#even if he doesn't understand and responsability weights over his shoulders

[depressedtheatrekiddo]

(Spoilers? Issues 1-8 of Blue Beetle (2006), it's just a little screaming and analysis so yeah that <3)

Me when Jaime Reyes is expected to know everything and is tossed around to become something he never asked for, given no explanations and is only a teen *screams into the void*

It's worse that he hasn't really died. That he was just gone. That his family and friends mourned him. Because it's been a year.

Because he's the same. He's the same but his relationships with the people he loves, the people he believes he knows, those will forever be complicated.

His parents support him. But his mom doesn't believe it's his son at first and his dad tells him it's the grieve, he talks about the ideals you create when someone dies. But he didn't die. How do you overcome the expectation of who you were when you believe you're still you? And oh, aren't they different from how did you remember? Was there white hair there? Why do you wear a cane dad?Why's your smile so sad? I'm here, right?

Because Mili keeps feeling weird, because that's her big brother, right? He calls her Munchkin and she hugs him when he cries. Because that's her brother. But she also runs away when he appears or when he tries to hug her. He is, right? He has to be. And she keeps bothering him playfully, they both do. Because they're still siblings.

And the worst is when he looks at his friends. You believe they're the same. They believe you are too. But between laughs Paco will say that "they were there when you weren't". And looking at Brenda will remind you of who her aunt is, you haven't lied at her before, not about something like that.

And then you feel like Jaime Reyes is taken from you. That the home where you were still yourself is being taken from you too. You're shoved into being the Blue Beetle. You want to help the people, to do good. But you know nothing and you have homework to do. And you just want them to look at you like before.

[brunchable]

THIS, is your boyfriend, Mom? [4]

Pairings: Beefy Bucky Barnes x Our savage wittle boi Lucas x f!Reader.

Summary: The family went on a camping trip with Lucas' cousins. Warning: Lucas fell into a river but is unharmed.

A/N: I will just keep posting Step-Dad Bucky content, this doesn't really have set plot, just cute and funny moments while Bucky navigates how to be a Dad. ALSO, note I am still trying to fix the tag list for this.

The stars had just begun to shine as you, Bucky, Lucas, and a few of his cousins sat around the campfire, laughter filling the air as the kids toasted marshmallows and dared each other to make the strangest marshmallow combinations.

After a while, Lucas and his cousin wandered over to you, their faces lit with excitement. “Mom, can we go skip rocks by the river?” Lucas asked.

You nodded, giving them a warm but serious smile. “Alright, but don’t go too close to the water. Stay safe.”

They nodded, promising to be careful, and you watched as they bounded off toward the riverbank, their giggles mixing with the sound of the flowing water. Bucky was sitting next to you, his gaze steady on the kids as they skipped stones, trying to beat each other’s number of skips.

Everything seemed peaceful.

But after a few minutes, you overheard Lucas’s cousin daring him. “Bet you can’t skip one from way up close,” his cousin said, pointing to a spot near the edge of the water, where the bank was muddy and slippery.

Lucas hesitated, glancing back at you and Bucky, then shrugged, puffing his chest out a little. “It’s not even that deep. I’ll be fine.”

In that split second, he took a bold step closer, right to the edge, and threw his rock. But as he shifted his weight forward, the muddy bank gave way, and he slipped, his arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance—only to tumble forward into the icy water.

“Mom! Help!” Lucas screamed, panic overtaking his voice as the river’s current tried to pull him in.

His cousin tried to reach him, stretching out his arm, but the water was too strong, and Lucas was quickly losing his footing.

In that moment, Lucas looked up, his breath catching as he saw a figure racing toward him with unwavering speed and determination. Recognizing Bucky’s shape, he reached out instinctively, the word spilling out in sheer desperation.

“Dad!”

Before you could take a step, Bucky had already shot up, sprinting to the river with a look of pure terror etched across his face. Reaching the boys in seconds, he gently but firmly shoved Lucas’s cousin back toward you, his voice low and firm. “Get to your mom. Now.”

“Lucas!” you screamed, your heart pounding.

Without a second thought, Bucky stepped into the river, his boots sinking into the cold, swirling water as it tugged insistently at his legs, urging him to stay back. But he moved forward, steady and sure, his eyes fixed on Lucas as if the world held nothing else. The river pressed against him, but he barely noticed, reaching Lucas in a few strides, wrapping a solid arm under the boy’s shoulders, and lifting him up with a fierce certainty. Holding Lucas close, Bucky turned and waded back to shore, his grip firm, his gaze steady, as if he were carrying something infinitely precious.

As soon as they were safely on dry ground, Bucky knelt down, gripping Lucas’s shoulders tightly, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with anger and fear.

“What were you thinking, Lucas?” he snapped, his voice sharp and unwavering. “Didn’t your mother tell you not to go near the edge? Do you understand what could have happened if you’d fallen in deeper?”

Lucas glanced up at Bucky, then looked over at you. The sight of you standing there, tears streaming down your face, struck him like a punch to the chest. His mother, the person he always wanted to keep happy and safe, was crying because of him.

Lucas looked down, his face pale, but tried to stammer out a response. “I-I… I didn’t think it’d be that slippery…”

Bucky’s hands tightened on his shoulders, and his voice grew louder, thick with emotion. “Exactly. You didn’t think! What if the current had pulled you in? What if you’d been swept away before I got there? What if… what if you had gotten hurt or worse?” Bucky’s voice wavered, but his tone stayed stern. “This isn’t a game, boy. You could’ve been lost to that river in an instant.”

Lucas’s cousin, standing nearby, shifted nervously, his face turning pale as he realized the seriousness of the situation. Bucky’s sharp gaze flicked toward him, his tone still unrelenting.

“And you,” he said, his voice just as firm as before. “Why would you dare him to go closer? Do you understand how dangerous that was?”

Lucas’s cousin looked down, guilt spreading across his face as he mumbled, “I’m sorry, Bucky… I didn’t think anything bad would happen. I just… thought it’d be fun.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t soften as he spoke, his tone filled with disappointment. 

“Fun? What if he’d fallen in and the current was too strong? What if I hadn’t been here in time? You don’t push someone to take a risk like that, especially near the water. You’re supposed to look out for each other, not encourage recklessness.”

The weight of Bucky’s words began to settle over both boys like a heavy blanket. The “what ifs” replayed in their minds, each one sinking deeper, and they both suddenly felt small and helpless under Bucky’s fierce gaze.

Lucas’s voice shook as he whispered, “I… I’m sorry, Bucky. I didn’t mean to make you and Mom worry. I just wanted to see if I could do it…”

“Wanting to prove yourself doesn’t matter if you’re putting yourself in danger. Bravery doesn’t mean being reckless, Lucas. Do you understand that?” Bucky’s stern expression didn’t waver as he looked down at Lucas, still gripped by the terror of almost losing him.

Lucas’s shoulders slumped as the weight of his mistake settled over him like an unwelcome shadow. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and his voice broke in a whisper, “I’m really, really sorry, Bucky. I didn’t mean for it to be this bad… I just didn’t think.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, his face softening as he caught the guilt in Lucas’s tear-filled eyes. He let out a quiet, unsteady breath, the last of his anger dissolving like smoke. He pulled the boy into a fierce hug, an instinct older than words, holding him close as if, in that one embrace, he could keep the world and all its dangers at bay.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Lucas’s voice was muffled against Bucky’s chest, his small hands gripping Bucky’s shirt like it was his only tether to safety.

Bucky’s arms tightened around him, one hand moving up to cradle the back of Lucas’s head. “I know, kid. I know you didn’t mean it.” His voice was soft but steady, filled with something deeper than mere forgiveness.

He stroked Lucas’s back in slow, reassuring circles, feeling each shaky breath. “You scared me, you know? Really scared me.” The words were simple but carried a weight only Lucas could feel, pressing gently on his small shoulders.

Then, Bucky pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, brushing a tear from Lucas’s cheek with his thumb. “Listen. You don’t need to prove anything. You’re already enough, just as you are. And I need you here with me. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

Lucas nodded, a fierce, wide-eyed sincerity in his gaze. “I promise.”

Bucky’s lips curled into a small, warm smile, and he ruffled Lucas’s hair gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “Good. That’s my boy.”

There was a pause, a quiet weight to the moment. Then, Bucky gave Lucas’s shoulder a soft squeeze, his tone light but carrying an unmistakable note of resolve. 

“Now,” he murmured, a hint of mischief flickering in his eyes, “go apologize to your mom and get yourself cleaned up. You’ve given her enough to worry about for one day.”

× × × ×

The campfire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the clearing as the night deepened. The kids were finally asleep in their own tent, their quiet breaths rising and falling in a rhythm of exhaustion and dreams. You stayed by the fire, arms wrapped around yourself, lost in thought as you watched the flames dance.

Bucky came up behind you, draping a blanket over your shoulders and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You smiled up at him, warmth spreading through you beyond the blanket.

“Thank you,” you murmured, reaching for his hand. “For what you did for Lucas today.”

Bucky shook his head, brushing it off. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, settling down beside you. But as he looked into the fire, a quiet chuckle escaped him, his eyes crinkling with a mix of disbelief and something almost… tender.

You turned to him, curiosity in your gaze. “What are you thinking about?”

He glanced at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes still reflecting the firelight. “He called me ‘Dad,’” he said, voice soft with wonder.

You nodded, your own smile widening. “He did.”

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he leaned back. “Think that’s going to cost me the dad fee?”

You laughed, a warm sound that felt like it belonged to the night. Bucky grinned, clearly pleased to lighten the mood, and his hand found yours as the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the fire crackling as the stars watched over.

After a moment, Bucky’s gaze softened, and he leaned in, closing the space between you with a look of pure adoration. His hand cradled your face as his lips brushed against yours, warm and lingering.

Just as you melted into the kiss, a small voice pierced the quiet.

“Oh, wow. Seriously? Now?”

You and Bucky broke apart to find Lucas standing outside his tent, hands on his hips and an exaggerated look of exasperation on his face. “Guys, it’s, like, bedtime. Some of us are trying to sleep here without… that in our minds.”

You stifled a laugh, and Bucky sighed, glancing at the sky as if asking for patience. “What do you need, kid?”

Lucas rolled his eyes dramatically. “Well, I was going to the bathroom, but now I’m scarred for life. So thanks for that,” he added with a smirk, gesturing toward the trees. “I’ll be back—try to keep it PG, alright?”

With that, he turned and shuffled off, muttering loud enough for you to hear, “Can’t believe I had to see that.”

When he was out of earshot, Bucky shook his head, chuckling softly. “That kid…”

You bit back a grin, leaning into him with a sigh. “So, where were we?”

Bucky pulled you close, a smirk on his lips. “Somewhere between dad fees and permanent interruptions, I think.”

× × × × 

Back home a few days later.

It was a quiet evening, and Bucky had been waiting for the right moment, nerves humming beneath his calm exterior. Lucas was sprawled out on the living room floor, building a small LEGO fortress, completely focused. Bucky took a deep breath, gathering himself, and then sat down next to Lucas, watching him for a moment before speaking.

“Hey, bud,” Bucky said softly, ruffling Lucas’s hair.

Lucas looked up, his face lighting up. “Hey, Bucky! Want to help me with the fortress? It’s almost done.”

Bucky chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe in a sec, kiddo. I actually wanted to talk to you about something… something important.”

“Okay… what’s up?” Lucas tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

Bucky took a deep breath, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.

“So… I’ve been thinking about your mom,” he began, his voice gentle. “She means everything to me, Lucas. You know that, right?”

Lucas nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. “Yeah, I know. She loves you, too.”

Bucky swallowed, his heart pounding a little harder as he reached out, resting a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. “Well, I was wondering… how would you feel if I asked her to marry me?”

Lucas’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open in surprise. He looked down, taking it in, before glancing back up at Bucky with a raised eyebrow.

“You mean… you’d be my dad?” he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of sass. “Like, officially? You’re not just trying to get a tax break or something, right?”

Bucky laughed, the tension easing out of him a bit. “No, not for a tax break, kid. I genuinely want to be there for you and your mom. I want us to be a family.”

Lucas stared at him for a long moment, his face scrunched up in thought. Then, with a small, knowing smirk, he said, “So… you’re asking me for permission? Wow, you must really like us.”

Bucky chuckled, ruffling Lucas’s hair again. 

“Yeah, I am. It’s important to me that you’re okay with this. You’re the most important person in her life, and if we’re gonna be a family… I want you to know that you’re part of this decision.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, like he’d just been struck by the weight of Lucas’s words. For a moment, he could only stare, his heart swelling with an unexpected, overwhelming sense of joy. He felt a lump form in his throat, and before he could say anything, he pulled Lucas into a tight hug, holding him close.

Lucas’s face softened, and after a brief pause, he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck in a tight hug. 

"You don't have to ask," Lucas whispered, his sass melting to something sincere, "I already know you're my dad."

As he closed his eyes, a tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t care. “Thank you, Lucky,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “That means more than you know.”

When they finally pulled back, Lucas wiped his eyes, his grin returning with a mischievous edge. “But… you still have to do it right. Like, you know, get down on one knee and everything. And maybe a big sign that says, ‘Will you marry me?’ in case you mess up your words.”

Bucky laughed, nodding. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m going all out. Your mom deserves the best.”

Lucas nodded, looking proud. “Good. She does. And you better not make her cry… unless they’re the good kind of tears. Otherwise, I’ll have to come after you.”

Bucky chuckled. “Only happy tears, kiddo. I promise.”

Lucas gave him a firm nod, his eyes sparkling. “Good then it’s settled. Now, are you going to help me finish this fortress, or are you too busy planning your big proposal?”

Bucky grinned, feeling the last of his nerves slip away as he settled beside Lucas, picking up a LEGO piece. 

“Alright, kiddo, let’s finish this fortress. Gotta make sure it’s strong enough to withstand all the big plans I’m about to set in motion.”

Lucas gave a mock-serious nod. “Good idea. Wouldn’t want you bailing on me halfway through.”

Bucky chuckled, nudging him gently. “Hey, I’m in this for the long haul. Fortress-building included.”

They both settled back down to work, side by side, focused on finishing the fortress together, each piece clicking into place as easily as their bond had over time.

[sexlapis]

cecil stedman x female!reader. ns4w. smut. no gender/prns mentioned. short fic. smoking. pet-names. reverse cowgirl. cream pie. r calls cecil “cece”. this is kinda dirty.

a/n: guys i might be an old man fucker😭😭 pray for me

masterlist

*

Cecil…Cecil is not quite sure how he has found himself in this position.

It’s all a blur really. A flash. A blink in time. An artificial warp of reality.

One minute, you’re innocently inviting him into your house for coffee. Cecil wonders for brief moment why you or himself would be drinking coffee so late at night, but he accepts your invite. He assumed he wouldn’t be here for long anyway.

Then you two get to talking; work, the “superheroes”, the goddamn weather, anything you get your mind to.

A cup of coffee turns into a glass of wine.

Then two. Three.

You two were sitting far too close to one another for it to be considered “professional”.

Bare, short-clad knees brushing against his dark-coloured cotton suit that looks far too expensive for someone like him. He lost his suit jacket and loosened his red tie as soon as you poured him his second glass of wine.

Cecil isn’t usually so lax, so accepting of offers like house invitations and wine, but he figures it’s been a long week, an even longer year and that he deserves a break no matter how short it will last.

“Debbie just doesn’t understand.” Cecil sighs, downing the rest of his wine. It takes the weight of the world off his shoulders. “I don’t want to hurt her. Or Mark, or Oliver. They just don’t-“” He sighs, “They just don’t get it.”

“I know, Cece.” Your head buzzed so much that you don’t even remember placing your hand on his shoulder. “They don’t live in our world. They don’t under…understand the sacrifice. They think you’re evil but you’re not. I know you’re not evil.”

Cecil is staring at you now, rusty-blue irises filling your vision like the ocean, ivory eyelashes frost around them. His eyes are glassy.

“You believe that?”

Your face is too close to his now. You take your hand in his large one.

“You’re a good man, Cecil. I believe that."

Cecil's gaze flickers down to where your two hands are connected then back to you again. He gulps. It follows the swipe of your tongue over your lips like a moth to a flame. He hears your breath hitch.

"Cece..."

You eye the mangled skin of his lip. Then your own lips find them.

At first he doesn't respond. He's frozen in his spot on your couch, hand flopping limply in your own.

Cecil seems to be snapped back into his senses when you pull back, apologising viciously, offering him a way out, far, far away from the mess you have conjured up from the sinful movement of your lips.

He quickly puts a stop to that babble with his own lips.

He should not have done that. He should not have done that.

But God, your lips were so soft. You were so responsive and enthusiastic to his touch, a feeling he hasn't felt in over a decade. So sue him for breaking his own rules for once in his shit life.

You both stumble to your bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes (mainly yours) in the wake. You’re pushing him onto your plush sheets. The fly to his pants are down.

It’s a whirl. He’s blinded by it all - your body, your hands, your lips, your breath - it’s all too much and not near enough.

