Friday night would be a Bodyguard watch night.

You finally came back to the living room, still ignoring Hotch as much as you could. Something that amused him. He loved watching you pretend you didn’t care when you cared so much. 

He noticed your quick looks at him and the way your mouth was going upward slightly before you contained yourself. Trying so hard not to smile at him because you were supposed to be mad. Your fist loosened up only for you to play with your fingers—a habit he noticed when you were trying so hard not to speak. 

And so he waited until you sat by his side. “Do I have to like the movie?” he asked, turning his head to you and stealing some popcorn from your bowl. There he noticed it too: the way your eyes went down on his chest, hidden by a very tight black shirt that made his muscles more apparent and his arms look bigger. It wasn’t your fault Black made his skin look so good and you couldn’t resist some vein apparition. Blame a woman for having desire.

Then your eyes moved to his face again. “Don’t be surprised if I ask to change my bodyguard.” 

His laugh filled the room, and this time you couldn’t contain your smile. That sound was definitely your favorite.

To your biggest surprise, Hotch seemed focused on the movie playing.

To your biggest ignorance, he was only doing that because it mattered to you.

If you loved it this much, then he had to give it a try.

It became very clear at some point that the story on screen echoed the one you were living too. The singer being threatened by a stalker, having a bodyguard to protect her, and playfully fighting like cats and dogs. Hotch could see it. And he knew you did too.

Because again, he could read you like an open book. And it wasn’t only the movie that made you move like that on the couch; it was the feeling of seeing your own life on screen. The fear of never having a normal life again—even if your days weren’t normal before the stalker already. But it was your life. And you deserved to have it back.

Hotch didn’t think much—and maybe he should have considered what you were watching—but he put a hand on your thigh suddenly. “Stop moving,” he asked, his eyes still on the screen and his fingers resting on your leg. You could feel the heat of his skin against you, even through your pants. 

And you listened to him. Oh, you listened. Mostly because losing his touch was the worst thing that could happen right now.

And when the first love scene played on screen, you certainly couldn’t move. Even if you wanted to. And neither could Hotch. 

Maybe the way his fingers slightly gripped your thigh was moving. But maybe the way your hands naturally moved above his, intertwining your fingers with his, was indeed moving. Or maybe none of you were to blame since in front of you was playing the fantasy you were both trying to fight against.

You felt some kind of jealousy at the idea that the character got what you were wishing for—even though you knew the rest of the story.

Hotch felt some kind of disappointment that his professional behavior was preventing him from listening to his desire.

“He is right, you know,” he whispered after Frank—the bodyguard—decided to break off their affair right after their first night. Saying it could compromise his work, making him too personally attached to his client. 

And that was the truth, what was scaring Hotch the most. That if he let himself fall for you for real, then he wouldn’t be able to protect you properly. Even if, at this point, he was only pretending he hadn’t fallen already.

And if he were your bodyguard, he would have a hard time accepting that he failed his job. As your lover, he could never forgive himself.

But you didn’t answer. Actually, Hotch wasn’t even sure you had heard him. He gave you multiple quick looks through the movies, but your eyes never left the screen. 

Even the excellent profiler he was couldn’t point out if you were truly absorbed by the movie or if you were focusing on it to avoid the reality. He knew the reason for his incapacity was that his feelings were taking the lead. 

By the end of the movie, he heard you sob. He turned his head fully this time, not hiding that he was looking out for you. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” you said, pointing a finger at him and trying to hide behind a laugh why you wanted to cry. You always did that, hiding your true feelings behind a smile or a laugh. 

More than your romantic side that made it impossible for you not to cry, the movie was again hitting too close to home. The feeling that whatever you shared might never be enough. That reality might always bury your feelings and your relationship and make it impossible to keep it alive.

Without hesitating a single second, Hotch put his arm around your shoulder to bring you against him. “I won’t,” he added, and soon you felt his lips against your temple. A soft kiss that lasted longer than he intended to.

Because he needed it too. To feel you. For just a few seconds.

A few seconds. Something that encouraged you to slowly slip on his lap. Hotch followed your movement, his hands sliding on your back to your waist. Keeping you in place when you finally settle on him, your forehead against him. The song I Will Always Love You is playing in the back, like the echoes of your mind.

“Once,” you whispered. Your voice was trembling. Asking. Begging.

Hotch’s shaking breath was all you could hear. And feel it against your lips. 

He brought his hand to your hair, caressing it once, twice, before grabbing it slowly. “Once,” he replied in a whisper. 

