#but never an outright collapse

[orlandospride]

appreciate being called the most rational uswnt fan lol, i promise it won't inflate my ego. a lot of it, i think, comes from the fact that soccer breached containment in the US last world cup. so a lot of people who've literally never played soccer and who don't really know anything beyond "US good" are suddenly commentating like they've got 30 years of experience. i played for 12 years, and watched soccer constantly in my down time. i can't comment on other countries but i feel like a lot of people who follow women's soccer in say Europe have similar experiences to mine. US fans were at least a bit more rational to a point while i was growing up watching, because you only knew about the league if you played. even then, a lot of people didn't know. around 2011, things started to take a turn to where we are now (i'm not getting on my shipping high horse), but it was still mostly focused on the soccer. now, the block button is my best friend lol.

in terms of vlatko, i don't really know what to say. i kind of avoid talking about the coaches because 90% of coaching is what we don't see. obviously, the subs thing is an issue, but i honestly don't know. i had coaches growing up who coached us through seasons where we lost everything. but that didn't mean they were bad coaches. one season, we literally only had 11 players, and that wasn't his fault. one season, our goalie got injured and we didn't have a back up. i also had shit coaches who coached us to a championship. the first thing i told this guy was that i was left footed, and it wasn't until our final game when he realized, in shock, that i was left footed. there's lots of stuff that goes on behind the scenes. everyone clowned on jill but she somehow won two world cups. we don't have any wingers right now. that's a problem. we don't have trained central defenders. that's a problem. i don't know what will happen to his job. on the one hand, US Soccer has made it very clear that you either win or you get the boot (see Tom Sermanni). on the other hand, they've also refused to fire coaches when players complained (see Jill Ellis). they also refused to pay Dawn Scott who was single-handedly the reason why we were dominant for so long in what i refuse to believe wasn't a political move (this happened during the second lawsuit). it's completely a toss up.

as you said, this is a positive for the US and soccer at large. i'm so excited to see new styles of soccer develop, i'm excited for a new team to win the cup. upsets are genuinely exciting. while losing to sweden wasn't necessarily an upset, there's been so much growth and new teams breaking records, this is so fucking exciting. the US has never been a super tactical team. we've had tactical players, but never as a team. for the longest time, our strategy was to just kick the ball as far down the field as possible and have alex morgan chase it down. simply put, the reason why we've been dominant for so long is because we were always bigger, stronger, and faster than the other teams but we can't do that anymore (see Dawn Scott). the US have never played the most beautiful or advanced soccer, we suck at passing, we don't defend properly at all, and we don't take proper first touches. i hope that this is the push that we need in order to move towards turning into the beautiful game. for now, i'm just hoping and praying that Nigeria beats England. every world cup that Jamaica has been a part of, i've wanted them to do well, and it's finally happening.

all i ask of US fans right now is to choose a team, follow that team, and watch the rest of the cup. after the cup, choose a club team or two, and follow that team. historically, women's soccer has had issues keeping viewership after the world cup and i'm really concerned that it's going to happen again. the US has one of the largest (or at least loudest) fan bases. please keep that energy going forward, i don't think that i can take another league collapse. when teams from other countries are fighting for their rights, be loud, don't let their federations steam roll them. you're allowed to be sad, i'm sad too, but please don't let women's soccer die out. also, please join me in my campaign in rooting for the US men to lose at the next man soccer world cup, and for Canada to win, simply because i think that it would be funny.

it probably is a little weird if you’re a (fairly) recent uswnt fan or don’t keep up with football outside of the us because the us has always been so successful. losing isn’t really in the vocabulary and we probably have all overestimated the amount of pressure it’s put on players for, literally, decades. expectations have always been sky high regardless whether it was realistic or not, and the bigger they are the harder they fall, etc. it sucks the us team will be going home to such hate though, especially since most of it is nothing to do with football at all

i don’t personally agree the us can’t really defend or pass, even if they could be better, but i do agree that fitness has been a major factor in success. they haven’t always been better, but they have always been able to run faster and for longer. so they were able to wear teams down…eventually. that’s not so much the case anymore

(i’m pretty neutral on jamaica, but it’s a cool story with the fundraiser and that, so hopefully it inspires them regardless. i hope nigeria beat england too)

i don’t think there should really be a concern for the state of women’s football overall though, right? women’s football post 2019 wwc has exploded, at least from my own experience in the u.k, it’s gone from strength to strength here. there’ll always be a drop off post wc, but there will also be those who stick around. every international tournament (generally) has a net gain. if doesn’t keep all viewers, but it does usually increase them from the pre-tournament. plus… women’s football is resilient 👊

[nursecat]

Bobby Nash - always looking for absolution.

(I’m so sure someone’s made a comparison like this before but it was so loud to me with this ep.)

[collapsing-sun]

do you think i am a boy?

does my eyeliner make me less of a boy?

when you tell your new friends about me, do you tell them i am a boy?

if we kissed would you feel like you were kissing a boy?

do you see me as a boy?

— ‘she’

[truly-quirkless]

@sinners-inc asked:

"there's nothing noble about working yourself to death." -DoYoung

[Workaholic Starters. | Accepting!]

"In my case, there is." Yagi was rather quick to respond in kind to the vigilante. He exhaled, rubbing his eyes before they slid over to DoYoung once more. He had two stacks of papers to grade on his desk, but that wasn't the source of his immense exhaustion. No, his tiredness came from all the Hero work he had continued to do in those spaces when he wasn't working on his teacher duties. Then again...those were pretty draining, too.

When was the last time he took a break?

His eyes snapped away. He didn't want to be seen as weak by anyone- but it seemed his soulmates had a habit of cropping up when he was at his low points.

"Besides- I can handle it." He coughed wetly, a fresh splatter of crimson painting his hand. The pain that accompanied it was a dull throb. An old annoyance he could easily ignore. He reached for the rapidly-depleting box of tissues beside his desk, and wiped off his hand before picking his pen back up.

[lovelyghst]

just imagine ghost getting his Jacob's ladder piercing while he's dating you and after it's healed yall have sex for the first time and it's just like sensory overload

i know absolutely nothing about piercings, but this idea is simply too good to pass up. my brain is melting.

hmmm, thinking about ghost who, despite not being able to properly get off himself, is still so attentive to his sweet girl throughout the whole healing process; offering you his mouth and fingers whenever he notices your focus beginning to drift off and shift elsewhere, having you rub yourself up on his jean-clad thigh when you can’t seem to shake the burst of energy.

because while you never outright asked him for anything of the kind, he just knew.

and even if you were the one so insistent on following the piercer’s advice—taking each and every precaution possible in avoiding the risks that simon shrugged off as ‘not gonna happen.’—you still felt bad. though, he couldn’t resist your stern pouting for long, turning weak the moment you cocked your head and promised him a sweet treat when he’s all healed up.

so, of course, ‘whatever you say, doll.’

anything to put your pretty mind at ease. he is a soldier, after all. he can wait, even if it kills him. it got pretty damn close to it, too.

which is what makes the first time back so fucking good. that reunion, and the return of that glimmering look you get in your eyes every other time he presses his pink lips to your collar and gently hikes you up the mattress after a long time away.

and truthfully, he was done in the moment you tapped him on his shoulder and told him to guess what day it was.

“shit, baby—” he grits out with a heavy breath, eyes trained on your own as he watches you reverently lick up the underside of his cock. your fingers tighten around the base when his abs pull taut, tongue gliding over the cool metal.

taking your time in feeling each and every barbell leading to the tip, making him twitch in your hand at the hot and wet drag over his sensitive skin. a heavy breath seeps from his lungs, his jaw clenching as he fights to hold off. jesus, you’re too good to him.

a sweet fucking treat, indeed.

you giggle before taking the head of him between your swollen, spit-stained lips, reveling in the quick hiss he sucks in through his teeth as you whine at the familiar taste of his pre leaking onto your tongue. your other hand slips up his thigh while you squeeze your own together, your freshly done-up nails leaving little, pink crescent shapes in his thick skin.

“fuck— not gonna last ‘f you keep that up,” he warns, a struggle in and of itself, and it’s an utter miracle he doesn’t collapse to the floor when you only hollow your cheeks and suck in response. he hardly manages to stifle an embarrassingly whorish moan at that.

god, you look so pretty down there, on your knees for him. so fucking debauched, and so, so perfect.

the way your thumb toys with the piercings as you have your own fun, and how you preen in his hold like a sweet cat when he slips a hand to the back of your neck. he’s going to miss it when he forces himself to pull you away, frowning at the pout you give him as he’s lifting you off your feet and carrying you over to your bed.

“’m sorry, sweetheart… just too fuckin’ pretty for yer old man anymore— didn’t want it t’go to waste.”

he kisses your temple, mumbling his apologies in your hair. you hardly even register your bare back making contact with your sheets, so wrapped up in his hold, before he’s kissing his way down your neck.

“wanna fill yer pretty cunt,” he murmurs, and it’s nearly incoherent as his lips press against your racing pulse point. “make ‘er cum ‘round my cock… know y’missed it too, sweet girl. a proper fuck…”

he’s talking more to himself than anything, and a small gasp from you follows soon after when his arm is snaked between your bodies and his fingertips make contact with your swollen, little clit. won’t even stretch you out with his fingers; he’s had his fill of that over the course of the last month. let him feel how much you missed his cock.

“poor thing’s soaked f’me, baby.” he groans as he adjusts on his forearm and regains his bearings, dick twitching against your thigh with every noise squeaked out from your throat. “cunt’s gonna take me just right, lovie… so fuckin’ well…”

he rambles a lot when he’s needy, you’ve come to learn.

you whine when his hand leaves you to take his cock in a fist, your nails digging into his chest and shoulder when he presses the head to your messy pussy. just the tip in and you’re already seeing stars, the shared moan between the two of you raw and pornographic.

he’s gritting out his swears before you try to shush his dirty mouth with a kiss, and he accepts it greedily, almost too eagerly.

your body reacts to his, simultaneously craving more and trying to wiggle away from the overwhelming sensation all at once. your brain is fuzzy by the time he’s nearly bottoming out inside you, ears deaf to the unabashed sounds spilling from your lips as the feeling of his fresh piercings dragging against your every sweet spot burns itself into your memory.

and before you can catch your breath, a thumb is being pressed up against your sensitive bud once again, your legs constricting around him involuntarily as you jolt with a cry. heat prickles at your skin, his teeth at your jaw making your spine tingle.

he’s telling you to cum, begging you to make a mess of his cock.

his hand picks up its pace, hips grinding against yours sloppier than ever as he pleads right up against your temple for you to use him, just finish him off, fucking cum for him.

you squeeze around his cock like a vice and pull him straight under with you, arms locked tight around his neck as your pretty cunt utterly wrecks him. making him throb and twitch, fucking himself dumb through his high and wringing him dry of everything he’s kept pent up for you. at least for now, anyway.

his and your panting rings out in the room as he sits back on his knees, his cock still hard as he gently pulls out of you. watching his pearly cum bead from your slit, your chest gradually slowing down within the time he takes to drool over the sight of you.

it’s not long before simon has you laying on your tummy with your head in the soft sheets, a pillow slipped underneath your hips to prop you up. not making you do an ounce of work as he uses your warm, pliant cunt as his sweet cum dump for hours on end.

fucking you gently, lovingly, all while trying his best to keep his weight off your back. he kisses behind your ear, cooing praises and choked grunts that make your tummy flutter with butterflies. you can only giggle into the pillow nestled in your arms as he makes up for all the lost time.

filling you with load after load, the number becoming lost on your fuzzy mind after a certain amount, until your belly is achingly full and his cock is numb from overstimulation. only to coax you onto your back, easing your limp legs apart to watch his cum leak from your pretty hole. pressing a flat palm to your lower tummy, sighing in time with your strangled noises as your sensitive pussy drips more of his spend. leaning forward and licking it all up like some starved mutt; groaning at the taste, arms tightening around your hips as he eats his mess out of his pretty girl.

[yourlocalmushroom]

The Amulet

dpxdc

Damian was nine when his brother died.

Danny had been twelve—older, taller, faster. Wiser, even. At least, that’s how Damian had always seen him. He was the one who ruffled his hair when he was annoyed, the one who taught him the best way to land a hit when sparring. The one who, even in their grandfather’s suffocating world, still managed to make Damian laugh.

And then, one day, he was gone.

Not just gone—erased.

By the time the grief had settled like dust over his shoulders, Ra’s al Ghul had made sure no trace of Danny remained. No files. No photographs. Not even a whisper in the League’s archives. It was as if he never existed.

But Damian remembered.

And he had the amulet.

A small, smooth crystal set into a metal frame, strung on a fine, worn chain. Danny had pressed it into Damian’s palm the night before he disappeared, closing his fingers around it like a secret.

“Keep it close, Dami. No matter what happens—don’t lose this. Promise me.”

Damian kept that promise. Through every sparring match, every mission, every moment he stood as Robin beside his father. He wore it beneath the collar of his suit, hidden but always present. When the world felt heavy, the amulet reminded him he hadn’t imagined it all—hadn’t imagined Danny.

And over time… it started doing more than that.

At first, it was just a feeling—a presence. Every time Damian found himself in danger, the amulet would glow, just barely, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t think much of it. Probably just a trick of the light.

But then the near-misses started.

A blade that should have sliced through his side—dodged at the last second. A bullet meant for his skull—tilted just an inch to the right. A collapsing beam during a mission—falling just shy of crushing him.

Every time, the amulet pulsed, and the next moment, he would move—without thinking, without reason. It wasn’t skill. It wasn’t luck.

It was something else.

And the family noticed.

Bruce had narrowed his eyes every time, watching him with the same calculating look he used when analyzing evidence. Tim had outright asked if he was cheating death. Even Jason—who didn’t believe in magic or miracles—had muttered something about the brat being “too damn lucky.”

Something was wrong.

But then, the real nightmare began.

It started like a whisper—stories of strange phenomena, ripples in reality, beings phasing in and out of existence in small towns and quiet corners of the world. Then the whispers turned into chaos. Entire cities blinked through moments of freezing cold, electronics failed, shadows moved when they shouldn’t.

The Justice League investigated.

What they found wasn’t a rogue metahuman, but an open wound in the fabric of their dimension—and something trying to crawl through it.

Ghosts. Entities. Creatures that bent light and space, beings of ectoplasmic energy that grew restless, aggressive. Some were merely curious. Others were cruel.

And they were looking for someone.

“The King,” one of them rasped through Zatanna’s containment ward. “He is here. We can feel him. His heart beats in this world once more.”

The JL pressed for answers. The ghosts spoke of a kingdom—the Infinite Realms—a place of dimensions layered like veils. Their king had fallen, and now the throne trembled beneath the feet of a usurper. The war had spilled over into this reality in search of the one who might reclaim it.

The king, they said, had been reborn.

But time was running out.

In the weeks that followed, the world became a battlefield. The League, the Titans, the Bat-family—all fought with everything they had. Cities were scarred. Skies turned green under rifts of swirling ectoplasm. And still, the invaders came, stronger, bolder.

