#he needs to manage his emotions and not take them out on me or i will not be able to trust him

[witchesverse]

someone loved me, someone fucking loved me.

pairing: rio vidal x reader

summary: you have lost the two most important people in your life: your wife and son. so, when death visits, you need to hurt her.

content: mentions of death, crying, magic fighting, punching in the face, angst without a happy ending, bleeding, heartbreak, mention of agatha harkness x reader.

You felt when she died. It was an uncomfortable, eerily feeling; you felt alone for the first time in centuries.

You ignored the feeling. You didn't want to believe she was dead. You couldn't believe she was dead. Agatha Harkness doesn't just die.

You felt her presence before you saw her. It was a gloomy, depressing feeling; you felt desperate for the first time in centuries.

"You can't ignore me, you know," She spoke softly.

You shuddered at the sound of her voice. You hadn't heard it since he died and never wanted to hear it again. Alas, you knew you would. That stupid promise Agatha made Rio promise meant you would.

"Go away, Rio."

Her hand brushed against your arm and you flinched, pulling away from her.

"How?"

The world seemed to pause at your question. The chirping from the birds and the rustling of the trees seemingly vanished.

Rio stuttered an incoherent sentence before taking in a deep breath. "It had to be one of them, okay?"

"What?"

"The kiss of death."

A blast of magic slammed into Rio's chest and sent her flying into the wall. Tears were glistering in your eyes as you stalked towards her, magic surrounding your fingers.

You couldn't kill Death, but you sure as hell could hurt her.

"I fucking hate you." Your voice broke with emotion as you screamed at her.

Another blast of magic hit Rio when she tried to stand, forcing her back to the ground.

"You are an evil, horrible monster and I wish I never met you." You snarled. "You have caused only pain and chaos for my family. You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me."

Rio didn't reply and that only angered you.

You lifted her body and threw her out a window. The glass smashed, piercing her skin. Her body landed in the field of flowers surrounding your house.

Rio was on her feet once you got to her. She was bleeding in multiple places and her own magic surrounded her fingers.

"You don't want to do this," Rio said. "You know who will win."

"I don't need to win." You summoned another ball of magic and aimed it at her, which she dodged.

Your magic wasn't enough to hurt her. You needed to feel her blood on your skin.

You tackled her to the ground and straddled her stomach. You landed a few punches to her face before she managed to grab your wrists and stop you.

"I didn't want it to be her."

You fought in her hold. "Bullshit."

"And I didn't want it to be Nicky, either."

"Don't." You felt your heart breaking into a million pieces at the sound of his name.

The day Death took Nicholas was one of the worst. You cried and begged for her to bring him back—for your boy to come back. Agatha didn't beg, but she cried. You remember holding her in your arms, promising that it would be okay whilst Death stood over you, watching the heartbreak that she caused to happen.

"I never wanted to hurt you." She whispered. "None of you. I wanted you both to be happy."

"I hate you."

Uncontrollable tears fell down your cheeks and you gasped for air in between sobs. Rio brushed away a few tears with her thumb, smiling sadly.

That action broke you.

You wrapped your arms around Rio's neck and buried your face in the crook. She slipped her hands under your shirt and rubbed comforting circles.

"I hate you so much."

Rio hummed. She knew you did.

"She promised me that she would come home. She said that nothing bad would happen to her, but you k-killed her."

Your voice broke again. You couldn't believe those words were leaving your mouth.

"I know, baby."

You cried until you couldn't cry any longer and she held you in her arms the entire time. She kissed your face every time you expressed your hatred for her and she let you make her body bleed with your fingernails and teeth.

She wasn't going to leave. Not this time. She promised that once Agatha died, she would stay with you until your end. Even if you fought her, screamed, and hurt her. She would never leave.

And no matter how big your hatred for her was, her love for you was always 10x bigger.

[miley1442111]

believe me- a.hotchner (18+)

summary: aaron is there for you during a particularly difficult case.

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!fem! reader

warnings: reader grew up in a cult, mention of hurting women, domestic violence, mental, physical, emotional abuse, children in dangerous situations, miscarriages, abortions, women being treated awfully, i hate this it scares me (i think that's it? PLEASE TELL ME IF I MISSED SOMETHING)

this is pretty dark so I will be saying it's 18+ only because of the content, please remember you manage what you consume, mdni.

not entirely proofread

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You sighed, walking into the bullpen. Another day. 

You sat down at your desk and started on your paperwork with as much enthusiasm as one would assume to be normal, but Aaron knew it wasn’t. He’d been watching you, they all had. The sunken eyes, dry skin, yawning at all hours of the day, refusing to stop working, refusing drinks or food, being ‘too busy’ to come for after work drinks. You had even stopped responding to his texts regarding Jack. You had always been the one on the team that Aaron was closest with, mostly because he was in love with you. Due to that, he also invited you over a lot to watch movies, bake, come to football games, etc with Jack. Jack adored you, probably more than he liked his own father (at least, that’s what Aaron thought). You hadn’t been texting or calling back. You two had gone on a few dates, at first he thought he had done something wrong, but then he watched you closer. It wasn’t him. 

Aaron stepped out of his office. “We have a new case, everyone meet in 5.”

You picked yourself up from your desk and followed him in, sitting in the chair furthest from him. 

“We have a new case, Dallas,” he announced. 4 images of women popped up on the screen, and you looked down, knowing exactly who and what they were. “4 women from the same family, killed in the same way, over one decade.” 

“Were they mother and children?” Spencer asked. 

“Yes,” you answered. “Their names are Delores, Tiffany, Riley, and Freya Howell and they all died via the head trauma they sustained in the ritual. The youngest was 17.” 

They all stared at you. You knew this was coming. You understood it.

“What ritual?” Aaron asked, looking straight at you. 

“The birthing,” you answered simply. 

“Why do you know about this?” Derek asked, just as dumbfounded as the rest of them.

You pointed at the screen. “That’s my mother, that’s my little sister, that’s my older sister, and that’s my cousin. There’s no point in getting us in. No matter what we find they claim religious freedom and hide. It’s a cult and it’s about killing women. I work with children to get them out.”

“So you know people in the cult right now?”

“I lived in that cult. I know every single person on that compound's entire medical, familial, and social history. Including the Supreme Leader. Trust me, they have all the fucking permits they could ever need. I’ve been working with another group to try and take them down, but it doesn’t work.”

“We have to try,” Aaron said, stoic as ever. 

“It doesn’t matter what you throw at them, legally they’re untouchable,” you sighed. “If we really want to help, then we need to work on getting the children out.”

“We need to make them illegal then,” Aaron said matter-of-factly, and you just sighed. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

On the plane, the team was wary of you, it was fine, you understood why. You had just told them that you grew up in the strange woman-killing cult you were now all going to investigate. 

“So what is ‘the ritual’?” Spencer asked. 

“When a woman is pregnant and they bring it to full-term, they are killed as their child enters the word. In the ‘teachings’ it is said to bring the child the strength of 2 people, and that they carry their mothers’ spirit. That’s why everyone’s middle name is their mothers’,” you explained. “See, it’s unusual for the women at the compound to bring children to full-term, at least, when I was there. And in the ‘teachings’, it was written that no women could get pregnant for years and years, but that one, the Supreme Leaders’ mother, could, and when he was in labour, he told her husband to bludgeon her. He did, and the Supreme Leader was born. They are trying desperately to have a new prophet. A new leader. So they began practising the ‘Ritual’ back when I was probably 12. Also, it’s difficult for women to get any kind of medical care in the compound, since they’ve rejected modern medicine, so it’s not uncommon for women to miscarry.”

“How old were you when you left?” Derek asked, the entire plane silent as you recounted your traumatic past. 

“18,” you explained. “I was one of the lucky ones. My mother was a teacher, before she joined the compound. She never wanted to join, it was always my dad’s idea. So she broke the rules. She taught us and another small group of children maths, English, history, and modern politics from any of the newspapers she could smuggle in. When we turned 18, they gave us a test. It was believed by the Supreme Leader that you were either born with the ability to write or not, and all of us in the group passed, so we were sent out to the world to recruit. We ran away. Found a place that they could never find us, cut all contact with each other, and moved on with our lives. I work with a few of them, trying to get children out, but for our own safety, we all act like we’ve never met before.”

“What happened to the others?”

“The ones who didn’t pass turned into husbands and wives, and then fathers. By the time I was 18 I was already married and on my second pregnancy,” you chuckled sadly. “He almost killed me when I said I was leaving to recruit. The men there, they’re taught to be violent. They’re taught to be animals. They’re taught to hurt women. My only saving grace was the ‘doc’. She was one of the eldest women in the compound. We all thought she was blind and half-dead. But she saved me. When I was about 2 months in, she picked me out of my bed and brought me to the edge of the compound walls. She asked me if I wanted the baby, I said no. She got rid of it. She made it look like a miscarriage.”