He used his hand on your hair to bring your face closer, and closer, and closer, until there was no other choice for your lips to finally touch. It felt real and right to finally get to kiss Aaron Hotchner. 

You lived every single second of this kiss.

The taste of his lips—coffee and sweet from the popcorn.

The feeling of his lips—soft and a little dry—against yours.

The game of his tongue with yours—like a dance made only for you.

The softness of his finger on your cheek—caressing your skin.

The movement of his hips—moving unconsciously at your touch.

The acceleration of his heartbeat against you—letting you know he had the same desire as you.

To do more. To go further.

And so you weren’t surprised he followed your movement, letting him lay on the couch with you still on top of him. His resting hand on your back going under your shirt, caressing your naked skin like he needed to touch you. To feel you. To know you were real. 

And when you let your hand go under his shirt, when you felt his bulge grow against your thigh, you decided you couldn’t stop. Not now. Not this fast.

“Please” was all you said against his lips.

And maybe that was the hottest thing he had ever heard. You. Begging.

He tightened his grip on your hair, pulling your head so he could look at you. “Say it again,” he ordered. 

And you did it. You said it again.

You said please when his hand slowly moved from your back to your pants. 

You said please when you felt his fingers meeting your underwear, your skin, and your clitoris.

You said please, your head buried in his neck, when his fingers kept moving faster and faster.

You said please when he pulled away his hand before you could finish, only to get rid of your pants. 

He said please when you moved your hand to take away his jeans.

But you couldn’t say please no more when he finally got into you. Not when he was moving slowly first. Then faster, quickly. Harder, too.

And soon there were no words in any of your mouths except for both of your names echoing in the room. The silence from the movie being over and the noises made by your bodies meeting each other again, and again, and again.

You loved the way he was moving your head, like his grip on your hair, the way he needed to. 

Bringing your neck to his lips so he could kiss it.

Bringing your lips closer so he could kiss them too.

Or bringing your ear to his mouth so he could moan your name right into it. 

And when you both finished together, you thought that you might have found your new favorite melody. The way Aaron had a special way to moan your name. And the way he was so breathless under you now.

You moved your head, resting your chin on his chest to look at him. With his head slowly tilted backward so you could see his eyes closed, his eyelashes made him look like a soft man—certainly not the man who made you beg the whole way.

“Tell me,” you said in a low voice, your finger going up and down his chest slowly. “If I say please again, will we start again?”

He laughed. You felt it against you, in your bones and soul. 

He moved his head so he could look at you again. “Don’t tempt me.”

But the temptation was now too big to ignore. 

Tag List: @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife (if you want to be in it, ask me and I’ll be happy to add you x)

[teh-nos]

okay fuck it, i can just delete posts when the wank starts, right?

the way doctor who fandom talks about steven moffat is genuinely unhinged. i don't mean in not liking his work, that'd be fine, i mean in the Assigned Evil In 2006 shit-tier discourse of it all. the worst possible interepretations are assumed to be the right ones (because he's evil!) including the commentator's own prejudiced takes (they can't be bad, they hate the bad man!), and then these are quickly repeated as well-documented established facts, and the whole thing has long since escalated to the point where actual journalists will ask the man why he hates women so much. and this is all assumed to be normal and reasonable criticism, and Everyone Knows it so it cannot possibly be exaggerated or entirely made up to justify fandom grudges.

i have seen posts from people in entirely unrelated fandoms about this man's evils. because it must be true, right? no fandom would ever just invent a hate-figure and assume the worst about them to this extent, right? why would they - for instance! - be mad about him saying it's polite to use the pronouns people give you unless there was definite proof that he eats children?

and it's about 20 years now. 20 fucking years i've mostly just tried to stay out of it, of avoiding posting anything that might potentially get an unhinged rant on a reblog (and then a series of reblogs, and then suddely there's 200,000 notes and 199,990 of them are angry about someone you didn't even mention in the OP). it poisoned fandom discussion beyond bearing in the 2010-2017 period and even now it's still shite. because you can't just like or dislike one of these episodes or characters, you have to back it up with a 3000 word essay on the imagined moral contamination of being fairly fond of Amy Pond.

i'm sure the guy's done some amount of shitty things, because everyone has, but you talk like he's literally hitler. we assign our own fucked up takes to authorial intent (yes I did notice that you hate all those female characters while putting the blame for your own madonna/whore complex on someone else!) and like... just what the fuck really. what the actual fuck?