Until one night, Damian found himself face-to-face with death again.

He’d leapt in front of a civilian—reckless, impulsive, the way he always was when his blood ran too hot. The specter’s blade moved too fast.

There was no time to dodge.

But the amulet around his neck blazed to life.

Light burst outward in a pulse that made the air shatter. The ghost reeled back, howling in agony, while every other entity across the battlefield froze. A shockwave rippled through them—not of force, but of recognition.

And fear.

Every spectral eye turned toward Damian.

The king is here.

Some screamed in fury. Others dropped their weapons and fled. Those who lingered felt the surge of power that poured from the boy—not his own power, but something ancient, something buried deep in the amulet that now burned white-blue against his chest.

Everything stopped.

The ghosts froze, eyes wide with horror.

"The King," one of them whispered.

Damian barely registered it.

The energy surged through him, crackling under his skin, pulsing with something ancient and vast. He could hear voices—distant, echoing, familiar. The ground trembled beneath him, and for the first time, the invaders fled.

The war was over.

And Damian collapsed.

The League called an emergency summit in the days that followed. Damage had been widespread, but miraculously, there were no major civilian casualties. As cities began to rebuild, questions remained. Chief among them: What exactly had happened?

Robin sat in the meeting chamber, surrounded by the most powerful beings on Earth, saying nothing. His fingers drifted toward his chest—only to find nothing there.

The amulet was gone.

His breath caught, just slightly.

The warmth that had always been there—the anchor to his brother, the quiet hum of protection—it was gone.

Panic swelled in his throat before he even realized he was standing. The conversation around him blurred. Someone called after him, but he was already halfway down the hall, footsteps echoing through marble and steel.

He burst through the balcony doors, heart hammering—and stopped.

The sky was clear. The stars shimmered like tiny mirrors.

And there, leaning against the railing, arms folded, gaze turned upward… was Danny.

Whole. Real. Alive.

He hadn’t aged a day.

The same snow-silver eyes. The same wild black hair that defied gravity. That same presence Damian had only remembered in fragments, in dreams.

Danny turned at the sound of footsteps. His expression softened.

“Hey, Dami.”

Damian felt like the world had shifted beneath his feet.

Danny’s voice was exactly the same. Not older. Not changed. As if he had never left.

"You grew."

The words were soft, fond.

Damian’s breath came sharp and uneven. His body screamed at him to move, to do something—to attack, to demand answers, to hit Danny for making him think he was dead.

But he couldn't move.

Because suddenly, that warm thing in his chest, the one he had ignored for years, the one that had flared to life when he had blown out the candle that morning—

It broke open.

Flooded through him like fire and light, grief and relief, memory and something else—something too big to name.

He had spent years pretending he didn’t feel the ache. Years telling himself it didn’t matter. That his brother had been erased. That he was alone.

And yet, here he was.

Standing in the moonlight. Smiling at him.

Danny existed.

The amulet—the core—had never just been a memory.

It had been Danny.

Waiting.

Returning.

And Damian didn’t know what to do with that.

So he did nothing.

Just stared.

Just breathed.

And Danny just smiled.

Like he had never been gone at all.

[himasgod]

Where you are an artist

HOUSEWARDENS X READER

How would the housewards react if they realized that the person they love can't stop sketching and drawing about them…

leona, riddle, azul, kalim, vil, idia and malleus.

I lost the original request message, so I had to take a screenshot, sorry :(, I hope you like it!

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, when Riddle discovers your notebook full of his sketches, he doesn't know what to think. He's embarrassed to the core, but also… something warm ignites in his chest.

He's aware that he's the center of attention in Heartslabyul, but he never imagined that you, of all people, would focus on him so much.

When he looks through the drawings, he realizes you've captured moments no one else would: his calm expression when he reads, the way he elegantly holds his teacup, the sparkle in his eyes when he gives an order with conviction.

"Why do you draw me so much?"

He asks with a mixture of disbelief and shyness, unable to look at you directly.

If you tell him that you simply like to draw what you consider beautiful, Riddle falls completely silent.

His ears turn red, and he presses his lips together in a failed attempt to hide his emotion.

From that day on, he begins to notice you more.

He wonders if you're observing him at that moment, if you're storing his gestures in your memory to later capture them on paper.

And when, on a quiet afternoon, he works up the courage to ask you if you can take a formal portrait of him, you realize there's more to his gaze than simple curiosity.

There's a desire to be seen by you, always.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona quickly notices your habit of drawing him.

At first, he pretends not to care, but in reality, every time he notices he's your recurring model, his ego inflates a little more.

When he finally glances at your sketches, his expression is unreadable. It's not just that you draw him a lot, it's the way you draw him.

His features look relaxed, even serene in some illustrations. Is that how you see him?

"Tch. Why do you keep staring at me so much?"

He asks with a crooked smile, eyeing you with interest.

If you dare tell him you like the way he looks, or that you enjoy capturing his essence, Leona leans dangerously close to you.

"If you love drawing me so much, you should do it in person." "You could sit next to me while I sleep. It saves me the trouble of you spying on me."

It's his way of telling you that he doesn't mind you watching him, that somehow, he enjoys being the center of your attention.

Since then, every time he sees you drawing, he throws out comments like

"Make sure you capture my best angle." "If you do a portrait of me, I want it in my room"

He doesn't say it outright, but he loves the fact that you only have eyes for him.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is a businessman. He knows that his image is crucial, that people look at him with admiration or distrust.

But when he sees your drawings, he's speechless. It's not the calculated image he always projects; it's him, at his most natural.

In your sketches, you captured him smiling contentedly after a successful deal, losing himself in thought while reading, taking off his glasses with a tired sigh.

"This… is quite unexpected"

If you confess that you simply enjoy drawing him because you like the way he looks, Azul covers his mouth with his hand to hide the trembling of his lips.

"Ah… I see. How interesting."

But he can't stop thinking about it. You look at him in a way no one else has.

One day, without warning, he approaches you and places a cup of tea beside you.

"If you're going to draw me… do it now. I want to see how you do it."

It's not a demand. It's his way of asking you to keep looking at him, to keep your gaze on him.

Kalim Al-Asim

When Kalim discovers you've been filling pages with his drawings, he nearly collapses with excitement.

He doesn't understand why you would want to hide it; to him, this is wonderful.

"Wait, wait! Does that mean you look at me a lot? That's adorable!"

Unlike the other housewardens, he doesn't try to hide his happiness. On the contrary, he shows it with all his might.

"This makes me so happy! Can I keep one of your drawings? I'll frame it in my room!"

When you explain that you didn't mean for him to know, Kalim just laughs and waves his hand.

"Why not?! If you like me enough to draw me like that, then you should know that I really love you too!"

It's the most natural and sincere confession in the world.

From that day on, every time he sees you with your notebook, he approaches you with a big smile.

"Are you going to draw me today too? Let me pose for you!"

For Kalim, the fact that you portray him so lovingly means only one thing: your feelings for him are as great as his feelings for you.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil immediately realizes that you've been drawing him. He's an expert at noticing glances, at reading subtle gestures… and your gaze on him is something that hasn't gone unnoticed.

One day, when he happens to look through your notebook, he stops. He didn't expect to find entire pages filled with his sketches.

Each stroke is rendered with stunning delicacy, as if each line seeks to precisely capture his essence.

"My, my… So you've been watching me with such devotion"

He says with a satisfied smile, but his eyes sparkle.

When he confronts you about it, he looks you straight in the eye.

"Tell me, darling, why are you so obsessed with me?"

If you tell him you admire him because he's beautiful, Vil smiles, pleased.

But if you tell him you draw him because you want to capture his true essence, beyond the perfect image he shows the world, his expression changes.

"Hmph… So that's what you see in me"

He whispers, touching his lips with his fingers.

For the first time in a long time, someone has looked beyond the public image of Vil Schoenheit.

Since that day, every time you draw, Vil approaches you naturally.

"If you want to portray my beauty, at least let me pose for you properly,"

He says elegantly, but deep down, he wants you to continue seeing only him.

Until one day, he leans into your ear and whispers,

"If you've already fallen so deeply for me, why don't you admit it? Show me that your obsession with me goes beyond the limits of your notebook…"

Idia Shroud

Idia never thought anyone would find him worthy of being drawn, much less someone like you.

When he accidentally discovers your notebook full of his sketches, he panics completely.

"T-THIS IS A SYSTEM ERROR, THIS CAN'T BE REAL!"

He flips through it with trembling hands and realizes you've drawn things he never thought anyone would notice.

His hair illuminated by the screen in the dark.

The way his fingers move precisely on the keyboard.

His calm expression when he's focused on a game.

"What is this? Why did you do it? Is this some cruel joke from Fate's RNG?"

If you tell him you just enjoy drawing him because you like him, his hair turns completely pink in a second.

"S-Stop saying things like that, my emotional HP is at 1!"

From that day on, every time he sees you drawing, he gets nervous, but also happy :>

Until one day, between mumbles, he whispers to you

"Hum, if you like watching me so much… then… does that mean you like me…?"

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is used to people looking at him with fear or respect… but never with the warmth reflected in your drawings.

When he finds your notebook by chance and sees so many of his sketches, he falls silent for a moment.

The shadows of the night envelop him, but you have captured him with light.

His serene expression when he gazes at the stars.

The melancholy in his eyes when he walks alone through campus.

The gentleness with which he touches a gargoyle.

"That's how you see me…"

He murmurs, a strange feeling of warmth in his chest.

When he mentions it to you, it's not with mockery or embarrassment, but with genuine curiosity.

"Tell me, little artist… why do you watch me so much?"

If you tell him you simply enjoy drawing him because you find him fascinating, Malleus smiles gently.

"So… if you enjoy watching me, would you like to spend more nights with me?"

From that day on, Malleus becomes your personal model, letting you draw him while he tells you stories of ancient times in Briar Valley.

And when, one day, on a stormy night, he asks you in a low voice:

"Is this the destiny you have chosen? To look only at me, in all my facets?"

You will know that Malleus Draconia has already fallen head over heels for you.

[jellofish-plant]

Rest in Red

Pairing: Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Reader

Summary: Sleeping next to Jason Todd is never boring. From his protective instincts to his late-night vulnerability, every night with him is an unpredictable mix of comfort, restlessness, and quiet love. Whether he’s pulling you closer in his sleep, mumbling sweet nothings without realizing it, or fighting his own inner demons, one thing is certain Jason sleeps best when he’s with you.

[Masterlist]

Sleeping Headcanons with Jason Todd x Reader

Big Spoon Energy:  Jason loves being the big spoon. He won’t say it outright, but holding you close makes him feel grounded. Even on nights when he’s restless, having you in his arms calms him down.

Restless Sleeper: Thanks to his past (and, let’s be real, his terrible sleep schedule), Jason doesn’t sleep deeply. He tosses and turns a lot, and if he’s had a bad night, he might wake up in a cold sweat. But the moment you reach for him, he relaxes almost instantly.

Protective Even in Sleep: His arms are always around you, even unconsciously. If you move, he tightens his hold slightly, as if making sure you’re still there. If he senses any kind of disturbance (like a weird noise outside), he’s alert in seconds, ready to protect you.

Sleeps Better With You: Before you, Jason was used to sleeping alone or barely sleeping at all. Now? The bed feels empty without you. If you’re not there, he either stays up waiting or texts you to come back ASAP.

Mumbling in His Sleep: If he’s in a deep sleep, Jason sometimes mumbles. It’s usually just low, incoherent grumbles, but on rare occasions, you’ll catch him murmuring your name or telling you he loves you without even realizing it.

Forehead Kisses Before Sleep: No matter how tired he is, Jason always presses a lazy kiss to your forehead before drifting off. It’s his silent way of saying, I love you, and I’m glad you’re here.

Late-Night Talks: Some nights, neither of you can sleep, so you just lay there, whispering about anything and everything. Jason opens up the most during these moments, sharing thoughts he wouldn’t say in the daylight.

Mornings Are a Struggle: Jason is not a morning person. If you try to get up early, he’ll groan, pull you back into his arms, and mumble, “Five more minutes.” (Five minutes actually means an hour.)

Post-Mission Crashes: After a long night as Red Hood, Jason sometimes just collapses into bed with you, too exhausted to move. You’ll have to help him take off his boots or jacket, and he’ll murmur a soft, “You’re the best,” before immediately passing out.

Nightmares & Comfort: Jason’s past still haunts him, and sometimes he wakes up in a panic. When that happens, he grips onto you like you’re his lifeline. If you run your fingers through his hair and whisper soothing words, he’ll calm down, murmuring a quiet “Thanks, babe” before falling back asleep.

Unexpected Softness: For someone so tough and battle-worn, Jason is incredibly soft when he sleeps. His breathing evens out, his usually furrowed brows relax, and his grip on you becomes gentle. It’s one of the only times he truly looks at peace.

tag list:

@a-brilliante-mariposa

[mariasont]

hey girlie, first of all absolutely adore all of your hotchie fics no one writes him as well as you do!! second of all i am dying to read bimbo!assistant! x hotch smuuuutt (only if ur comfortable, pls ignore if not!!) i feel like that would be the only time hotch would have her completely and utterly speechless (idk why but i literally cannot get hotch w a breeding kink out of my goddamn mind!!!!!!) anyways hope ur having a fab day, and thank u for feeding us over the last few days 😘

Space Between Distraction & Indulgence - A.H

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader want’s aaron’s attention. aaron wants to finish his case notes. too bad for him, you always get what you want

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit stuff going on here, fingering, p in v, no condom (bc we trust hotch is responsible but you shouldn’t be), dirty talk, hotch is a boob man sorry not sorry, after care with a side of psychoanalysis bc he can’t help himself

wc: 6k (got a little carried away my b)

a/n: thank u sm for requesting ugh!!!! u all r going to give me a god complex if you keep talking about how i write hotch LOLOL i love u sm hope u like the fic!!

Saturdays with Aaron had a way of making time feel like something slippery and golden, something you could almost touch before it vanished between your fingers. The mornings stretched long and languid, a lazy kind of indulgence that should have felt endless, but somehow, with him, it never was.

You woke up late. Very late. The kind of late that made you blink at the clock in mild disbelief before flopping back against the pillows. And then there was the warmth. Not just the heat of the blankets, but something deeper, something winding low in your belly.

Oh. Right. The dream. You swallowed, biting your lip as if that might make the memory dissipate. It wasn't outright filthy, but it had been suggestive enough. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing. It was the kind of thing that made you wish Aaron was still in bed.

He wasn't, of course. That would require Aaron Hotchner to do something reckless and irresponsible, like relax. If he wasn't keeping the country from total collapse, he was finding something equally as urgent to fix, probably buried in reports right now, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the page like national security depended on it. And maybe it did. You didn't know.

What you did know was that you'd been circling him all afternoon, orbiting like some needy little planet trapped in his gravitational pull, and he still hadn't acknowledged you. A small part of you, one you didn't want to name, had hoped he'd notice you by now. That he'd glance up, see you, reach for you. But he hadn't. And that was okay. Really. You weren't needy. You weren't desperate.