They were silent. 

“That’s what we’re up against. Years and years of sexual, physical, and mental abuse. A doctorate that no one believes but the men, and the men have all the power and strength. These women and children need help.”

“H-how many have you gotten out so far?” Penelope asked, tears in her eyes. 

“281,” you nodded. “And there’s still more.”

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

Aaron walked you up to your room in the hotel. It had been a long day. You had been on speed dial the entire time, explaining everything to the entire team as you worked with your team on making a plan to evacuate all of the women and children. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t been calling back, all of my weekends have kind of turned into… this,” you explained, looking down. “I do genuinely like you Aaron, but I’d understand if what you found out today is too much or-”

“It's not,” he assured you. “Thank you for your insight, and I’m sorry that you have it.”

You nodded, the motion bubbling up in your throat as you thought over the last 24 hours. “I hope we can help them,” you whispered. 

“We will,” he nodded, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close as you cried into his chest. Aaron vowed something to himself right then and there, he’d always be there for you, no matter what. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Aaron helped you inside, helped you change into your pyjamas, helped you get ready for bed, and tucked you in, all while whispering words of encouragement. As you lay in bed, utterly exhausted from the emotional toll of the day, you found yourself reaching for Aaron’s hand. 

“Please stay,” you begged, your voice soft and small. 

How could he ever refuse? 

“Of course,” he whispered. Without a moment's pause, the bed dipped beside you, and Aaron opened his arms to accommodate for you. You settled yourself into his arms and pressed a kiss to his clavicle. 

“Thank you for believing me.”

“I’ll always believe you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

criminal minds masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games :)

[l-in-the-light]

So the SBS for newest volume was revealed and...

SBS corner isn't considered spoilers for me, but if it is for you, please skip this post, duh!

I just wanted to point out I was part of the camp that said it was Kizaru since the beginning, so even though it's not stated black on white (it's white on black, actually), I still think this is as close to a confirmation as we will ever get, so let me brag for a second:

Feels good, haha.

Now down to the nitpicks, so *why* did I think it was Kizaru from the start? (well, I did suspect Caribou too, but it's later revealed he was with Augur and Devon instead).

At first it was just a fight, Luffy vs Kizaru. He calls it "playing around" and Luffy declares that the same "playing around" is Luffy's job. It's important to remember that, because I think Kizaru realized he could use that for his own purposes.

Just when Saturn arrives and soon after Luffy loses G5, Kizaru's attitude changes to "this is not good". This change in situation was something he didn't consider to be desirable, despite that it tipped the scales in favour of the Marines.

Then Kizaru takes his sweet time when he realizes Luffy finally has reached his limit. I'm not saying this fight didn't take a toll on Kizaru, he was panting before at the very least, but let's not forget that if he moved now he would have to finish Luffy off. Seems like his original plan was to push Luffy beyond his limit before any other players (like Saturn) arrive.

"Someone gimme food"

Kizaru realizes the situation is rapidly escalating now and in all the wrong ways. Strawhats and the present-on-scene Vegapunks are all immobilized, Luffy run out of energy, Sentomaru got captured, Saturn is holding Bonney and giving order for Marines to shoot at her. One second of hesitation is enough for Bonney to lose her life. And all Kizaru can do now is to be worried about his dear friends and witness them dying. Or perhaps... he could help tip the scales a bit again.

And in next moment Saturn realized someone gave Luffy food. No one saw Luffy move away, no one is near him either, Strawhats are still immobilized btw (including Sanji and Franky). This thing could have been done only by Caribou or Kizaru, but Kizaru would be faster and indeed impossible to spot if he moved with his speed of light.

And we can see Kizaru also moved, he's no longer lying down but sitting instead. He doesn't say anything, but he has the "..." thought bubble that looks very distressed (the tore-up border of the bubble is betraying Kizaru's emotions in this scene). Is he perhaps thinking something like "I hope no one will figure it out" or "I think no one should have noticed"? Would be pretty fitting.

Overall it was a good plan, but Luffy didn't restore his strength in time to help Bonney. It was actually Kuma's unexpected arrival that saved her (very touching moment).

And that's Kizaru's only reaction to Kuma's arrival. His body language shows relief, but his words kinda contradict that.

Only after Kuma punches Saturn, Sanji, Franky and Vegapunk are "released" from the immobility spell, which causes Sanji to immediately collapse to the ground, apparently. This is the definitive proof that they couldn't have been the ones who helped Luffy before.

Kizaru's back to "playing around", openly declaring he just wants to test Strawhats growth. Very interesting, considering the situation worsened for the Marines. By all means he should be quick and down to business instead of playing around. Seems he made his decision of how to manage the situation: again, by stalling for time and observing how it all proceeds, while just resorting to "playing around".

Here though he declares something contradictionary to his behaviour from mere moments ago. Perhaps beause he's speaking to Saturn. He emphasized the point that too many people are around and they need to be quick. But when you're quick you might have to prioritize impact over efficiency (which leaves openings for possible escape - Kizaru wouldn't be able to guarantee every target is actually eliminated).

Kizaru probably still was hoping to avoid this result, but once he realized he can't save Vegapunk no matter what, he decides it's better if he kills him himself. At least it will be quick with his powers, you know? The least he can do for his friend is to relieve him from his suffering, make sure his death is a bit more humanitarian than slowly bleeding out. Before Saturn actually stabbed Vegapunk, Kizaru was not ready to make this decision btw, always choosing to do something else (go after Strawhats, engage in the fight with Luffy, lying down beaten up).

This scene further proves my point. Kizaru assures them this is a mercy killing that won't hurt a bit. Because he believes the only alternative would be a very painful death instead. Thankfully him betting on Luffy was a good move, because it's Luffy who stops him here. So it officially looks like Kizaru did everything he could to kill Kuma and Bonney, but the enemy stopped him, so the end result can't be blamed on Kizaru. He's doing that dance between stalling the fight and avoiding the worst case scenario for most of Egghead's arc.

"I'm in a real pickle now". Yes, he is indeed. Sanji is cute btw for offering him an easy way out, lol. Kizaru will still have to write that apology letter to Akainu anyway.

And finally Luffy sent him flying far, far away, and this time Kizaru doesn't even try to get up anymore. That's it for him. He had to kill Vegapunk with his own hands and I think he didn't expect how big of a toll it will take on him. Luffy in a way provided him another easy way out of the situation, because if Kizaru just stays here and hopes for the Strawhats to take Bonney to safety, then at least he would have saved her.

So this is what I believe Kizaru was trying to do all this time. Avoid killing Vegapunk somehow (though he knew there was a really slim chance for that, but a man can still hope, right?) and at the very least make sure Bonney won't die on Egghead. Kizaru indeed has a heart, but he also has to make sure not to lose face and he can't really disobey or ditch his responsibilities as a Marine Admiral. But he definitely wasn't lying when he said he was forced to kill his best friend, and he truly wished he wouldn't have to do that.

That being said, I wonder what's his plan from this point onward. Some people suggested he might retire after this, but I think somehow that would erase the whole point of his struggle here, it would make it lose it's meaning. But he definitely showed us a little bit of his rebellious side. Though we need to remember, he ended up being just a circumenstencial ally to Strawhats, at least at this point in time.

What's the moral of this story? NEVER TRUST A "..." THOUGHT BUBBLE. It hides secrets, every. single. time. If Oda delibaretely hides character's thoughts from us, but emphasizes it by using "..." thought bubble, then ask questions, dig deeper, there's something to discover there. Also I don't mean speech bubbles, just thought bubbles. This has been a thing in many other mangas, it's not just a One Piece visual storytelling gimmick. For example, Death Note used that device in exactly same way, pfff.

[frumfrumfroo]

I mean, I’m still glad it was flat out stated that Ben fell in love with Rey because there were people still insisting he only wanted her power or that there was never anything romantic between them, but I get what you’re saying. We have more evidence, I think, of his feelings for her than of her feelings for him. I think it would change things up a bit to have actual concrete canon evidence of those feelings being mutual.

Sure, of course people are happy to hear it. I don't think it's new information at all, and it's honestly weird to me that some people act like it is, but it's nice to actually get recognition of your canon pairing after all the bullshit we've been through. It's the rock bottom bare minimum, but DLF hasn't been clearing that bar for a long time, so it feels like a win.

I think it's 100% clear that Rey, the actual character, loves Ben and desperately wants to be with him, but Rey the actual character was taken out back and shot so DLF could have their SWCU brand avatar. I don't hold tros against the Rey of the first two films or her potential, just like I don't allow tros to ruin Luke and Leia for me. I'm not taking that shit on board because it was a bunch of incoherent nonsense which fundamentally destroyed the entire narrative and thematic heart of SW.