[monstas1ut]

Pull My Hair

SUGURU GETO x black!reader

Summary

__ Suguru wants to touch black!reader’s hair.. unfortunately she always says he cannot touch her hair, nobody but the lord knows that if he got one chance, he will not mess the opportunity up… especially since he wants to pull it during sex…

Content

Reader is implied to have a cute tall Afro puff! Wholesome stuff, more plot than smut! Hair pulling, wall sex, Suguru loves your hair,

___ brown skin can be dark, light, medium color.. whatever. brown is brown.. and it's gorgeous

“I finally did my edges the way I wanted it to be..”

A fraction of a chuckle poured out of the dark, mystifying male, closing his book with one hand. It had been about the disastrous consequences of war and fate that was inevitable. It was definitely a bit too gloomy for what was in front of him at the very moment, which was rays of sun on the color brown, you. The pages of the book were filled with disturbing absurdities that he took interest in, but the raven haired male would rather stare at you.

You were far more interesting than anything he could ever lay his eyes on, and he truly meant anything. He slid the book onto the side table by the soft couch he was sitting on, and he was fairly comfortable. His back was pressed nicely against the couch, his knees far apart. Suguru was settled nicely there, spread in his usual sitting position but to you it made your heart flutter everytime… he was sexy.

“You were in there for almost an hour, I’d hope so..” Suguru playfully teased, watching your little expression on your face turn slightly into a half smirk. Some people really dig deep into trying to figure out how you and Suguru even managed to date, but they just didn’t realize how much of a silly goose he was behind closed doors. It may be faint, but it was still there… Sometimes Suguru’s jokes tickle your lower stomach so badly that the floor is the only thing that can hold you.

“Do you likeee it? The last time I had my hair like this was in middle school..” this was normal, your regular banter of sorts, but Suguru was genuinely deep in thought. Maybe his dark eyes looked over you around 6 or 7 times already, giving his lips a dangerous lick as he tried to adjust his sitting position.. lightly lifting his hips. There was something about you embracing your natural beauty that had him fawning over you… hard. Could anyone blame him? Your hair was rarely out in a way that he could actually see that pretty pattern of hair.

“It suits you very well..”

Time gave into the fantasy of stopping, that’s how it felt to you anyway. His words were so silky, his slight emphasis on the word ‘very’ almost had you running to the hills. His stare, his slight tilt of the head. There was an odd few seconds of sweet silence as your heart thumped quickly. “I’m going to assume touching it is off limits..” there was only a little pout that surfaced on his porcelain face. He then slowly stood up to reveal his fierce height, his body covered mainly by the deepest black of fabric, his tee and wide legged pants

It’s days like this where he’d get mad at the mumble of the word ‘emo’.

Your eyes slightly widened, crossing your arms under your perfectly sized mounds. “Hell yeah it’s off limits. I have to make this hairstyle last-..” Suguru slightly scoffed the second the last word left your plump lips. He wasn’t angry or anything… however he was poking at your bullshit.

“You always tell me not to touch your hair.. not just this time..” Suguru didn’t know why, but there was something about the word cant. Why couldn’t he? Why was it so off limits? He wouldn’t have messed it up… But as time passed of being so intimate with you, he couldn’t lie, he wanted to ruin you. Suguru is as cordial as it gets, but unfortunately when he can’t have something, he spirals. It was selfish in spirit, but everyone has their dark secrets.

“Cuz you’ll mess it up. Like you said, the edges took me almost an hour. Do you have the patience to do that?” The sass that came from your words was harmless, but the tilt of the head you did made him a little more on the agitated side.

“I do actually, but even you know that” shooting right back at you with playful banter, Suguru’s soft, lanky fingers reached out to touch your wrist. His pale skin was on the warm side today, it could be possible that he was flustered from your new look. Suguru was a simple man, his body got warm over the littlest things you’d do. But unlike most , he kept it very quiet and self contained.

“I’d do anything that’ll give me a chance to touch a special part of you. Anything that’s.. you.. I would love to touch it with my fingertips..” his hands slipped to your fingers, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles in a lovesick manner. His way with words was dangerously soft, it caused your spine to straighten up everytime. However , right now, your main focus was trying to understand his inability to move on. Your hair was simply your hair. There was no need to touch it, you didn’t need gross oils from his hands to mess it up, let alone ruin your edges. However, you just wondered about his obsession, was it truly about him loving your hair or was he just trying to annoy you. To be honest, it wasn’t the latter.

“You’re sick Suguru.”