But you noticed him. You always noticed him. And this version of him, the weekend version, was particularly hard to ignore. The casual clothes, casual for him, anyway, stomped all over your ability to think straight (not that you had much to concentrate on in the first place).

The grey crewneck he had on stretched across his shoulders, molding to the shape of him like it had been made for him. His jeans, worn in all the right places, settled on his hips in a way that made you feel like a pervert just by looking.

Even his hair had you practically drooling. Not messy, of course — Aaron Hotchner didn't do messy — but it was softer than usual, a little mussed, like he'd dragged his fingers through it one too many times without bothering to fix it.

It made him look almost touchable, like someone who should have been stretched out next to you on the couch, letting you mess it up even more, not hunched over a pile of paperwork like the case files were going to disappear if he blinked.

His forearms flexed every time he turned a page, his muscles shifting subtly every time he moved. You didn't even realize how blatantly you were staring until his fingers skimmed up to his jaw, scratching absently at the stubble there. Because now all you could think about was how it would feel under your fingertips, under your lips, under — okay. Enough.

The magazine in your lap was technically open, fingers flipping through glossy pages filled with designer gowns and scandalous headlines. Normally, you'd be all over it, sipping coffee as you devoured the who wore what and who was caught with who. But today, you weren't really reading, you were just holding it, turning pages for the sake of it. Something to occupy your hands while you definitely didn't stare at Aaron.

He had started keeping these around after you mentioned, offhandedly, how much you loved them. You hadn't even meant it as a suggestion, but the next time you visited, there it was, sitting on the coffee table like it had always been there.

He hadn't spared you so much as a glance since you walked in, not even when you'd practically drifted past his desk, close enough that he should've felt you there. He had mumbled a good morning, sure, but his eyes never left the page, his attention locked onto whatever was in that file.

You sigh, loudly. Pointedly. The kind of exaggerated little huff that normally earns you at least a glance, maybe even a what's the matter, sweetheart? There was no reaction today. He just flipped another page, one hand smoothing over the text, the other tapping against the desk like you were completely invisible.

You toss the magazine onto the table, just a little too hard. Then you stretch out on the couch, shifting just enough that his button-down rides up, baring more of your thighs than should be considered decent. The air against your skin makes you hyperaware of what isn't there, only your favorite panties. The tiniest scrap of fabric between you and absolute obscenity. If he so much as glanced in your direction, he'd have the perfect view. But he doesn't.

You sigh again, softer this time, just enough to sound absentminded, like you're not trying to get his attention (even though you absolutely are). As you push yourself off the couch, you stretch a little, giving yourself an extra moment to watch him. You make your way toward him, steps slow, letting the hem of his shirt brush against the tops of your thighs as you move. His fingers flex against the page.

You settle against the edge of his desk, bracing yourself on your elbows, making a very intentional point of pressing your tits together. It's the kind of thing that should be subtle, just a natural consequence of your posture.

Months of Aaron have taught you more than just the way he takes his coffee or how he organizes his files. You've studied him, memorized him even. And one thing has become crystal clear:

He's absolutely a boob man.

You realized it gradually, the subtle stiffening of his posture whenever you leaned a little too close in the office, the way his fingers flexed when your blouse had just a bit too much give.

Then, when you started dating, it became even clearer. His hands never just grabbed, they claimed, like he was making up for all the times he couldn't touch.

His voice would go low, reverent, when he murmured, so pretty, sweetheart, his thumb brushing over your skin like he needed to feel it. And your bras, he had thoughts about those, much to your surprise. Which ones were his favorite. Which ones he hated because they got in the way.

But it wasn't until months later, when he had you spread out beneath him, his mouth hot and urgent against your skin, that he admitted it. His voice was rough, breathless, his grip tightening as he groaned, been trying so fucking hard not to look at these for years. And then, just to prove it, his mouth sealed over you like he had years to make up for.

"Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Maybe lunch?"

His eyes lift — quick, practiced, almost indifferent.

Almost.

Because before they settle back down, they pause, just for a fraction of a second, right there. Right at the collar of his button-down, where the top buttons are hanging loose, where your skin is warm and soft and practically begging for attention.

But then, before you can revel in it, he's already looking back down. "No, I'm fine, sweetheart."

You bite your lip, actually contemplating throwing his stupid case file out the window. He's either knows what you're trying to accomplish and ignoring you on purpose or he's just that focused. You weren't sure which was worse.

You shove off the desk, but you don't step away. Instead, you step closer. Your hands find his shoulders first, sliding down to his chest as you lean into him, pressing against his back. The shift is immediate. He goes still, his spine going ramrod straight, like his brain has just caught up to what's happening.

Your shirt is paper-thin, your nipples are pressed right against him, and unless he's suddenly gone completely numb, he feels it.

You sink against him, letting your chin rest on his shoulder, breathing him in. Gods, he smells good. Clean, sharp, like something expensive.

You recognized it as the cologne you bought him. The one you picked, the one you dabbed on his wrist in the middle of a department store and grinned, telling him, This. This smells like you. This is the one.

Your fingers skim over his collar, your nails just barely catching against the heat of his skin.

"What are you working on?" You let the question drip from your lips, your voice all honey, sweet, but not innocent.

Aaron hums low in his throat. "Case notes."

"That's boring. Is there anything I can do to help? Your assistant is very willing to be of service."

His fingers pause and your stomach flips. But then, before you can savor it, he moves. His hand finds yours, lifting it with patience. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, featherlight, frustratingly  chaste, before setting your hand back down like you're some good little thing that's been successfully pacified. And then you catch it, the tiniest twitch of his lips.

"Thank you, honey, but I've got it under control."

You make a noise, half scoff, half petulant whine, and shift your chin against his shoulder, angling yourself just enough to shoot him a pointed glare.

"You always say that. What's the point of having such a capable assistant if you're not going to use her?"

"Hmm. So that's what you want? For me to use you?"

"I don't know. Is that an option?"

Aaron's laugh is low, the kind that rumbles through his chest without much warning. It's never loud, it doesn't have to be, but it still manages to send your stomach into a ridiculous free-fall.

"There's just some stuff I need to finish up."

You groan, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder, arms squeezing around him like you can physically hold his attention. Like you can will it away from the pages in front of him and back to you where it belongs.

"Is that your way of telling me I just have to sit here and be patient?"

Aaron's pen doesn't pause. "Mhm."

You huff. "And you think I'll be able to do that?"

His answer is immediate. Too immediate.

"You've survived this long," he says, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I think you'll manage."

"Fine," you say after a moment, stepping around the chair before sinking into his lap, giving him plenty of time to stop you, but he doesn't. He never does.

You shift until you're settled, one leg draped over his, chest brushing his. His breath stutters — just a little, just enough to tell you that he feels you. His fingers flex against the desk, pressing harder into the wood, tension rolling through his back as he goes perfectly still beneath you, like he's waiting to see what you'll do next.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you hum, arms draping easily over his shoulders as you sink against him. Your cheek brushes his, lips just close enough that if he turned his head, just a little, you'd be right there. "You said you had to finish working. Don't let me stop you."

A slow inhale, a slight tilt of his head, then his pen moves again, like nothing's changed. Like you haven't changed anything.

You exhale against his skin, hiding your smirk in the crook of his neck, fingers idly tracing slow, featherlight circles along the nape of it.

He's humoring you, and that's fine.

You let him pretend for a while, content to exist in the space between distraction and indulgence. You shift in his lap, weight pressing into his just enough.

His body reacts before he does, muscles tightening, his breath slowing like he's thinking too hard about not reacting.

"Sit still."

"I am still," you reply, the words light on your tongue, but the slow curve of your hips tells another story.

"Sweetheart."

You lean in, close enough that your noses brush, your forehead pressing to his as your lips part ever so slightly. "What? I'm not doing anything."

Aaron's breath comes out sharp, ragged, the sound scraping its way from his throat like he's been holding onto it for too long.

His chest pushes against yours, every inhale pressing you closer, every exhale heating the space between you. He leans back, just enough to create the smallest sliver of distance.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, savoring the friction that sends a shudder through you, tightening every muscle in your body with anticipation. The feeling sparks through you, sharp and intoxicating, sending heat pooling in your stomach.

His gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to where your bodies fit together, the rise and fall of your breath syncing with his.

His hands land on your hips, thumbs pressing in, not enough to stop you, just enough to remind you he could if he wanted to. When his eyes meet yours again, there's no rush, no immediate reaction. You knew exactly what it meant and what usually followed, he was just waiting for the moment you tip the scales too far.

"Do you want to tell me what exactly it is you're trying to do?" he asks, his voice low, the kind of tone that makes you forget your own name for a second.

You push against him again, grinding just enough to feel the press of him, the heat of him, and god. Your fingers curl into his shirt, and suddenly, you can't remember what your original plan was.

You shift forward, your body molding to his, your breath fanning against his skin as your lips brush his ear.

"I'm just feel a little... overlooked." Your fingers tighten where they rest, nails digging in to make sure he feels it. "Is it so bad that I want your attention?"

His grip tightens, harder this time, his fingers digging into your hips with a kind of warning you'd be stupid to ignore. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, scorching into your skin like a brand.

"You have my attention." You don't believe him. Not really. You press your lips into a pout, brow furrowing just slightly. "But if you keep moving like that, I might now be so nice about it."

Your hips shift, an instinctive little squirm, testing to see if you can push past his hold. You can't. "I can't help it."

"You can't help it?" he repeats, almost thoughtful, like he's turning the idea over in his mind. "I think you can. You just don't want to."

You want to argue, you really do, but nothing comes out, only a sharp inhale that never quite makes it into words. Because he's right. He knows he's right.

The little noise that escapes your throat is purely instinctual, frustrated but breathy, like your body is already conceding before your mind catches up.

"I told you to stop," he murmurs. He mirrors you, crowding in, his breath skimming your ear. His palm presses into the small of your back, slotting you back into place. "But you don't listen, do you?"

You shake your head without even meaning to, the deafening roar of your pulse making it impossible to think clearly.

"No, you don't," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower, turning darker, more intimate. His hands flex as if to remind you of the control he holds. Then his lips graze your jaw, his breath fanning over your skin. "You push. You test the boundaries. And then you pretend to be shocked when I hold you to them."

His fingers slide down, dragging over your thigh with an almost excruciating slowness. He pauses to squeeze there.

"First, you sprawled out on the couch —" his thumb sweeps over your skin, "like you didn't know exactly how that would look."

Your breath stutters, catches, knots itself into something tangled and messy as his hand moves, sliding higher, pressing firmer, stopping just shy of where the ache blooms.

His eyes darken, the heat behind them smoldering with something deep, something that settles like fire in the pit of your stomach.

"Then you leaned over my desk, practically shoving these —" His hand moves before the words fully land, cupping the curve of your breast. His thumb rolls over your nipple. "— right in my face."

Your breath catches, your hips lifting, your thighs parting like you're meant to be touched. Like you need him there. But he doesn't give in. He just moves lower, slow and taunting, until his palm covers the heat between your legs, pressing lightly over the thin fabric of your panties.

His fingers flex, testing. Feeling.

"And now this," he murmurs, and gods, his voice, his voice, is like a razor wrapped in velvet, smooth and cutting all at once. "You squirm and pout like you don't know exactly what you're doing. But I know better, don't I?"

Suddenly, you don't feel like you know what you're doing. Like you're the one pulling at a thread you don't quite understand, but it's already too late to stop.

A shiver rolls through you, bone-deep, leaving your muscles lax, your body melting into his like you were always meant to be here.

"I'm sorry," you murmur so quietly, you're not even sure if he hears it. "I just... I wanted you to notice me."

Aaron's hum is low, deep, almost amused. His thumb finds your jaw, sweeping along the curve of it as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Oh, I noticed you. I always notice you. In fact, you're all I ever notice." His hand slips away from where you want it most. "But if this is the only way you know how to ask for my attention, sweetheart, then I think we have a problem."

His hands settle on your hips, demanding, guiding you over the hard line of his cock, forcing you to take the friction, to feel every inch of him through the layers still between you.

The friction is blinding, sending heat licking up your spine, setting every nerve in your body on fire. Your legs tremble, a sharp, choked sound escaping before you can stop it, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails sinking deep into muscle as pleasure coils tight and insistent in your belly.

"Aaron," his name slips from your lips, high and uneven, like it costs something to say it. Your head bows, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands trembling against his chest. "I wasn't trying to be bad. I just... I didn't know what else to do."

"No, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You didn't think, did you? And now look where that's gotten you."

His words should sting, but they don't, not when his hands are so gentle, smoothing down your spine like he's soothing something raw inside you. And then his voice, warm and promising, settles over you, "But I'll take care of you now."

And gods, you need him to. He's so hard, the thick length of him pressing against you through denim and cotton, teasing, tormenting. Everything burns — your skin, your stomach, that deep, pulsing ache between your thighs. Your head swims, feverish, your mind caught between more and please and I can't take this. But he knows. Of course, he knows.

"Do you feel that?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you want to keep going, you'll take care of it. Go ahead."

Your hands move with the kind of urgency that betrays just how badly you need this, need him. Your fingers trail down, brushing over the tight muscles of his stomach, and it's almost enough to make you dizzy, just touching him, just knowing what's waiting for you beneath layers of fabric.

The button of his jeans fumbles beneath your fingers before finally popping open. And then you're pulling him free. He's thick in your hand, burning hot against your palm, and something about that, about feeling him like this, for you, makes something feral sink its teeth into you.

And then he finds you.

His fingers slip under your panties, gliding through the obscene slickness there, and you don't mean to react so violently, don't mean to moan so loud, but it rips out of you before you can stop it.

"Oh, honey," Aaron murmurs, almost thoughtful, like he's just now realizing the full extent of your undoing. "I didn't realize you'd gotten this worked up."

Like it's an observation. Like it's fascinating.

His fingers push, stretching you open, teasing just the right spot, and you jerk against him with a sharp, strangled moan. Your grip around him tightens, your strokes turning sloppy, uneven, desperate.

"Aaron —" His name tumbles out high and needy, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut.

"I didn't mean to —" Your voice shakes, a hitched little gasp tangled between syllables. "I just —" Your breath stutters, heat climbing, overwhelming. "I didn't know what to do."

"You don't have to know what to do." His fingers slow just enough to let you catch his breath as he murmurs. "You just have to let me take over. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Your nod is frantic, almost mindless, as his words echo in your ears.

"Please."

His fingers thrust deeper, and the shock of it rips a gasp from your lips, straight into his kiss. It's messy, frantic, all clashing mouths and stolen air, your breaths coming too fast to match his, like you're afraid if you let him go for even a second, he'll pull away.

Your grip on him tightens without thinking, your fingers flexing around his cock, but the sensation barely registers now, drowned out by the wetness pooling between your thighs, the slick drag of his fingers against your walls.

You can't keep up. You're chasing something that feels just out of reach, your hands leaving his cock, fumbling for something solid, something real. They find his face, fingertips brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw, trying to find yourself in him, in the way he's ruining you.

You kiss him like you can tell him everything that way, like he might understand the ache better through lips and tongues and the way your body trembles under his hands.