That’s how he finds himself in this position - lying on your bed, his shirt unbuttoned and pants down to his ankles, with you bouncing up and down on his dick.

You’ve already came twice, courtesy of his mouth and length. You seem to be returning the favour judging by the ferocity of your hips.

Cecil can’t take his eyes away from where you both meet - your wet folds leave strings of gossamer with every desperate rise and fall of your bounces, and your gorgeous ass ripples and shines with each movement.

This was it. This is what kills him.

If someone five years ago had told him that he’d be fucking his most attractive coworker, he wouldn’t have believed it. Gone were the days that he could have some sort of freedom in his life, any dream of relaxation was just that; a dream. Fantasies that will never come into fruition.

But Cecil guesses he was wrong.

“Oh, oh fuck.” He curses. His stomach clenches. “Fuck.”

Cecil’s hand grips one of your soft, pert cheeks in his hand. You arch into the contact.

“Cece…Cece, are you gonna cum?”

You really were trying to kill him.

The visual of your coy face peering back at him over your shoulder, the rotations of your ass, and most importantly, the way your hot, seeping tight cunt swallows his cock so tightly that you may have gifted him with a small experience of the heaven he will never face.

“Don’t say that shit.”

You giggle. You fucking giggle.

“I’m just saying,” - you cut yourself off with a loud moan - “I’m just saying tha-that you can cum inside of me.”

An animalistic growl spews from Cecil’s mouth as his grip turns into searing iron on your hips.

“Don’t say that shit.”

“‘M serious, you can.” As if to emphasise your point, you switch on an ecstatic pace with your hips, rotating yourself on his cock like a cog in a wheel. Quick and precise. You can feel your own wetness dripping down his cock.

Cecil didn’t stand a chance.

Not with the way you moved or the sounds that kept pouring out of your mouth or the smooth tilts and curves of your supple body.

His heavy balls draw up tight. His head is thrown back. His hips buck up once, twice, thrice-

“Oh shit, fuck, fuck, get off- fuck, fuck, I’m cumming, I’m fucking-“”

He erupts inside of you with a tremulous groan, one that echoes throughout your quaint room. His cock spurts rope after rope of sticky seed inside of your walls, more than you knew a man his age was capable of giving. His hands remain of your still-moving hips, slowing you down just a little. He wanted a break, not to be a victim of an accidental murder.

You hum, biting your lip at how full you are. Planting your hands on the bed, you raise yourself off his dick. Cecil hisses at the cool air hitting his now flaccid member. You wiggle your hips.

Cecil sees what you’re drawing his attention to - his cum, his cum that is seeping around and from your velvet, glistening walls. If he had the energy he did twenty years ago, this would’ve called for a round two.

“Jesus.” He spits, the bite mellowed out by his fatigue. “You’re fucking greedy, aren’t you?”

You laugh at him. “I’ll take that as a thank you.”

You clamber off his lap, sweaty, sheen and sly as fox you crawl up to his side. Your rouge-bitten lips find solace on his clear neck, a neck in desperate need of some dark love bites.

Cecil reaches into his trousers that are still hooked around his ankles. He pulls out his lighter and a cigarette. He lights it.

“I’m getting too old for this shit, kid.”

*

a/n: cecil fuckers unite? 🩷

[sheepispink]

cat hybrid reader who enjoys playing with Simon's mask bc it feels nice and accidentally makes the mask slip off one day during an important meeting. next time, Soap and Simon wrap her in a blanket to cut her nails just so it doesn't happen again (she's kicking and biting), and she's SULKING for days until they grow back

I had this written up like.. wednesday? And i just forgot to post it so my bad

Anyway this is more shifter than hybrid but here u gooooo

You had an… interesting hobby to say the least; it was one that no one else in the world had, and you were very confident in that fact. The hobby in question was something you eagerly sought out to do all day, following the man who was the only one who could provide it to you, but unfortunately he didn’t indulge in you very often so you had to snatch the advantage when it came.

It started off when Ghost decided to spend his evening on the team room’s couch, opting to indulge in a book for once. It was quiet, a storm brewing up outside as the winds began to howl and you.. may have been caught outside when it started up. Exhaustion was an understatement; you had little to no energy to even consider being a human and having to drag your entire weight back around base again.

So what better to do than take advantage of your abilities?

Your tail flicked from side to side, long and raised as you pattered into the room. You were one of the few who regularly lounged around here, and you loved every second of it. It was much better than navigating the crowded hallways, especially when you have to crane your whole head up to see someone properly. Though today, you didnt expect to walk smack into a leg, your furry face bumping straight into the muscle and forcing you to stumble in your tracks. A meow slips out, fluffy ears twitching as you shake your head and look around. Vision was always a little weird when you switched between cat and human, but your sense of smell always persevered when figuring out who someone was. You sniff the clothed leg curiously but you didn't expect what you’d find.

Since when did Ghost come in here?

You look up properly to see the skull painted balaclava move, the man now looking down at where you sit by his legs. “You need to be more aware of your surroundings, yknow.” He says, and you growl in response, though it’s nothing more than a show of annoyance since you cant give him a sharp glare in this state. You walk through his legs, soft paws silent against the hard flooring before you look over at him again. Now you understand why you hadnt anticipated for someone to be right there— that was supposed to be your napping spot, not his! Of course you thought everyone knew that fact— plus that pillow practically had your fur all over it too. You wouldn’t let this slide.

You steady yourself before jumping onto the couch beside him and pawing at the pillow behind his back, tapping his arm as you meow incessantly. “Hm? There’s many pillows, just get another.” He rolls his eyes when you carry on pawing at him, not giving up for a second. That is until you decide to take action, your claws reaching up to graze the fabric of his mask. It’s light and definitely not as far as your claws can go but instead of a reaction, he just turns back to his book again.

Naturally, as any sane person does, you resorted to climbing up onto his shoulder as you’d repeatedly kneaded your claws in and out of his mask, feeling the fabric give and pull. Over and over until the motion began to unintentionally ease you, claws digging in and out until a soft purr settles in your chest. The sound reverberates around the area, his shoulders feeling the soft vibrations as you lean against him. He continues to read, nor does he pay much attention to your antics, only pulling you off of him when you fall asleep with your kitty head hanging off his neck, letting you curl up comfortably in his lap instead.

Ever since you found that out, you’ve been roaming more and more in your cat form, searching for him in your down time to sink your claws into the thick fabric whilst purring to your heart's content. It’s a stress reliever to say the least, turns your brain to total mush too. It’s also why it was your first instinct straight after a tough mission, walking straight through the base doors and into a bathroom stall to shift. Ghost was pleasantly startled to say the very least when he looked down to see your big eyes and perked ears staring up at him. Surely it wouldnt hurt to indulge you a little, even if he was in the middle of an important briefing? ..Right?

Wrong.

You had been kneading away at his mask as usual, but the stress of the day had you more agitated than usual, getting lost in your head. Before you know it, your claws are latched deep into the back of his balaclava, grazing his skin as you unintentionally pull too hard to the point it starts to rise up, exposing his chin and lips before he catches himself.. and you, dangling from the scruff of your neck as you look up at him with widened eyes.

“It was an accident i swear!”

Both Soap and Ghost stand before you, the latter doing nothing to hide the glare written in his eyes whilst Soap tried to ease you. You were dressed hastily in a shirt and jeans, hair messy and a frown deep on your lips but a clear fear of Ghost’s glare. “We know, we know. We’re just saying it cant happen again.” Soap sighs, half tempted to run his hands over your fluffy ears from the beginning of an unintentional shift.

“It wont! I wont do it again!” You say, crossing your arms defensively over your chest.

“Like i’d believe that. Your nails are getting cut, kitty.” Ghost scoffs, reaching forward to grab you but you’re too quick, eyes widened with alert as you shift right them and there, already scurrying towards the door as you yelp. Soap is just as fast though, blocking the door handle that you cant even reach. So you shift again, trying to push past him while Ghost grabs you by back of your shoulders, Soap on your front. “Hey! Let go!”

You yowl loudly as you shift into a cat for the last time, both of the men coddling you in a large blanket before pulling each paw out to trim each individual claw. To say you were not happy about that was a severe understatement, you were fuming, biting their fingers at any chance possible. When they finally let you go, you ran, dashing out the door and down the corridors.

The next two days were the weekend, and it’s safe to say you were still very much annoyed. For starters, you refused to shift back at all, avoiding communication whatsoever. Secondly? You’d hiss at every turn, not giving them a second to try and make up for it with pets or the like, occasionally curling up on Price’s lap just to stare daggers directly at the pair of them. Just to prove you were mad, if they let their guard down too long, you’d climb up on the couch behind them and smack your tail right against their head before scurrying off again; definitely a menace to say the least.

But even they couldn't deny the sight was quite pitiful. At first, you could barely knead anything due to your blunt claws, giving up on the pillow almost immediately. Then when they started to grow back, the pillow was too thin, causing fluff to spill out and when you curled up on Price’s lap, he had told you off immediately for scratching his legs in your attempt to knead again.

Now you roamed the halls miserably, nothing to relieve you of your pent up stress from missions, kicked off the last person’s lap you could sit on—Gaz never sat still for long when Soap was around—and you couldn’t find the energy to shift back into a human. “Oh? Look who it is.” Ghost notices the miserable look, even if felines rarely show their moods so visibly, but then again your ears were practically flat against your furry head. You just look at him for a second before eventually beginning to walk past him once more.

He’s not having it though, scooping you up until he has you cradled in his arms. “Come on, lets get you some proper rest now.” He carries you over to the couch, dims the lights and rubs his fingers over your head and chin until you ease, your body flat out over his legs. He even lets you dig your claws into his jeans, figuring you’re trying to pay him back for his ‘mean’ behaviour. In the end, you cant stay truthful to your anger much longer, your tail curled up around your body as your head sinks down against his thigh and his abdomen, body warmth enough to have you sound for the whole night.

[mariasont]

Talking to a Brick Wall - A.H

a/n: rip erin strauss you would've hated this fic

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader

summary: in which you overhear your boyfriend aaron's phone call

warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, self-doubt, happy ending but also a terrible ending bc i SUCK at endings xoxo

wc: 2.3k

You had called out your boyfriend's name multiple times as you wandered into his house. He had asked you a while ago if you wanted to come over for a movie night tonight and hell would have to freeze over before you ever declined that offer. However, upon arrival, you were greeted by silence; no response to the doorbell, his phone, or your voice. Thankfully, the key he'd given you last year jingled in your pocket as you let yourself in.

You had a pretty strong suspicion he'd be in his office--after all, this was Aaron Hotchner, a man who definitely did not believe in leaving work at the office. 

And sure enough, his voice filtered through the slightly ajar door, the rich hue of his mahogany desk framing the gap. You were about to move towards the living room, assuming he was on a work call of some sorts, but his words stopped you dead in your tracks. 

"It's just... sometimes I feel like I'm speaking, but the understanding isn't there. You know what I mean? It's like the concepts just float in one ear and out the other."

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, brows drawn together, as your hand found the wall, leaning towards the door. He couldn't have been talking about you, right?

"I try to share details, to get her involved, but it's met with this vacant nod. As if the depth of it all just doesn't register."

Oh. Her. You tried to fan away the wetness that threatened to fall down your cheeks, each rapid motion a desperate attempt to convince yourself you were imagining things. 

"And I'm patient, I really am. But when you're met with that blank look, it's... disheartening. You start to wonder if it's worth explaining at all. It's like talking to a wall."

Okay, that stung. It was like an immediate punch to the gut, your heart seeming to drop into the pit of your stomach. Your shoulders slumped slightly as you tried to rationalize his words, but nothing was really making sense right now.

The internal battle was a cruel one: stay and endure the sharp sting of his words or leave and miss more of what he had to say. The latter won, pulling you away from the door. 

You knew you were never going to be the smartest person in the room, and in the past, it was a source of deep-seated insecurity, always a silent specter in the corners of your mind. But then you met Aaron. And he made everything just better. His own intelligence and impressive job never became a yardstick for your worth; he ensured you knew you were more than enough, just as you were.

He had always been the voice reminding you that you were smart in your own right, telling you that your worth transcended any numerical measure of intelligence like a stupid IQ score. But now you were questioning everything. 

Anger seemed like the appropriate response, right? But it was hard to be when his words carried a weight of truth to them. 

You did have a hard time keeping up when he talked about the complexities of his cases, sometimes feeling like an outsider looking in. But, even if you didn't understand, his passion for what he did was infectious, and you hung on to every word when he explained all the ways his smart brain was able to deduce things about people. 

Still, a part of you imagined it was hard for him, that it probably got old fast when you weren't able to hold an intelligent conversation. 

Your knuckles were white against the steering wheel, and it somehow took you only ten minutes to get home when it should've taken you twenty.

It was only when you had taken a shower, put on your favorite pair of pink sweats, brought out some Ben and Jerry's, and turned on Legally Blonde, did you check your phone.

Hi honey. What time are you coming over?

You tried to ignore the sensation of an invisible band drawing tighter across your chest. 

so sorry, not feeling good. rain check? xoxo

You hated lying to him. Hated lying in general, save for the occasional white lie to protect someone's feelings. The fact that you weren't lying to his face was a small mercy, because obviously he'd be able to see right through you.

Do you want me to come there? I can bring food.

You wanted to be with him, you really did, you had been counting down the days to this movie night all week. But the thought of sitting beside him, wanting to ask about his day, about his work, now seemed like an intrusion. Knowing that your well-intentioned questions might be a chore for him or a source of frustration. The realization pressed down on you, a heavy weight that threatened to snuff your light.

no that's okie! thank you though <3 i don't want to get you sick!

Your phone was ringing, his name lighting up the screen for a FaceTime call, it felt like a betrayal of your own making. It was a skill you had recently taught him (which took forever), and of course now he was using it. Your finger jabbed at the red button, your cheeks turning the same color. 

i look & sound disgustinggg rn

I know for a fact that's incorrect. You have a magical talent of looking incredible no matter what.

I want to see your pretty face.

you can be so flattering when u want to mister!

im going to take some medicine & then ill call u l8, k?

Hmm, okay.

love u! xoxo

I love you too, pretty girl.

You hated this. Your eyes were puffy, swollen and wet as you discarded the phone onto the nightstand. He deserved someone who wasn't so pathetic. 

You wallowed in self-pity all night, and then all day, and then all week. You went through the motions--getting up, going to work, and then making up some lame excuse when Aaron asked to see you. Name it, and you had probably said it. In reality, you had been holed up in your room, trading glossy magazine pages for confusing behavioral books.

The subject matter was as dull as dishwater, making paint-watching seem thrilling. But you were committed to bringing some depth to your next conversation with him.

Today's excuse had been some half-truths about being buried in work--which in hindsight seemed comical, given you worked at a bakery and there wasn't much that could take up your time outside of contract hours.

You were splayed across the couch in an upside-down sprawl as you attempted to focus on the scholarly gibberish that filled the pages. 'Homology,' 'dichotomy,' and 'typology' melded into a migraine-inducing blur, tempting you to slam the book shut. You were fighting every urge to throw it out the window and paint your nails with that new glittery polish you've been dying to try.

At the insistent knock, you clapped the book shut (thank god) and stood, brows knitting, as you navigated to the door with a soft scuffle of slippers on polished wood. 

Flinging it open, you halted, breath caught. "Aaron? Oh, hi, what are you doing here?"

The words sprang forth before you could catch them, your hands scrambling up to smooth the evidence of your couch-induced disarray. 

He fixes you a pointed stare as he steps into your apartment, invitation be damned you guess. "I find myself repeating this, yet it seems necessary--peephole first, then the door, sweetheart."

You clamp your teeth onto your lip with such force, you're convinced you've tasted blood. "Oh, right, sorry... I should've remembered."

A flicker of foolishness and a heavy dose of self-consciousness threaten to surface. However, you quickly subdue them, tucking them away as you wrapped your arms around your body, offering him a small smile. Despite everything, your heart leaps at the sight of him. You missed him.

His face softens, his touch soft as he tilts your chin upward. "Look at me. It's fine. I just want to make sure my best girl is safe, that's all."

The temptation to simply crumble there and then, to forget everything and cocoon yourself in his arms, was overwhelming. 

You leaned into his hand without thinking, which now claimed the entire area of your cheek. He was always so warm. 

You watch as Aaron glances around the room, no doubt noting the absence of work-related clutter. "Still working?"

"Oh, I was, I told my boss I'd help with inventory reports." That part wasn't totally a lie, but it still made your conscience squirm with guilt.

"Do you want help?"

The proposal touches a raw nerve, sparking a defensive reflex. Did he think you were incapable?

 "Thanks, but I'm actually all done with them," you lie, your a smile a little too rigid as you head into the living room.

You're keenly aware of his approaching footsteps as you hastily stash that stupid book under a magazine, silently praying he didn't notice. You settle onto the couch, and he joins you, casually drawing your legs over his lap as you recline against the cushions.

"How was your day?"

You wince internally at the automatic question. 