We don't have a declaration from Rey, but she showed us where her heart was by leaping into the lion's den with zero back up or exit strategy. She threw her life down at Ben's feet knowing that her life represented one of the last hopes for the galaxy. She believed in him that strongly. She wanted him that badly.

And, you know, despite the absolute shit show of tros, the actors managed to deliver us a perfect moment based solely on the emotional continuity from TLJ without any scripted dialogue to fuck it up. Her face when she wakes up in his arms. Her kiss. He is the home she's yearned for all her life.

If people can't understand that means she loves him, that's a them problem.

And yeah, it would be great if DLF would acknowledge this incredibly obvious and well-established fact of the ST in words, it'd be nice to have more ammunition because at this point we've earned being petty, but I don't think it would change anything. They literally kissed on the mouth for longer than any other couple in all of SW and antis were blind suddenly, they couldn't see. We get 'kiss of gratitude' and 'but isn't that incest tho' ludicrous copes to this day.

No amount of validation from DLF is going to move the needle for the entrenched doofus brigade in this fandom. Ep IX was the crucial moment which would have vindicated the story and brought the audience together (not that it would ever have won over some people, but you know) and they whiffed that. Even in the shitty, nonsensical execution of tros, we saw the microcosm of what the ST's RotJ would have done. So many people finally 'got' Ben just from two minutes without dialogue, imagine if the movie had been coherent and had had the ending the narrative needed and promised.

But yeah, anyway. I expect nothing from DLF and I don't think anything they could do will ever make much difference now. The canon is already broken and can't be fixed without just redoing ep IX, which would never happen. The audience and the GFFA are both fractured beyond repair.

[aniesvision]

𝟐𝟓- 𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕?

𐂂 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚏! 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜 𝚡 𝚐𝚏! 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉/𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚, 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓, 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓!𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔, 𝒑𝒆𝒕 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 (𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍, 𝒎𝒂), 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒑𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒂, 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆 𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒏𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒚, 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒋𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒔𝒖𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒃☠︎︎𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒎 (𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒊 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆...), 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒊𝒂 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒂, 𝒊𝒅𝒌 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆

𝚊/𝚗: 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 🎃 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆, 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚 ☕︎

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒚𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 ☠︎︎ 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚

-Chris? I'm home. -I pass through the front door, locking it behind me.

He didn't answer, so I thought he might be playing or just using headphones. I set the bag full of candies and sweets that I bought for Halloween on the counter and decided to go downstairs to see my boyfriend, missing his touch.

Tonight is Halloween night, and it's normal for kids to walk down the street, knocking on each door, to ask for treats. I wanted to give the kids candy, so I went to the supermarket to buy some.

I was in the middle of the stairs when Chris's door opened and he showed up, carrying someone's body. My eyes widen and I accidentally drop my phone that I was holding in one hand, his face red with all the effort.

-Don't just stay there, help me. -He says, like it wasn't a big deal.

I look between him and the body, not recognizing the pale face. He continued to drag it to the garage, ignoring my presence completely. I thought about calling someone, especially the police, but I was too confused about the scenario to do something other than just stare at the wall in shock for a few more seconds.

-Babe? I need your help here. -He yells from the garage, taking me out of my trance.

My legs were shaking, but I managed to go to the garage and see the body lying dead on the floor in front of him. He looked at me, his hands on his hips as he caught his breath.

-Can you help me put it in the freezer? -He asks, still with no emotions that someone should normally feel in this situation.

-Who the fuck is that, Chris? -I ask, taking a few steps closer. -Did you kill them? What is going on?

He rolls his eyes, but smirks at me, pulling me closer by the waist and hugging me like there wasn't a dead body in the garage.

-Don't worry about it. Just help me out, okay? -He presses a light kiss on my cheek.

I decided not to ask any more questions and just do what he was asking me to, leaving all my thoughts for later. We put the body in the freezer, my eyes scanning the female face and trying to take in information on what she was wearing, it could be helpful later.

Chris closes the freezer door, pulling me by the hand to his room. It was a mess, like a tornado passed by.

-Chris, what happened? -I ask, again, my voice still shaky but softer.

I've been with him for so long that I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, independent of the situation I caught him in.

He starts to organize the room, throwing some pieces of glass in a plastic bag.

-Like I said, you don't have to worry about it, babe.

His voice was so calm, but there was a knowing feeling in there, he wasn't just saying it with that sociopath or psychopath tone, which made me wonder if it was an accident and he didn't want to put me in any trouble.

I'm a photographer, but my thing is to take photos of crime scenes. Usually it's not so bad, but lately I've been working with a team on specific places, according to the information we have the killings are the work of a possible serial killer.

I think one of the reasons why I wasn't as scared as I should be is because of my job. I've seen too many things, and dead bodies are one of them.

I lean against the wall, taking a deep breath and watching as my boyfriend cleans his room, probably getting rid of so much evidence.

I was battling a war inside my head, should I try to get to the bottom of it and turn him in? Should I help him and pretend nothing happened because I love him and he's my boyfriend? It's a rational x emotional situation and it shows me just how much our feelings can get through our choices.

I make my way to the bathroom, clean my hands and look at myself in the mirror, noticing how my eyeliner and mascara made a trail down my cheeks. I didn't even realize I cried.

-You okay, beautiful? -Chris asks, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes meeting mine through the reflection.

-Did you kill her? -My voice barely comes out, the water still running.

He smiles, taking a few steps closer and hugging me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder and taking a deep breath, inhaling my scent.

-I'm sorry, ma, can't tell you.

His lips leave kisses on my skin, but he quickly pulls away and starts the shower. I sighed, knowing there was not much I could do, I didn't want him mad or angry and the best thing I could do right now was wait.

It should have been easy for me to get the phone and make a simple call that could solve everything, but it didn't feel like an option, it didn't feel right to do the right thing. Not when it's someone you love doing wrong things, it's never easy in this situation.

He ignores me completely and undresses to take his shower. The way he was so unaffected by it all only made my mind think of more questions. Was I so blind that I never noticed the signs? Is he that good at hiding his feelings or he just doesn't feel anything about that girl and her death? Does he even have feelings or is he just pretending all of it?

I get out of the bathroom and look around his room. He didn't try to stop me, didn't say anything, he wasn't worried. Does he trust me that much or he doesn't care if I snitch on him?

The room looked decent now that he cleaned most of the things. No more glass on the floor, no more messy sheets, no more pillows on top of the desk, and the chair was up again, even though it seemed broken now.

I'm not a detective, and I don't know much about solving crime scenes, I'm just a photographer, but some things are the same in every one of them.

Some details tell us hidden stories, and although Chris usually has a messy room, it looks just like the places I go to. There was a fight, she tried to fight for her life, but there was no blood, and her body didn't seem to have any injuries, so did he kill her or did she die for any other reason and it happened to be here?

But if there was a girl here that I didn't know, does it mean he was cheating?

-You look so pretty when you're concentrated like that.

I jump, taken by surprise, turning around to see Chris only wearing a towel around his waist. His hair was wet and he had the same smile he always gave me when he looked at me. He chuckles at my reaction, passing through me and changing into comfortable clothes.

-What are you thinking about? -He asks, like he didn't know what I could possibly be thinking of.

-You need to give me something, anything. -I ask.

He tilts his head to the side, giving me a knowing look and wrapping his arms around my waist.

-You'll find out. -He murmurs, kissing the top of my head.

-Why was she here? -I whisper, closing my eyes when I feel his touch.

He makes it seem so easy, my body unconsciously leaning onto his, wanting more of the familiar yet now so unfamiliar touch. It's automatic, I couldn't exactly process that my boyfriend killed someone so fast, it takes time and time is in his favor right now.

Our eyes met again and it's like he knew exactly what I was thinking. His hands cupped my cheeks, his eyes narrowing slightly at me and his smirk growing again on his lips, it was the same reaction I had any time I talked about another girl.

-It's not what you're thinking, I wasn't cheating on you, and would never do that.

He squeezes my cheeks, pressing his lips against mine.

-But, Chris, she was... -I try to speak, but he kisses me again.

-Don't worry about it, trust me on this, okay?

How could I trust him? How can I trust someone I just saw carrying a body? How can I just let it go?

-Okay. -I whisper.

How can I not? He's still acting the same, and still shows his feelings. Maybe it was an accident, maybe he didn't mean to, maybe he was as scared as I was when I saw it, maybe he was protecting me by not telling me what happened. He's still Chris, right?

He takes me upstairs and I take the opportunity to grab my phone that fell from my hand minutes ago, the screen broke but it was working.

-I'll make us dinner, alright? I don't want you to feel bad. -He says, running his hand through my hair. -I love you, so much. -He pulls me into another kiss.

He starts to cook and I just watch him, unable to say anything. I was just thinking about what happened, wondering what he was hiding, why he seemed so normal after such a thing, and why I couldn't do something about it.

That's when the doorbell rings.

Fuck, the kids, it's halloween.