And then — he stops. His fingers slip free, and the sound you make is a whine, a protest, your hips tilting, seeking, trying to drag him back in. But he doesn't move, doesn't give you what you need, just smirks against your lips like he enjoys watching you squirm.

"You're so impatient," he murmurs against your lips.

But before you can protest, before you can tell him that yes, yes, you am impatient, please just give it to me, his hands tighten on your hips. And then — oh.

He lifts you, positioning you just right, and then, lowers you down.

The head of his cock pushes inside, and your breath catches, lips parting in a broken gasp. The stretch is devastating, inch by inch forcing your body to open, to yield to him. He's so deep, impossibly deep, and for a second, you forget how to breathe, how to think, your only thought being how does he even fit?

It feels endless, your thighs shaking against his as he takes his time, forcing you to feel every slow, torturous inch. Your body clenches around him, your nails dragging over his scalp as you bury your face against his neck.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice thick, lips grazing your temple. "That's it. Let me take care of you. You just have to let me in, sweetheart."

"Okay, okay," you whisper, voice shaky as you bury your face against his neck, arms wrapping tighter around him.

His other hand moves, dragging up your spine before wrapping around your waist. And then — he presses deeper.

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, punched-out gasp. He doesn't stop, doesn't let you breathe, just sinks in, stretching you open until he's fully seated inside you. Until there's nowhere left to go.

"That's it," he groans, voice tight, his mouth ghosting along your jaw. "So tight. So warm. Fuck, sweetheart, you know this is what you were made for, don't you?"

You try to think of something, something teasing, something bratty, something that might tip him over the edge, but your body betrays you, trembling around him, squeezing down so tight you feel him shudder.

"God, you're tight," he mutters, his fingers pressing into your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. "I can feel every little tremble, every squeeze. You feel that, sweetheart? How perfectly you fit around me?"

"It's like you don't want to let me go. Is that what you want, honey? To keep me right here?"

Your body clenches down instinctively, like you're answering him without meaning to, and his breath catches for just a second before his lips curve against your skin. You nod, frantic, a little dazed, a little wrecked, and his chuckle is pure sin.

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls back just enough to create the kind of unbearable friction that makes your breath catch, your body tightening like a bowstring.

"Every little sound you make drives me insane." His breath drags over your cheek, his lips just shy of touching, like he's teasing himself as much as he is you. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

You try to answer, you really do, but your lungs don't work properly anymore, your body focused on the pleasure threatening to snap at any second. Your fingertips tremble against his shoulders, your thighs quiver, and Aaron knows exactly what that means.

"That's it. I can feel you trembling, sweetheart. You're so close, aren't you?"

His words strike something deep, something primal, and the fire curling between your thighs roars in response. Your head tips back, your breath breaking apart as your hands scramble for purchase, fingers sliding to his face, thumbs brushing over the roughness of his jaw. You pull him into a kiss that's all hunger, all desperation, your lips parting to let him devour you.

He groans into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your chest, and then his hips snap up into you. The stretch is suffocating, the sheer fullness of him sending sharp pulses of pleasure up your body with every deep thrust.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips. "You don't have to hold back. Just let go for me, sweetheart."

It crashes into you harder than you expected, knocking the breath straight from your lungs. Your moan catches halfway, tumbling out in pieces as your body convulses, clenches tight, gripping him in a way that makes him hiss through his teeth.

He thrusts deep, brutal, final, and then he's gone, his head dropping back as a groan tears from his chest.

He fills you in thick, pulsing waves, each pulse making your thighs tighten around him, making you gasp at how deep it settles. The feeling is overwhelming — the heat of him, the weight, the way his cock still twitches inside you, like he’s unwilling to let a single drop go to waste.

You're not sure where your body ends and his begins, your limbs heavy, useless, boneless as you slump against him. Your breath stutters, still uneven, every exhale pushing against his chest as the last waves of pleasure roll through you.

"You take every drop so fucking well," he murmurs. "Meant to keep you full."

His fingers press into your hips, just a little tighter, just enough to make you feel how deep he still is.

"Don’t move yet."

Your breath stutters, the words landing deep, something fluttering tight in your stomach.

"Just a little longer," he murmurs, his hands absently smoothing up and down your spine. His voice drops, lower, rougher — "I want to make sure it sticks."

You shudder, pressing closer, your face tucking against his neck as everything —the fullness, every drop of his cum —settles in.

Aaron exhales, his chest rising beneath you, and suddenly, he shifts. His grip on your hips soften and slide up, like he can feel the way you're trembling against him. 

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

You try, you really do, but when you inhale, it's a stuttering, gasping thing, barely controlled. Your thighs still shake, your body still throbs around him, and you can feel the way he exhales, like he enjoys this, enjoys feeling you like this, soft and trembling in his arms.

"Easy," he murmurs. One hand slides up your spine, cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. "That was a lot."

You nod, or, at least, you think you do. Everything feels floaty, light, warm. Your head feels like it's filled with pink clouds. Your limbs feel soft, useless, like you're some well-loved doll that's been played with for hours.

He tilts your chin up, catching your gaze.

"You okay?" His brow furrows slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You blink slowly at him, lips parting, trying to focus.

"Mhm," you hum, then pause, frowning just slightly. "Wait, no — hold on."

His jaw tenses immediately, but you reach up, poking his cheek with a weak, clumsy finger.

"You didn't kiss me," you mumble, like it's the most important fact in the universe. "You're supposed to kiss me after, 'cause, like, you love me and all that."

His head tilts, just barely shaking, like he's in mild disbelief of you. And okay, fine, maybe you do say a lot of dumb things. But this wasn't dumb. It was valid. It was scientifically proven that post-sex cuddles should include at least one (1) I love you and one (1) kiss, and you were simply holding him accountable.

"Of course I love you," he murmurs, like the answer is so obvious, so unquestionable, that it almost makes you feel silly for asking. And then he kisses you.

It's deep, drawn-out, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. 

You're still in his lap, still tangled in the ridiculous, oversized leather chair, but you don't feel like you're anywhere. Not in his apartment, not even in your own body. Just floating, existing in between his lips and yours.

When you finally pull back, it's not even voluntary — just the sad, unfortunate reality of needing air.

"Wow," you murmur, your fingers lazily brushing over his jaw.

"Wow?"

"Mhm." Your tongue darts out, sweeping over the kiss-swollen curve of your bottom lip, like you're trying to catch what's left of him there, trying to savor it. "Like... I feel very wow."

A smirk tugs at his lips, but his hands don't stop moving, don't stop tracing, don't stop feeling. His fingers smoothed absently over your hips, up your spine, his palms blending into your skin. Like he's checking for something. Like he's making sure you're here with him.

And for a second, you think he's about to kiss you again. He looks like he wants to, his gaze flickers to your lips, his hands flex just slightly, his body leans in just a hair. But then his gaze flickers, his lips part slightly as if he'd just remembered something.

"You said something earlier."

You blink again, brain lagging behind slightly as reality creeps back in, still floating somewhere in bliss. Which you felt was a more pressing topic than whatever he's about to say.

Your face scrunches up immediately, like maybe if you look cute enough, he'd drop it. 

"I said a lot of things earlier," you rush out, voice a little too high, a little too hasty, your hand flapping vaguely in the air. "So many things. A real stream of nonsense, actually. I was just saying words, you know, as one does —"

You shift slightly, suddenly painfully  aware of the position you're in, and he doesn't even blink.

"Aaron," you say, narrowing your eyes. "You're literally still inside me and you want to have a conversation right now?"

"Yes," he says simply, like of course he does, like this is completely reasonable, like you aren't still wrapped around him, skin warm and sticky from what you just did.

His brows furrow slightly, and his head tilts in that very specific way that means he's already pulling apart the words, unraveling them like a thread, and working through them with that brain of his before you can even begin to take it back. 

"You said you felt overlooked," he states plainly, like a fact, which you guessed it was. "If that was something you just said in the moment, we can drop it."

His eyes narrow, studying you like he already knows the answer. "But if you meant it, then I want to understand why."

Your mouth parts, ready to push out something easy, something light, something that won't lead to the very real, very terrifying act of actually admitting things.

He was serious. Not angry or annoyed. Just serious. And concerned.

You exhale, suddenly very invested in dragging your nails lightly over his chest, watching the way they disappear into the fabric of his shirt, how his muscles shift slightly beneath your touch.

"I mean... it's not a thing," you mumble, barely glancing up. "More like a thing-adjacent."

"Sweetheart." The firmness in his voice made your stomach flip. It's not a scolding or a warning, just his way of making you hear him. "I'm not interested in whether you think it's a thing or not. I'm interested in whether it's true."

"I mean, I guess... maybe a little."

His fingers flex, like he's taking that in. He nods once, slowly. "That makes sense."

Your brows furrow. "It does?"

"Yes," he states plainly, like it's obvious. "You pick up on subtle changes, even the ones I don't intend to project. And when I get hyper focused on something, I shut everything else out. Not just you. Everyone."

"It's a defense mechanism. A way to compartmentalize. It doesn't mean I don't notice you. It means my brain assigns the highest level of urgency to the task at hand, and everything else, everything outside of that, is temporarily shut out. When I do that, it makes sense that you would feel like I'm not paying attention to you," he continues. "Because in those moments I'm not."

Your breath catches. He says it so matter-of-factly, so plainly, that it almost doesn't sting at first, it just lands.

His grip tightens ever so slightly where his hands rest on your like he already knows how you're taking it.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want to be paying attention," he murmurs, fingers brushing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. "It doesn't mean you don't exist in the back of my mind, even when I'm caught up in something else."

Aaron leans in a fraction, his eyes holding yours.

"Do you know what I did last night after you fell asleep?" he asks.

You blink. "Uh... sleep?"

He smirks. "Eventually. But first, I checked the thermostat. You always get cold at night, even when you say you won't."

Your face warms. "That's just —,"

"And before I left for work last week, I moved your car closer to the building because I saw you left your umbrella at my place."

"I —,"

"And when I'm out of town, do you know what I do every morning?"

You swallow.

"No."

"I think about what you're having for breakfast," he murmurs. "Not consciously. It's not something I try to do. It just... happens."

"You always eat something sweet," he continues, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "It's usually a pastry or something covered in chocolate. Sometimes cake, if we're being honest."

Your scrunch your nose again and he smiles.

"So, tell me," he murmurs, tilting your chin up. "Does that sound like someone who overlooks you?"

Your lips part but nothing comes out. Your heart aches, not the bad kind, but the kind that makes your chest feel too small for everything inside it. Because he's right. He notices everything. Not in the big, showy romance-movie ways but in the little things. In ways that matter.

You inhale a little too hard, blinking quickly, but the stinging in your eyes isn't going anywhere.

Aaron sees it immediately. "Sweetheart."

You shake your head quickly, sniffling.

"I'm not crying," you announce, even though your voice cracks on the last word, which kind of ruins the effect.

He smirks. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you say firmly, poking his chest. "I just, I feel very loved and now I have to process that."

"Okay," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Do you need time to process, or should I just assume you're going to be attached to me for the foreseeable future?"

"Oh no, you're definitely stuck with me," you declare. "Like, you might need to call someone if you ever actually want me to let go."

His smirk is instant. "You're saying I should alert the authorities?"

You nod sagely. "I mean, that would be the responsible thing to do. But by the time they arrive, I'll have already made a compelling argument about how you should just let it happen."

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I'm sure you would."

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[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FOURTEEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: angst; mentions of panic attacks and anxiety.

The party was in full swing, you were mid-conversation with Sarah, a half-empty champagne flute in her hand, an amused expression on her face as she listened to your rundown of some ridiculous thing Cleo had done earlier. Across from you, Cleo herself was grinning, nodding, because she already knew the punchline.

You gestured with your glass of water, “I don’t think you can classify a boat as ‘commandeered’ if you return it two hours later with a note.”

“It was in the spirit of the sea,” Cleo countered, “Besides, I left it better than I found it.”

John B chuckled beside her, shaking his head as he took a sip from his glass. “Yeah, I don’t think the yacht's owner saw it that way.”

Sarah smirked, “How did you even get past the security?”

Cleo shrugged. “Caribbean charm.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. The banter, felt like home, nights like these were fleeting, precious, something to hold onto for as long as you could.

Your hand absentmindedly pressed against your dress, where the smallest swell of your stomach remained unnoticed. It was still early enough that no one had outright asked, though you caught the occasional double take from someone who knew you well enough to suspect. Sarah noticed, of course, squeezing your wrist lightly.

“You okay?”

You nodded, “Yeah, just tired.”

She let it go, turning back to the others as Cleo launched into a new story about an argument she’d had with a dockhand last week.

The night carried on, you had just started to relax, but you felt it before you saw him lie always. A ghost passing through the room, a presence you were attuned to even when you didn’t want to be.

Rafe.

He hadn’t seen you yet, standing just on the other side of the crowd, back partially turned as he spoke to someone you didn’t recognize.

He looked... different. Not in a dramatic way—his hair was still neatly styled, despite being so short, his suit tailored perfectly to him—you couldn’t pinpoint what is was. You’d seen him not that long ago anyways.

Sarah must have followed your gaze because she exhaled sharply.

“I didn’t think he was coming.”

“Me neither.”

John B had stiffened beside Sarah, his eyes tracking Rafe, waiting for something to happen. Cleo glanced between you, trying to gauge the situation.

“I’ll go say something,” Sarah started, but you stopped her with a light touch to her arm.

“No,” you said quickly. “Let him be.”

She hesitated, then nodded, though you could tell she was still uneasy.

Rafe still hadn’t noticed you, which you weren’t sure if you were relieved about or not. Instead, he was talking to someone older, maybe a family friend, nodding along politely.

There was a restlessness in him that you recognized all too well even from afar. As if he felt you looking, his gaze flicked up and you never looked away so fast in your life.

Cleo let out a low whistle. “That wasn’t dramatic at all.”

You ignored them, your focus jumping back to Rafe, who thankfully, had already turned back to his conversation. Your hands felt clammy as you curled your fingers into your palm. Should you talk to him? Tell him you had another ultrasound this week?

That would be stupid, you’d be opening a locked door and watch everything you’d built to keep yourself okay collapse. You forced yourself to take a sip of water, just to do something with your hands.

“You sure you’re okay?” Sarah asked again, quieter this time.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

The thing about Rafe was, he had a way of getting under your skin without even trying. Even after everything, even after you told yourself you were done with the version of him that kept breaking things—you still felt that pull.

You didn’t get much time to dwell on it, though.

Ten minutes later, you were mid-conversation with Sarah again when Pope shoved through the crowd, looking half-panicked, his chest rising and falling from the running he was doing.

“It’s Rafe.”

Your stomach dropped.

Automatically, your brain filled in the blanks. Drunk, high, spiraling, maybe all three, of course he was about to ruin the night. You didn’t need details, you knew exactly how this would go. He seemed fine just ten minutes ago, but you knew how quickly he could go from zero to a hundred.

That’s what he did, wasn’t it? Made messes, pushed the self-destruct button and let the rest of you deal with the fallout. And on tonight of all nights? At this gala? Honoring the research your sister had worked her ass off for—had fought for.