"Not too bad," He replies with an easy shrug, his fingers sneaking under your sweats at the ankles, tracing lazy circles on your calves. "We wrapped up some paperwork, had a couple of briefings, and oh, we were introduced to our new consultant today. She specializes in crypto linguistics--really fascinating stuff."

Your eyes flutter briefly, a constriction forming in your throat, a twist in your gut. The mere mention of the consultant being a she amplifies your feelings of insufficiency. It leaves you wondering, why would Aaron ever be interested in someone like you?

"Crypto linguistics?" you repeat, trying to sound curious rather than lost. 

He leans in closer to you. "It's a specialized area of linguistics focused on decoding encrypted languages."

You offer a nod, managing a convincing "Yeah, of course," even as your eyes unwittingly drift away from his unwavering stare, betraying a hint of your confusion.

Aaron's hand cradles your head, his fingers sifting through your hair. "Hey," he murmurs, drawing your attention back, "what's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

Your chin touches your chest as you mumble, barely audible, "hardly anything."

Aaron's expression turns to a frown, his broad hands guiding your ass and thighs as he positions you atop his lap, face-to-face, leaving you exposed with no place to hide. Your name escapes him with a sigh. "I don't believe that for a second."

You match his frown with your own pout, nestling your face into his neck, concealing the rosy hue that has claimed your cheeks. "Just a rough week is all."

"Is that so?" His voice was a gentle murmur, his hands soothingly moving in gentle sweeps across your back as you breathed out unsteadily. "Funny, that's been my week too. My gorgeous girlfriend seems to have been avoiding me all week."

"Have not," you mumble, your breath warm against his skin, fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck.

He hummed. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong."

"It's silly."

He guided your face back to his, eyes searching yours. "Listen to me. No, it's not. I don't like when you try to diminish your feelings. Talk to me, honey."

That was your tipping point. A wobble in your lip betrays the onset of tears as your voice breaks.

"I just--I know I'm not as smart as the people you work with or even your past girlfriends. I know I don't get things right away especially when you talk about work, and I see how everyone else is so quick, and I'm here, always a few steps behind. I know that it must be frustrating for you, and I'm scared that one day, you'll get tired of explaining, and your patience will run out, and well, you'll see... you'll see that--"

"Baby, whoa, slow down," Aaron urges, his palms tenderly framing your face, a frown plastered over his face. Your heart hammers against your chest, its rapid beats almost audible, as if it might jump from your body. "Take a deep breath, okay? Can you do that for me?"

You draw in a breath.

His thumb delicately erases the tears that have made their way down your cheek.

"When there is something about my work you don't understand, I will gladly go over it as many times as you need. I don't expect you to know everything about that stuff, why would you? That's not why I'm with you. I'm with you because of your incredibly kind heart and the way you see the best in people. I love you because you are you. What is making you think this way, honey? It's breaking my heart."

"I overheard you Aaron," you said, "saying that sometimes it feels like you're talking to a wall when you talk to me."

"What?" he questioned, but his confusion was quickly morphed into concern. "Oh, sweetheart, no. I was talking about Strauss and her lack of understanding of our fieldwork."

"Oh."

"I would never speak about you like that, you know that, right? And if, in some alternate universe, I did, you need to break up with me, or better yet, set me straight." His hands stayed firmly on your face. "You should never tolerate that from me or anyone else, understood?"

You bit down on your lip, hands resting on his shoulders as you nodded. "Yes, sir."

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, sending fireworks to every inch of you as he mumbled against your mouth, "that's my girl."

taglist: @hotchhner

[latin5mamii]

5:42 am

genre: JudeBellingham x you; cute and fluff

summary: After a whole night of no-sleep, you decide to help your boyfriend forget about his overthinking for once.

author's note: Cute and fluffy! Didn't want to make it too depressing so i added a bit of humor; i know this is work is unexpected but i'm getting a lot of inspiration rn!

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ

The world is still asleep when Jude wakes, moving with the careful precision of someone practiced in not disturbing the peace. His hand reaches for his phone on the bedside table, and he shifts cautiously to sit up on the edge of the bed.

The room is dark save for the faint blue light creeping through the curtains, a soft haze that makes everything feel slower, quieter.

He doesn’t hear you stir behind him.

The mattress dips slightly as you roll over, and he freezes. For a second, he thinks you’ll fall back asleep, but your voice—soft and warm like the blankets tangled around you—breaks the silence.

"You're already up"

It’s not a question, and there’s no frustration in your tone—just a quiet understanding. Before every match, he could never sleep. He’d toss and turn, get up for water, but he could never settle—especially now, with so much to think about.

Jude glances over his shoulder, a little sheepish as he meets your sleepy gaze.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs. His voice is a whisper, rough from the early hour.

“You didn’t.” You stretch slightly, the movement slow and lazy. “You never do.”

He smiles at that—small, almost imperceptible in the low light. You sit up halfway, leaning on your elbow as you watch him tug on a sweatshirt over his T-shirt.

“Don’t go just yet,” you say, voice still quiet but carrying a softness that stops him mid-motion. “Come back here for a minute; you have so much time left. ”

Jude doesn't hesitate even for a second as soon as he sees you—still cocooned in blankets, your hair messy and your eyes heavy-lidded but bright. It’s not a hard choice, not really.

He slips back into bed without a word, settling beside you. Your arm loops around his waist instinctively, and he leans into it, letting his head rest against yours.

The silence in the room is thick but comforting, punctuated only by the faint hum of the world outside—a car passing, the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Jude’s breathing evens out as he melts into your embrace, the tension in his shoulders softening. You run your hand gently along his back, tracing patterns you don’t think about but that he seems to feel, leaning into each movement.

“You think too much,” you whisper, your voice barely audible but close enough that he hears it.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his arm drapes over you, pulling you closer. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you feel him exhale deeply, as if the weight of what you said has settled somewhere in his chest.

“I just want to get it right,” he murmurs, finally. The words are small but heavy, like they’ve been sitting on the tip of his tongue for days.

“You always do.”

The response is automatic, and you mean it—every syllable. You wish you could pull his thoughts away, fold it neatly into something manageable. But for now, all you can do is hold him.

Jude pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. The dim light softens his features—his dark eyes are wide, thoughtful, his lips parted as if he’s about to say something but decides against it.

“You okay?” you ask, brushing a hand through his hair, which is still slightly messy from sleep.

Jude lingers in the embrace a moment longer, his face tucked against the curve of your neck, the warmth of your skin drawing out a softness he didn’t realize he needed. But when he finally shifts, there’s something lighter in his expression. He nudges his nose against your cheek, playful, and murmurs,

“You’ve turned me into a morning person, you know.”

You laugh, low and easy, your fingers pausing in his hair to tap lightly against the side of his head. “I don’t think you get to claim that title until you actually enjoy mornings, Jude.”

He pulls back enough to look at you, an exaggerated pout forming on his lips. “What if I just enjoy mornings with you?”

“That’s sweet,” you tease, your smile brightening the dim room. “But you still groan every time the alarm goes off, so I’m not sure it counts.”

“Details.” He grins, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your forehead before sitting up. The bed shifts under his weight, and you watch as he stretches, the hem of his sweatshirt riding up slightly. The sight makes you laugh—something about the way his early-morning dishevelment feels so ordinary and yet so utterly him.

He glances over his shoulder at you, catching the amused tilt of your smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head, though the laughter still dances in your voice. “You’re just...cute like this.”

His ears turn a little pink, and he rubs the back of his neck, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s make some coffee before you embarrass me even more.”

“Embarrass you? Never,” you shoot back, but you’re already sitting up, tossing the blankets aside. The cool air hits your skin, and you shiver slightly, reaching for the oversized sweater draped over the chair beside the bed. Jude is already standing, holding a hand out to help you up.

The two of you move quietly even though you're alone in the house, the soft shuffle of your steps the only sound. Jude goes straight to the counter, pulling out the coffee beans and the grinder.

“You want tea, right?” he asks over his shoulder, already reaching for the kettle.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, leaning against the counter and watching him. He moves with a kind of easy precision, his focus shifting between the coffee and the kettle like it’s a little morning ritual he’s perfected. You can’t help but smile—it’s a far cry from the nerves that had him tossing and turning earlier.

“What’s funny now?” he asks, catching your expression as he sets the kettle to boil.

“Just you,” you say, your voice light. “All serious about coffee like it’s a science.”

“It is a science,” he replies, mock-indignant. “And you’re lucky I’m good at it, or you’d be stuck drinking whatever shit they call coffee down the street.”

“Oh yeah?” you shoot back, barely suppressing a laugh. “Says the guy who puts honey in his coffee.

Jude shakes his head, chuckling as he stirs the honey into his mug. “Is it that bad?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

You shrug, fighting back a grin. “I mean, I wouldn’t say bad. Just...no okay it's actually bad.”

Jude groans dramatically, hand over his heart as if your words wounded him. “Wow. First thing in the morning, and you’re already coming for me.”

After a moment, you set your mug down and glance at him. “What do you want for breakfast? Or are we just surviving on caffeine today?”

Jude’s lips curve into a small, thoughtful smile. “Surviving on caffeine sounds very me,” he admits. Then, after a beat, he straightens and adds, “But pancakes sound better.”

“Pancakes?” you say, arching a brow. “Aren't you the man who claims he doesn’t need breakfast?”

“I’m evolving,” he says, feigning a look of mock importance. “Also, I think we have chocolate chips in the pantry.”

You laugh, reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately. “Chocolate chip pancakes at dawn? I really am impressed.”

He nudges your side playfully, grinning. “Come on, let’s do it. We’ll make them quick. I’ll even let you flip them.”

“Generous of you,” you tease, already moving toward the pantry.

The only sounds are the soft clatter of bowls and utensils as the two of you work together, gathering ingredients and mixing the batter. Jude insists he’s got the perfect pancake recipe memorized, but you end up adding a little extra milk to the bowl when he’s not looking, just to mess with him.

“What did you just do?” he asks, squinting at you suspiciously as you stir.

“Nothing,” you say innocently, biting back a grin. “Just making sure it’s not too thick.”

He narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t argue, instead grabbing a ladle and heating the pan. “Alright, let’s see how this goes.”

The first pancake comes out a little lopsided, and you burst into laughter as Jude flips it onto a plate with exaggerated precision.

“Hey,” he says, pointing the spatula at you, “it’s not about how it looks—it’s about how it tastes.”

“Sure, Chef Jude,” you reply, still laughing as you lean against the counter, watching him pour the next one.

The second pancake is better—golden brown and perfectly round—and by the time the stack is finished, the kitchen smells like warm batter and melted chocolate. Jude sets the plate on the table with a triumphant flourish, and you grab two forks, sliding into a chair beside him.

Jude nudges your foot under the table, catching your eye as he chews his first bite.

“Not bad, huh?” he says, grinning.

You smile back, warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the pancakes. “Not bad at all.”

You pause eating and carefully set the little fork down on your plate. Looking at him, you offer a gentle smile, hoping to ease the weight of the long night.

“You’re going to do great today. I just know it.”

He slowly reaches out, his fingers brushing your nose and then your cheek. After a moment, his hand settles softly on yours.

"I hope your predictions are right, then"

[feyascorner]

“I love you.” The first time he says those simple three words, he doesn't mean it. Not really. And he knows you're aware of it too, with the stern glare you give him in response to his smug grin. He's teasing you—or, it looks that way anyway. In reality, he hopes that there's a glimmer, a sliver of your heart that welcomes his enticing and open arms. It’s routine. A habit. It feels more natural to lure you in with songs of promises than to simply tell you what he needs. He hopes you take his hand and ignore the sharp nails digging into your skin. He hopes you fall.

“I love you.” The second time is months later. He thinks he might genuinely mean it this time, considering how heavy his heart feels in his chest as the words leave his lips. But it’s hesitant. You can tell. And ever so patient, you only smile at him, taking his hand this time to squeeze it gently. Ah, that feels nice. Does he love you? Have you grown on his cold, dead heart? The fact that he doesn't want to recoil from your touch is enough if an answer..

“I love you.” The third time is at his grave. He’s confident now. Feeling. Wanting. He wishes he could hold your fingers against his skin forever. He doesn't want to even let go, because he fears you might vanish into thin air, like every other caring thing in his life. You're good. Understanding. Nothing like him. You deserve better than him. But he's always been a selfish man, and even though your presence urges him to be better, he remains selfish when it comes to you. He doesn't--no, he won’t lose you.

“I love you.” He’d feared he would never get to say the words again. He had faith in you of course, but an Elder Brain is no easy feat to defeat. But as he watches the brain sink into the darkest depths of the sea, the others cheering behind him, he feels the sun begin to prick at his skin again. It stings. Gods, does it sting. For a moment, he wonders if he should even run. He's had a taste for the sun kissed glow and he's not sure if he wants to part ways with it if it means he’ll rot away in the shadows forever. But when he feels you hurriedly toss a cloak over his shoulder, covering his face with the hood just enough for him to meet your eyes, you offer him something he doesn't want to ever imagine himself without again. Something he’s still in disbelief he has. Someone to worry for him.

I love you, I love you, I love you. As years pass, the words become more frequent, yet they never lose their weight, no matter how they're said or when. It’s funny, really, how he'd almost feared saying the same exact words just a few decades ago. To Astarion, they remind him that you're still here, allowing him the privilege to let him love you as much as he does.

“I love you.” The last time he says it, whether it be after an untimely death or simply from old age, he’s holding your hand again. He hates that instead of the adoration it’s supposed to convey, he hears more of the wobble in his voice as he realizes his time with you is up. Even though he's said it so many times, he finds that it still wasn't nearly enough. Open your eyes, he pleads to nobody in particular. He breathes. Why is he breathing? He doesn't need to. But the breaths become faster, and he realizes he’s crying too. Curses, how immature. Ah, your hand is so cold, almost like his own. He hates it. Don't be like him. And when he begs, he begs. Squeeze his hand again. Touch him again. Smile at him again. Live again.

Let him love you again.

[cressidagrey]

Lightning in a Bottle - Chapter 4

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was actually pretty much useless. The only thing she wanted was to be somebody's first choice for once in her life.

Also known as: Azriel's shadows decide that if he doesn't treat his mate right... they'll just do it for him.

Warnings: 

ANGST, very bad self image, some sort of non graphic self-harm (if you squint), Rhys is kinda an asshole, vomiting

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

There wasn’t so much as a scratch on his son. 

Not a hair on his head was harmed. 

Nothing. 

Feyre cleaned him with shaky hands, running a rag wet with warm water over his skin. Nyx was babbling in response, shaken but clearly…alright. 

Nyx. His son. 

The sudden weight that was lifted off Rhys' shoulders, as he crossed the room in three long strides...it felt like he could breathe again…as he pressed a kiss to Nyx’s head breathing in that scent that was unmistakenly his and then doing the same with Feyre. 

Her scent was thick with misery, shaking against him…Lilac and Pears, usually so perfect...

“Eira’s blood is all over him,” Feyre whispered. “I’ll wipe it off and I just find more.” 

Elain was sitting across from them, silently drinking tea, eyes concentrating on something far away. He wondered if she saw anything…any vision at all? But she didn't say anything. 

Feyre hung onto his hand and he cast out his mind, feeling Madja’s determination, as she…she tried to…

Save her. 

Save her from dying because she had thrown her own body between death and his son. 

For years, Rhys had believed the second-born Archeron sister to be... 

She had just been there. 

Existed in his periphery. 

She had been the only one who had at least tried to make Feyre’s life easier, the one who had cooked and cleaned and hacked up wood and washed the blood out of Feyre’s clothing and mended it when she had taken a tumble…Eira had at least tried. He still didn’t think that it had been enough but she had that going for her. 

Privately, Rhys had thought that the only thing that was fierce about Eira Archeron was her ability to love. 

The one and only time she had outright argued with any of them… had been about her sister… about Nesta and their intervention. 

She had argued harshly and fiercely about how they had no right to do this, about how it wasn’t fair…about how she would pay back that money if it meant that they would leave Nesta in peace. 

It had not only surprised him but also Amren and even Feyre…and even when they hadn’t listened to her…

It didn’t matter what Nesta threw at her head, her sister was still there every week, waiting for him to bring her up to the House of Wind. 

Every week. Like a clockwork, she had been there. 

Rhys easily admitted that he hadn’t been particularly understanding to her at that time.

And now, that ability to love had been…it was going to be the one thing killing her, wouldn’t it?

He hadn’t said it. He had only said that it looked bad…but he could feel how Madja was slowly reaching the limits of what she could do for her. 

Everything that was…

Eira Archeron, the one cauldron-born sister with no great ability. The one that had seemingly adapted well enough to being fae…never complained, never said anything. If she had suffered, she had done so silently. 

The quiet one, the one that liked the background…the one that had pined away silently over his brother, when her twin sister had been the object of his desires. 

Rhys had half expected that to end in a brawl, but once again…Eira hadn’t…nothing had been said. She had been willing to silently pine away.  

And then the mating bond had snapped for Az and that had been…

Quite frankly, the last fucking thing Rhys had expected. 

Every…every other female would have somehow made more sense in his mind. 