I look at Chris and all he does is hand me one of the bags on top of the counter, not minding at all. I quietly open the bag with a scissor, open the door, and look at all the little kids in different costumes.

I do my best to smile at them, making conversation not to seem weird, and hand them a few candies each.

Maybe it was just a halloween prank and he's extending it?

-Heyy, I love your costume! You look so good!

-Trick or treats?

-Are you guys having a good time?

Why did he ask for help? And why the freezer? What is he going to do with it? Maybe I should go back and take a look? What if there were more bodies in there?

-Such a good costume idea! I love the pirate look!

He's so calm, so unbothered. He's even making dinner, and it smells good, just like the first time he cooked for us, the same meat.

-A vampire, uh, take one more candy, but don't tell anyone. I really like vampires.

He likes meat so much that he got the freezer as a gift. We used it a lot, but then just stopped, and now... there's a body in there. He can't possibly be... using them right? Not like this, he's not...

-You're so lucky! These are the last candies, happy Halloween!

I close the door, my heart beating fast as I look at Chris again. He looked the same, stirring the pan, not a worry in the world.

-All done. -He says, turning off the stove.

I just sit in silence, watching as he serves me and organizes the kitchen before leaning towards the counter, and looking at me.

-Eat it, I made it specially for you.

I looked at the food, but I couldn't stop thinking. Maybe I'm paranoid. If I didn't eat, what would happen?

He keeps staring at me, so I feel pressured to take a bite. It tasted the same as the first time he cooked for us, so I relaxed a bit. He smiles, eating with me in silence.

He tried talking after that, but I was in shock with my own thoughts so he left me alone and we went to sleep.

I couldn't exactly sleep, but at some point I took a nap, too tired to stay up. I take a shower and get ready for work, getting out of the room before he notices.

-Good, you're here, we have another one. -One of my coworkers says, guiding me to a car.

-Another one? -I ask, my mind slow.

-The serial killer left another body next to the river.

I sigh, nodding and getting my things ready for when the car stops. We walked through the woods and finally got to the place, a lot of people there trying to understand the scene. My coworker takes the lead and we get our cameras ready.

My heart stops when I see the body. The whole world stops. How is it even possible? I was there the whole time. How did this happen?

It's the same body. It's her.

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 ✍︎

➪ @riowritesitall @mattsfavbigtitties @sturniolosarethebest @hyacinthst @deers4luv @sturncakez @watercolorskyy @delooshunalhoe @sarosfilms @blahbel668 @sturniyolo69 @sturniolosl0t @colbsposts00 @fallingforfalll2 @stvrnmc @faithlia @katie-tibo @sturnioloblues @monroesturnns @mattnchrisworld @shaquilles-0atmeal @fratbrochrisgf @dayzeandhaze @sharkcat1928 @phimstarz @h3arts4harry @s1ut4chris @star-yawnznn @asherrisrandom @pip4444chris @jupiter1700 @sturniolo-fann @beansprout713 @conspiracy-ash @sophsturns @sturnsxbitvh @ivysturnss @mattsbitchh

[thefirstlioveyou]

How Smalltown Boy Connects with Mike's Relationship with his Parents

I can't get over how they chose Smalltown Boy for the FIRST track on Mike's playlist. I just can't. That's the gayest thing ever. Gayer than his staring I fear. The lyrics perfectly fit him, but not only because he's a closeted homosexual. It's also highlighting his dynamic with his family.

Of course, if we are getting into specifics, Smalltown Boy is a song about a young gay man running away from his homophobic home and town to live in the city to somewhere he can be himself. But generally, it's a song about not belonging and not feeling understood within a place, and the crippling loneliness that comes with it. So you seek a place where you can feel accepted and heard.

Struggling to figure out your place in the world, struggling with your sexuality and relationships, facing severe bullying, wanting to be understood and seen by your family for who you actually are while still struggling to accept who you are to begin with, desiring the escape from the place that brings you all those unmanageable problems -- That's Mike Wheeler.

"Mother will never understand why you had to leave, but the answers you seek will never be found at home. The love that you need will never be found at home"

Obviously, the actual plot of the music video features homophobic parents. I don't believe Karen is, and I see Ted as more brainwashed yet careless. But "the love that you need will never be found at home" reminds me of the Wheeler family's emotional distance and lack of actual attention, and how it's damaging Mike especially. Nancy's already seen right through the bullshit. Mike hasn't.

I don't see them as the worst parents on the planet, but they're haven't been great. They have questionable parenting choices and the show wants us to pick up on that. If you haven't yet asked yourself "where the hell are his parents?" at least ONCE while watching ST, then idk lmao.

Come on. Not knowing your son has been hiding a whole child in your basement for a week?

Never talking to your son about his best friend's death and instead letting him take the responsibility to go to you first?

Not taking concern as to why your son is suddenly misbehaving at school? And instead, you force your child to get rid of 2 boxes worth of toys that hold emotional value to him (while mocking him for having said emotional connection)?

Not even being aware that your child is constantly bullied physically and verbally, and not even questioning visible marks that could indicate that sort of abuse?

Although it's unintentional and we see Karen aware that it's wrong, you're still essentially teaching your child that 1) their feelings or voice do not matter 2) they cannot trust or rely on you 3) their 'childish' interests that make them who they are do not matter and are something they need move on from because they "have to."

And we see this play out.

If his parents can't even accept his innocent interests or show more consideration for them, if it just makes him a future high school dropout or a failure, what makes Mike believe they'd ever accept he's Gay?

Mike NEEDS a support system. He NEEDS parents who care MORE instead of waiting until government is at their doorstep. That type of love has not been consistent whatsoever at the Wheelers. To Mike, that kind of love cannot be found in his home. The answers to his problems cannot be found in his home. In fact, his upbringing is a big reason why he's in this complicated relationship with El to begin with. and he's accepted all that to be fine, despite us seeing how it's turning him into someone unable to manage their emotions who struggles with their relationships communication-wise.

"And as hard as they would try they'd hurt to make you cry. But you never cried to them, just to your soul. No, you never cried to them, just to your soul"

This refers to the severe bullying he faces that Mike confirms he's put up with all his life (just for it to be shut down immediately). His parents aren't aware. If Karen, his own mother, doesn't question a giant scab on his chin but some girl who is barely learning what friends are does, don't you think that says something?

"I'm here for you" doesn't mean anything if you aren't actively trying to actually be there. you have to look harder. look at what's right in front of you.

Sure, his mom hugs him! But I really hope we can all agree physical affection isn't the only thing that a child needs to trust. There is reason behind why we've never actually seen them talk about anything that's actually bothering him. Mike is not yet convinced he can go to his parents about the things we know he's facing, and the things that are implied that he's facing. Instead he handles it alone as a result of just "letting him come when he's ready."

The only adult who wasn't afraid to actually talk to him and not let his emotions bottle up was...

"Pushed around and kicked around, always a lonely boy. You were the one that they'd talk about around town as they put you down."

Part of this could be about his bullying experience in general, but I also believe this was foreshadowing for events in S5. Mike and the rest of hellfire are now targets and deemed part of a satanic cult. The whole town are against them and want them gone. Going from to feeling insecure for your 'childish' interests because of your parents, to becoming accepting of that part again, to now wanting to be killed for it by your town. Ain't that nice? Won't that gonna do wonders for this boy? :)

I actually predict they will take some inspiration next season from the hate crime scene in the music video. Perhaps The Hellfire Club/The Core Four/Mike will be attacked and Mike will be brought home/come home beaten.

In the actual music video, the boy's parents find out he's gay from that and they do not accept it.

However, in the show, I think it'll be focused on him being in Hellfire (since DND is a metaphor for gay love between Mike and Will). I imagine it'll be like, "Michael, why are you still associating with them? You know what would happen!" They'd get mad at him for essentially "walking right into it himself." This sets off conflict in the Wheeler Family this season. Mike finally snaps at them, telling them it was bound to happen anyway. He mentions the bullying he's already delt with his whole life. He sees his parents' sudden care in his life as BS and how it had to take the entire town to hate him for them to finally see him.

Another scene they could parallel within this one scene (or in another) could be Jack McPhee's coming out scene from Dawson's Creek, a show the Duffers loved growing up. We often see parallels to that show when it comes to the show's drama, primarily with the El-Mike-Will Love triangle to the Joey-Dawson-Jen Triangle. Mike is also heavily paralleled to Jack McPhee.

In the coming out scene, Jack tells his emotionally neglectful father (who is definitely worse than Ted) - "I was different. And as hard as you've tried to stamp it out and ignore it, I have tried harder than you to be quiet and to forget it and to not bother my family with my problem."

If this doesn't sum up what's going on then idk what does.

It's not that his parents hate him for what they know about him, but they also aren't supportive either. They ignore him. They ignore everything outside of their own little bubble. They close themselves from the truth of what's going on in the town. They close themselves from their kids. They push them to hide and stay quiet, but that's just not who Mike and Nancy are.