Yeah. You weren’t doing this.

You remembered the pattern too well, how bad it used to be, back when he was eighteen, running on coke and manic energy, eyes blown wide, jaw grinding, always one wrong word away from swinging on some innocent bystander. 

Ward had died, the coke had been gone by then. The pills too. But the drinking got worse, sneakier, slower. He wasn’t throwing punches so much, but a couple of drinks turned into a bottle turned into blackouts, turned into calls you didn’t want to answer because you already knew what you’d hear on the other end.

Sarah was already stepping forward, but you grabbed her arm before she could go too far.

“No,” you said, shaking your head.

She turned, blinking at you. “What?”

“What do you think you’re gonna do? Talk him down? Fix it? It’s the same shit every time.”

You knew exactly how this would go. Rafe fucks up, one of you swoops in, and for what? So he could apologize and then do it again next week? You weren’t signing up for that.

“It’s different.”

You scoffed. “How?”

“Wheezie told me he’s been sober. Going to therapy.” She hesitated, then added, “Even though he won’t tell any of us.”

Sober? Therapy? No, that didn’t track.

That wasn’t Rafe, at least not the one from the past two years.

Rafe didn’t go to therapy, he didn’t believe in therapy. He called therapy bullshit when Ward died while throwing back tequila and insisting he was fine, okay? 

Rafe didn’t change, not for you, his sisters, or anyone.

You could recall the last time you let yourself believe in him, that quick period after Ward died when he seemed like he was getting better. He wasn’t using, wasn’t picking fights, even talked about leaving the island, and getting a fresh start.

Except, he couldn’t. He never could.

You had no idea what to say, because none of this made sense, it didn’t fit with the version of him that lived in your head nowadays—he was reckless, self-destructive, incapable of being anything else.

“Since when?” you finally forced out, your voice disbelieving.

Sarah gave you a look, “Since he found out.”

You wanted to call bullshit, that he wasn’t capable of change or being the person he was trying to convince you he wasn't anymore. If it was true—if he really had been trying, if he was sober, if he was sitting in a therapist’s office and talking about anything—then what did that mean?

Sarah must’ve seen the hesitation on your face, because before you could say anything, she squeezed your arm.

“You should stay.”

She still wanted to believe he was salvageable, you wished you could believe it too.Your stomach flipped, not sure if it was the baby or the nerves.

“What?”

“Stay,” she repeated, “I don’t know what he’s gonna be like right now, and I don’t want you stressing yourself out.”

By stressing she meant, the constant war in your head between missing him and wanting to forget he ever existed. You weren’t sure which side was winning tonight.

Still, something about the way she said it made you defensive.

“Sarah, I’m not gonna—”

“It’s not just about you anymore,” she cut in. Her eyes dropped—for a second—to the still-small bump beneath your dress, the one people still missed even if they looked up closely.

You clenched your jaw, instead of being grateful, you should’ve let her go and not think twice. Too bad you already knew you weren’t going to listen. Your swollen feet were already itching to move, body and mind at war with each other. 

You should stay.

But you didn’t.

Sarah was halfway across the room when you exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down your face, and turned to follow.

Or at least, you would have, if Pope hadn’t stepped into your path.

Your head snapped up. “Move.”

Pope didn’t budge. His brows were furrowed, the way they always were when he was trying to decide if he should talk you out of something, you could tell he was about to try his best.

“You’re freaking out,” he said, voice calm, “Sarah’s got this. Just let her—”

If you could just turn it off—flip a switch and erase every part of you that still cared, you would. God, you would. You still remembered the boy he used to be, who swore up and down he’d never be like his father, even as he went down the same road.

“How did he look?” you cut in.

He hesitated.

“Pope.”

Then, honestly, he admitted, “I could hear his breathing from the other side of the balcony.”

Your stomach twisted. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You weren’t sure if you could stomach knowing he was having a panic attack, needing to see which version of him was waiting for you tonight. But Pope had grown to know you well enough to see that war playing out on your face, and he sighed, bracing his hands on your shoulders.

“I get it, okay?” he said. “Whatever’s happening with him, it’s not your problem anymore.”

Not your problem anymore. Your eyes were still locked on the exit Sarah had disappeared through.

You remembered last week, how your breath had been coming in short gasps, too ragged when you saw Topper standing there, how you’d let your rage and panic mix so quickly inside you that you weren’t sure which one would win. You remembered your hands had shook like leafs from restraining yourself to do some real physical damage, two seconds away from tearing into him, from saying something you couldn’t take back—and then, Rafe had been there.

He didn’t yell, or fight, just put a hand on your skin, he spoke quietly, called your name so softly that it cut through the bloodbath in your head. And when you’d finally snapped out of it shoved him off and been mean and cruel and cold—he still stayed until your breathing was normal again.

You think that’s why you were already moving now.

You wanted to believe it, that he was trying, that here was something still there to save, that you weren’t an idiot for still feeling so much.

Rafe had been yours once and you weren’t sure you could ever be the kind of person who stayed behind while he hurt, even if he hurt you for so long. Stupid. Stupid.

You were going to regret this, you already knew that.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt, huffed out an exhale through your nose, annoyed at yourself.

When you finally found them, Rafe was sitting on the ground, his back against the railing, head tipped back against it, trying to focus on breathing. His eyes were shut tight, brows drawn together in pain, chest rising and falling too shallow.

Sarah was crouched next to him, a bottle of water in one hand, a small packet of sugar in the other, rubbing slow circles on his back, murmuring something that you couldn’t hear.

It was like being yanked back in time, to the night you found him outside Tannyhill, after the funeral, hands gripping his hair so tight it looked like he wanted to rip it out. His mom had been gone for two days by then, but he was still shaking.

You remembered how helpless fourteen year old you felt.

She turned her head at the sound of your footsteps, and the second she saw you, you knew she disapproved. But she didn’t say anything, just pressed her lips together, passed you the bottle of water as she stood, understanding you were going to do this your way no matter what she said.

You took her place without a word, sliding down onto the floor beside him, setting the water down at your feet before you could talk yourself out of it. Y

ou were just as weak as you’d always been when it came to him.

After years, of fighting, of hurting you in ways you never thought he would—you were back here. You hated that it felt familiar, it felt safe, even now.

Rafe was still breathing too fast, lost in his head—until the second your palm pressed against his back. You think his body recognized you before his mind did, then almost immediately, the tension in his shoulders dropped. His breath hitched, then stuttered, then—very slowly, he exhaled.

He knew your touch, your skin, your hands—better than he knew panic, better than he knew hurting. A choked, broken sound—loud enough that you heard it, felt it under your palm, the way his shoulders shook, his whole body seemed to curl in on itself, making himself smaller. You moved closer, pressing your side against his while your hand slid from his back to his shoulder, then up to the back of his neck.

His head tipped forward slightly, forehead brushing your shoulder. You felt the way his jaw moved under your palm, the war he was fighting just to breathe.

“Hey,” you murmured.

His breath stuttered again, but his body still melted against yours, fingers twitching against his knee, then curled into his palm.

You hadn’t seen him like this since his mom, not even when Ward died, when everything went to shit. That scared you more than anything.

“Breathe,” you whispered, because you didn’t know what else to say.

He wasn’t good at talking when it mattered, bu his body always told the truth. Despite everything, this was still second nature, your body angling toward his without thinking, your fingers sliding against his jaw the way he always liked.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, more red than blue.

Your lips parted, but before you could say anything, his voice—hoarse— “You’re here.”

It wasn’t a question, more of a disbelieving, almost broken fact, you shouldn’t have, and maybe last month you would’ve never given it a second thought. 

Your fingers pressed against the back of his neck, “Yeah.”

Rafe exhaled through his nose, the answer knocking the air out of him. His hand tightened in your dress, making sure you were real, his voice was quieter when he spoke again.

 “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You inhaled, because it felt like an entirely different kind of confession, even if he told you he was still in love with you just days ago. You turned your head, let your forehead press against his temple, instinct, muscle memory.

Call it what you want.

“I’ve seen you like this before.”

Seen him worse, even, but before, he had been yours, you could have held him without hesitation, whispered things into his skin. His breath ghosted against your shoulder, uneven, and you hated that you knew the sound so well, that your body still reacted to it, that the part of you that should have been hardened against this—against him—was the softest part of all.

You shouldn’t have come. Should’ve let Sarah handle it, and reminded yourself of all the ways he had failed you. 

His fingers curled even tighter in your dress, desperate, knowing this moment was borrowed, you weren’t supposed to be here.

You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing you had an answer.

“Breathe,” you reminded him again, unsure if you were saying it for him or for yourself at this point.

He let out something close to a laugh, “T-that’s the problem.”

You understood what he meant.

“Did you drink?” you asked quietly, not accusing, just needing the truth.

He shook his head against you.

“No. I wanted to. I almost— I was halfway to the bar, and then I saw you and I couldn’t breathe.”

That, more than anything, broke something open in your chest. He didn’t spiral because of you, stopped because of you.

“I shouldn’t be—” His voice cracked, so quiet you barely heard it. He swallowed hard, shaking his head, “Shouldn’t be doing this.”

Your brows knit together. “Rafe.”

His throat bobbed. “It’s your night.”

You should’ve expected that, where his mind would go—he was always his own worst enemy, the first to punish himself before anyone else could.

His breath stuttered eyes squeezed shut again, “I—I didn’t mean to ruin it,” he rasped, “I was fine, I swear I was fine, and then—” He broke off, chest rising and falling too fast again, shaking his head.

“You didn’t ruin the night.”

His laugh was bitter. “Don’t lie.”

You swallowed. “I’m not.”

He shook his head again.

“You should be in there.” His voice was worn, “Celebrating with them, not—” A sharp inhale. “Not sitting on the fucking floor d-dealing with this.”

There it was. Then—so soft, so broken, you almost missed it.

“You should be thinking about the baby.”

You gave him a look, small, wry. “Too late.”

If he only knew that stress was the last thing that could hurt you or the baby inside you. If he understood what was happening inside your body, what you were carrying, would he still be worried about ruining your night?

Without thinking, you grabbed his hand, and guided it to your stomach. His whole body went still, eyes dropping to where his palm was pressed flat against your stomach, fingers twitching against the fabric. It was small but it was real, you knew he could feel it once his breathing slowed.

“You’re not ruining anything,” you reassured him again, even as something in your chest twisted violently. “And if you think you are, then you can make it up to me by breathing properly, okay?”

His throat bobbed, you could feel him trying, his body painfully, forcing itself to calm, his palm still warm against your stomach.

A tired laugh escaped him, humorless.

“I’m trying,” he said. “I swear to God, I’m trying.”

“I know.”

You reached up, and wiped the corner of his eye with your thumb, just like you used to.He did something that made your brows pull together, blue eyes flickered up, unfocused but searching, and then—

“Four things,” he nodded to himself.

You frowned. “What?”

His gaze darted around the balcony. “Uh… the railing. The—the lights.” Then, quietly, “You. Three things I can hear,” he went on, eyes shutting for a moment as he listened. “The music inside. The ocean.” Another pause. “You breathing.”

It was the way he said it—flat, automatic, exactly you used to recite it when your therapist had made you do the same exercise in every appointment. Your stomach twisted violently, because there was no way Rafe knew this offhand, you’d never done it in his presence.

No way he just stumbled onto it by accident. Which meant—he was indeeed, in therapy. The boy who’d been taught to despise any help from outsiders, was in therapy. 

Your fingers squeezed against his skin, for the first time in a long, long time, you didn’t see the Rafe who hurt you, who destroyed himself, who burned everything he touched.

You forced yourself to swallow. “Two things you can feel.”

“The floor,” he said first, a little strained. Then his gaze moved to where his hand was still fisted in the fabric at your waist. His voice dropped even lower. “You.”

A slow exhale left his lips, and his fingers relaxed a little.

“One thing you can control.”

His throat bobbed. His lips parted like he was going to answer, but no words came. You squeezed the back of his neck, “Rafe.”

His breath hitched, but then—shakily— “Myself.”

“Do you want me to call a driver?”

“Why?” His voice was raw in a way you hadn’t heard in years.

“So you can go home.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I—”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“Please,” Rafe’s voice cracked. “Don’t go yet.”

You bit your lip so hard it hurt, your eyes closed, tears burning without falling. Where even was home for him now? Tannyhill was just walls and memories of ghosts who didn’t love him enough to stay. You hated that you still felt him, your heart still recognized his even after he’d shattered it.

“Sorry.”

The words were right there, behind your teeth, pressing against your tongue, desperate to be spoken.

It’s a boy.

You could see it so clearly—the way Rafe’s breath would catch, his entire body would go stiff. You knew what that meant to him.

A son.

You already knew where his mind would go, straight to Ward, to every cruel word, the gruesome lessons, every scar that wasn’t visible but still sat deep in his bones. The nights spent trying to be better only to end up like him, the last name that never felt like it belonged to him.

Did he deserve to know? No. You shouldn’t tell him. But you also knew it would pull him out of his head in a way nothing else could, the panic, the guilt, it would all be replaced by that.

The realization, the responsibility. Would it make you weak if you gave him something he didn’t deserve? The truth sat bitter on your tongue, not sure which part of it was worse, carrying a baby who might not make it or that, before the anemia—before the doctors and the blood tests and the warnings—you weren’t keeping it.

He doesn’t know that.

You thought about how much it would hurt—him, everything—if the baby didn’t make it. You still weren’t sure if you wanted this, but Rafe—he would. You couldn’t tell him, he wasn’t ready. You weren’t ready.

If you gave him another piece of this—it would be over. His mind worked differently from everyone else, he latched onto things, onto people, building his whole world around the things he was scared of losing.

A baby boy? He’d never let go, he’d obsess, he’d tie himself in knots over the idea of raising a son—his son—without turning into Ward. He’d convince himself he wasn’t good enough, that he’d fuck it up before he even got the chance to try. He’d make it about you, the baby, being better for someone else. And if he was gonna get better—if he was gonna change, you needed it to be for him, not for a baby, not for you, like you wished he would months ago.

You pressed your fingers against his hand, still resting against your stomach, feeling his breath hitch in his throat. 

“I’m gonna call a car, okay?”

His blue eyes were glassy, rimmed with red, searching your face like he was trying to make sense of what was happening, of why you were here, why you hadn’t left yet.

"Y-You don’t have to do this.”

Sit here? Hold him together? Pretend like this wasn’t killing you, too?

“I mean it,” he rasped. “I don’t—I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

Apologies didn’t fix things, but maybe trying did. This version of Rafe, scared and vulnerable and not pretending to be anything else—was the closest thing to trying you were ever going to get.

You nodded, fingers slipping from his skin, from his everything, because you had to.

"Are you gonna be okay alone?"

A slight nod. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled, “Jus’ need a minute.”

He didn’t look fine, but you couldn’t be around him for any longer without losing your composure. You forced yourself to step away, heels carrying you inside, toward the crowd. You found Sarah near the edge of the room, eyes scanning the area for you before landing on your face.