“Where’s she?” Nesta stormed into the room, Cassian hot on her heels. 

“Upstairs,“ Feyre answered. “Nesta, let Madja work,” his mate tried but Nesta fixed her with one look. 

“She’s our sister. If she dies, I am not letting her die alone!” Nesta snapped out, stomping upstairs. 

And that was that. 

Nobody tried to stop her. 

“She won’t die. It’s Eira,” Elain said, her voice strangely detached. Like that was written in stone, with all the trust in the world and Rhys wished, he had some of her confidence. Nobody else had it. 

Mor sat on one chair, knees hugged to her chest. His normally always so bright, colourful cousin curled together in one miserable ball. Feyre shook next to him and he reached out for her hand, gently squeezing it, before he let her go. 

He could feel the very foundations of his brother's mental shields wobble. 

His eyes snapped to Azriel.

To Azriel who stood there, hands still covered in Eira‘s blood, red streaks on scarred skin. 

Outwardly there was only a flurry of shadows trailing around him, worriedly. No other signs. 

But his eyes…his stare was empty. 

*Cassian. Don’t let him leave your sight,* he told his other brother sharply, mind to mind. *And try and get him to clean his hands,* he added as an afterthought. Maybe that…Maybe that would help…maybe…

*Rhys,* Caddian whispered into his mind. *If she dies…I don’t know if we’ll be enough.* Cassian didn’t say anything that Rhys wasn’t thinking. Nothing that he wasn’t dreading. *You know how he…he spent centuries waiting. He never talks about it but we both know how much he wanted a mate. How much he just wants to be loved…and…*

And the mating bond had just snapped. And if Rhys hadn’t pushed for Azriel to wait, they wouldn't even be in this fucking situation. 

Azriel’s mate’s blood…Feyre’s sister’s blood…Eira’s blood…it was on his hands. On Rhys’ hands. 

*I know.*

*If she dies, I don’t know what he’ll do.*

Neither did Rhys. 

“Madja is the best. If anybody can save her it will be her,” Cassian said aloud, probably for Azriel’s benefit, crossing over to Az, gently reaching out to touch their brother’s shoulder. “Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up,” he said quietly, gently pushing Azriel from the room, probably in search of a bathroom. 

Rhys pressed a kiss to Nyx's head, who was looking around the room wide-eyed, not understanding a thing what was going on. There seemed to be no sign of their son being exhausted from the magic he had expelled. Nothing. 

A problem for another day maybe. As long as he seemed fine... 

 “Mor?” he said quietly as he kneeled at his cousin’s side, reaching out for her, hand hovering…Mor looked at him, brown eyes wide and tearful. 

His cousin. He had killed Keir with nary a thought. 

“I never thought he would…do this,” Mor whispered, reaching out for his hand. “I thought…”

There was a tiny part of Mor that still believed that her family could change…that had still loved her parents…hadn’t wanted them dead. And he had taken that from her. 

“I know,” he whispered and she squeezed his hand in response. 

*I am sorry…* he said nonetheless in her mind and he could feel her surprise and then her acceptance. Mor wasn’t angry. Even when she had every right to it...Right to hate him for killing her father, even when Rhys had every right to do that as well. Hate could fester easily under such circumstances. 

*I am not,* Mor disagreed. *He got what he had coming…* A pause. Then she pushed a memory at him…Eira’s still body…the grey pallor of her usually pale skin…the way she had been limb and cold in Mor’s grasped as she had winnowed them to the River House and then fetched Madja…all in the span of seconds.

The blood…the dagger to the heart she had taken…Azriel’s magic pulsing around her, the shadows that hovered…all of it…it looked like the scene out of a nightmare. 

*It’s not looking good, Rhys,* Mor whispered. *Az doesn’t deserve this.* No, he didn’t. But neither did the female laying up there and fighting for her fucking life. 

All of it just because of…

He had pulled it all out of Keir’s head before he had killed him. The whole hare-brained plan, if one could call it like that. 

Nyx’s wings an obvious sign of his “half-breed” status…and with that, not something that Keir could stomach the thought of bowing to one day. Kill the heir, destablise the whole Night Court…Hope that Rhys could be baited. And then Keir would have made his move and the Night Court would be reunited under the glorious reign of Keir. 

And because of that, of the obsession of one male…his son had nearly died. 

He looked up sharply as he heard the steps. “Madja.” 

“I removed the knife. I stopped the bleeding,” Madja said, the dress she wore blood-flecked. “I did all I could.” 

He didn’t doubt that. The question was just if that was going to be enough. 

“She’s alive. For the moment,” Madja cautioned them quietly. “She’s…She’s fighting. The poison they dunked that knife in was…particularly nasty. It stops the blood from clotting…makes the pain feel much worse than it is.” 

She didn’t need to spell it out. It was torture. “Is…Is there an antidote?” Feyre asked, her voice shaking. 

“None that her body would be able to absorb without killing her right now,” Madja said carefully. “She’s…magically exhausted. She expelled…most, if not all of her magic.” 

“She never had much in the first place,” Mor choked out. “She probably tried to winnow and…”

And that hadn’t worked. It had failed. 

“What…what can we do?” Feyre asked, her voice shaking. 

“We wait,” Madja answered calmly. “I gave her every potion I could…I healed as much as I could… If she pulls through the night…I would be cautiously optimistic,” she told Feyre, her voice gentle. “Infection has already set in. She’s feverish. Lady Nesta is with her.“

And Rhys didn’t doubt for one moment that Nesta would stay right at her side…she was stubborn like that. 

“Is she…is she in pain?” Feyre asked, her hands tightening on Nyx, who was sucking on his thumb. 

Madja hummed softly. “She will be for days, High Lady,” she told Feyre, not unkindly. 

*Rhys…Could you…Please, I don’t want her to be in pain. Even if she doesn’t…even if she dies, Eira shouldn’t be in pain.* 

No, she shouldn’t be. 

*Of course, Feyre Darling,* he agreed quietly. As much pain as he could take from her, he would. 

“Mor?” he said aloud, and his cousin looked up, unfurling from her little ball. 

“I’ll deal with the fallout,“ she said, her voice only shaking around the edges. “Amren and I will manage." 

“She should be back soon,” he said aloud.  *She’s dealing with…the carnage,* he said into Mor’s mind and his cousin just nodded. It was better that…most people didn’t know what had happened...they didn't need to deal with the bodies…especially when they themselves didn’t even know how it had happened yet. 

Instead, he pressed another kiss to Nyx’s head and then, even when he didn’t want to leave him…he walked up the stairs to Eira’s bedroom. 

She had taken over a room on the third level of the house…away from both the master bedroom and also the room Elain had chosen, overlooking the garden. 

Eira’s room overlooked the River. It wasn’t the biggest bedroom either, with sloped ceilings that made it look smaller than it was…and the usual furniture that Feyre had picked for every room in the house. 

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but maybe he had expected the room to have gotten a little bit more personality in the over 2 years that Eira now lived there. Something. Anything. 

The only thing that made it obvious that it was her room, was a box of thread spilling over her desk. 

Eira was on her bed and Nesta was sitting at her side, glaring at him as he opened the door. “Out!” Nesta snapped. “I do not want you to see her like that.” 

“See her like what?” Rhys asked, eyebrows climbing into his hairline. Half dead? Her skin was still grey, breath raspy…as he stepped closer to the bed, he could see the sweat beading at her hairline…

Nesta glared at him as she tugged a sheet around her, covering her.  

“In a state of undress,” she told him sharply. 

He blinked twice. 

He really couldn’t care less about it. Besides, she was still wearing a dress, even when Madja had cut it open to make it easier for her to reach the wound on her ribcage. And he had seen her in less…when she had been thrown into that cauldron and spat out again, the white cotton of her nightgown had become translucent. 

He hadn’t cared, because the only female he even wanted to look at anymore was Feyre, and her sisters were his now…

“I really don’t care about that,” he assured Nesta, who just glared at him. 

“She would,” Nesta spat out. “Eira would care, Rhysand.  She saved your son at the expense of her own life. The least you could give her is some fucking respect and her modesty.”

Right. 

“Is there ever going to come a day where you don’t expect the worst of me?” he asked with a sigh, moving to her desk to pick up the chair and bring it over to her side. 

He watched with surprise as shadows started to cover her body…becoming nearly solid in places, obscuring her torso from view, only leaving out her face and her limbs. 

Nesta stared at them for a moment but then seemed to think that they couldn’t possibly make it any worse. 

“Why are you here?” Nesta demanded from him. 

“I am a daemati,” he gave back drily as he sat down in the chair, mustering Eira’s prone form. Fine-boned, pale skin with a smattering of freckles just like Feyre. Not fragile, but…delicate.

“You are not poking around in her head,” Nesta seethed. 

“Even if it would take away her pain?” he offered lightly. Nesta harrumphed.  

“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

 Rhys took that as the only agreement he was going to get.

He reached out with his mind, expecting to carefully brush up against Eira’s mental shields…It seemed to be the only magical thing that she had easily caught on to. 

He had always left her mind alone, no reason why he should delve any deeper than surface sweeps he did on instincts…not when Eira’s mind had always been…soft in a sense. More worried about how other people felt than herself…

Now…unconscious. Ravaged by fever…there were no shields. Her mind bloomed under his touch, suddenly, harshly... She dragged him inside and he tumbled right into her memories. 

One quick snapshot after another. So quickly…too quickly. 

***

Wooden Ruler to her knuckles. Pain biting. Hard. Crying. Do not lie to me. 

She hadn’t lied. She hadn’t. The letters had truly changed places in front of her. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t…

***

A hand grasping underneath her chin, so tightly that it hurt. Steel grey eyes. Her eyes. She inherited them. 

Your resemblance to a mole rat is rather unfortunate. But don’t worry. I am sure you’ll make a proper wife someday. To a farmer maybe. 

That was alright. She could be a wife. She wanted to be a wife. Even to a farmer…she…She wanted to be a wife. She wanted to have children…a baby…

***

Molten ore being poured into her veins. Humanity burned away. Fury. So much fury poured over her body. Your sister stole from me… And she paid the price. In blood and pain and drowning. 

Heat and Cold and burning alive and freezing…

She hit the floor, her whole body not her own…not anymore. 

Not her body. Never her body. Never again. 

***

Again. And Again. And Again. 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth and Back and Forth…

A quiet moan as she pulled at her ears, too long, too pointy, not hers, not hers, she never wanted these, but they were there sprouting from her head and they heard too much and she saw too much and she…

Back and Forth and Back and Forth…Iron taste in her mouth, too sharp teeth biting into her lip. 

She didn’t care. 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth and Back and Forth and maybe she would fall asleep and she wouldn’t hear heartbeats and she wouldn’t hear voices and she wouldn’t be heard, sat in that closet, in that tight and dark little place, because everything else felt too much. 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth and Back and Forth…

***

Peace. For the first time…in a long time. Peace. Just her hands, stitching on that button, one after another…the notes building in her throat. A children’s lullaby. Feyre had loved it. 

Stop your screeching, girl, I am getting a headache.

Said the scary one. 

The words stuck in her throat. 

She didn’t do it again. Not where anybody could hear it. 

She should make no noises. She wasn’t allowed to make any noises. Not allowed to take up any space. 

***

Screams muffled by pillows, shaking and crying and weeping and she didn’t know how she could stand it…Griefing and crying and she wanted to shout and scream and she couldn’t…she couldn’t…she couldn’t…

***

She was a failure. She always was a failure. Never enough. It didn’t matter what she did. She was dumb, she was stupid, she wasn’t good enough. 

As far as cauldron-made goes, she is pretty much useless.

So pretty. So beautiful…so blonde, with golden hair. So powerful. Everything she wasn’t. 

Everything she shouldn’t be.

Laughter. 

It was the truth. She was useless. 

She couldn’t do what came so easily to everybody else. No winnowing. No anything. Not good enough. Regardless of how hard she tried. 

***

Please. Please. Please. Just once…Just one time…

Garden. Wrought Iron table and chairs…broad wings sunning in the sun…a quiet conversation…a male’s laugh. So beautiful…so handsome…so kind. 

Her sister turned…he smiled. 

So beautiful.  So handsome. So kind. Hazel green eyes…dark curly hair. 

She wanted him. 

But he didn’t want her. 

So in love. With Elain. 

Not with her. Never with her. Never would be. 

Nobody would ever want her. He wouldn’t ever want her. 

***

Her sister. Her sister. Regardless of anything. 

Don’t come crying to me if she bites off your head. I warned you.

She wouldn’t. Her tears didn’t matter. To anybody. She would deal with them herself. It was her own fault. She didn’t listen. 

She couldn’t listen. Her sister. Her sister. 

Her fault. 

She should know better. 

***

Don’t you have anything better to do? Like make another ugly dress?

Silver embroidery floss, red silk. 

Black thread. 

Little hands painstakingly stitching, only for the dress to be just as painstakingly wrapped up and put in the chest at the bottom of her bed, never to be seen again. It was better that way. 

Never would be worn by a bride on her wedding day…or a Valkyrie on the day of her mating ceremony. 

Ugly Dresses. Not pretty enough. Not good enough. Never good enough. Not for Nesta. Not for anybody. 

***

Her own fault. Shouldn’t eavesdrop. They never heard anything good about themselves. 

We don’t need Eira. Quite frankly, it’s better if she doesn’t go. Elain is the prettier one, anyway.

Nobody needed her. Better if she didn’t bother anybody. Elain was prettier. Always was. Always would be. She was the ugly one. She wasn’t needed. She was worth nothing. 

***

Delicate tea. Ginger Cookies. Her sister’s favourite. Sun outside in the garden, dancing on the wooden floor…

Eira, find somewhere else to be. I really have more important things to do. 

Of course. She was a bother. She shouldn’t. She should know better. Others were more important. Shouldn’t bother. Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. 

***

Quiet. Don’t bother anybody. Make yourself useful. 

Nyx. 

So beautiful. 

Just like Feyre. 

Sing. Softly. So nobody could hear. 

So nobody… just Nyx. Hers and not hers. Feyre’s. 

Envy. So much envy, because she wished she had what her sister had. She wished she had a husband and a baby and somebody that loved her. 

Somebody who didn’t hate her. But she didn’t. 

So she sang. Another human lullaby for the future High Lord. 

Again and Again and again and her broken heart broke even more. 

***

Blue velvet box. Winter solstice. 

Pearl Earrings. Beautiful. So beautiful. 

But for her…for her useless. Her ears weren’t pierced. 

He hadn’t even noticed that. It hurt worse than even his smiles at her sister. 

He had brought her a gift…but it wasn’t a gift that she could use, no gift that…no gift that was special to her…no thought behind it… just an item on a list to be checked off. 

Something for Eira. Beautiful and Impersonal and…

No attention paid to her. 

She didn’t deserve his attention. Never. 

But she wanted it. Just once…

Please, Please, Please, Please…

***

She wanted to help. She always wanted to help. 

At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!

Her sister. Her sister. Her sister. 

She wished to cease existing. She didn’t care anymore. 

She could disappear and she would do them all a favour. 

Especially him. 

***

Fledgeling happiness shattered like a glass bottle on a stone floor. 

Could you at least try to get over him? It’s…it would be better for…this court.

Her feelings. An inconvenience. Should get over them. Now. Before they make trouble. 

Even when she never told anybody. Kept that secret close to her heart….

Of course. She would never tell him. 

She would never say a word. She would close her eyes and wish herself far, far away. 

Better that way. 

Wasn’t good enough. Useless. Stupid to think that she had a chance. She didn’t. Ugly. Not Enough. Worthless. Do not take up space. Melt into the background. Cease to exist. 

***

Rhys snapped himself from her brain, and then promptly wretched, vomiting onto the floor. 

[kuntprodukt]

VERSPRECHEN

Leon Kennedy x female reader

MDNI!! 18+ | dead dove do not eat, incest, dad-daughter incest, female reader, vaginal sex, unsafe sex, Leon is full of guilt and alcoholic, age gap, a little bit of absent dad, teasing, he is sweet, pet names :3

summary: Good deeds get overshadowed by his past easily and now he has failed you, the daughter he has been neglecting unwillingly. Unaware of your existence. Alcohol doesn't favour good memory and his head is a blank, buzzing place - repeating the same scenarios of failing over and over. No time to remember the old quickie and his weak pull out game. You would understand your dad, right? Starting today, he is going to try his best. 

tags: @melanchol1cs

Being a dad is not an easy task, at least for Leon - grew old, ruffled and eyes painted with tiredness that doesnt hide his sleepless nights. A gift his job has given him. Your existence was a surprise, not sure if pleasant one or not due to the additional weight on his shoulders; his absence in your life, you never knew your own dad even though this is a common phenomenon. Men are not good with responsibility, probably genetics - he can feel it in his blood too, every day full of routine without anything good throbbing with the need to escape. 

He feels like he has failed Marvin, Claire with the chip and himself at Raccoon city, good deeds get overshadowed by his past easily and now he has failed you, the daughter he has been neglecting unwillingly. Unaware of your existence. Or not, drunken habits don't favour good memory for important tasks and his head is a blank, buzzing place - repeating the same scenarios of failing over and over. No time to remember the old quickie and his weak pull out game. You would understand your dad, right? Starting today, he is going to try his best. 