“I believe I’m just fine, I’m only a man with specific needs, y/n” his words hid no lie, his scent pushing through your nostrils as he got even closer to you. Sometimes when you smell him, your mind goes blank. Suguru was a handsome man with a rough, sweet wood smell that would linger on. “But your needs are ridiculous. There’s no reason you should be begging to touch my damn hair. It ain’t gold.” Now it was just hilarious to you. Your little laugh might’ve been you giving in, maybe.

As a kid, you’ve known others that would treat you as if you were an animal in a petting zoo. Their nasty hands touching your curls, ruining the hairstyle just for the touches. It was about respect of all things, however the more you looked at it, the more you realized how unfair it was to Suguru. Your sensual natured lover respected every boundary you put up, and he never tried to jump it. He’s never really gotten a good feel of your hair in it’s natural state. He knew he couldn’t, but the opportunity he had now was gracious. Suguru knew he was quite sick for this, but he wanted to rule out what he could not do. Suguru wanted to feel the curl pattern, the texture, the soft strands of you.

While he had an underlying motive, it was merely about the love for your hair and getting closer to you. Suguru wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through the cloud like puff and hold tight. And whether he roughs it up or not, he would indeed spend as long as he has to so he could fix his mess ups. He just wanted one chance…

“I’d actually enjoy it if you taught me how to do your hair. If I agree to helping you do it, would you change your thoughts about keeping me away?” Suguru had such a light look on his face. His smile practically caressed you while his fingers gently intertwine with yours. He just needed one chance, one soft grab or a twirl. Selfish he was, but he cared little. Your beautiful facial features were attacking him right now, almost telling him how wrong and right he was.

His soft, romantic grip on your hand made your heart flutter. Let alone his sweet glances towards your curly, juicy ends. For some reason this moment between the two of you felt deeply intimate, sexually intimate. You didn’t know what it was, but Suguru’s eyes were looking very sultry.

“Maybe..” you blurted, giving into his looks. He tilted his head a bit, his flowy, jet black hair going with him. He had his hair out today, no hair tie restrictions, so his looks were now far from just a ten. “You know, the day you actually let me.. I won’t wash my hands for weeks..” Suguru playfully joked, his more humorous side sliding out as a smile was plastered onto his face. It really did bum him out, but he would never force you… even if he wanted to touch your hair badly. Even if he wanted to pull it during the most intense sex.. he just never did.

“You’re losing it…” you lightly laughed before the world kind of disappeared around you. It happened so quick, and Suguru was the only person, human, soul you could see. He leaned down , his tall frame overpowering but he pressed his forehead against yours. His silky hair tickled you just a tad. “That’s alright…” he whispered, and even if he did, his voice was still deep and rumbling. Your face was hot, especially when his lips ghosted against yours. That was the exact second you forgot why you even did your hair. You were supposed to go run errands with your friend.. that’s what was supposed to happen.

Unfortunately, Suguru had different plans. His lips pressed lovingly against yours, emitting a shiny spark. The world around you turned to static and his hands were the only thing you could feel other than his lips. Both your hands were against his, intertwining all your fingers. He had you locked and forbidden from leaving his grip. The sweet kiss was nothing but a distraction, but a good one nonetheless. You were so distracted by the soft lip bites and his naughty actions of sucking on your tongue that you didn’t notice he had gotten so close. His body was practically pushing against you while your back was seeping in the wall.

How did you even manage to get close enough to a wall?

Eventually you gasped, moving your head to the side to tell him you needed to breathe. But, Suguru took this as a nice little gesture of encouragement. Your neck was shown to the air, and his lips fluttered all around it.

“If you believe me to be crazy just because I want to touch your hair..you must never hear what else I’d want from you…” Suguru muttered this against your bronze skin, only having dreams of guiding you through sex with a fist full of curls. “Suguru…” you purred, feeling each touch of his lips. It made your pussy begin pulsing almost, your heart also beginning to pulse quicker.

“Suguruuu, I have to go.. lord- if I just let you touch it one time.. will you just drop it and let me go?” Your air was having a hard time staying in your lungs, his touches and his neediest actions ever were causing you to feel all mushy. He stopped his lips from caressing your skin only to pull away. His heart thumped hard and he almost lost his cool. He kind of widened his eyes but they softened into their usual state again. A warm feeling washed over him and the look in his eyes was almost pleading.

He said nothing. His hands unraveled from yours and he lifted one of them to trail up your arm. The soft feeling of it almost made you want to stay home, he seemed so desperate, he looked desperate. His eyes weren’t even on you anymore, the fondness in his eyes were directed towards your curls. He’s seen so many types of hair, loose curls.. tighter ones. He didn’t care if yours was either or, he knew the second his fingertips slipped onto a curl, he felt some harmony.