She took one look at you and her brow furrowed.

“Hey,” she started, walking toward you, “What happened?”

She could always tell when things were off with you, but it was different tonight

“He’s... still not okay,” you confessed,“I don’t think he should be alone.”

Her chocolate brown eyes softened, “You’re sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, but it felt shaky at best. “I’m fine. I just— I don’t want him to go home alone. Not like this.”

You hated asking her this, their sibling relationship was strained, at best. Years of resentment and old wounds that never quite healed. 

“Can you drive home with him?” you asked, hating the desperation. “Please. He’s too... out of it. I can’t let him go with some random driver.”

“I’ll drive him.”

You gave a grateful nod, knowing it wasn’t easy for either of you to be around Rafe when he was like this. She knew better than anyone what he could do to a person, take up all the space in your chest even when you swore there was nothing left of him in you.

“Thank you.”

“He’s still my big brother.”

The stupid pregnancy hormones made everything intense, and right then, you had to fight the tears growing in your eyes.

This wasn’t the moment for that. 

Something about the way she said it—you knew what it meant.

No matter how fucked up everything had become between them, she still saw him for who he once was—her big brother. You remembered the little sister who had once looked up to him, who had wanted to believe he could be the brother she’d always needed. 

As Sarah walked away, your body tensed again as you pressed your fingers against your eyes, scolding yourself for being so weak. You had come too far—pregnant, sure, but with so many other things to focus on. 

You turned away from the crowd, not wanting to stay here anymore, in this place—you didn’t belong here anymore.

The night wasn’t supposed to end like this.

It was stupid of you—thinking you could step into this world again, even for one night, and not have him be a part of it somehow. 

You needed to stop, he wasn’t your responsibility or your problem.

You checked your phone, pulling up the car service app, but your fingers hesitated over the screen. The sound of tires crunching against gravel pulled you from your thoughts.

A sleek, dark car rolled to a stop a few feet away, the headlights casting shadows across the pavement.

Sarah must’ve called ahead.

The driver stepped out, moving to open the back door for you. You slid inside, the leather seats cool against your skin as you pulled the door shut. You should’ve felt relieved, getting away, creating space, but all you felt was exhausted.

You held a hand against your stomach, a part of him and a part of you. Your eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion pulling at you, but then—

"Two at least."

You could hear her voice so clearly, your sister had always known what she wanted.

"Four?" You had laughed, sprawled out beside her on the sun-warmed dock, bare feet dipping into the water. "Why not just one?"

"Because," she had said, as if it was obvious, "babies need a sibling. Like us. You wouldn’t survive without me."

You had rolled your eyes, but she had only grinned. "And a shit ton of cousins, too. Big family, holidays packed, the works."

It had felt like a given—that you’d grow up, build something ike that, the two of you would always be around to make it happen.

Now, she was gone. They all were, while you turned into someone else. Someone who wasn’t sure who she was anymore, or what she wanted, or what she could even have.

"You know what Mom used to say?" your sister had murmured once, curled up beside you on the couch, your childhood home quiet around you.

"What?"

"That being sisters means never being alone in the world."She had nudged your arm, smiling. "Even when I’m pissing you off, you know I’d do anything for you. No one else gets to mess with you. That’s my job."

You had laughed then, shoving at her playfully. "I know."

You needed to stop thinking about it, about him.

You shouldn’t have been out there with him in the first place, letting him touch you, reaching for him like it was instinct, allowing yourself get pulled under by the sound of his voice, the way he said your name, the way he—

You inhaled sharply, blinking up at the ceiling of the car. You didn’t owe him anything, you repeated it in your head over and over, hoping that it would start to feel true again.

The car slowed to a stop in front of your place, and you let out a breath before stepping out. Inside, the house was quiet, you hadn’t been spending much time here, you’d forgotten the last time you slept here, you'd been crashing at the pogues for way too long.

You slipped off your heels, letting them drop onto the floor as you stepped further into the space. It still didn’t feel like home, not really.

But then again, nowhere did after you crossed that invisible line back at the party. Being done with Rafe had never been as easy as walking away when you had a whole history tangled up in his, when there was a part of him growing inside you.

You had no idea what the fuck you were supposed to do about that. 

The sound of your phone buzzing on the coffee table made you jump. You reached for it, expecting Sarah, maybe, or one of the pogues checking in.

Rafe: Thank you.

What were you supposed to say? You’re welcome? Take care of yourself? Don’t make me regret this? You locked the phone without replying and set it face down.

You’d unblocked his number last week.

Not because you wanted to talk or because you’d forgiven him, mainly because on those lonely nights—lying in bed, hands shaking, every part of you fighting not to call him—you couldn’t stand the thought of him not being able to pick up if you ever did.

You told yourself it was about control, keeping the upper hand, proving that you could still have him at arm’s length. 

Rafe: Are you home? I need to see you. Please.

Short, desperate, please. That word—please—it wasn’t something Rafe used carelessly. Or something you were used to hearing from him without a fight, not without blood or breaking or both. But lately you’d been hearing it every time your paths crossed.

You shouldn’t even have him unblocked. 

You blamed those nights spent curled up on your side, fighting off sleep because it always came with dreams of him, had a you breaking down every rule you swore you’d follow.

Truth was, you just didn’t want to feel that kind of alone.

You stood up, phone abandoned, and padded into the bathroom, stripping off the dress, wiping off the makeup, avoiding the mirror.

You knew what you looked like: a girl who still hadn’t figured out how to stay away from the one person she swore she was done with.

You crawled into bed, cold sheets wrapping around you, and curled onto your side. The tears were quiet at first, only slipping down your cheek, collecting at the corner of your jaw, soaking into the pillow, then your chest started to shake, you buried your face in the blanket and let it happen.

What else could you do?

You turned onto your back, eyes blurry as they stared up at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above you. You reached for your phone again, not to text him, but just to look, his name still sat there at the top of your messages, unread.

I need to see you. Please.

You tossed it down on the bed like it was poison burning through your skin if you let it linger in your palm for one more second. But your eyes flicked back toward it. Still lit up, waiting.

You shouldn’t text back, you shouldn’t.

You were weak tonight, and lonely, missing him in a way that had nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with how it used to be, how he used to hold you, touch you, kiss you.

You pulled your knees to your chest and rested your forehead on them, trying to remember all the reasons you’d built this wall in the first place. You missed all of him, even the parts that broke you.

You picked the phone up again before you could talk yourself out of it. Typed out a reply, deleted it, typed it again. You hated how fast your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, how easy it still was, how your body wanted to pull toward him like gravity.

Yeah. I'm home.

You didn’t send it, only stared at it, fighting yourself, hating how badly you wanted the door to open, feel his presence in your space again. The cursor blinked, against every instinct, every promise you made to yourself—you closed your eyes.

Counted to three.

You hit send.

[missarchive]

motel six

spencer reid

cw; spencer reid x fem!reader, spencer gets caught jacking off, cowgirl, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, softdom!reader, sub!spencer, one bed troupe, oral (m. receiving), aftercare, unprotected p in v, spencer’s a little desperate and awkward (what’s new)

an; HIII ALLL!!! This is based on an ask I received earlier this month, but I have had a few similar ones so I finally made a fic for them. The truth is that I have been seeing a beautiful woman and she is taking up most of my time. BUT- I managed to sneak this one in. I will start posting more consistently again now that my writer’s block has finally disappeared. As always, please leave some feedback if you liked it (if you didn’t just know you’re stepping on my hopes and dreams). Love and miss u guys xoxo

wc; around 3k

Your stomach twists. A long day chasing leads and poring over case files has already left you drained, and now you have to share a room with someone? You glance around at your teammates, who are pairing off with little hesitation. Morgan claims a room with Rossi. Hotch and JJ take another. Emily and Garcia get the third. That leaves…

You turn your head just as Spencer Reid—resident genius, profiler extraordinaire, and your usual case partner—adjusts the strap of his bag with an unmistakable grimace. His hazel eyes dart to yours before flicking away, his jaw tightening.

Of course.

"Looks like it's you and me, Reid," you say, trying to keep your tone light.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he nods stiffly and brushes past you toward the room number scribbled on the keycard sleeve. Your stomach sinks further, but you push down the unease and follow.

The room is as underwhelming as expected: beige walls, scratchy-looking blankets, and a single queen bed shoved against one side. A rickety wooden chair sits near the window, but otherwise, the space is cramped.

Spencer stops in the doorway, his whole body tensing. "You take the bed. I’ll sleep in the chair."

You frown. "Reid, that thing looks like it’ll collapse if you breathe on it too hard. We can just—"

"I said I’ll sleep in the chair," he snaps, dropping his go-bag by the door.

The sharpness in his voice catches you off guard. Spencer is always a little awkward, sometimes distant, but rarely outright rude. You watch as he rubs his temple, his jaw clenched so tightly you wonder if he might crack a tooth. He looks… angry. At you?

"Okay," you say slowly. "Did I do something?"

"No," he bites out. "Just drop it."

You exhale sharply, irritation flaring. "Spencer, we’re both exhausted. If something’s wrong, you can just—"

"Just leave it alone, Y/N."

His words are clipped, final. You stare at him for a moment, searching his face for an answer, but he won’t meet your gaze. The room suddenly feels suffocating.

Fine. If he wants to be an ass, let him.

"I’m going outside," you mutter, grabbing your jacket. "Maybe by the time I get back, you’ll have figured out how to use your words like an adult."

You don’t wait for a response before stepping out into the cool night air.

The motel parking lot is nearly empty, save for the team's vehicles and a couple of semi-trucks parked along the far end. You breathe in the crisp air, letting it wash away some of the frustration bubbling inside you.

Spencer’s behavior isn’t just annoying—it stings. You thought the two of you were friends. Sure, he can be awkward and distant, but he’s never been outright cruel before. Whatever is bothering him, he clearly doesn’t want to share it with you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering as the cold seeps through your thin jacket. After a few minutes, your irritation starts to wane, replaced by exhaustion. You don’t have the energy to stay mad, and honestly, all you want is to collapse into bed and sleep for at least twelve hours.

With a sigh, you make your way back toward the room. The hallway is silent, the only sound your footsteps against the aging carpet. You reach for the door handle but freeze as a muffled noise seeps through the thin walls.

A low, breathy moan.

Your heart stutters.

You strain to listen, barely breathing as another quiet sound follows—one you recognize immediately.

A strangled gasp, unmistakably Spencer’s.

Heat rushes to your face as your brain supplies every possible explanation, each one more embarrassing than the last. You should walk away. You should turn around and pretend you never heard anything. But your hand stays frozen on the doorknob, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Another moan drifts through the door, this one louder. You swallow against the sudden lump in your throat.

"Fuck," Spencer gasps. "O-oh god— please."

His voice is low, rough. Desperate.

You grip the doorknob tighter, debating for what feels like an eternity. Should you walk away? Or—

You ease the door open, pressing your hand against it as if to stop yourself from charging forward. Spencer’s back is to you, his head thrown back as he works himself over, his hand moving in rapid strokes.

You can’t help it—you step further into the room, drinking in the sight of him.

He’s sprawled on the bed, shirtless and pale in the moonlight filtering through the blinds. His arm muscles are tense, sweat dripping down the side of his face. The blanket is thrown back, revealing his naked lower half: his long legs, his perfect hands—

His cock, thick and wet between his fingers.

You feel a rush of arousal at the sight, your blood pulsing hot. This is so wrong. So inappropriate. He’s your teammate, for god’s sake, and yet—

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to walk away.

Spencer's hips jerk upwards, his body shuddering with pleasure. "Y/N," he gasps again, his head falling back against the pillow. His eyelids flutter shut, his brows drawn together.

"Y/N, fuck, please—" His hand moves faster, stroking himself with a rough desperation that makes your breath hitch. You can’t look away as he thrusts against his grip, his hips writhing, his spine arched.

"Ah- fuck," he gasps, his body tensing, his fist tightening around himself. His mouth falls open, his eyes squeezing shut as he comes with a strangled moan.

You press your hand over your mouth, holding back a whimper of your own as you watch him.

Spencer sags against the mattress, his chest heaving. He's so fucking beautiful, and—

And you’re still standing here, watching him.

Your eyes dart to his face, and your stomach plummets as he turns his head.

He opens his eyes, and you meet his gaze across the room.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Then you both leap into action.

He scrambles upright, fumbling for the blanket to cover himself. You jump backward, tripping over the threshold and landing hard on your ass.

"Shit," you hiss, wincing at the pain that shoots up your tailbone. "Shit. I—fuck, I’m sorry. I should—"

"Y/N," Spencer says in a strangled voice. "I—I thought you were gone. I didn’t know you were—"

He trails off, looking anywhere but at you. You struggle to your feet, smoothing your clothes down self-consciously. This is awkward as hell.

"I thought you were asleep," you admit, wincing. "I didn’t mean to—"

Spencer draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. He looks so fucking embarrassed, and you can't blame him.

You should say something. Apologize. You should put him at ease—

But the sight of him still has your pulse hammering.

You clear your throat, trying to calm down your racing thoughts. "I’m sorry, Spencer. I really am. I don’t mean—this is just—"

He raises his head, his eyes searching your face. "What were you doing, standing there?" he asks softly.

You swallow against the lump in your throat. "I don’t know," you whisper. "It was wrong, what I did. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have watched you. I’m sorry."

Spencer lowers his gaze, his face still flushed. "What if I wanted you to?" he mumbles.

Your heart jumps. "What?"

"I wanted you to watch me," he says louder, his eyes darting up to meet yours. "I’ve been wanting you to for weeks, ever since you asked me to take over the case files."

"What?" you repeat stupidly.

Spencer shifts, his cheeks flushing a deep red. "I started—I started thinking about you. Fantasizing about you. You touching me, kissing me— everything."

Oh.

You stare at him, trying to process. "Reid," you say softly. "I—"

"Don’t apologize," he says quickly. "It’s not your fault, I just—I wanted you. So fucking bad. I thought that sleeping next to you would be—"

"What?" you prompt gently.

He exhales sharply. "That it would be uncomfortable," he says in a rough whisper. "That it would drive me crazy. That maybe you’d—maybe you’d feel it too."

His gaze flicks up to yours again, full of hope.

Your heart races. "Is that what you want?" you ask, stepping forward.

Spencer's breath hitches, his fingers tightening around his knees. "Yes," he rasps. "Oh fuck, yes. If you—Y/N, I’ll do anything you want. Just—just don’t leave me alone again. Please."

His words send a surge of pleasure through your veins. The sight of him, desperate and pleading, is almost too much to bear.

"Spencer," you whisper, taking another step forward. "Come here."

He scrambles to his feet, rushing toward you. You meet him halfway, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close. He melts against you, pressing his face into the curve of your neck with a sigh.

"I can’t believe you saw that," he murmurs into your skin.

"I can’t believe I did either," you admit with a chuckle. "But I’m glad I did."

Spencer raises his head, his hazel eyes searching yours. "You are?"

You nod, smiling softly. "Yes."

His face flushes. "Do—do you want to watch me again?"

You smile wider. "Maybe later," you tease. "Right now, I think it’s my turn."