Reconciliation is weird, it is hard, unusual and nerve-wracking - like first sex as a college student in some crampy place, behind doors full of people laughing and doing their shit while one is risking his dignity just for the feel of pussy. Leon doesn’t know how you are supposed to look, but not so… neutral? Not affected by his absence? Of course your mom could have other men, but they can’t be your father figures, right? Too many doubts, full of them actually until your lips curl up, caught on his nerves. He is supposed to be the adult one, responsible, crumbling like a teenager in front of you. 

“Wow, on photo albums you had lighter hair!“ You are so sweet in his eyes, like candy rolling on his tongue, he’d have a full pack of those sweets, a cavity from you would be just a light punishment from what he has done. “We have a lot to catch up, i think”

He can’t say the same, after all Leon has never seen you before. 

“Mmm..” Leon hums, feeling his palms getting sweaty, another lump forms not letting him swallow. He needs to cough it out - the embarrassment that stuck in his throat. 

His eyes drift across your face, lingering on every detail like it is his first time seeing a young woman. Partially true. The curves of your lips, eyelashes flutter as dusty particles make contact with you - enticing, something so perfect, untainted by his absence urges him to change. To be better, stop drinking and be a man, not to disappoint you. There wouldn’t be many chances now.

How to compensate for his absence? There is awkwardness, how does one even apologize for that? How does a dad act? Uncertain

Years and years of not being present would not be easy to forgive, it is hard to get closer with him too - after all he is almost a stranger to you. So, on one of sleepless nights he realized there is a way, slow one but secure for now. Money. To spoil you.  

“Have you seen this one???” Your voice squeals from the dynamics of his phone, Leon distanced himself from it - he doesn't need to become deaf already. “This perfume is so expensive!!! Ugh, and I don't have any more on my card!”

“Does it smell nice?” 

“Like cherry!!! Daddy would adore it! I will use it everyday for you” For Leon. Your words are honest, hitting the bullseye in his heart at this point - his cock too, now straining against his jeans. Like he is back to his younger years, head full of wet dreams - with dick harder than ever but no way to get it wet. Leon can imagine vividly your pouty expression or docile look while clinging to his side to get what you need. 

“Dad got me, I hope?”

“Yea, dad got you.” Always.

First week you almost drained his credit card, watching a notification after another  pop up on the screen of his phone - it feeds into his ego nicely, like a blessing at first, the tie of guilt eases up even shortly. A relief. You’d call or send him a voice message, rambling about how nice your dad is and how much you love him, then mention some stuff - expensive makeup, pretty clothes with promise of you showing it for him. Then he’d send you the amount you needed. 

Still it doesn’t help with the guilt, nothing does actually. But this especially makes it worse now, you don’t even need to call daddy the dearest anymore, even though it saddenns him, more independent, far away from him while Leon is all alone in his office, thinking about your face: eyes glancing up through eyelashes, that curtains your iris pretty, a docile look. He misses you, wishing for a more dependent girl leeching at his side so your voice would ring in his ear all day. Leon already gave you his card, it would be a bad taste to take it away just to get more attention from his daughter. 

Panacea for his guilt is whiskey, it never left his side, like the best lover coddling him with sweet whispers about you now. He never expected his daughter to fill his thoughts like an alcohol fills the glass in his hand. The latter may be bitter, burning his throat just to get warmth spread in his stomach - easing his mind. But you give this immediately, accompanied with the thoughts of you in between his legs: a hand on his thigh, looking up with the same look you have been giving him all this time, palming his cock. And your nails would look so good with his cock in your fist, neat with pretty pastel color or even better french manicure - he paid for this, looking pretty thanks to him.  His money, not some young brainless boy’s. The former one’d abandon you, while Leon has promised to be here. For you. 

Perfect shaped lips too, plush flesh that begs to be kissed or to be enveloped around his cock. Or your pussy, puffy folds glistening with arousal, begging him to taste it - so fucking wet for your dad, like a good girl spreading her legs in front of him, so sweet and nice certainly letting him indulge in your body - the image of it fills his brain every evening - drunk or not, while you cling to his side, watching cheap action movies on TV. He got plenty of CDs of those, they are no brainer - good food for it to rest, easier now with you as his gaze would stay on your body. 

This is wrong, this is not dear dad’s thoughts - he is pent up, to the brim that’s why his head is a mess. Leon can’t help, he is not above this by imagining you in different poses like those girls in raunchy magazines. Full of you, you bent over or your legs pressed up to your chest, showing your pussy shamelessly, glistening with slickness. He wishes it was you every time they get pulled out another, old ones out of stock - some sperm tainted brain men would kill for these. At some point he glued your face on those models, printing your photos just to cut out carefully - vivid imagination is good, but his drenching and painful throbbing cock kicks it out. The same little cut out photos of you get ripped, nut clarity hits hard. Like a bat, swearing this was the last time. Leon has never had good luck with women and his job took roots in his life, it has the role of a jealous lover, deeply murdering all possible will to catch something better. Tinder is a failure too, in his case, a match every once in a full moon. 

Glancing through the gap of your unclosed room, he drinks on the sight of your frame laying on the bed; unaware of his presence, scrolling through some dumb social media and not chatting with someone else, he hopes. His eyes caress your body, drifting from your back - pretty, would look even prettier under him arching as his cock would hit all the right spots. And the roundness of your ass accentuated by those shorts, so tight on your curves he wants to sink his teeth on the softness, bite it, to feel you flinch and wiggle, to mark you.

God, you are so fucking pretty.

“What is my pretty missy doing?” He grunts, landing on top of you. A little bit too close at first, his chest pushes against your back, knocking you forward ever slightly. Alcohol makes him clumsy, even worse than college girl tripping over their high heels - he settles a knee on one side, propping himself with an elbow and boxing you underneath him, unbalanced or not - a good excuse for his hand to creep on your waist, it is impossible to keep his hands to himself. You are soft and warm, lacking the hardness that his body possesses after years of training and being thrown like a ragdoll. The bed cracks underneath your frame and air fills with whiskey. Not a cheap one at least, you are grateful for that. 

“Nothing!” He leans closer, nosing the sweet curve of your shoulder, burying his face in the base of your neck for a moment - filling his senses with a cherry smell. Emerging images of a garden with cherry trees blossoming and you stand there, waiting for him. And he’d be the happiest man alive. It is intoxicating, addicting and you were right - Leon adores it, too much. 

While at it, Leon hums at your answer, giving a kiss on your shoulder blade. The hand caresses your side, sliding easily lower to grip your hip. A squeeze, you flinch with a chuckle.

“You okay?” Leon watches you nod. It is weird, alcohol supposes to kill his boner or make it harder, usually it worked like that before you began looming in front of his eyes. Better than porn, better than magazines - their front shots don’t have you. 

Leon shifts his weight lower, not really listening to your answer - a small talk, a question without looking for a real answer as his focus is on his straining dick. After years of his dick barely here, it is something refreshing, returning back to his young years while the biggest problem was to get his dick wet. Or not to cum too quickly. Serious ones, still suffering even at his big age. His knee presses more into the mattress. Leaning back even slightly just to end up almost being pushed by an invisible hand on you. New strategy, his hand squeezes harder for the last time before abandoning and with it, the warmth withdrew too.

“What are you doing?” There is an evident confusion in your voice, usually you don't question his doings - alcoholic and old man, leaving him to deal with his own burden. Leon wouldn’t tell you anyway. Your eyebrows furrow, darting to him before he clicks with his tongue, pushing your head back to its former position. 

“Don’t frown. I’m just getting…“ Leon murmurs, a pause as his eyes dart around your body again. His throat feels drier, thank god you can’t see Adam's apple bobbing often after every swallow. “Comfortable, there is not enough space for me..”

With a heavy grunt pushing himself up with his elbow to sit on his knees now, straddling your hips - quick and getting to his head - light dizziness, clearly close to failure again, not now though. His palm presses on your back briefly applying more weight before he recollects himself. His eyes fell down, now noticing how close your ass is to his bulge. Maybe he is imagining, from this point of view your ass perks up - two perfectly rounded flesh, silky shorts tighten around them and his jeans are suffocatingly tight. A light pressure on the button and it pops out, without even doing anything - seeing a damp patch on his boxers. God, he is pent up, of course, that’s the reason. The shame washes away as his fist grips his cock. Maybe alcohol messes up with the perception of temperature, but his dick feels burning in his palm. It throbs with the need to be inside you, or to be in between your cheeks, tip rolling and smearing your soft rounded flesh - cumming on them, would be a perfect sight to see his cum on your ass, rolling down on its curve. Slit is hidden by half transparent beads, a prominent vein pulses in his hold or maybe it is his heart.  His cock leaks pre-cum, like some sort of inexperienced boy and that’s embarrassing. It is normal, normal to be hard as rock and leaking like some virgin man. 

But for his own daughter? Not a common experience, certainly unique. Impossible to share without being a creep, not everyone understands what years of no sex can force a man to do. And alcohol? A certified mess, big one, enormous. 

Your hips wriggle underneath him, before he leans to box you back, propping on the elbow as he tries to slide it inside. His cock slots in between your lips just right, folds press against his tip before giving a sloppy thrust forward - you are so wet, squelching noises with every slow slide. Pussy straight out of porn, he imagined them like that - puffy, greedy and leaking like some kind of slut against him. Your slick sticks so right across his flesh after every slow motion of his hips. This can't be his daughter, no way. He stops briefly just to be sure this is real. You are wetter than any woman he has ever been with, no way he is going to use lube or spit tonight.  “Stay still for dad now”

Guiding his cock to your soaked hole, even notching his tip feels amazing right. Those are years of not being laid, he missed that. He missed feeling a soft body beneath him, to watch body jiggle with every thrust too - finally, he can find comfort and satisfy the need in you. The angle is hard, but he still tries to watch as after a push his cock disappears in your folds - sliding inside so perfectly, feeling how your walls stretch around his cock accommodating to the intrusion, welcoming even by coating with the warmth of your cunt. 

“I give you so much, let me show my love for you” There are too many words floating in his mind, all about you and only you, maybe your pussy too as his cock slips in so easily. Leon buries his nose in your hair. “Be a good girl, babe, you know what good girls get, right?”

Daddy’s love. Daddy’s dick too. A gasp escapes your lips, your breath hitches in your throat as every inch sinks deeper, batting your eyelashes at the stretch of your walls in a slow motion, giving you time to adjust. Your stomach pools more squirming heat, making you want to buck against him. And his words? They make your pussy clench hard across hard flesh, next ones make you weaker than any man has ever had. “You know dad loves you?” 

A moan escapes, your hips wriggle at the fullness in your hole. Clenching hard, a squirming heat tingles in your body, urging you to slip your hand to play with your clit. No way it is possible right now, Leon is pressing against you, his hips sit nicely against your ass while fingers dip on your belly - keeping hold of you. Dragging out his cock, before thrusting back with a choked grunt coming out of his throat.  

“I love you too..” You murmur with a breathless voice, it is hard to speak right now. All your focus is on how nice his cock fills your pussy, every vein of him etches in your velvety walls, the light curve of his dick that at right angle hits your spongy spot so well your eyes roll back and mind goes blank. His thrusts dip you harder in the mattress, your back arches into him.

“Fuck..” His voice is throaty, fanning against your ear. Hell, your eyes roll back arching into him trying to get his cock deeper inside you. Leon noses the base of your ear. “So good… you feel so good inside, my good girl” 

“Ugh… Harder…” It escapes out of you, drunk on this feeling. And Leon can feel his cock jolting inside you, almost cum without doing too much. His hips thrust deeper, to keep it there for a moment - to recollect himself.

“Harder? You need your dad to fuck you into the bed?” He grunts, dragging his cock before pushing it at a similar pace. You nod and how can he deny you tonight? He kisses the side of your head, rolling his hips harder, intensifying the rhythm - as his best girl wanted. 

Your pussy gushes more slick, it is getting embarrassingly wet - not sure if he realizes how drenching you are. Leaking for your dad, made right for his cock. Easy thrust, his tip knocks to the hilt, before pushing out and in with a squelching noise. Clenching harder every time his cock drags out, body begging for him back before it returns in a quick deep thrust. Your ears burn, sensitive and Leon seems to get too deep into this. But he is already deep into your pussy, hard to beat that. His tongue peeks out to brush across your hot cartilage, leaving wet trails with every lick and bite -  probably the sheets beneath have a see-through spot. Rutting in your hole, keeping you pinned in place with a hard grip moving to your hip, under him. The place you belong. And your body feels lighter, like a feather with an empty mind - how perfect his cock fits in you. 

He wishes he would be able to watch your face twist in pleasure, to see your eyes full of need to be kissed and groped. Fuck, his head fills the hypothetical images of your chest - filling his palms perfectly, squeezing and kneading your tits like some kind of stress toy after a long day of work. This makes his cock throbs harder inside you, his balls tighten with a flame burning up in his stomach - he is going to cum. Leon presses harder against your back and another moan escapes. “Baby, oh– you are so good for me, the best, my best, sweetest girl. I’m going to–” Wrong. “You are making me cum”

You are the reason his cock pulses inside you, getting harder and harder to keep himself in control. God, you feel how rough his thrust inside you right now - hitting your G-spot and the squirming heat starts to spread even more across your body at a quick pace. Your legs tremble, feeling the need to cry as it gets more overwhelming with each thrust. Your orgasm hits you unexpectedly, you were the first to cum. Trembling beneath him, Leon kept kissing your hair, your body is weak and your sweet sobs fill the room. Crygasm, he’d call it, keeping to rut and trying to catch just the right moment for him. And your cunt makes it hard, tight, begging to cum already - no, he doesn’t want to cum inside you - not tonight at least. God, no! That’s wrong, this is just the moment of his weakness.  With a low grunt, Leon leans back to pull out, his cock throbs for the last time and sprouts long ropes of his cum on your ass, with heavy breathing watching it cling on your soft flesh - certainly, his pull out game got better with age. 

He feels like a fulfilled man at this point, your body is spent in pleasure and trying to recover. He is no different from that, burning face with heavy breathing, nor does he have energy to clean up. Falling down next to you, his arms snake around you to keep your body closer to him. It trembles, slowly fading to sleep in his embrace. 

…

Leon fucked up, fucked up so big he regrets there is no Matilda on the bedside table, the shame washes over him like a cold water has been thrown. There is no way to get out of this, you cling to his side like one of pillows. Cuddling almost, any notion would wake you up - to face you, his bad attempt of being a father. Showing affection. 

Vivid thoughts of the trigger under his finger, this time directed to him and not to zombie. Little pressure and… your finger bumps his nose. You are awake. 

“…Good morning” your voice is still sweet, like nothing happened that night. Like his cock wasn’t deep inside your pussy. Leon’s cock. Your dad’s. A silence falls, avoiding your gaze like the plague and it makes you frown. Uneasy. Your eyes drift for briefly, hard not to catch how pale he is - did he have a nightmare? 

Your voice rings in his ears again, Leon wants to cry. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost…”

“Do I?” His voice cracks, hoarse and lower in the mornings. But a bird may whisper, that crackiness is not linked to that. Your hand reaches to lay on his cheek, to force him to face your eyes. Leon’s eyelashes flutter for a moment, at your sleepy sight. Looking almost dreamily at him, like the best thing. The look one would give to a lover. Fuck. 

“Dad doesnt love me anymore?” you suggest with a disappointed expression crossing across your features and he needs to die at this point. To be put down like a stray dog.

“No, sweetheart..I–” Leon is quick to speak up, but slow to think how he should say. Get a grip. “Last night, I am sorry. I’m fucked up, big.” His hand reaches for yours, squeezing it softly before trying to swallow down the shame. “That’s not dad behavior, I’m so sorry” 

You stay silent, looking at him with wide eyes. Did he disappoint you? Failed you? “I am really really sorry, I don't know what to do to clean up this mess…” He looks so… Ashamed, guilty after being deep balls inside you, ravishing your body and fucking you dumbles. Unaware, your dad is so unaware of how this gets your pussy clench around nothing. Awaiting for you to speak up, to forgive him and act like he didn’t cum on your ass last night. More slick gushes in between your legs, begging to play with your clit. Or to feel his cock again. “...This won't happen, I promise. Do you need something? A dress, maybe new perfume? Or make up. Please.”

[heich0e]

"you leave narita tomorrow night at eleven, which puts you in paris around seven in the morning, local time." you lock the screen of your tablet, tucking it against your abdomen. "your first meeting isn't until early afternoon, so you'll have time to head to the hotel and rest for a bit."

"and you?" on the other side of the room, seated primly in an armchair with his legs crossed at the knee, sae waits for your response.

"i wasn't able to get a seat on that flight, so i'll follow on the first flight out the next morning. it leaves a bit before four."

you suddenly remember the cup of coffee you'd abandoned in your office down the hall. it had long gone cold, but you were still drinking it. you wish you had it with you now—the boost of caffeine, whatever temperature, would be appreciated.

sae looks out the window of his pristine office, the city lights are just starting to glow under the dusky sky. "in the morning?"