We also know we're into some Wheeler drama this season considering all the leaks with Karen/Holly(?)/Henry and the interview with Joe Chrest (Ted's Actor). So scenes like this aren't far off the table.

Mike is a character that is struggling overall with his place in the world and identity. He is struggling with his self worth, his sexual orientation, his relationships, accepting the interests that make him who he is. He is conforming to societal pressures (much similar to his parents) because he doesn't know where else to go. He is confused. He struggles with self-worth and severe insecurity. He does not feel needed unless he is actively doing someone of service to the point of sacrificing his life, much like a superhero, hence his fixation of them. Superheroes are people who are wanted, who are heard and seen - Something Mike feels he isn't.

He's growing up in a small and conservative town, internalizing the homophobia he witnesses, internalizing what he HAS to be and has to feel - He has to want girls (and yeah, believe it or not, homophobia still impacts queer people regardless who it's directed to. there's reason why we see mike's reaction over anyone else's). But he just can't, yet he still tries because otherwise that'd be falling off a "normal path." He has to get rid of his toys and grow up to keep on a "normal path." He has to conform because he fears what would happen if you don't. That's something he's unfamiliar with.

Mike needs to be finally seen by his family. His overall major struggle with conformity stems from there. It's what he needs emotionally, but it also makes sense narratively. It has to be from them. His whole arc along with them is to break free from their conformity, and it starts with the facing their truths as a family.

Mike won't end up making the choice the boy has to in the music video. In the end, he will have his family's support and acceptance. He will be able to be true to who he is. He will accept himself. He won't need to runway in fear. I do still believe he will leave Hawkins (with Will). It just won't be on a bad note!!

[themareverine]

BED OF BONES

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

synopsis: When he promised her something different, she didn't think it would be this. Alaskan stars, scraping to survive, trying to feel. Anonymous faces in a forgotten frontier. It isn't much, it's barely living—but really all she needs to live is him.

warnings: comic adaptation, pre-established relationship from my Mare & the Wolverine series, angst, survival aesthetics, mentions of hunting, dead carcasses, extreme minimalism, blood, mentions of Logan's time at Weapon X, implied sexual content.

a/n: after listening to the podcast drama Wolverine: The Long Night and its sequel, Wolverine: The Lost Trail, i'm kinda obsessed with Richard Armitage's take on Logan. tortured, angsty, deeply raw and emotional—sign me right up for that. there's a scene that describes Logan's living conditions when he makes his home in nowhere Alaska, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Conditions beyond the four walls of the high-woods cabin would be not far removed from that of frozen hell, if laid out parallel to the everyday eye. Void of sunlight at dinner hours. Harsh wind howls, clawing the boards of the condemning thing so bravely titled architecture—even at this altitude, as the crow flies from the water.

Mountain landscape is wild, unforgiving—snow manages to hurricane in sideways, somehow, snaking between trees and low brush, rock. Drives a hard blanket of heavy wet to the once-lush forest floor. Thick trees Goliath tall in an unmovable, chaotic troop. Lowlight, and you would never see the slatwood slapped together with tar and faith—evergreen fronds sentinel away the world, strong walls taunting the world beyond the reach of woods. 

When the sun breaks the horizon over the water, the world will be still. Canvas of untouched snow, pure like a virgin, will breathe life into the forest again. Creatures will cull from their caves and beds, will roam freely the fresh from God—breathe air normally unthinkable to mortals. Mountain stone, miles away in the untouched Yukon, will reach jagged fingers to heaven, as if they themselves in their might will rip God from heaven. Kissed with snow even at a distance, they impose harsh laws of the wilderness—survive or die. Life, or death. 

There are no lines to walk in Alaska when it comes to the games of living and dying. They are the masters, humanity but an unwise player at the table of chance. Fools before the slaughter. Life, here, is fickle—left up to the false gods of chance and fate. Day and night. Sun and moon, life falls on the blade of time. 

Time, and most often attributed by headlines and big-city newscasters, luck—either kind. Four-leaf, or devil-may-cry. The fortunate see the colors of sunrise, breathtaking and pure, over crystalline waters whitecapped with rage and promise. The not-so, well—

—they become quickly acquainted with that throne the mountains try to steal from God. 

For those who try to die and don’t—for them—it’s another thing altogether. An Eden, the holy-of-holies away from the battle of living, the war of the being seen. Paradise lost to the knowing. A forgotten frontier, cursed and barren in the hands of men ill understood of the way the wolf walks, the hunger of prey scratching at ice in spring. Fruitless and forbidden, existing on maps as No Man’s Lands and undesired terrains— spinning in the hearts of those who cry someday and never again. 

A simple life with little reward beyond morning, Alaskan wilderness reeks of chore and survival. Mundane and petulant. Concepts now lost in the age of machines, swipe right, thumb left; technology’s far-reaching lust of instantaneous gratification. Such things scream louder than the cry of fresh air and escapism, of ample and simple. 

Man is blind to the fruit of the earth, lost to concrete. And concrete always wins—the machines. They always win. 

“Where are you, Logan?” 

Pacing the threadbare boards of the cabin—minding the one every fifth step, it wobbles with the threat of breaking—has yielded no different answer to the question Mare Howlett has asked four other times, checking the sky outside as if the night will change as the hours do. Fire snaps from the hearth on the west wall, blasting heat throughout the small, single-room space like an oven. Sweat has started accumulating between her shoulders, the river of her spine. 

It’s after one. In the morning, at least. It’s hard to judge the night by the black veil of the sky, but, she’s learned over the years. Watching the moon, forces of habit—the amount of hours spent not sleeping in the darkest midnight would make God laugh. It had become life, just another part of heartbeats and pulses, blood and living—sleep was, most of the time, a luxury. Expensive, if you knew it. Dangerous. 

Palms slick with worked-up perspiration, two more paces has her in a staring contest with the door. Her eyes flick to the slide-board lock—-it’s knocked back, any wind could force it open. And that makes the corner of her mouth lift with amusement, the thought of the wind—he would be furious. 

Time and countless time again in the six months they’d been squatting here on Alaskan rock he’d checked this very lock. Like it was his religion, and in a way, it is. Staying alive is a form of religion to those not guaranteed daylight again, Logan had always told her that. Full time job stayin’ this side of the dirt, honey—just to see the next sunrise. I’ll get you to the morning, sweetheart, don’t you worry.

If staying alive was religion, they wrote books. 

Logan may as well be a priest. 

Back teeth gnaw at the mesh of her cheek, canines pinching the chap of her bottom lip nearly to the point of blood—any second she expected the sting of copper on her tongue. Rocking forward on her toes only to fall back to her heels, her arms cross at her chest, leathers of her jacket groaning with the effort. Eyeballing the door may as well be willing it to vomit what she knows it doesn’t have, so she turns on the ball of her foot—thick wool from her sock catches on the callous of her heel. Doesn’t care, hasn’t ever cared. These were the same pair of socks she’d been wearing since Christmas—last year. 

Low hunger gnaws at her guts like a wolf biting at the marrow of bones, sucking every last drop only to burn again tomorrow. It’s only been a four hours since he’d taken north, but it may as well be eternity—even God had created oceans in less time, had knit man together out of dust. Perfect, savory meat boils in delicious broth in the thick pot at the hearth, simmering like it has for hours even before the sun had fallen. Bread, laborious bread warms on another of the hearth’s rocks, golden. Glistening. Practically the food of gods. 

And butter—she hadn’t had butter in weeks. It taunts her from its little throne, a pewter dish sat not a stone’s throw from that very hearth, far away to keep soft but not destroy. Logan had surprised her with convenience groceries two weeks ago, coming up the mountain from the water—even the growl of the truck had felt heavier. She’d heard the thunk of something in the bed as he’d pulled up to the door, heightened senses triggered by the crunch of snow, the little squeak of extra weight on the shocks. 

“Figured some food we didn’t have’ta kill would make your day,” not that fresh game had been an issue—Logan was an excellent hunter. It came with the territory—with the Wolverine. Venison, rabbit, goose—they hadn’t starved, by any stretch of imagination. Field dressing just didn’t top her list of favorite activities, even as a wife. 

He’d almost smiled when she’d popped up from her place before the fire, dropping the rucksack off his shoulder to his feet. Presenting it as if it would cleanse him of sin, “Would you believe they had butter. And honey,” her smile couldn’t have been any brighter, giggling like a child at the feet of Christmas as she’d curled her arms around his thick neck, chilled with the bite of night and dusted with snow and cigar smoke. His nose had brushed into her hair, hand at the back of her neck as he’d pulled her close. “‘Sweet’n you up a little, hm?” She hadn’t expected him to have the jar on his person, but he’d plucked it from his pocket with gusto, like a proud child. 