Spencer's eyes widen as you press him backwards, onto the bed. "I thought you were tired," he murmurs, his voice already thickening with arousal.

"I am," you agree, smiling. "But this is more important." You drop your jacket onto the floor, pulling off your shirt and jeans in quick motions. Spencer's eyes dart down to take in the sight of your naked body, and you flush at his hungry gaze.

He groans, throwing his head back against the pillow as you climb on top of him.

It takes a lot to shock Spencer Reid. But you're definitely up for the challenge. The look on his face is priceless as you take his cock in your mouth, not wasting any more time. His hips buck against the mattress, his hands threading into your hair.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Oh my god. Y/N."

He tangles his fingers in your hair, urging you on as you work him over. He's so responsive, moaning and gasping and whining—fuck, it's a beautiful sound.

You work him deeper, taking

Spencer moans loudly as you take him deeper, his thighs trembling. "Y/N, oh fuck, I—fuck—"

You press one hand against his hip, holding him steady as you swirl your tongue over the underside of his cock. Spencer bucks against your grip, his fingers tightening in your hair. He's still so sensitive from his previous release, but he's still getting harder—thicker—by the second.

You run your tongue along the underside of his cock, teasing the spot behind the head.

"Oh fuck," Spencer gasps, his voice broken. "Y/N, please—please don’t stop. I’m going to— ah."

You press your other hand against his stomach, feeling the muscles contract. His whole body is straining upwards, his back arched and his eyes squeezed shut.

You take him all the way in, swallowing around his length as you work your lips over his shaft. Spencer comes with a cry, his hips jerking as he empties down your throat. You swallow every drop, holding his gaze as you slowly pull back.

"Touch," he rasps, his fingers searching for your own.

You swallow against the ache in your throat and smile up at him, lacing your fingers with his. "How are you feeling?" you ask, running your thumb over his hand, keeping your voice soft as to not disturb the air.

Spencer sighs, though not out of exhaustion, you assume he’s still taking everything in as you see his head rolling against the pillow. "It’s never felt like that before."

You grin. "Glad I could help."

He shifts, reaching for his discarded pants on the floor. "We should—we should clean up," he mumbles, his eyes darting to yours. He flushes when he sees your expression, and his face turns even redder as you realize what he’s doing.

"Reid," you laugh. "Are you really reaching for tissues right now?"

His ears turn bright red. "Well, what—what else am I supposed to do?"

You shift, straddling his hips as you lean down. "How about we do something else," you murmur. You kiss his jawline, working your way down his neck.

"Like what?" he asks in a breathy voice.

"Like this," you reply. You shift, taking his cock inside you. Spencer's breath hitches, and he groans at the feel of you surrounding him. You clasp his shoulders as you begin to move, his hands falling to your hips. He gasps with each thrust, his eyes falling shut as his head lolls back against the pillow.

"Y/N," he whimpers, his fingers digging into your skin. “I don’t know if I can-."

You ride him harder, sliding up and down his cock. “Yes you can, baby. I know you can give me one more,” Spencer's hips rock upwards to meet you, his breath coming in broken gasps.

His fingers tighten around your hips, holding you close as he thrusts upwards.

You’re both panting and gasping now as you chase the peak. You're so close. So fucking close.

"Please—" Spencer groans. "Y/N. I'm—fuck, I'm coming."

You feel him spasm inside you, his fingers tightening almost painfully around your hips. You groan, your movements slowing as you ride him through his orgasm. Spencer's eyes are closed, his mouth open as he gasps for air. His body trembles beneath you, and you feel a surge of satisfaction as you reach yours, too.

You slump forward, catching yourself on his shoulders as you press your forehead against his. He opens his eyes and smiles at you, a warm expression that makes your chest ache.

"Hi," he murmurs softly.

"Hi Spencer." You smile back.

You both lay there for a moment, enjoying the weight of each other’s bodies. Finally, you roll off him, stretching out next to him on the creaky motel bed.

You reach for him, pulling him into your arms as you smile. He nestles against you, his arm snaking around your waist as he presses his face against your chest.

You wrap your arm around him, whispering soft praise into his hair as you stroke his skin gently. He relaxes further, his body growing heavy with sleep.

The mattress is uncomfortable, the sheets too thin. But somehow, you feel more at ease than you have in weeks.

Spencer Reid is a brilliant man. But he’s also really fucking good at other things too. And you’re excited to find out what else he’s good at.

You smile to yourself, your chest warm with affection.

"Goodnight, Reid," you whisper into his hair.

He hums a soft reply, his breathing already slowing. You wrap your arm tighter around him, closing your eyes and letting yourself drift off into sleep. Tomorrow, the case will continue, and so will your job. But right now, you have Spencer in your arms.

And that’s more than enough. You smile again, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you as you drift off to sleep. This room might not be perfect. But it’s home for the moment, and that’s all you need. You drift off to sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of Spencer's heartbeat against your chest.

[my-castles-crumbling]

Jegulus - Based on a request by an anon! - trans!Regulus - 531 - tw: mild dysphoria

He never outright said anything when it happened. At least, not at first. Bringing it up brought stomach aches and chest pains, goosebumps and anxiety. He tried, of course, to pretend it didn’t happen. But avoiding reality didn’t make it change.

James was sweet about not talking about it. He never pushed. He only asked about anything close to the topic when he needed to know something, or when Regulus brought it up. But he was also smart, and noticed patterns. So by the fourth-or-so month of them dating, Regulus knew he knew, without having to say anything.

And then…he started just doing things. Leaving things. Carrying things with him.

“Can I take that for you, love?” he’d always offer, grabbing Regulus’s heavy books when he saw the younger boy wincing with cramps.

“Do you need some pain potion? Chocolate? A granola bar?” he’d say with a concerned voice when he saw Regulus, paler than usual, between classes.

“Did you get the note I left for you?” he’d ask so kindly, tracing Regulus’s jawline lovingly with his thumb and reminding him of the letter he’d found sitting on his pillow that morning after he’d changed.

“D’you need a massage or anything?” he’d offer so casually when Regulus nearly-collapsed in a chair in the library, aches threatening to consume him.

But it was not all of these things that made the whole experience better, somehow.

It was the first time he actually had to admit to James what was happening.

“I need to go back to my room,” he mumbled to his boyfriend one day as they sat in a quiet alcove of the castle. Regulus had been reading while James was happily playing with his hair.

“What?” James asked, looking put out. “I mean, of course, whatever you need, but why?”

Regulus bit at his lip, worryingly. He didn’t want to offend James and he knew he needed to acknowledge it at some point but it was so difficult..

“I have my period,” he mumbled, looking down as his entire stomach sank to the floor. “I need to go grab…y’know…period stuff.”

“Oh!” James said, nodding completely unabashedly. “No need, love! I have some. Do you need tampons or pads?”

Regulus blanched at the words, unable to form any response. “Do-what?”

“Oh,” James responded, looking nervous. “Do you…do you use something else? I asked Pandora a while back and she said to carry these, but if it’s changed, I can-”

Regulus cut him off, completely taken aback. “You asked Pandora what I use for my period?”

“Yeah,” James shrugged, like it was normal. “I wanted to be prepared. You know… in case you ever needed anything.”

His brain was empty. “Boys don’t carry those things,” Regulus said numbly, still shocked.

But James tilted his head to the side. “You do, baby. You’re a boy. And I’m dating you. Why shouldn’t I carry them, just in case?”

Regulus blinked, a soft ‘oh!’ falling from his lips. “I…thank you,” he murmured softly, reaching to grab one of the objects James offered him.

When he got to the bathroom, he allowed the tears to fall. But for the first time, he wasn’t crying just with sadness. There was happiness there, too.

[nerdygirlramblings]

I've got a hc in my mind.

Simon doesn't want children. At least that's what he promised himself due to his trauma, childhood etc.

And that leads to thoughts:

When he sees reader with one of Jonny's baby nieces in their arms, he is whipped. He can't imagine getting you not pregnant anymore. Like the baby fever's hitting hard af.

The twist. Since he got a vasectomy when he was like 20/25 he isn't able to get you pregnant. So, desperate and horny, Simon asks Jonny. (Noone can tell me Jonny doesn't have high fertil sperm. He's the reason why the pill is only 99% safe.)

Jonny wouldn't be Jonny if he didn't try at least. After maybe the third try, he's kind a part of their marriage now and stays after reader got pregnant.

It's up to you if you wanna do a kind of baby trapping- thing (because not everyone if comfortable with it and that's okay) or with consent

- May your sleeves never slide down and get wet when you wash your hands

Hi, anon! This was a delicious, devious ask, and I had thots. I know it's not quite what you suggested, but I hope it works anyway. (I also may have misread the hc the first time and saw John not Jonny and completely missed the niece bit too.)

cw: baby trapping, unprotected PIV, dubcon

When you and Simon started to get serious, he told you he didn't want kids. He'd learned from others that kids was a deal-breaker, so he wanted everything out in the open early.

He couldn't have been more thrilled when you said you didn't think you wanted kids either. He mentioned his vasectomy and you casually replied that if things ever changed, you could always adopt, give a kid without a home someplace to belong rather than bring an innocent life into a world that constantly felt like it was one mad ruler with a fiddle away from total collapse. He couldn't agree more.

Everything was fine. You loved Simon and he loved you. He was married to you and the job, and you kept him grounded, reminded him life wasn't a battlefield. It helped that he was close with his unit even off the field. Johnny was a staple at your place, and when they weren't deployed, the whole team did Sunday dinners at the Prices, which is where Simon first saw it. Saw you. And his entire worldview cracked.

He knew, abstractly, that Price's wife was pregnant. The belly was hard to miss. But she'd given birth during his last solo mission, and he hadn't met the baby. You though, you were one of the few people Price deemed safe enough to be around his missus and kid, and with Simon away, you'd spent a lot of time with them. You'd do the shopping for Mrs. Price or watch Baby Price while the Captain wooed his wife.

That Sunday, Simon was completely unprepared for the sight of you cradling Baby Price against your chest, rocking him so his mama could eat her meal while Price was grilling. Simon's heart lurched, and he unconsciously palmed his growing erection. Johnny, sitting next to him, noticed the movement and said, "Ain't nothing more lovely than a mum with her baby, yeah?"

Of course Johnny knew Simon didn't want kids, but he didn't know Simon was shooting blanks. And he wasn't unaffected by the sight of either you holding the kid either. He loved the idea of getting a pretty woman pregnant, her body working to grow his kid.

Simon decided in that moment he needed to get you pregnant any way he could.

Your sex life had never been vanilla, and you'd both had your share of all kinds of partners before, but you'd never had a third. Never expected Simon to ask. And you definitely never thought he'd ask for it to be Johnny. You weren't outright opposed to the idea: Johnny was charming, a flirt. You saw how he sometimes looked at Simon, the feral glint in his eyes when he talked with you one-on-one. It might be fun to see Johnny slip the leash he had on his control.

"'E's clean. An' 'e's snipped like me," Simon said. "Never wan'ed ta 'ave a baby outa wedlock. Too much Catholic guilt." You weren't on anything because with Simon you didn't have to worry about a pregnancy, so you didn't push for condoms for Johnny either. While Simon was telling you Johnny shot blanks, he told Johnny you had your tubes tied, so his swimmers could play in the pool with no consequences.

Sex with them was indescribable. The push and pull between them, the way their awareness of one another on the field translated to the bedroom meant you were constantly on a knife's edge, dangling over the precipice of "too much." But they always caught you.

Apparently you weren't the only one who enjoyed the night, as Simon requested a repeat performance several more times over the next few weeks. Johnny, who never had a steady girlfriend, had no qualms slotting himself into your and Simon's bed whenever his lieutenant asked. He'd been a constant presence at your house throughout your relationship. Having him in bed with you almost felt like a natural progression.

Two months later you found yourself dragging. Every day was a struggle to get up, and you were constantly tired. Your favorite foods didn't stay down anymore. Every time you complained, Simon looked at you. There was something in his eye that you couldn't place. Something greedy, knowing.

He finally suggested you see the doctor since you weren't getting any better. The appointment started like they always did for women of a certain age: "Are you pregnant? Or could you be pregnant?" You laughed. Pregnancy is preposterous. Your husband had a vasectomy over a decade ago, and the new lover you've had in bed is the same. There's no way you could be pregnant.

The doctor nodded as you talked and insisted on running a pregnancy test anyway. The positive result shocked you. How would you tell Simon, who never wanted kids? How could it be his? Or Johnny's?

It never occured to you your husband lied to you.

That night, Johnny's over, cooking as you're sat quietly on the couch. You knew you needed to say something, but you didn't know if it was only Simon you should tell or if Johnny needed to know too. It all came out during supper after you took two bites before rushing to the loo to vomit.

Crying, you told the men you're pregnant. "But I'm not sure how when you're both safe," you wailed.

Johnny spluttered. "Wha? I'm no snipped," he said. "But ye cannae be pregnant if yer tubes 'er tied, lass."

"My what?" you breathed, turning horrified eyes on your husband who had the good sense to look mildly ashamed.

Johnny looked between you, realization dawning on his face too. "Lt, wha'd ye do?"

He looked at you both and admitted, hardheadedly, "What I 'ad to."

main masterlist

[imnez-daydreams]

the art of noticing

pairing : benjamin poindexter x reader

warnings : extremely suggestive below read more, not outright explicit in detail (cause im not talented enough for full on smut lol) but just to be safe, don't read if below 18 !! quite a few religious themes/imagery too.

a/n : hii ! i've never written fanfiction before let alone anything spicy but the dex brainrot was too strong so please bear with me. special thank you to @kyamiia for inspiring me and letting me expand on the idea based on this, and to @babyangeldex for being THE sweetest ever with her encouragement, especially on me wanting to write for the first time !! credits for the header images goes to @bullseyelover, THE no1 bullseye fan hi i love you !! hope you enjoy fellow dex lovers <3

dex notices things.

it started even before you guys got together.

dex's eye for details only intensifies when he crawls his way into your heart. your home. your shared home. it was one thing being able to look through the glass of your apartment window, studying your routine. timing his sips perfectly to yours, anticipating that look of bliss when the coffee hit just right. pretending that faraway look and smile out the window was directed to him, reserved for him.

now though, dex doesn't have to be delusional anymore. there's no need to time his drinking with yours because he is making your coffee and spending the mornings with you. he knows just how you like it. he's memorised all your morning routine steps, catalogued every small tick in your face when you eat your breakfast, has your glossy eyes from watching your favourite romcom seared into his brain. he knows how to see that satisfied and "on cloud 9" face. how to be the reason for that pleasure.

when you laugh at dex's poor attempt of a joke, really laugh with your eyes crinkling in the corner, he thinks his heart stops. he thinks this is it. the sound of an angel come to gently lead him towards the afterlife, with the way your laughter wraps around his body like the soft embrace of an angel's wings.

so it makes perfect sense for dex's penchant for noticing to seep into your shared bedroom too. he needs to remember everything, he needs to file away every little sound, every facial expression. keeps it in the folders of his mind, locked away for nobody else to see. only unlocking these memories when he's hard at work, away from his angel. clings to the image of you, the sound of you like a lifeline. counts the seconds down to when he can finally lock up his place of worship again because you're back in his arms. but its not just for himself, to keep his hunger satiated. its for you too. so he can replay your reactions to everything he does and says. analyse what made you feel good. what can make you feel even better. let you float up to the same high he gets from watching you, being with you. don't worry, he'll be there to catch you in his protective embrace when you land back down.

the first time he sunk to his knees for you, he never took his eyes away from you. couldn't bear to, not when your face was so beautifully contorted in pleasure, pleasure he was giving to you. the rising pitch of your voice, the up and down movement of your chest, the low tilt of your eyes to keep that eye contact with him going. when you absentmindedly reach for dex's hair, tugging the short hairs at the back while begging with that sweet saccharine voice of yours,

"pl- please dex, i can't anymore. i need, ohmygod, i need it please, i need you dex"

it takes every. single. cell. in dex's body to not roll his eyes to the back of his skull and finish in his pants then and there. his years of military training, experience as FBI-SWAT all lead up to this moment. to practice that honed skill of restraint. he can't let go until you have, until you've reached that peak. when you do, you collapse backwards with a heaving chest. dex unclenches his bruising (posessive) grip on you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. not to waste a single drop, he licks his hand clean while slowly standing back up from his place of worship.

the sight that greets dex has him believing in God.

your hair is tousled just above your head like a halo.

your eyes that look up at him are completely glossed over, a single tear slowly cascading down the right side of your face.

your smile, oh, your sweet loving smile. directed at him, only him as if he was the answers to your prayers.

those aren't what drives dex over the edge though, oh no.

its you.

you looking like the epitome of an angel.

slowly hiking up your legs, opening them up shyly.