"yes."

you aren't necessarily looking forward to getting on an international flight before dawn, but there wasn't any other option.

"a sleepless night for you, then."

your boss isn't wrong. you won't be getting home until late tomorrow night, after seeing him safely off to his own departure. you'll have just enough time—you hope—to pack your luggage and make your way to the airport. you force a smile.

"i'll just sleep on the plane."

a lie, decidedly. you've never been able to sleep on planes. not even on a nearly fifteen hour flight like the one from tokyo to paris. it's particularly unfortunate, because your later departure (and therefore later arrival) won't afford you the same luxury of resting in the hotel before the afternoon meeting.

sae's been busy lately, which means you've been even busier. when the french atelier requested a meeting with him, just ahead of paris fashion week, you didn't think your boss would (or could) possibly accept it. but to your own surprise he'd insisted on attending. some offhanded remark about strengthening business relationships outside of athletic brands. it was then left to you to shift everything else in his life around to make the meeting work.

it's meant nearly a week of sleepless nights. and plenty of room temperature cups of coffee. but you'd made it happen.

"there are plenty of other seats open on this flight."

your attention snaps back to the man in front of you, only to see he's pulled his phone out from his pocket and is staring intently at the screen. you falter.

"i'm sure that it was fully—"

"i'm looking at at least half a dozen seats left available," sae doesn't even let you finish your sentence, interrupting you tersely. "the one immediately behind me is free."

he looks up at you with a cool, flat expression.

"that's business class, sae-san." you answer, keeping your tone light and hopefully not condescending or reproachful. his name still feels awkward in your mouth, even after three years of working for him, but he insists all the staff refer to him by his given name.

you've always wondered why he prefers it to the family name, but would never dare to ask.

his expression doesn't shift as he watches you, but something in the air seems sharper now. "i'm aware. i do know how to read."

you feel queasy, and your weight shifts from one foot to the other. you scramble to think of what to say.

sae beats you to it.

"change your flight."

then he tucks the phone back into the pocket of his coat, and resumes peering through the window.

"if my options are to pay slightly extra for a different seat, or have an assistant who hasn't slept in a week with me at the meeting, the choice should be fairly obvious."

"yes." you swallow hard, and your grip on your tablet tightens. "i'm sorry, sae-san."

he lifts a hand and waves you away dismissively. you understand that as your cue to leave.

just before you make it to the door he stops you.

"before you go, i'd like a coffee."

you pause, peering back over your shoulder. it's late in the day for sae to be drinking a coffee. he's not even particularly fond of it to begin with so the request strikes you as being a bit strange.

"of course. would you like me to prepare it, or is there a particular coffee shop you have in mind?"

his hand settles in his lap again.

"that shop the staff is partial to is fine."

there's a cafe just across the road from the office, which has long hours and surprisingly good coffee. you perk up slightly—you'll be able to get yourself something while you're there.

"yes, certainly. i'll be back shortly with your drink."

sae says nothing. doesn't even bother turning to watch you bow as you take your leave.

in spite of your exhaustion, there's a little skip in your step as you race across the street towards the coffee shop—directly underneath the lit window of your boss's office, where he's waiting (and watching) for your prompt return.

[cambankromyy]

THE ISLAND LOOKOUT (pt.13): his room - (smau & irl au) childhood bsf!rafe cameron x thornton!reader

series masterlist; general masterlist; taglist

an; my biggest apologies for not updating for so long!! schools been really busy recently but i have a vision for the story so no more long waits for new chatpers (i hope)!! also this chapter is again irl heavy

part 12 - part 13 - part 14

you sit there for a second, staring at nothing, before you finally reach for your phone. your fingers hover over the screen before you even know what you’re doing.

the response is immediate.

your breath catches in your throat.

there’s something about that answer that makes your pulse stutter, but you push past it.

you hesitate before the next text, fingers tapping idly against your thigh.

three dots immediately appear, but disappear after a second. you exhale, waiting for the three dots to pop up again. your heartbeat is in your throat and you feel light headed as you wait.

thirty seconds.

thats how long it took for him to respond, and thats all it took for you to almost have a heart attack.

you don’t give it any further thought.

you slip out of the room quietly, your pulse hammering in your ears. jj is already breathing evenly, half-asleep, and he doesn’t stir as you pull the door open.

your path to rafe’s room is eerily quiet. your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear as you reach his door.

you hesitate outside the door for half a second before pushing it open. the room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. shadows stretch long against the walls, warping with the faint movement of the curtains in the breeze. rafe is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head ducked low like he’s thinking too hard about something.

his head lifts when you step inside. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you.

the door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet shifts. it feels heavier now, thick with something unspoken, something too solid to ignore. the kind of silence that isn’t quite anger, but isn’t far from it either.

you cross the room and sit down on the bed—not too close, but not far either. the space between you feels intentional. rafe exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. he looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in days. the way he won’t look at you only makes the weight in your chest press harder.

"i just..." you start, then stop. your fingers knot together in your lap. "i wanted to talk about earlier."

rafe scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. "of course you did."

you blink at him, caught off guard by the edge in his voice. "what's that supposed to mean?"

he doesn't answer. his jaw clenches, shoulders tensing like he's holding something back.

"rafe," you say his name softer this time, reaching out without thinking, fingers brushing his wrist. he turns at that, eyes flicking to yours for the first time since you walked in. there's something behind them—something sharp, something unraveling.

then suddenly, his hand finds your jaw, fingers curling against your skin, and he kisses you.

it's too quick, too desperate. his lips press against yours like he's trying to make you forget why you're even here in the first place.

but you don’t kiss back.

your hands press flat against his chest, pushing him away as your breath stumbles, heartbeat ricocheting inside your ribs.

“wait—” the word comes out sharp, uneven. your head shakes on instinct, fingers pressing hard against your temples like you can physically stop yourself from spiraling.

"fuck, rafe. you cant just—"

rafe pulls back, eyes searching yours with something raw, something desperate. his brows furrow like he can’t understand why you stopped him, like he can’t understand why it isn’t that easy.

"can't what?"

the weight in your chest threatens to crush you whole.

his voice breaks the silence first, low and uneven. "this about jj?"

your throat tightens. your fingers dig into your arms.

he doesn’t get it.

you shake your head, lips pressing together to keep them from trembling. “you don’t get to do that,” you whisper, voice barely holding together. “you don’t get to just—”

"get to what?"

the words catch. the lump in your throat grows thick, nearly choking.

your jaw clenches. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“act like you don’t know.”

he lets out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “you wanna talk about earlier,” he cuts in, voice clipped. “right?”

you hesitate, but nod. “yeah.”

his lips press together, his hands clasped so tight his knuckles go white. “of course you do.”

you blink, thrown. “we talked for the first time in a month and you don’t wanna talk about it?”

you cross your arms over your chest, pressing your fingers into your skin like you can hold yourself steady. "you wanna talk about it? yeah? how about we start from that night?"

your stomach flips. “what night?”

rafe exhales sharply, running a hand over his face. he shakes his head, jaw clenched.

"you know what fucking night," he snaps. "tannyhill. when we got high and posted all that shit."

you inhale sharply.

he shakes his head. "i woke up thinking it was something. thinking we—" he stops himself, running a hand through his hair, exhaling hard.

"but then you started hanging out with the pogues." his voice turns bitter, edged with something almost venomous. "started running around with him."

your brows furrow. "him?"

his jaw flexes. "jj."

your breath catches.

rafe scoffs. "what, you’re gonna act surprised? like you weren’t all over him?"

your stomach twists, anger flashing through your veins. "are you serious right now?"

"i don’t know, roni. am i?" his voice is sharp, biting. "because it sure as hell looked like you were fucking around with him."

you shake your head, disbelief crawling up

"i woke up that morning, and it was like—fuck, roni, it messed me up. you looked at me like nothing changed. like it was just another night, like—" he stops, running a hand over his face. "and then you were with them. with him. and i didn’t know what to do with that."

your throat feels tight. the pressure behind your eyes builds, your chest getting heavier by the second.

“I mean, was it fun? Did he make you forget—”

you barely hear him anymore. his words are background noise to the storm in your head, to the way your own thoughts are eating you alive.

because he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know what happened. he doesn’t know that for a moment, you let it happen, let yourself fall into something you didn’t even want, just because it was easy.

he’ s still going, voice sharp, edged with frustration. “you could’ve been with anyone, but you picked him? really?” he laughs, but there’s nothing funny about it.

your throat burns. you can feel the tear rolling your cheek.

rafe scoffs for the billionth time, about to keep going—then he the way your breath catches. the way your shoulders curl inward. the way your fingers tremble as you try, and fail, to wipe the tear away before he can notice.

he stops, eyebrows furrowing. “what the fuck? are you fucking crying?”

your hands are clenched in your lap, your teeth digging into your lip, your whole body tense like you’re trying to keep yourself together.

rafe’s irritation falters. his jaw tightens, and he leans in slightly, like he’s trying to get a better look at you. “dude.”

you shake your head quickly, trying to pull yourself together, but it’s useless. a tear slips down your cheek, and you swipe at it aggressively, frustrated with yourself.

“what is going on?” his voice is more calm now, but still filled with rage and confusion.“why are you crying?”

you shake your head quickly, like you can push away whatever’s clawing up your throat.

but you do. you’re crying because this is rafe, your best friend, and he feels like a stranger. because you love him, and because you don’t know if you’re even allowed to anymore. because jj’s hands were on you hours ago, and you didn’t want it, not really, but you let it happen anyway.

he’s watching you now, expression shifting, annoyance flickering into something else. something more careful.

you exhale sharply, voice breaking apart before you can even finish. “i didn’t want to.”

his brows pull together. “didn’t wanna what?”

your fingers dig into your arms. you can’t say it. you can’t.

rafe leans in, voice lower, rough but steady. “use your fucking words.”

but you can’t.

your breath stumbles, and then—everything spills over.

your shoulders shake harder, silent at first, but then the sob hits, breaking past your lips in a way you can’t stop. your hands press against your face, like maybe if you hide, this won’t be happening.

rafe hesitates. for half a second, he just looks at you, stunned, like he doesn’t know what to do with this.

then he sighs, muttering a quiet, “fuck,” under his breath—before reaching for you.

he pulls you in, arms wrapping tight around your frame, and this time, you don’t push him away.

your face presses into his shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt, gripping tight like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. rafe’s warm. steady. too solid, too real.

he doesn’t say anything. he was ready for you to fight back, to push him away, to bite out something sharp like you always do when you’re upset. but you don’t. and for some reason, that unsettles him more than anything.

his pulse is still fast from the argument, his breathing uneven, but you’re shaking against him, and suddenly, none of it matters.

the room stays quiet, save for the sound of your breathing, rough and unsteady against his neck. after a moment, he exhales slowly, like he’s trying to even you out with him.

somewhere in the haze, his grip loosens. his thumb moves, slow and absentminded, over your back. maybe it’s instinct. maybe it’s something else.

the weight of the past few weeks lingers, thick in the air between you. nothing is solved. nothing is fixed. but somehow, the anger feels like a distant thing now, like something neither of you have the energy to hold on to.

your body stays tense for a while. you don’t notice when it starts to ease.

and rafe doesn’t notice when he stops thinking about why he’s still holding you.

before you know it, the exhaustion catches up. the weight in your chest dulls, your thoughts blur, and your grip on his shirt goes slack.

rafe feels the shift but doesn’t move.

your breathing evens out first. then his.

before either of you can stop it, sleep settles in, pulling you under.

and for the first time in weeks, neither of you fight it.

tags: @italk2god @angelicameron @marleymarleymarleymarley, @queenvane64, @raeven-marie43 @idiotussupremus @sereneera @yesshewrites1 @inlovewithchriss @ethanthequeefqueen @amterasuu @popou61 @drewsstars @yannew @anothertimegirl @flvredcas @yootvi @mrsdrewstarkeyy @niaunofficial @cooper8224 @rafegetinmybed @pogueprincesa @6r4cie @adalia-lovelace @bee-43 @drewrry @masongetinmybed @defnotayonna @lcversvoid @my-name-is-baby @lolasangelz @polli05927 @laniirackssss @rafecameronswifeyy @starsval @hypnotizedstarkey @wintercrows @d-daxx @dontknow3m @jjasmiineee @Chillgal135

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression @timebomb1101 @inejghafasdagger @koshkahhh @juliperezsilveira @pandaofsilentdeath @straw--b3rry @nynxtea

-------------------------------------------

TW: Cussing, Walkers (Zombies), tension, kidnapping, helplessness, coercion, lecherous behavior, predatory behavior, angst, Negan is a Villan, SA (Implied, offscreen), panic attack.

Part 46

Dead Weight - Part 47

The forest feels too quiet as you pick your way through the undergrowth, every snapped twig making you jump. Daryl leads the way, crossbow ready, while Carol brings up the rear. You're sandwiched between them—protected, but it doesn't stop your heart from racing every time a shadow moves wrong or a branch creaks overhead.

Stay calm, you tell yourself, but your hands won't stop shaking. Every rustle could be a walker. Every distant sound could be Saviors. Every step forward feels like you're walking deeper into danger instead of toward safety.

"How much further?" you whisper, hating how small your voice sounds.

"Few more hours," Daryl replies without turning around. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's hyperaware of every sound. He's been like this since you left Alexandria—coiled tight, ready to fight anything that might threaten you.

He's still blaming himself, you realize, watching the rigid set of his back.

A walker stumbles out from behind a tree, and you freeze completely. Your breath catches, your body refusing to move even as your mind screams at you to run. It's Daryl who puts the bolt through its skull, quick and efficient, but not before you've had a full panic response to something that should be routine by now.

"You okay?" Carol asks softly, her hand hovering near your shoulder but not quite touching.

You nod, not trusting your voice. Daryl's looking at you with those intense blue eyes, and you can see the guilt written all over his face. Like your fear is his fault too.

"Tell me about this ... "King,"" you say quietly to Carol, needing something to focus on besides the way your hands won't quite stop shaking.

Carol glances at you with that gentle understanding she's perfected over the years. "His name is Ezekiel. He's... theatrical. Dramatic. He talks like he stepped out of a Shakespeare play and he has this pet tiger named Shiva."

You blink. "A ... like a real ... tiger?"

"A tiger," Carol confirms with a small smile. "But underneath all the performance, he's genuinely kind. He makes people feel safe, protected. The Kingdom is... it's almost like the world before. People are happy there."

From your other side, you hear Daryl snort softly. "This shit keeps gettin' better."

"Hey, stop that" Carol says diplomatically. "Maybe a little crazy is what people need to feel normal again."

Despite everything, you almost smile. Almost. But the expression dies before it fully forms when you hear voices in the distance. All three of you freeze, and Daryl motions for you to get down behind a fallen log.

The voices pass—Saviors on patrol, laughing about something crude. Your whole body starts trembling again, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making any sound. The memory of Negan's hands, his voice, the way he looked at you like you were something he owned, crashes over you in waves.

Don't think about it, you tell yourself. Don't think about his hands or his voice or the way he—

But you can't stop the memories, can't stop the way your skin crawls with phantom touches that make you want to scrub yourself raw.

It's another hour before Daryl decides it's safe to move again. You're exhausted, emotionally and physically drained. Every sound puts you on edge.

You think about how gentle they both are with you now, as you navigate around a fallen log, accepting Daryl's steadying hand automatically before your brain can catch up and tense.

The brief contact is over before you can panic, and you're grateful for his awareness of your current limitations.

He's being so careful you think, catching the way he positions himself slightly ahead, scanning for threats.

The thought stings because part of you feels like you are made of glass now, cracked and fragile and liable to shatter at the wrong touch.

But another part of you hates that this is what you've become, hates that Negan has reached into your relationship with Daryl and poisoned even the innocent moments.

As the sun starts to set, Carol spots a small clearing with good sight lines and suggests making camp. You help gather wood for a small fire, your movements automatic from years of survival, but you can feel both of them watching you with careful eyes.

The fire crackles to life, and Carol settles against a tree trunk with her blankets. "I'll take first watch," she offers, but there's something deliberate in the way she says it, like she's giving you and Daryl space to talk.

You sit on your own blanket, knees drawn up to your chest, staring into the flames. Daryl settles beside you - close enough that you know he's there, far enough that you don't feel crowded. The consideration in that simple gesture makes your throat tight.

"Y'okay?" he asks quietly, and there's so much loaded into those two words.

"No," you answer honestly, because lying to Daryl has never really been an option. "But I'm trying to be."

He nods, understanding in the set of his shoulders. You can see him struggling with something, probably the same thing you're struggling with - how to bridge the gap between who you were before and who you are now.

"I keep thinkin' bout that night," he says finally, his voice rough. "Bout what you did."