The texture was so soft yet so different from his own hair. This felt like how a perfect cloud plucked from the sky would feel like. His lanky fingers practically disappeared the way he slipped them into the depths of your puff.

“To think you’ve been keeping this feeling from me… how dare you..” Suguru said this lightly, almost flabbergasted at how much greater this actually was. He simply believed it would be soft. No, it was soft. it smelt so good , and he also noticed how your hair would appear shorter when in reality it was a bit longer than what your hair was showing now. He’d have to ask why..

“Suguru…” you muttered a bit, acting as if you didn’t enjoy it but who doesn’t enjoy someone running their fingers in your hair.. on your scalp, it was relaxing. Let alone his voice that began speaking praises. You told him sternly that it would only be one touch, but here you are letting him melt in the silence.

“Hm..?” he hummed, occupied but willing to listen to your words. But whatever it was, if it wasn’t to his liking he just knows he won’t listen now. Suguru was a man that truly wants what he wants, there’s no negotiation, and if there is, he’s lying. “You need to let me leave now..” you whispered, but all you received was Suguru’s fingers caressing the back of your hair, his darkly tinted eyes staring into yours.

“I refuse. That is only because I’d enjoy it if I got to play with your crown a little bit longer…” His words lingered like a sweet smell of cologne. His eyes peered into you as his forehead once again met yours. For some reason you just couldn’t decline. You couldn’t stop him nor your thoughts. The second you felt his fingers slip in your curls and a slight tug was made, you gasped. Your eyes widened and your body felt the urgent lust that infected you and your brain.

He just pulled at your hair.

Why did you like it? In that minuscule moment, you found yourself angry but lust took over. Pleasure took the cake. Every bit of naughty thought you had rushed to your clit, it tingled and pulsed. The pleasurable feeling in your lower stomach needed to be dealt with, and it was just unfortunate how this only occured because he pulled your hair. It was sensitive. Doing this showed dominance, he wanted you and your pretty hair in his grip. Could you blame the man?

“Sug-..”

“ Would you kiss me again…?” his soft breath was right on your lips, your eyes never left his, and his raven eyes never left yours. It’s moments like these where you could actually hear a pin drop.

Suguru behind doors was nothing but a man who would fein for the pretty lips on your face and the ones between your legs. He loved you dearly, and to get the opportunity to actually see your withering and your begging while he dug deep in you was like a dream. He needed you in many different ways. He had you right here, right in the palm of his hand. Your pathetic, gorgeous expression right there looking up at him.

Nothing more was said, only your hands moved to grip at his shirt, pulling him down slow to seal the kiss he begged for. It wasn’t rough, it was soft and mesmerizing. That was what he wanted, his hands having a fist full of your heavenly sent hair and his lips pressed against yours. He had it a few seconds ago but this was different.. he had you stuck and bound. Submissive, not weak but willing. The kiss was nasty, you took initiative to suck on his bottom lip, coercing a moan from him before his other hand slipped off into deeper netherlands. Your insides curled up, a soft moan slipping from your throat.

The feeling in your body was like how people explain how their body feels going down a steep hill in a car.

“Suguru please-..” you whispered, feeling his hand still gripping your pretty curls in the back of your head. His other hand was digging in your pants, the soft pads of his middle finger rolled around your pretty clit. He wanted to make you more needy for him just like how he was for you, but you were already leaking. Your thoughts and his sudden actions combined to cause the sudden need.

“You’re already drenched… What is it that you enjoyed, hm?” It was teasing for him to say that, still swiftly playing with the pink pearl in between your legs. You didn’t just become wet from anything, he knew it was something specific he did. “Was it… this?” He purred, gently yanking your hair back again. It gave you a yelp, but what intrigued Suguru was your pretty little moan that traveled afterwards. How come you would yell at him not to touch your hair but this is how you act when it comes down to him actually touching it?

Suguru’s blood rushed to his dick.

He had to contain his unruly excitement, but the hand that wasn’t deep in your hair was shaking. He pulled both his hands away, making you jolt in confusion and anxiousness…. even shame. Was Suguru grossed out? Was he repulsed by your actions? All but the correct things were flowing into your mind, so much that you tried rushing from his vicinity.. you had to get away from his nasty mind.