"more? please, dex?"

if this is how dex dies, he believes its worth it.

a/n : thank you so much if you've read to the end <3 !! this is very very beginner so pretty please be nice if you reblog with comments/ramblings, though i'd still appreciate any kind of support with likes/reblogs/comments hehe. (also yes i wrote this on my phone on drafts, and nearly got a heart attack when the draft vanished and accidentally uploaded before i was done so if you saw ... no you didnt)

[mashtatosworld]

eyes on me (3)

summary: after the scandal shattered your world, Daesung is there to pick up the pieces. until the truth is revealed.

You lost everything.

Your career, your reputation, the love of your life - all gone in a slow, public collapse that made front-page news.

Every morning, you woke up waiting for the next headline. For the next article or tweet to twist your name into something even uglier.

GDragon’s Ex Leaks Tour Footage Producer Turned Traitor Insider Betrayal Ruins Big Bang Legacy

You’d long since been let go from your job. The word “liability” now echoed in every rejection email. Even when they didn’t say it outright, you could feel it hanging there.

A shadow on your shoulders. A stain you couldn’t scrub off.

The apartment was suffocating in its silence. Iye was gone. The shelves were dusty. The bed too cold. You moved through your days like a ghost, wrapped in oversized hoodies, waiting for a cease-and-desist letter to arrive at your door.

And it never came.

Until he did.

A soft knock on your door. You hesitated, unsure if it was someone from the press - until you peeked through the peephole and saw him.

Daesung.

A quiet smile and a Lego set tucked under his arm.

You stepped aside, wordlessly letting him in.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the pieces scattered between you like a puzzle of the person you used to be.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. The clinking of plastic bricks filled the silence. And then:

"How are you, really?" he asked gently.

You didn’t look up.

“I’m waiting for his team to sue me,” you said, trying to make it sound like a joke. It wasn’t. “Every time I check the mail I think, ‘This is it. They’re finally going to destroy me completely.’”

Daesung sighed, his hands stilling. “They tried.”

You froze.

“But Jiyong stopped it,” he continued. “He refused to let it go forward.”

Your throat tightened.

“He still cares,” Daesung added quietly.

“Not enough,” you whispered, your voice cracking at the edges.

Your hands trembled as you tried to snap a tiny blue brick into place. You blinked fast, but it was no use. The tears came before you could stop them.

“I’m so alone,” you said, barely a whisper.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You sobbed quietly against him. And he didn’t let go. Not once.

“I miss everything,” you mumbled. “The job. The apartment. Him.”

“I know.”

You pulled back slightly, your cheeks damp, your eyes swollen.

And then… there was a moment.

A long, still breath between you both. His hands still rested gently on your arms. Your face inches from his. And for a second, you thought he might -

But Daesung withdrew. Slowly. Carefully.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “You're still hurting. And in love with Jiyong."

You laughed bitterly, blinking back fresh tears. “Yeah, pathetic, isn't it? God, I need to move on already. I'm sure he's already onto the next."

“Don't say that.” Daesung said. "You're Jiyong and y/n... I don't think anyone could imagine you two with someone else. Even Jiyong."

You looked down, pulling at the cuff of your sock.

“Well, before you became a couple at least,” he mumbled quietly, turning over a Lego piece in his hand.

You looked up, staring at him.

“I liked you,” he admitted. “When we first met. I wanted to ask you out. But then…” he trailed off.

“Timing,” you muttered.

He smiled sadly. “Yeah. Timing.”

You leant back, letting the silence return. You stared down at the half-finished Lego structure. It was messy, crooked. Like you.

“I’m going to get better,” you said suddenly. “I have to. I’m tired of feeling like this. I need to… move on. From him. From everything.”

Daesung nodded. “What do you need? Whatever it is, I’ll help you.”

You hesitated. "I just want to feel something other than this. Something other than sad, angry, tired... disappointed.”

He was silent for a moment. “Well... I have an idea. It always works for me.”

You blinked at him, suspicious. “Should I be worried?

He just smiled. “Get your shoes.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The heater in Daesung’s car was a little too warm, and the air smelled faintly of the watermelon gum he always kept in the cupholder.

You were curled in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, staring at the streetlights flicking by.

“Dae,” you groaned, eyeing the dashboard clock. “I really don’t want to do karaoke right now.”

“We’re not going to karaoke,” he said, as he rolled the windows down. All the way down.

The wind hit you instantly, cold and sharp and shocking, and then he cranked the radio up, volume climbing until the speakers buzzed.

The intro of Since U Been Gone came on, that familiar guitar riff slipping into your chest like it had been waiting for you.

“This is not better,” you laughed, voice barely cutting over the music. “What are we doing?!”

Daesung didn’t answer. He just turned the wheel, merging onto an open stretch of road, city lights melting into streaks around you. He grinned like a man with a secret.

“This,” he shouted, “isn’t karaoke.”

You stared at him.

“Now sing.”

“No.”

“SING.”

“Dae - ”

“COME ON,” he yelled, already launching into the chorus with so much conviction you were startled. “And all you'd ever hear me say - !”

You stared at him, torn between horror and hysterics.

“Is how I pictured me with you!” he continued, dramatically pointing at you. “That's all you'd ever hear me say - ”

You broke.

You cracked right open.

And then you screamed the lyrics with him - loud, raw, desperate.

"BUT SINCE YOU BEEN GONE!”

The wind whipped through your hair. Your voice tore out of your throat, carried with the cold air like a release.

You stuck your head halfway out the window, breath catching, eyes burning, the cold wind like a shot of adrenaline.

You couldn’t stop.

Every line of the song felt like it had lived in your ribs for years, waiting for this exact night.

You and Daesung were practically screaming, gasping from laughing between lyrics, your voices ragged but real.

The car flew through the quiet city, past midnight streets and blinking lights, with you two as the only chaos left awake.

When the song ended, he didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

The gentle quiet that followed was calm and not suffocating.

He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and saw your cheeks flushed from wind, lips curled into something like a real smile - not the practiced, hollow one.

The real thing.

“Better?” he asked, quieter now.

You looked at him, chest rising and falling fast.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you weren’t numb. You felt the burn in your lungs, the sting in your eyes, the ache in your jaw from smiling too hard.

You felt everything.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Better.”

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt like that - not good, not healed - but free.

Alive.

You turned back to look at Daesung and he was watching the road, eyes glassy with the wind and something else - that soft warmth that always came with him. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

And maybe nothing had changed. But something in you had.

The slump you’d been trapped in felt a little looser. The grief, a little lighter.

You looked over at him again, heart thudding a little steadier.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He reached over blindly and took your hand, squeezing it.

“Anytime.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Your life looked different now.

There was no camera crew chasing you, no curated social feeds, no extravagant tour buses or flashing lights. Just a tiny café near your new apartment and a simple routine you’d grown to love.

You poured flower-shaped foam into cappuccinos and listened to the hum of radio music under soft morning light. You still missed the old world. But it was a memory now - faded, fragile, and far away.

Now it was just you, Y/n from the café.

And Daesung.

He still came by often. Always with a crooked smile and something ridiculous to say. He’d sit by the window, sipping the coffee you made for him - always with a little heart drawn in the foam - and wait for your shift to end so he could walk you home.

On Thursdays, he made you dinner. It started casually, when he realised you barely remembered to eat. Now it was a ritual.

It was the best part of your week.

No talk of the past. No talk of him.

Until today.

Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing - five, six, seven calls in a row.

Your manager gave you a raised brow from the register. “Either answer it or switch it off, hon.”

You chuckled under your breath and pulled the device from your apron pocket.

And froze.

Ji 🖤

The name blazed across the screen like a ghost risen from the dead. You hadn't even changed his contact name since he blocked you. A photo of him holding a tiny, fuzzy Iye haunting you.

Your fingers trembled. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The ringtone kept playing like a slow taunt. Your heart slammed against your ribs. You stared at it until the call ended - only for it to start again a second later.

Eventually, you powered it off.

“Didn’t want to answer?” your manager asked, concerned.

You shook your head slowly. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t.

A chill followed you the rest of the shift, even as the café filled with the comfort of clinking cups and low chatter. You were wiping down tables when the bell above the door chimed again.

Daesung.

But he didn’t smile this time. He didn’t order a drink or tease you about your latte art.

He just sat by the window, biting his nail, leg bouncing anxiously.

You knew something was wrong.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Your shift ended.

He carefully helped you into your coat, and the two of you walked together in silence.

The sky was a deep grey, the air crisp with the promise of winter. You tried talking - anything to break the tension.

“So what do you want to cook tonight? I bought those mushrooms you like - ”

“I need to tell you something,” he cut in gently.

You stopped walking, pausing in front of your apartment.

“There’s been a development in the case. Your name’s been cleared.”

You blinked. “What?”

“They found out it was someone at your old company. They impersonated you, hacked your credentials to access the footage. It’s all confirmed.”

You turned away, pulling your keys from your pocket and unlocking the door. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Y/n - ”

“It doesn’t,” you said sharply, stepping inside and heading straight to the kitchen. “At least now I won’t end up in court. That’s something.”

He followed, watching as you set out the cutting board and knives.

“Maybe you should go to court and sue whoever it was,” he said quietly. “Make them pay.”

“Let Jiyong sue them. He’s already having his legal team handle it, right?”

You began unpacking ingredients from your fridge. Daesung hesitated.

“He is,” he admitted.

You let out a soft, humourless laugh. “He couldn’t believe me until he had cold, hard evidence. Not a phone call. Not a conversation. Not even a question. Just silence.”

Daesung started chopping in your place, the kitchen filling with quiet sounds of preparation. A kind of peace.

Dinner was simple and warm - a spicy stir fry and soda, your new usual.

Then his phone buzzed on the table.

Jiyong.

He looked at you. “Should I answer?”

You scoffed. “Sure. Let him know you’re having dinner with me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “He knows, y/n. I told him I’ve stayed in touch with you. We fought about it. For a couple weeks. Then he stopped bringing it up.”

“Too tired to fight anymore?” you murmured.

“Too scared to lose anyone else.”

You didn’t reply. Just stood and fetched the bottle of wine. You poured two glasses and handed him one.

“I thought you stopped drinking,” he said gently.

“I did.”

He raised a brow.

“This is a celebration,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’m no longer the world’s favourite backstabbing bitch.”

He accepted the glass, and you clinked yours gently against his. The wine tasted sharp. Almost sweet.

The two of you curled up on the couch and started a movie, horrors were your favourite.

And he never said a word in protest, but you were starting to suspect that maybe, despite his assurance he was happy to watch too, he was less of a fan. You'd occasionally catch his eyes squeezed shut or feel him jolt at the jump scares.

When it got late, you glanced over at him, voice soft. “Will you stay?”

He looked at you for a moment and nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

You turned off the lights and pulled the blanket over both of you. His arms found you naturally, curling around your waist, anchoring you in the moment.

And to him.

Just before sleep stole you, you felt his lips brush against your hairline.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

When morning came, the sun peeked softly through the curtains. The room was still. Warm.

And Daesung was gone.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

i fear i would have picked up...

also dae singing kelly clarkson? let's not question it and live in fantasy land together ok? great 🤣

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen , @heartubeatusalon , @imminsugasgf

[arciam]

Underrated JayVik moments/lines (17/∞)

[Blink-and-you'll-miss-it.]

So, "fun" story: When I first watched Arcane, while I had already seen approximately 10.000 gifsets of JayVik's final 5 minutes crossing my dash, I knew hardly anything else about them, or how they would get to that point.

...So imagine my surprise when I witnessed Jayce just straight-up murdering the guy that I knew he would end up gazing at like this:

(Though, as I imagine, it was probably not that much less of a shock to people watching the show as it came out.)

In hindsight, of course I understand that it's very much by design that the viewer is kept in the dark about Jayce's motivations until the last possible moment (whether or not I agree with this decision and what it meant for the characters is another topic entirely... as in, you will never convince me that Jayce, if not for plot-imposed secrecy, wouldn't have tried to explain things to Viktor and would instead really just go "so anyway, I started blasting").

I assume we're supposed to think, at that point, that Jayce is either possessed by some force like the Arcane, went fully insane, or is indeed just out for Viktor's blood for some reason.

Which is why, upon second viewing, I found it even more incredible how Fortiche rrreally squeezed the absolute most out of the facial animations and, in fact, gave us a myriad of microexpressions which are supposed to still show us Jayce's true feelings once you know what you're looking for.

He may be looking at Viktor like a rabid raccoon most of the time, but then there's also:

The first time he hears (his) Viktor's voice again.

This part of his "split face" right before he shoots Viktor.

The dead last frame of this shot after shooting him.

Not to mention this sequence of faces as he stumbles out. just kill me it would hurt less

It's obvious enough once you know, yet subtle enough to remain obscured if you don't.

Also, another thing I want to draw attention to is how Jayce's "madness" stops the moment the deed is done (and only returns when Viktor does) - he is already fully lucid by the time he helps Caitlyn and Vi escape from the commune.

Which to me, looking back, indicates one thing specifically:

Jayce's mind freaking out on him to the brink of collapse until this moment wasn't just madness, or PTSD, or the touch of the Arcane.

He was waging outright war against himself to the point of dissociating to be able to do what he did to Viktor.

(Again - was it necessary for him to do it? I don't think the show really took the time to show us why it would be... but that wasn't the topic of this post.)

Part 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/7½/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20

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