“Excuse me?” her nose had crinkled, shoving his hand down in favor of running her nails along the line of his jaw, through his beard. Mutton chops. Features that belonged to her. “You saying I ain’t sweet?”

How he’d laughed—“Darlin’. If you were any sweeter, my teeth would rot outta my head.”

Nevermind such a thing being the opposite of possible—-they’d found creative ways to use the precious commodities of honey and sugar. She’d never seen him be so greedy. Quick work fo the goodies aside, the rest of the haul she’d squirreled away in the corner, among their provisions—provisions not so playworthy. Due for water, which is what had sent Logan north, away from her. Two kliks to the stream, the hunting grounds. He’d check her traps and trails—pastimes for him, duties for her when he was away earning greenbacks on the water. 

Even here in the woods, away from the living, money was a god. 

It never took him this long—an hour, maybe. Logan was nothing if efficient, especially on nights like tonight when the weather challenged even the unkillable. Not that he actively worried, being unkillable, but for her sake he made tracks and kept them quickly. He was on the water so often, every second he was here she kept him here—memories of simpler days chiseled her into a desperate little thing. Reduced to the ashes of wanting him close, of fighting to keep his body. How had she ever not wanted him around, survived distance? Opposite schedules? Grueling nine-to-fives, endless missions that always seemed over before they began. 

Cursing memories hadn’t ever been something she’d imagined herself doing, but, she did. Multiple times an hour. If being mutant—if being unkillable—meant holding onto every memory, in vivid and living color, God must’ve really stretched His hand the day He had given Logan breath. Some days never seemed to end, trapped in this prison of  cabin in the hell of the woods, alone with her own thoughts. Memories of the living, of the dead. They cut deep like adamantium, unforgiving thieves.

A bed of bones, the place of nightmares coming to life like Lazarus from the grave. 

Walking on the tips of her toes, hands fiddling with the buttons of her flannel, the snap of the fire almost oversings the unmistakable crunch of snow beyond the walls. Heart kicking heavy behind her ribs, pain flares in her chest—and for a moment, she thinks maybe it has touched bone, but quickly disregards it when blood hurricanes through her skull. Pupils blown wide with thrill, heat floodgates down her spine, sending lightning energy through every nerve in her body—-she all but leaps like a cat. 

Flesh between her knuckles split, mutation coming full force without even thought. Habit, like breathing—-takes little thought. Hardly removed from sucking air into her lungs, it’s muscle memory. A slight trigger of muscle, a flick of the wrist—she’d gutted men with less effort. And it doesn’t even take suspicion, being afraid, not like before. Once, maybe—but now it’s daily motion. The nine-to-five. 

The little thrill of clotting blood has her glancing at her weapons, her bones. It marveled her still, how beautiful and precise they were. How, somehow, they looked like her—how bones could look as if they belonged somewhere. Considering them for all of a few second has the porch step moaning like a lover, creaking in the way it had since they’d paid the deposit. Floorboards vibrate with weight, tremble with the weight of presence, and before she can even think to maybe, by chance, consider it isn’t Logan—-it kicks open, bounces on the hinge as it hits the wall, light from the fire bleeding out into the open maw of midnight beyond their haven. 

Fractions of seconds and he’s still lingering in shadows, Logan stepping through the front door. Thick snow clings to his boots like a bad habit, which he knocks off on the frame. Cheeks blazed with color, if he were anyone but the Wolverine he’d surely be aching with dangerous cold, but, he isn’t—barely kissed by the weather. Merely flirting with the idea of conditions. Facial hair frosted and eyelashes blinking away remnants of snow, he looks more Hallmark than he does Survivor—Logan has always thrived, though. Any celebrity pales in comparison, even in the blood and guts of survival. 

He doesn’t miss the weapons drawn at either of her sides, elephants in rooms of their own power. Brow triggered up in surprise, his eyes flick up to hers. Not upset, but the cant of his head suggests amusement. 

“Jumpin’ at shadows, pretty?” 

Tension that’s been hanging like a lead ball in the center of her breastbone releases, and like barbed wire it releases down her spine, cutting away stress hormones and adrenaline. Loosens the knot between her shoulder blades that kicks like a mule. Snikt. And as soon as the claws come, they leave. 

“Shadows are better company than suspicion.” Disregarding his jibe that teases the edges of her resolve, she approaches, holding open the door with a foot. He finishes knocking off his boots at the door, “It’s been hours, Logan. I was beginning to worry.” 

He chuckles, and it’s like honey whiskey—low and warm, setting her blood on fire like it’s gasoline. “Always worryin’,” his lips press into a thin line, “when you stop, hell’ll be as frozen as my ass.” It’s untruthful, but, the point lands—his brows lift at the muscle in her jaw ticking with the strain to not smile. Soft eyes flick over her features carefully, wrinkles drawn around their corners with a lift of a barely-there, quicksilver smirk.

After a few seconds beneath his gaze, she shifts—ignores the something, whether it’s heat suddenly kicking around the cradle of her pelvis, or the pang of hunger in her gut, she isn’t sure which. He fights a smile, she can see the muscle in his jaw tick. Watches the swell of his tongue tracing his front teeth as he watches, studies—concentrates. When his eyes lift from their stalking of her abdomen, he takes a more serious tone. 

“Hungry?” 

He’s able to hear her gut sounds, she knows that. Being an endless abyss is, well—there’s nothing like it. A lifetime before her mutation, she’d eaten like a bird. Now food is a culture, a thing which to obtain, treasure. Worship. Either of them were always hungry—insatiable creatures always prowling, snatching when well within reach. Bears before hibernation and after, equal amounts of desperate and always empty. Fact which prompts the growing supply of kill buried in the shed beyond the cabin, hanging carcasses and squirreled-away skins. Normal, since her mutation—hunger came with rapid-fire metabolism, with regeneration. Logan had been consuming food like a cretin since before she knew him, certainly. 

She lies. “Not really.” Hell fed on such lies. And Logan knew it.  

Audacity to call her on her bull had always been one of Logan’s strongest suits in their relationship, even before the vows binding them together in the sight of God and Canadian law—he doesn’t hesitate to call her BS. “Well, that would be somethin’, wouldn’t it?” His lips dust hers in a chaste kiss before he’s leaning back outside the door, reaching for full water canisters. Already dusted with frost and sloshing with the slush of chilled, partially-frozen snow. 

Passing one to her, “Too bad I don’t believe you.” The back of his knuckles are warm, somehow, skimming along the line of her jaw. Logan runs hot, always had—part of that regeneration that won’t say die. 

The question hadn’t been so much a genuine investigation as Logan’s roundabout way of admitting he was on the hunt for something for his gut, a practice only time would perfect to know. Years together had shown his hand—she knew him pretty well. Wolverines, after all, were sheltered. Hideaway creatures by habit, preferably unseen and unknown outside of their own order. At their genesis, she hadn’t been—had been privileged, really, with what he’d let her see. 

Now, she’s one of him. Two of a kind, two of a breed—two where there, once this side of heaven, had only been one. God had willed it. Genetics executed.  Two Wolverines, running in the same lines, stalking the same moon—she didn’t, wouldn’t, wear the name, but it was the same class, different act. 

Biting the inside of her cheek, she gestures with her head towards the fire, their feast awaiting. It’s one in the witching hour, but who couldn’t eat?  “Stew and bread, on the hearth—knew you’d be hungry.” And she does, like so many other things. 

Lips tipping up, he chortles. Pleased. The housewife in her keens. “Y’know me pretty well.” 

Keening into his lingering touch, his appreciative hum is deep. Echoes off the adamantium in his chest, a low thing that rises her womb from the frozen wastelands—he’s tired. His deep eyes hold hers, unwilling to let go—dangling on some precipice, the edge of glory. And she can see the shadows fall in like soldiers, demons. Frothing, uncaged phantoms that lap up the blood of his living, his being. Wolves that pick him from between their teeth—had, for centuries. For nearly two centuries, he’s been mummified in unknowns, in could’ves, should’ves, maybes. Such memories, such living, came calling when the sun was low and sleep was little more than a dream.  

Taking the canister from her, Logan rests the pair in the corner, beside the standing bath bucket and towel. Limp accommodations compared to a lifetime ago, in mansions and gardens. What she wouldn’t give for a deep, lava-hot bath in a swirling tub of bubbles and bought water, champagne and silk. Faraway dreams, certainly, but beautiful ones—-sugarplum, delicious. Kicking the door closed, she drops the sliding lock, moving to the fire to roust the stew. 

Checking the bread with the back of her fingers, which has swollen to a delectable, Betty Crocker-gold, she lifts the lid of the thick pot with the hem of her flannel. Thick broth bubbles with heat, the swirl of meat and carrots all but mouthwatering. Eyes moving to consider him, he stretches his hands while glancing out the window. Thumbs rubbing hard, deep circles into the heel of his palm— shrugging out of his heavy jacket, brushes off the remnants of hell outside. 