“Ah… you’ve lost your mind if you believe-..” Suguru stopped talking as he reached his light muscular arm out, simply grabbing your wrist before you got any further in the house. “-you can leave me now..”He gently, but firmly yanked you closer like a small doll.. he swiftly ran his hand back into your curls from behind. Yes, your hairstyle was beginning to be a little messed up. That was especially true as he pressed your face against the wall.. All you could feel was his grip tighten on your strands of hair as his lips pressed against your ears. He then patted your ass a little.

“Pull these down for me… I’ll pull your hair~. That’s what you’d like, yes?”

“That’s not true!”

Suguru had dealt with a friend that enjoyed going back and forth with him constantly. So your little pleas and clap backs weren’t enough for him to fully give in.

“If it’s not true, why did you look so pleased when I pulled your hair..?” Suguru whispered in your ear, causing it to tickle and your lower stomach tightened up. You were aching for some release, knowing that, your body had given up on you as well. Maybe you did like it, no, you did like it and maybe it’s just the way he did it. Either way, you needed it more. So, you ended up kicking your shoes off and pushing your pants down your gorgeous legs. You couldn’t think of being shamed, not when Suguru was behind you with a terribly hard cock. You could feel it.

“No response… is it that you’ve given in?” His words kind of stung, Suguru would always revel in being right and finally getting what he wanted. Watching you kick away your pants and press your hands against the wall made him warm. He slowly moved his other hand to your back, the back of his index finger running down your lower back before hooking onto your panties and pulling them to the side. He saw the slightly sticky substance in your underwear, he felt it too.

“So gorgeous. I’d ruin the earth if you were taken from me.” He said without one stutter, he was so serious. Your panties were off to the side, revealing all you had to offer. His knuckles kind of rubbed against your clit, causing a sound to emit from your throat. “Crazy-..” you were cut off by the pull of your hair. Breathing in sharply, you shut your mouth and actually listened to what was happening around you. You could hear the drop of his pants hitting the ground. You also could’ve sworn you heard the ridiculous sound of his cock hitting his skin. It was just that heavy.

“Talk to me about it..” Suguru hummed, watching your body adapt to what was happening. You knew you were going to get fucked, so you were spreading your legs just a tad bit.. he liked that realization.

“About what..” you hesitantly replied.

“Your hair.. Everything about it intrigues me.” He admitted, and it was obvious.. his hand never left it. Your back was permanently arched as of right now, as long as he was still grabbing most strands of hair. You can admit however, it was cute that he wanted to know about it. Your eyes were hazy, feeling his heavy cock on your perfect ass. It made you stutter. You had to think of something, anything that would be interesting to him..

“My hair likes to shrink. It can look much fluffier and it can be long but I’d have to stretch it with a blow drier.. right now it’s pretty stretched… but if water hits it it’ll get shorter again-… fuck..” you choked up a little at the end, an uncontrollable moan releasing from you as you felt your boyfriend’s cock just slip inside of you. Suguru had a darker tip color, his veins weren’t hiding and his balls were large. Even he had to hiss a bit from the way your pussy contracted around him.

“Fuck…” you whimpered again, your mind going blank before those fingers in your hair gripped tighter. “Keep talking, baby. Tell me about it..” he huskily whispered, his own face slightly contorted in pleasure once he was actually inside. His cock was all wet and he could feel each inch of your pink walls.

The sound it made when he bottomed out in your pussy was absolutely slutty. It gushed and made the most smuttiest noises. How could you even speak about any more of it? Your mind was like rust, it seemed like he was draining you of your knowledge only to be there and dumb with dick inside you.

“How am I going to fix your hair after this if you do not tell me how to do it..?” He firmly asked, his hips slowly moving back before snapping forward. Your breasts were pressed sharply against the wall, still covered by your shirt. But, your hair was completely messed up, all out of the puff it was just in. “B-But-…” you shakily moaned as your legs weakened. He had you by your hair, the smell of it now stuck on his hand.

He probably won’t wash it.

“L-Lots of water.. g-gotta brush the ends first..” you choked out, your neck slightly burning as Suguru pulled at your hair tighter. His cock was beginning to dig into your pussy over and over. He obviously just wanted you to keep talking because he knew he could make you do it.. besides, you sounded cute and he knew he would be punished if he didn’t fix your hair afterwards.

“What else do I need to know? I know I didn’t lose you already…”

Suguru watched how broken you were becoming, that’s all he wanted right now anyway. There was something about gaining access to your precious jewel, your crown. After the first touch, he knew he couldn’t just let go.. you didn’t want him to let go either.

ⓒ Monstas1ut, do not copy