Your chest tightens. "Daryl—"

"Y'threw ya'self over me..." His hands clench in his lap. " ... and I didn't do nothin' to stop ... 'im"

The pain in his voice cuts through your own trauma, and you turn to look at him, really look at him, for the first time since you've been back. His face is etched with guilt and self-loathing, and it breaks something inside you to see him carrying this burden.

"None of it was your fault." you say firmly.

"Feels like it was." He won't meet your eyes. "Feels like everything I touch gets ruined. Gets hurt."

"Stop." The word comes out sharper than you intended, and you see him flinch slightly. You soften your voice, scooting a little closer despite your body's instinctive wariness. "Daryl, look at me."

He does, reluctantly, and you can see the fear there - fear that you blame him, fear that you regret what you did, fear that he's lost you completely.

"I still trust you," you say, and you watch surprise flicker across his features. "More than anyone else in this world. What happened... what Negan did... that's on him. Not you."

"But if you hadn't—" he starts.

"Stop—please, we're gonna get through this," you continue, echoing Carol's words from the night before. "Both of us. Together. It might take time, and it might not look excatly like what we had before, but we're going to figure it out."

He nods slowly, and you can see him trying to believe you.

"I just... I don't know how to help you," he admits. "Don't know how to make it better."

"You don't have to make it better," you say. "You just have to be here. Like you've always been, while I figure out how to be okay again."

"M'here always" he says, and there's a promise in his voice.

You both fall quiet, listening to the crackling of the fire and Carol's soft breathing from her post. The forest feels less threatening with them here, less like a place where dangers lurk in every shadow.

"That king really has a tiger?" you ask after a while, trying to lighten the mood.

Daryl snorts. "Sounds like a damn circus act."

"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," you muse. "Maybe we all need a little circus in our lives. Something to remind us that the world can still be magical, even when everything feels dark."

"Maybe," he concedes, chewing casually on his lower lip as he pokes the fire.

As you settle into your blankets later, you notice Daryl positioning his close enough to yours that you can hear his breathing, but far enough away that you won't feel trapped if you wake up panicked. It's such a careful consideration of your current needs, and it makes your chest tight with emotion.

"Daryl?" you whisper into the darkness.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For being patient with me."

"S'okay," he says quietly. "You'd do the same for me."

He's right. You would.

Sleep comes easier than it has in weeks, your body finally relaxing in the safety of Daryl's presence. But even in sleep, some part of you remains aware of him beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his side of the bed.

Daryl lies awake longer, watching the moonlight play across your face, noting how the tension finally melts away when you're unconscious.

It's only then that he lets himself move - slowly, carefully, he reaches over and hooks his pinky around yours. It's the barest touch, something that won't wake you or make you feel trapped, but it grounds him in a way he desperately needs.

The Kingdom is unlike anything you've seen since you landed in America. As you walk through the gates with Daryl and Carol, you can't help but notice the theatrical touches everywhere—the makeshift medieval aesthetic, the way people carry themselves with a kind of dignity that feels almost forgotten.

A cheerful man in what you immediately recognize as a fighters gambeson approaches your group. The red quilted coat is well-made, clearly someone who understood historical armor construction. His weapons, too, have a medieval flair that speaks of someone who appreciates authenticity over pure practicality.

"Welcome to the Kingdom!" he says with genuine warmth. "I'm Jerry, King Ezekiel is eager to meet you all."

Despite everything that's happened, despite the way you still flinch at unexpected sounds and keep your distance from the group, you find yourself almost smiling.

There's something about this place that feels... safe. Like a pocket of whimsy in a world gone mad.

First time I've seen her look anythin' close to comfortable since we got out, Daryl notices, watching the way your shoulders relax just slightly.

When you're led into the king's presence, you find yourself face-to-face with a man who clearly understands the power of performance. Ezekiel sits on his throne with his tiger beside him, every inch a King despite the modern world's collapse.

"Welcome, travelers, to the Kingdom," he says in that theatrical, flowery tone. "I am King Ezekiel, and this is my royal companion, Shiva."

You surprise everyone—by responding in kind. "Your Majesty," you say, your voice taking on a slightly more formal cadence, "You honor us with your hospitality." You even manage a small curtsy, the movement automatic despite everything.

She's talkin' like... like she knows this shit. Daryl thinks, staring at you.

Carol raises an eyebrow, equally surprised. She's never seen you respond to anyone quite like this.

King Ezekiel's eyes light up with genuine delight. "Ah, a woman of culture and refinement! How refreshing." Then he pauses, his head tilting slightly. "Your accent... it's quite lovely. Not from this land, Good Lady ?"

The comment makes your stomach clench. you remember Negan's crude comments about your voice. You feel yourself starting to shut down, but Daryl notices the change immediately.

King Ezekiel sits unawares with Shiva at his side, listening as Carol explains the situation with the Saviors. You stand slightly behind Daryl, your arms wrapped around yourself, trying to make yourself smaller.

"The Saviors have to be stopped," Carol says, her voice steady and determined. "They're bleeding every community dry. Taking half of everything, killing people who resist."

Ezekiel strokes his beard thoughtfully. "The Kingdom has managed to avoid such conflicts. We give them what they ask for, they leave us in peace."

"For now," Daryl growls. "Ain't gonna last forever. Eventually, they'll want somethin' you can't give."

"My people are safe," Ezekiel continues. "They're happy. Why would I risk that for a war we might not win?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," Carol says, but you can hear the frustration creeping into her voice.

"The right thing?" Ezekiel's theatrical mask slips for a moment. "The right thing is protecting my people. The right thing is making sure they don't suffer."

"They're already suffering," Daryl snaps. "Maybe not here, maybe not yet, but everywhere else? People are dyin'. Kids are starvin'. All because of Negan and his Saviors."

At the mention of Negan's name, you flinch visibly. Your breathing quickens, and Daryl can see your hands starting to shake. Damn it, he thinks. Shouldn't have said his name.

Ezekiel notices your reaction too, his eyes narrowing with concern. "Perhaps we should take a moment—"

"No." Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the room. "No, I... I need to say this."

She's gonna have to relive it, Daryl realizes, his stomach dropping.

"Y'don't gotta do this." Daryl says softly, taking a step toward you.

"Yea ... I do" you whisper to Daryl.

You take a shaky breath, still not looking at anyone. Your eyes are fixed on a spot on the floor, your arms wrapped tighter around yourself.

"Neg - He came for us," you begin, your voice monotone, distant. "He... he took things. People. He killed Spencer right in front of us, cut him open because Spencer tried to undermine Rick."

Ezekiel leans forward, his expression serious now.

"But..." Your hands are trembling now, and you clasp them together to try to stop it. "The worst part was how he looked at people. Like they were... things. Property... he called them a resource. "

"He told me my voice was exotic. Said vile things. Made comments about how... how making him happy kept ... kept Daryl alive." Your voice cracks on the last words, and you have to stop, breathing hard.

Carol moves closer to you, but doesn't touch. She knows better than to corner you when you're this fragile.

"He forced me to sit at his table, to play house with him while he cooked dinner. Made me hold Lil Asskicker while he talked about making me have his children. And when I said no..." You swallow hard, your voice getting smaller.

"He didn't accept no."

The room is dead silent. Even Shiva seems to sense the gravity of the moment.

Daryl's hands clench into fists.

"You think your people are safe because you give him what he wants," you continue, still staring at the floor. "But what happens when what he wants is your daughters? Your wives? What happens when giving him supplies isn't enough anymore?"

Your voice breaks completely on the last word, and you wrap your arms around yourself tighter, like you're trying to hold yourself together.

"He doesn't just take things," you whisper. "He takes people. Bargains there loved ones on obedience, and he enjoys it."

Ezekiel is quiet for a long moment, his theatrical persona completely gone. When he speaks, his voice is soft, serious. "I'm sorry for what you endured."

"I'm not telling you this for pity," you say, finally looking up, though your eyes are bright with unshed tears. "I'm telling you because you need to understand what kind of man he is. What he's capable of. No one is safe as long as that bastard is alive."

"Sure, your people will suffer," you continue, your voice gaining strength. "But would you rather they suffer under his boot, or suffer and then regain their freedom."

King Ezekiel looks at each of you in turn - Carol with her determined expression, Daryl with his barely contained rage, and you with your quiet, desperate courage.

"You ask much of me," he says finally. "You ask me to risk everything I've built."

"We're askin' you to help us make sure other people don't go through what she did," Daryl says, his voice rough with emotion. "We're askin' you to help us stop a monster."

You're breathing hard now, the effort of telling your story having taken everything out of you. Daryl can see you starting to retreat inward, the way you do when the memories get too overwhelming.

Ezekiel stands slowly, his decision written on his face. "The Kingdom will consider your proposal. But I make no promises beyond that."

It's not a yes, but it's not a no either. It's a start.

"We'd be grateful for a place to rest," Carol interjects smoothly, sensing the shift in your mood.

"Of course! Jerry, please show our guests to their quarters. Baths can be drawn, and we have suitable garments if you wish to refresh yourselves before dinner."

Jerry leads you through corridors that feel almost magical in their commitment to the theatrical nature of the place. When he stops at a door, Daryl speaks up before anyone else can.

"M'sharin' with her" he says gruffly, not looking at you. "If that's... if that's alright."

But you just nod, grateful. The thought of being alone right now, makes your chest tight with anxiety.

Jerry doesn't bat an eye. "Of course. There are garments laid out that should fit you all."

Once you're alone in the room, you examine the clothes left for you while Daryl awkwardly studies the walls. The dress makes you smile—a genuine smile, the first one Daryl's seen in days. It's an early fifteenth century style, clearly researched and well-made.

"Someone here knows their history," you murmur, running your fingers over the fabric and its embroidery.

When you emerge from behind the screen, Daryl's eyes widen. You move in the dress like you were born to it, automatically tucking one side of the skirt up through your belt for easier movement, adjusting the sleeves with practiced ease.

"You look..." he starts, then stops, unsure how to finish without making you uncomfortable.

"Different?" you ask, and there's something almost playful in your voice.

"Mhmm" he manages, before he looks down.

Before dinner, King Ezekiel appears to escort you all to the hall, offering you his arm in a gesture of courtly politeness. "My lady, if you would do me the honor?"

Instead, you step closer to Daryl, your hand finding his elbow. "Thank you, Your Majesty, but I'm good."

King Ezekiel's eyes crinkle with understanding and perhaps a hint of amusement. "Of course. Shall we proceed?"

After you and Daryl have moved ahead, Carol catches the king's curious glance.

"They're together?" Ezekiel asks quietly.

"It's complicated," Carol replies. "They've been through a lot recently."

"I can see that. She carries herself like nobility, but there's pain there. Recent pain."

"She's healing. He's helping her heal, even if he doesn't realize it."

"And he? The archer seems... protective."

"He'd practically die for her"

Ezekiel nods thoughtfully. "The heart rarely follows logic, especially in matters of worthiness."

Later, watching the Kingdom's fighters train, you find yourself recognizing more than you let on. When the instructor calls "Hold!" and "Ware edge!" you feel a familiar thrill of recognition, but you keep your knowledge to yourself.

This isn't the time or place to reveal just how much you understand about all this.

Despite the relative safety of the Kingdom, you still startle when Jerry drops his axe, still position yourself so you can see all the exits. The trauma follows you even into this fairy-tale refuge.

The room they've given you is simple but comfortable. It feels luxurious after everything you've been through, but also strangely foreign. Normal feels like something from another lifetime.

And nighttime isn't easy since the Sanctuary.

Daryl's been quiet since dinner, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. You know that look - he's overthinking something.

"That king's nuts," he finally mutters, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. "Talkin' all fancy with a damn tiger. Who does that?"

You're struggling with the lacing on the dress, the brass aglet almost too wide for the holes. "I don't know," you say softly, working at the stubborn cord. "Maybe he's just trying to give people something to believe in. Something bigger than just surviving."

She's defendin' him, Daryl thinks, a spike of something uncomfortable twisting in his gut. She liked all that fancy talk, all that old stuff. Maybe she wants that kinda life.

The lacing is really stuck now, and you're getting frustrated. Without looking up, you extend your hand toward Daryl. "Knife ... please?"

"What for?" he asks, but he's already reaching for it, his fingers brushing yours as he hands it over.

"This stupid aglet is too big for the holes," you mutter, taking the blade and positioning it against the brass tip.

"I just need to cut it off so I can get out of this thing."

The moment you start cutting the lacing, Daryl's brain short-circuits. He watches you cut away the aglet, watches you start to loosen the cord, and his body goes rigid. He shifts his weight from foot to foot like he's ready to bolt.

He wants to look away - knows he should look away - but he can't make himself do it. Part of him, the part that's wanted you for so long it's like a constant ache, is practically vibrating with anticipation.

But the bigger part, the part that remembers the Sanctuary, the part that's terrified of messing this up, is in full panic mode.

Lookie what you got here, baby brother, Merle's voice whispers in his head, crude and encouraging. Girlie's takin' her clothes off. 'Bout damn time you—

Ain't like that, Daryl snarls mentally, his jaw clenching so hard it hurts.

But his body doesn't seem to have gotten the message. He can feel heat crawling up his neck, and his breathing has gone shallow. When you tug at the loosened lacing and the dress shifts slightly, he actually takes a step backward.

Daryl's whole body goes rigid. His shoulders hunch up toward his ears, and he bites down hard on his thumbnail - a nervous habit he's had since he was a kid.

"Y'sure—Y'don't gotta ..." he starts as his voice cracks slightly on the last word.

She's takin' the dress off, his mind races. Right here. Right now. And she asked for my knife to do it. Part of him - the part that sounds disturbingly like Merle - whispers things he immediately shuts down. Shut up, he tells that voice fiercely. Not like that. She ain't... we ain't...

"What?" you ask, pausing looking up at him with confusion.

His face is flushed red, and he's doing that thing where he ducks his head and lets his hair fall in front of his eyes. "Y'gonna..." He gestures vaguely, his hand trembling slightly.

You watch him fidget with the edge of his vest, his movements jerky and uncertain.

"Daryl," you say gently, but he's already turned partially away, like he's trying to give you privacy while also not wanting to completely leave.

"M'just..." He starts to move toward the door, his whole body language screaming discomfort and panic.

"What are you ... are you scared ?" you ask, genuine confusion in your voice.

He stops mid-step, his shoulders hunching even more.

"Ain't scared," he mumbles, but his voice says otherwise. "Just... you're..." He makes another vague gesture toward you and the dress.

Jesus, she's gonna think I'm some kinda pervert, he thinks, chewing on his thumbnail again. Or worse, she's gonna think I'm expectin' somethin'. After what happened to her, after what that prick did...

"This is so frustrating," you mutter, tugging harder at the cord. "I can't get enough give to—"

The dress shifts again, and Daryl makes a sound that's somewhere between a cough and a whimper.

What're you waitin' for? Merle's voice taunts. Sweet thing's practically strippin' for you. Stop bein' such a—

"Stop," Daryl huffs under his breath, not sure if he's talking to Merle's voice or to you or to his own traitorous body. "Y'don't gotta ..."

You look up at him, still confused, browed knitted together. "Don't need to what?"

A beat passed, your hands drop.

"Daryl, look at me," you say firmly.

He does, reluctantly, his eyes darting to your face then away again.

You sigh, as the realization of what he must be thinking dawns, your hands move with practiced ease as you unlace a few more inches, then pull the outer dress away from your body to show him the linen underdress underneath. "Look, There's a whole other layer. I'm not... im still going to dressed."

His relief is so visible it could almost be comical if not for his compassion - his shoulders drop, he stops chewing his thumbnail, and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"You thought I was just gonna..." you trail off, then a smile tugs at your lips. "Did you think I was about to just strip?"

Daryl makes a non-committal sound as he shrugs. He's still not quite looking at you directly, his cheeks burning red.

You want that though, don't you? Darylina. Merle's voice sneers in his head. Want her to take it all off, want her to—

Shut the hell up, Daryl snaps back mentally. She's been through enough. Last thing she needs is me thinkin' like that.

"I'm not... I wouldn't just..." you say softly, continuing to unlace the dress.

"I know," he says quickly. "I know you wouldn't. I just... I didn't wanna..." He trails off, running his hand through his hair again.

"Didn't want to what?"

"Didn't want y'thinkin' I was expectin' somethin' you ain't ready for." he finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tight. Here he is, terrified of overstepping, terrified of making you uncomfortable, when all you want is to feel normal with him again.

"You're not," you tell him, slipping out of the outer dress and standing there in the simple linen underdress. "You're being... you're being kinda perfect, actually."

He finally looks at you then, really looks at you, and something in his expression shifts. Not hunger, not expectation, just... love. Pure, uncomplicated love.

"Scared the hell outta me," he mumbles, but there's a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now.

"I'm gonna..." you gesture toward your packs, pulling out one of Daryl's flannels. It's always been a comfort thing, wearing his shirts. They smell like him, like safety and home.

Daryl turns away while you change, staring out the small window at the Kingdom's courtyard.

When you settle onto the bed, pulling the blankets up, Daryl hesitates. "You want me to take the chair? I can—"

"No." The word comes out more forcefully than you intended. "Please. I... I always slept better when you're close ... I want that back."