Laying it out before the fire, he sheds his best and outer flannel. Squats to begin unlacing his boots in nothing but jeans and that faded, almost-stand-in-the-corner t-shirt they’d nabbed from a boutique in NOLA, dodging agents and suspicious eyes. It needs washing, she should take it to that north stream and beat the living hell of it on the rocks, but—another day. Better time. She’s too enthralled with the idea of his boots being sat in the corner, empty, to worry about laundry. 

It lifts her brow. Logan doesn’t ever not wear those God-heavy things, even inside. It’s one of the habits of an all-soldier mindset, that little piece of go, go, go that never leaves the living who have crawled beyond blood, through bone. Actually, in the last year—since X, since…since the labs—she’s maybe seen Logan’s actual feet a handful of times. Even in bed, when he so gorgeously steals her breath. Makes a prayer out of her name. Reminds her to whom she belongs—they’re there. Tangled up in bed, hard against the soft heat of her feet, their tomorrows. Always on, symbols of a living weapon. 

She should be more careful, Learn by example, pretty. But freedom is rapturous, too good to spoil with adrenaline and survivor’s guilt, cold fear. Tastes sweet—forbidden fruit.  

Kicking them off with a groan, Logan sheds thick woolen socks. Lays them before the fire beside his outer layers, like sacrifices. And they are, in a way—and, nose even scenting the savory pull of stew and warm, carby bread on the hearth, the entire room fills with his scent. Cigars and snow. Cold and pine. His freshwater kiss still lingers on her lips—the scent of the stream clings to his clothes, even before crackling flame. She can feel him move even in the depth of her bones, which practically sing with every breath he draws—how he stands in front of the hearth, fire kicking shadows over his features. 

Everything about him is like living color. Heightened senses, hunger. King returned to his castle, he takes up the air like it’s a throne. Turning from the fire, Logan drops one of the cut oak stumps before the fire. Makeshift furniture for a keeps-out-the-wind home, she swears to Christ she can hear the shift of adamantium in his skeleton as he lowers onto it. Watching her intently, he nods to the pot. Elbows on his thighs as thick, calloused fingers scratch through his facial hair. 

His back arches in a catlike stretch, a small smile trying to play on his lips. “Smells like jackrabbit,” that roundabout way, smells good, “what else you got in there, pretty?” Pretty. Even now, years later—it raises pink to the apples of her cheeks. Fondly, Mare remembers the first time Logan had ever graced her with such title, title he’d been using for years—even in the blood and sinew, even in the waist-high sludge of the stay-alive. 

Pretty, not aesthetically— in soul. 

Turning, she retrieves the bread from the stone hearth and tosses it his direction. He catches it like a pro. “Carrots, the last of the potatoes. A hit of whiskey,” his brow raises suspiciously as she smiles, “I’ll have to get some staples from the store next time you leave me with the truck.”

She stands to retrieve the hollowed gourd bowls, balancing them in her palm before stooping to dip them into the stew. Handing one of them over, she receives the half loaf he’s split for her. 

Sinking to the floor, cross-legged, it takes seconds before the bread is gone. Warm, in the pit of her gut. Logan is practically licking his bowl, “I was thinking we could get some rope—I’d like a washline,” she shrugs a shoulder, nodding towards the door, “and we could use some lumber. Couple of the boards are rottin’ out—I’d rather not heat dirt.” 

He knows. Nods, “I’ll make it happen,” and it won’t be difficult—Logan makes good money working the rigs. Cash, no questions—no fed papers or taxes, identification is laughable. Half the men on the crew are probably anything but Jim, Jack, and Johns, but she prefers it that way—even if Logan refuses to use another name. 

Money is good—and money spends anywhere, just as easy as anything. And it’s low man’s work, but Logan doesn’t care, simple work means clean breaks when the time comes. Less complicated, less messy. One thing they could never get enough of is cash, and if the work is honest—well. Can’t ask for more’thn that, darlin’. 

Get around Benjamins, Logan called it. Cash moved, and one could go anywhere for the right price. 

Precisely why she’d been trying to drive through his thick skull her want of a job. Not anything long-hour or even long-term—this makeshift home was her first responsibility, her priority. But, if she could work in town, off the mountain and with people, she could keep an eye on the happenings. Scout out the bodies, the gossip—something Logan couldn’t do for days out on the water. She’d already been approached for some work in the bar, and contacts at the local watering hole weren’t a bad thing. Network was everything, the grapevine was even faster than Google. 

And God never said discounted booze was an unwelcome thing, either. But Logan had been adamant she stay on the mountain—selfish reasons. Out of sight, out of mind. Beyond the press of curiosity.

He, after all, worked the water in a town primarily built on the foundations of fishing. One woman in Burns for every five men, and it didn’t take Hank McCoy genius to do the math. Two weeks—ten days for her to beg the truck off of him, and he’d done so with such reluctance that she’d had to practically fuck logic between his ears. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care, got a high off controlling her. Logan hadn’t ever superimposed harsh rules in their union, just expectations and thrills. Satisfactions and proud-ofs, she knew the things that stoked his trust and kept him coming home. Logan was a simple man, and he didn’t need much from her—he wanted, but never towed the line. Wanted her to thrive, to love, and that was a fine line to draw in the sands of marital relations—especially from a man who knew little to nothing about lasting love. 

In simpler days, he asked very few questions. He’d cut out his heart and hand it over, if the situation were right—hedged bets on her, even in the early days of her mutation rearing its ugly mug. Cared very little about outside opinion, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Watertight confidence and grave-tight faith —in her. In other people, well, that was another shitshow. 

Logan didn’t trust anyone even farther than he would be able to toss them off his claws.  

After a few heartbeats of quiet, she stands. Sets aside good-enough dishes, blows out a long breath between her lips. Rising on her toes, she about-faces on the ball of her heel to face him. “Logan—” stops short when she notices his attention is welded to her in an unshakable way that implies the study of fine artwork. Some soft, dreamlike look on his face—wrinkles around his eyes deepen, smile growing a little more lopsided, a little more white. Her brow furrows, head canting to the side. Never unappreciative of his attention, she managed a little chuckle, “—pfft. Staring much?” She fingers one of her curls behind her ear, which has fallen from her half-loosened bandana. 

Dismissing her with a little shift of his shoulder, he lifts a hand and crooks a finger for her to come. “You gonna blame me?” Can’t argue with logic that knocks the wind from her bones, sends her knees together like some kind of schoolchild. “C’mere, darlin’.” Leaning forward, his elbows find his thighs —she can’t do otherwise. 

Foot over foot, she crosses to him in a handful of steps. She lifts fingers to card through his hair, his big hands anchored on her hips. Strong thumbs rub gentle circles as he shuffles her a little closer, leans to nuzzle his nose beneath her breast, against her ribs. Breath heavy against the apex of her heart, her nails gently rake through his mutton chops, one of his hands moving behind her thigh, nudging her to lower to his lap. 

“You gonna let me ask you something?” 

He hums, nodding once. “Depends what you wanna ask, honey.” Ask me later. Much, much later. It’s there unspoken, in the depth of his eyes and the half-cocked smile that deepens the wrinkles at his eyes. 

Familiar territory—he’s due on the water in two days. Never knows how long he’ll be gone, it’s always a heartbeat too long. Hours may as well be days, days small eternities in the eyes of heaven. Being alone is a burden, high in the air, among the silent evergreens and giants of mountain shadows. Logan left her too often for a man who promised never to—promised life. And this may not be much of a life, but it was theirs together—and all her living really needed was Logan, anyway. 

Dropping her full weight to his lap, the boards beneath his oak stump creak a little, surprised. Resting her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs trace his defined collarbones lazily, the muscle of his arms and familiar veins alive with his moving, breathing blood. His palm presses hard around the back of her neck, thumb tracing over her steady pulse—other fingers dip into the soft curve of her hip. A flick of his wrist tips her pelvis forward, against his. Hardly feeling her weight, her hand presses against his abs, feeling their definition. Engaged, riveting. Almost trembling. 

And suddenly the room is barely contained, a dreamstate of everything and nothing at once. Logan’s fingers, working buttons on her shirt steadily, like a pro. Flesh seeking flesh, fingertips brushing against breastbone. Deep breaths, the steady pulse in his chest is strong, alive—possessive, hers. He eats every one of the shallow breaths she manages between biting the corner of her lip and the tip of her tongue. 

Keening, drunk on the dark of his eyes, how the fire moves in and out of them like dreams—the methodical way he fingers aside the front of the flannel hanging open on her frame. And it’s so intimate, at its finest— heart-to-heart, bone to bone. Logan’s bed had never been anything but this, close. Open, unified. Everything he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever asked—-share, honey. Share me. And she does, willingly, gives what he asks, even unto the half of her soul. 