He climbs into bed beside you, careful to leave space between you. But after a few minutes, he feels you shifting closer, your hand searching across the blanket until it finds his. Your fingers interlock with his, and he can feel some of the tension leave your body.

They lie in comfortable silence for a while, your thumb tracing small circles on the back of his hand. Finally, Daryl works up the courage to ask the question that's been burning in his chest.

"Can I..." he starts, then stops.

"What?"

"Dont matter ... I just... I miss..." The words come out rough, uncertain.

"I miss it too," you whisper, and he can hear the longing in your voice. "I miss you. I miss... us. I miss how we used to curl up together. How sleeping next to you was the safest place in the world."

Daryl lifts your joined hands and gently turns your palm upward, his thumb tracing the soft lines there. Then, carefully, reverently, he presses his lips to the tender section of plump flesh where your thumb meets your palm.

The kiss is soft, barely there, but it makes your breath hitch. It's intimate without being overwhelming, gentle without being pitying.

Daryl pulls the blankets up higher, tucking them around both of you.

"Ain't goin' nowhere," Daryl says, his voice rough with emotion. "W'got time."

You nod as you close your eyes, feeling safer than you have in weeks. But even as sleep starts to pull you under, you can feel the hypervigilance at the edges of your consciousness, the part of you that's always listening for footsteps, always ready to run.

In the darkness, with your fingers still intertwined with his, both of you finally drift toward sleep - healing, slowly, together.

[ssahotchnerr]

Jack still sort of maintaining a relationship with Roy the first few years after Haley dies (Aaron thought it was important to maintain those connections for Jack even tho it hurt Aaron to do 😭 it was easy with Jess who he loves but SUCKED with Roy) but he gets extremely exclusionary once Ellie is born. Him being like “I will spend time with MY grandson who belonged to MY daughter but I will not be wasting my time, energy, and money on a child you’ve had with another woman. A child who – might I point out – would not have been born if you stayed married to my daughter and didn’t get her killed in the first place.”

Aaron being pissed on Ellie’s behalf (and his feelings are hurt tbh) and you being pissed on both of their behalfs. But, unexpectedly, Hc that Jack overheard this conversation and basically says to Aaron the next time Roy wants to take him somewhere (Aaron didn’t want to make HIM feel bad on top of everything else by banning him from seeing his grandfather, so he was gonna let him go), “I don’t want to spend time with grandpa Roy if he’s gonna be mean to Ellie. Thank you, but I’ll stay here.” SUCH A GOOD BIG BROTHERRRRR you and Aaron are so proud 🥺❤️

OHHH MY GOD??

roy just completely refuses to acknowledge that ellie exists 😭

it happened right from the start: when aaron shared the two of you were expecting, roy brushed it off, muttering something incoherently in response. after she's born, aaron invites him over for family dinners, he refuses to come. he's invited to ellie's first, second, third birthday party, doesn't come. every time he comes over, he acts like he's never seen her before. disregarding her completely.

it becomes very clear very fast that he wants to spend time with jack and jack only. as much as aaron hates to admit it, in a way, he understands. roy's bitter about what happened to haley, so this was somewhat expected. it's a different situation that's hard to navigate - ellie isn't related to him, so if roy doesn't want to bring her along to places, whatever, aaron's not going to force roy to do anything. the issue is what an issue it is. how ellie is being treated.

it's more of a problem when ellie is a bit older, and wants to tag along with jack wherever he goes. she just wants to be included 🥺 sweet ellie simply says hi when roy comes over to pick up jack, he ignores her. the next time, she draws him a picture, and he doesn't accept it.

aaron gently confronts him, and that's when roy brings up haley and how this child is a disgrace to her. imagine he full-on admits he wishes she never existed?? 😭 ellie's a product of what happened to haley, he'll never forgive aaron for getting her killed, so he'll never accept this child's existence. she shouldn't exist.

that angers aaron and he starts going off - ellie is a part of this family, whether you like it or not. and fine, you don't have to love her (saying that SHATTERS aaron's heart) but do not treat her like she's nothing. aaron won't let that stand.

it starts a huge argument 🥺 roy refuses speak to aaron, except when it comes to arranging his time with jack, and the conversation is very short at that. he doesn't speak much to you either (never has). again in his eyes - you're haley's replacement. jack's new "mom"

and it's especially sad because ellie knows about haley too :( - not the story, but the simple, good things: jack has another mommy, she's not here with us anymore but you can talk to her with a candle. haley has never been a avoided topic in the house, she's encouraged. and so ellie loves haley in her own way :( so to call her a disgrace in haley's name?? when she's also keeping haley's memory alive? :((((

you feel awful. you know how hurt aaron is but he doesn't allow himself to show it. he hates talking about it, and he's always in a mood whenever roy's with jack. you feel awful for your daughter who doesn't know what's going on. you feel awful for jack who's taking an unnecessary weight on his shoulders in terms of this too.

ellie's confused and upset, this is the first person who's ever shown her unkindness. aaron gently tries to explain, but also, how do you explain this to a toddler? so he simply apologizes and scoops her up into his arms and holds her close :( he feels awful, and as if he's failing her in someway. this is "his fault", isn't it? 😭

so if roy's taking jack out, aaron or you, or both combined, take ellie out for the day to do something fun. or try to keep jack heading out on the down-low. it sucks, you still both encourage jack to spend time with his grandfather - maintaining that important relationship - even though it's exceedingly complicated behind the scenes.

and jack, being the sweet sensitive kid he is, picks up on the tension immediately. and he's torn 🥺 he wants to appease his grandfather, knows what he's doing isn't right, but also doesn't want to betray his little sister, letting behavior like this continue. he feels guilty :( he takes the initiative and brings it up to roy himself, asking if ellie can come with them someday, like to the zoo or to a movie. but roy's pretty level-headed and his mind is made up - absolutely no ellie.

so jack gets really upset :( he gets home one day and cries about it :((( you're trying to console him, as is aaron (who's close to tears himself), and ellie wanders over :( she gets sad whenever jack is sad :( and while she has no idea what's going on exactly, she just buries herself right up into jack's side as he's crying. to comfort him too 🥺🫶🏻

overall it's a reallyyyy messy situation, one that you can only hope resolves with time :(

[lostintransist]

More on you hating getting frustrated with the guys when they care for you. Apologies for any spelling errors I'm on mobile and fighting a migraine.

Gender neutral reader.

Find Simon and John here.

Nikto: Every piece of him had tuned into caring for you. If you could catch him doing it you would ask him to stop. Okay maybe not stop but slow down. Nikto learned early into sharing space with you that you could wield a wooden spoon as well as any grandmother and weren't cowed by any of his hard stares.

The first time he tried to coax you from the kitchen so he could finish cooking for you hadn't gone well.

"Andre if you touch me one more time with the intention of moving me from my task I might stab you." You hadn't even turned from the counter where you chopped carrots.

He glared at you, arguing with the parts of him he didn't dare name. He worried that by naming them they would stay.

Toss her into bed and tie her there the snarling voice rippled across the internal atmosphere.

Nikto would never tie you down, he doubted he could when with consent. The remembrance of restraints brought gooseflesh to any of his body not cemented with scar tissue.

"Glaring at me won't change the fact I'm going to continue to care for myself and you."

How the hell did you always know?

Turning your head and seeing him you turn fully and lightly place your hands on his hips, one place he has agreed you can touch without permission. Your voice holds the lilt of a laugh that soothes him when you speak again.

"Your stares hold weight my love." Lifting one hand you hover over his cheek until he nods. Holding him as if he is a precious treasure you continue. "If I let you care for me like this how long until paranoid Nikto doesn't let me out the front door?"

Nikto opened his mouth to argue the point but the single lift of your brow stops him. You did have a point.

"Go back to making my life easier in ways that make me question what changed love and leave me to my cooking."

Nikto acquiesced to your ask, slightly annoyed that he had been found out. He dropped a kiss to your waiting lips before slipping from the kitchen.

Kyle: The drive home from the hardware store has a decidedly different feel than the drive there.

"What's on your mind Kyle?" You question as you crane your neck to ensure you were safe to pull out of the parking lot.

"I'm upset with you."

Always pragmatic your lover is. Your face screws up as you think over the past few days of his leave. No fights, good intimate times, and a general lull into happiness give you no clues as to why he is angry now.

"Care to share with the class?" You glance at him as you drive catching nothing more than his broody nose scrunch.

"Why did you let the employee help you but not me?"

That would never have crossed your mind as to a reason to be upset.

"Why did I let the person being paid to haul heavy things move the stones for me instead of my boyfriend who can't hurt himself while on leave?"

"Dammit that is not what I am saying and you know it," Kyle snaps at you.

Focused on driving as you are the only response you can give is the tightneing of your fingers on the steering wheel.

"Kyle I am going to ask you to stop yelling at me. I don't understand why you are upset and I don't like the volume you are choosing. We can discuss this or you can let it go." The calm tone you chose carries an undercurrent of your stress.

He takes three deep breaths as you merge onto the freeway. You wouldn't have a chance to look at him now. Good. Maybe this dicussion could end before you got home and everything would settle back into the normal joy of having him home.

"You fight me on who gets to pay for dinner," he lifts a finger in your peripherals.

Cutting in before he can continue you defend yourself, "I work hard and like splitting the bill or taking turns."

The flat stare of his eyes has you curling your shoulder into your neck to hide from his gaze.

"You don't like gifts except on your birthday and Christmas," he rushes ahead before you can interject again. "You never let me help around the house when I am home. Yes, except for the garbage because you hate the garbage. If I were to pay for a spa day for you I bet I would get yelled at for wasting my money."

"I wouldn't yell at you until after..." you mutter to yourself.

"The point is that you refuse to let me be apart of this relationship and I'm hurt by it. Why won't you let me love you? It makes me think you don't want me."

That statement shook you. It rattled out a deep thought from your brain, one that you and your therapist had been digging to find.

Tears sprang to your eyes as the realization rocked through you. If you let him in you worried that Kyle would leave. If you let him start to take care of you he would abandon you like everyone did. The instant you learned to lean he would disappear as if he had never been.

Blinking to stay focused on the road you took the next closest exit.

"I'm having a revelation, I can talk about this once I can pull over."

Kyle slides a hand onto your thigh, squeezing lightly as you tense your muscles under his touch. The first parking lot you found is where you parked and the sobbing overtook you. It took a long time for you to breathe past the tumult of emotions you had uncovered. He holds you as well as the car allows until you can sit up, back muscles pulling sharply. Damn getting old was hard on a body.

"I...uh...I realized my brain says I can't lean on you, or let you do anything for me because if you do then you will disappear like everyone else has on me."

Kyle looks shattered.

"Baby..."

You rush to reassure him.

"It's not you, and I know," you point to your forehead, "You wouldn't... that if you didn't come home it has nothing to do with me. But me, little me," you point to the lowest point on the back of your head "they don't know that yet. I will email my therapist when I get home and we will start working on it."

Gripping his hand in one of yours you pepper it with kisses.

"I'm so sorry I made you feel so bad. I want you. I want you so badly it aches to breathe sometimes. I need a bit of time to work on this, can you do me a favor?"

Kyle looks at you, tears rimming his eyes.

"Anything."

"Can you tell me when letting you do something for me would help you feel loved?" The sentence sounded weird but you needed to know he would tell you when you were getting to far into your own head about things.

Kissing the tip of your nose Kyle rested his forehead against yours.

"I would do everything for you if you would let me. But can we start here? Will you let me drive us home?" He whispers the words to you.

Your mind violently rejects the idea, some deep piece of you rebelling at the thought.

"Yeah. I think that can be a place we start."

A/N: Oooh I liked these ones! LMK if you would like to see any more of these.

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[bughusband]

I'm reading Exodus right now and a detail that i cannot get over is the fact that Optimus had to fight the major part of the war before he got the Matrix. Like, yeah, he got renamed alright, but his career path was straight up "some guy —> the goddamn prime", and while he got a new name during the council meeting, he literally stayed the same. fucking. guy

He had to make decisions for a whole planet without the Matrix, he ended someone's life for the first time without the Matrix, and while he had smart talented friends to help, he did this all right after being Some Guy his whole life. He didn't flinch or break down, knowing what war means and understanding that he's responsible for a whole planet's future. All that without the collective wisdom of the Primes or emotional block or whatever, while logically and technically still being Orion Pax.

In the end of the first season of TFP, he forgets all his time as Optimus Prime, but i never understood why did he forget the war he fought as a Prime, but without the Matrix too. It seemed like a logical mistake to me; he didn't remember the council meeting, or the war's beginning, it's unclear what was the last thing he remembers, but i started to imagine how different things would go if he correctly remembered everything right until the moment he got the Matrix. If he remembered the council meeting, their quarrel, the beginning of the war and major fights. He asks if he's worthy, he doesn't remember the whole goddamn war he carried on his shoulders without the Matrix.

The literal first thing he uses his new power and respect for is to stop the council from shooting Megatron, and when Megatron asks what he would do if he didn't ask his army to not shoot Optimus, he replies that he would rather die for his planet.

He may have been unsure of himself, he may have doubted that he can be a Prime, he may not have saw in himself what others did, he may have stayed in the Archive to do archivist work, but the council meeting speech shows us that he is truly full of emotion and fire for his planet and that he is ready to work towards peace.

He is fierceful and kind, strong and gentle, there's so much to him it's insane! I have a lot more moments that fascinate me, but I don't think they'll fit into this post.

He is fucking worthy. This guy is insanely mentally strong even without it, this is why Alpha Trion noticed him, this is why he was chosen. He was just a regular worker one moment, and then he got the whole Cybertron's weight a moment later, and he fucking carried it instead of dropping.

Orion Pax really should be respected.

[pilim]

cw: pregnant reader, fm!reader, anxious Remus, caring Remus, young Remus, fluff.

tw: —

summary: the reader is eight months pregnant and Remus is very worried about them. sometimes even neglecting sleep.

After the news of your pregnancy broke, Remus became more than protective. It was as if a multitude of worms of doubt were swarming under his skin, roughly and greedily eating away at his flesh.

Milk, nappies, cribs, first baby teeth, colic in the stomach, rashes, baby powders... and the possible risk of being infected with lycanthropy. This point unnerved Remus the most and he spent many hours in the library to find out whether this disease can be passed on by inheritance. You had to personally pull your husband out from under the mountains of scrolls so that he could finally straighten his hunched back and eat. Only thanks to your persuasion, a couple of books with several hundred pages each and encouragement from Sirius and James, Remus with difficulty but still managed to put his paranoia on his plan.

Nevertheless, he did not stop treating you as the most gentle creature in the world, especially before the full moon.

The darkness of the bedroom enveloped you like a warm cocoon. You quietly exhaled in your sleep, pulling the blanket tighter over yourself. Because of your rounded belly, sleeping anywhere other than on your back or side was simply impossible. Remus had not closed his eyes that night. He had been lying awake for about two hours. His body ached from fatigue, his leaden head drooped toward the feather pillow. Remus sighed hoarsely, his rough lips tenderly leaving a kiss on the crown of your head, cheek, shoulder. His hands, covered with a bandage, gently stroked your belly. The weight of the child inside you made Remus get goosebumps. The sweetness of anticipation when a small child should finally be born mixed with the fear of responsibility, leaving a bittersweet taste on his tongue. Remus squinted, burying his face in the neck of his beloved.  She smells of lavender, milk, and something else that Remus can’t quite place. Perhaps this is the specific smell of pregnancy. He ponders, then kisses the soft skin again, pressing it as close as possible, as if she could escape from him. Sleepiness falls on him like a soft lump, but Remus doesn’t allow himself to relax completely. He listens attentively to her every breath, to every contraction of her heart.

Slender fingers gently bury themselves in honey-colored hair. You turn your head towards your husband with difficulty, blinking sleepily. The shaky veil of sleep still fetters your mind, but nevertheless you smile tenderly.

- “Why aren’t you sleeping, Wolfie? Is something wrong?”

Remus shuddered, turning his head towards you. He gently cupped your cheeks in his hands, gently stroking them.

— “No, no, nothing. Everything is fine, sweetheart. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head, slightly raising yourself to be more comfortable.

— "No, you didn't wake me. Everything is fine."

You gently stroke Remus' head, kissing his rough cheek.

— "Why aren't you sleeping?"

Remus sighs heavily, pressing his forehead to yours. He feels a little ashamed of his anxiety, because he should be your support, your confidence. Even though Remus doesn't answer, you understand everything at first glance. Smiling softly, you put your hands on Remus's shoulders.

— "I know, Wolfie. You're worried again, aren't you? Come here."

Remus leans into the touch without thinking, softly moaning. Your hands always instill calm, a sense of security and trust in his heart. He wants to curl up, completely dissolve in her arms filled with warmth.

— "Sorry"

— "Nothing. Sleep, my silly Wolfie. You need strength"

Soft lips touch the place where, according to legend, a person's third eye is hidden. The wind outside the window sings a lullaby as two souls fall asleep.

ps: i don't really like the result, but let's accept it. sorry for any mistakes.