His head tips back just enough to manage a half-cocked smirk at her as her fingers curl into his shirt, skips through the hair on his arms. He pulls the bandanna from her hair, lets it fall from his fingers. Chuckles at the way her cheeks flame, hair wilding away every direction as his fingers pick, play with it like it’s a plaything, amusing. Her eyes fall to the floor, but two strong fingers on her chin pull her attention back. 

Saying nothing but managing a low hum, he kisses her. Deeply. Almost hurts how good he feels—how she can taste the water of the stream somehow, still, in his mouth. Push and pull, give and take—Logan pulls a whimper from somewhere along her spine, guides her arms around his neck. She obliges, folding against his chest—-chest to chest, she can feel familiar muscles in her musculature itching. Burning between her knuckles, begging. Starving, craving. 

Kissing her hard and rough, heat curls low in places only God had designed. “Hold tight,” before his hands slip under her ass, lifting her as if she’s nothing with little more than a huff and a flex of muscle and heat—and she isn’t nothing, but that’s aside for a mutation that enhances everything all at once. 

Kicking the stump aside, it rolls noisily until it thunks against the wall, her legs firming up around his waist. She smiles, touching her forehead against his. Nose nuzzling the end of his, his heavy feet carry her the God-knows how many steps to the corner—-their corner. And before she can even haul in another full breath, her toes kiss the thick spread of hide as he lowers her to her feet—deer, bison. Elk, bear, wolf. Prizes from six months of survival, success. Need for blankets doesn’t exist when you have the whole of the woods to suffice, and Logan had learned how to cure hides years ago.

The warmest, safest bed she’d ever slept in. 

Big hands practically shove the flannel off her frame, toss it somewhere in the abyss of existence beyond the positively filthy way he suckles a thick mark to the flesh of her neck. Greedy, like a man just fat on hot stew and bread—his fingers curl over the waistband of her jeans, old Wranglers she’d been making due for over a year. A tighter fit than before—she’s gained weight. Fresh diet and good air, peace made her fat. And while Logan may be the chiseled sun to her Icharus, she’d never been lean, never been built right—he hadn’t ever cared. Still didn’t, his low moan in her evidence enough. 

Taking his face between her hands, she softly presses her lips against his. Nips at his bottom lip, takes her time—slowly manages to her knees. His fingers in her hair tips her head back enough to look her in the eye, an amused glint lighting up the flick of a smile on his mouth. Closing her eyes, her fingers curl into the denim clinging to his thighs, breathing in a heady whiff of him as her nose gently bumps the front of his belt buckle. 

Forehead brushing the hair on his abdomen, she feels him shed the t-shirt she still needs to take to the stream. It takes herculean will to not lose track of her surroundings—the makeshift cabin in the deep woods, the fire that seems to roar a stone’s throw from their nest. Food that’s low and warm in her belly, the small shed with hanging meat for tomorrow’s another-stew. Washing that needs done, wood that needs split—there’s a dozen things that need doing, but that’s the way of this life. This life he’d given her, fought for her. Logan had waged war against the coming future for this—this moment, this iteration of them far beyond the reach of Weapon X, the faraway memory of the X-Men. Of the secret they bury, deep in bones and marrow. In the depths of the living. 

It wasn’t what they’d originally thought, not even close. A lifetime away, but it’s enough. He’s enough. God, and peace—-Alaska. Logan. 

Taking her chin between his fingers, Logan crouches. Kisses her, sweetly—like in the early days, when this, this life would’ve been laughable. The stuff of nightmares. He reaches for the thick splay of bison hide, her favorite—draws it over her shoulders. His eyes land heavy in hers, searching, scouting and tracing the lines of the moment. She’s able to read it in his eyes—-he doesn’t want to leave. Will never want to leave, but the Wolverine has lived a life of doesn’t-wants. If it means her happiness, he’d stay. A thousand times and again, he’d forsake the world and weld himself here. 

But going means safety. And that, she knows, he’d fight any long war for. 

His brow pulls into a deep line, uncertain of the look on her face. “You ok, darlin’?” He tips her chin up a little, eyes shifting before his palm moves to cradle her cheek. The pad of his thumb traces the plush of her lips, until her hand at the buckle of his belt gently pushes him to the mess of deer and elk and bones they call theirs.  

Drawing the bison skin tighter around her shoulders, she swings a leg over the cradle of his hips. Looks down on his quirked brow with a quicksilver smile of a thing she can’t quite put a finger on. And, with a brush of her fingers through the curl of hair on his chest, she shrugs a shoulder. 

“I’m fine now,” lowering to kiss the corner of his mouth, she hums as his finger traces up her spine, down again. Callouses rough against her warm skin. “You’re here, and I’m just fine.” 

And that, really, is the truth of God. 

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00

Based on the podcast─

[spotsandsocks]

Hiii spotty

🎃 + sleepy

-❤️🪐

I personally was kinda surprised by this one but I like it - enjoy!

“Not sleepy”

The statement would be significantly more believable if someone’s head wasn’t resting heavy and floppy into the curve of Buck’s neck.

“Of course not, totally wide awake. I can tell.”

The sheer amount of love evident in those few words is overwhelming. Buck throws Eddie an amused look while he shifts Jee in his arms, getting ready to stand and take her to bed. The adorable little girl snuggles deeper into her uncle’s arms and Eddie keeps a firm grip of his facial expressions, only allowing the smallest part of his emotions to show.

Jee grumbles another sleepy protest as Buck gets them upright, her tiny weight obviously nothing to him, “Don’ wanna go bed, no’ fair”

The petulance is just too cute. Much like the sight of Buck and his niece reading together had been. Jee falling asleep curled up on Buck’s lap was a lot to process. The desperatly tender expression on Buck’s face as he’d stroked her hair and read to the last page despite her having checked out the story a few pages earlier almost cracked Eddie there and then. He’s been waiting for the right time and he won’t last much longer. He thinks Buck is at least slightly expecting it. He hopes he is anyway.

Jee is quiet again, falling asleep again almost as soon as Buck started moving towards her bedroom. It’s extremely easy falling asleep in Buck’s arms, he should know it’s been his privilege for a little over a year now. Buck disappears out of sight with his niece and Eddie starts to tidy up.

“Fast asleep.”

The words come at the same time as arms wrap around his waist and tug him into a hug. Buck kisses his neck and Eddie closes his eyes, enjoying the ordinary moment. He loves this man so very much and either all moments are special or none are so why not now.

He twists within the circle of Buck’s embrace and kisses him, making it soft and gentle.

When they part Buck blinks happily dazed eyes at him. “What was that for?”

“I need a reason to kiss you now?” Eddie quirks an eyebrow.

“Not really but that one felt particularly pointed.” Buck’s sparkling blue eyes dance with pleasure and amusement and love. So much love and Eddie feels it all too.

“Maybe it was. You were pretty damn cute this evening with Jee.”

Buck’s eyebrows lift, inviting additional information. Eddie just kisses him again and puts everything he feels into it by the end of the second kiss he’s reached breaking point and the time is definitely right. So he asks the question that’s been on the tip of his tounge for weeks.

“Will you marry me? Because I really need to be married to you, like right now.”

He doesn’t miss the sharp inhale or the flash of joy in bright blue eyes before Buck responds with a slow drawl.

“Probably can’t manage right now …” his soon to be fiancé looks delightfully smug; eyes twinkling, head tilted at a charmingly cocky angle and Eddie’s gonna kiss the smirk right off his face any minute, “but I’m free next month, think I can probably fit you in.”

Tagging a few to share or no one will even see this and it’s kinda cute if I do say so myself

@bekkachaos @bi-buckrights @beyourownanchor6 @dr-shortsighted-owl @inell @exhuastedpigeon @eddiebabygirldiaz @diazsdimples @hippolotamus @stagefoureddiediaz @monsterrae1 @lonelychicago @dangerpronebuddie @daffi-990 @tizniz @thekristen999 @thelikesofus @spaceprincessem @jesuisici33 @underwaterninja13 @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @disasterbuck @repressedqueen @ronordmann @caroandcats

[multi-fandom-imagines8]

A Song of Ice & Shadow

Part 12

Summary: After the deaths of her fathers, Y/n past traumas resurface, leading her to do what she does best- push everyone away, including her sisters.

Warnings: angst, suicidal tendencies, substance abuse/addiction, grief, unresolved trauma, self-destructive behavior.

A/N: Y/n is heading down a dark path. If you thought she and Azriel were getting closer to something more, then you’ve seen nothing yet. We’re back to them being strangers- or better yet, she’s just beginning to show her cruelty toward him. Poor Az.

I don’t usually specify eye colors, but trust me it’s somewhat relevant to the plot.

WC: 3.8 K.

You can read previous chapter here. Fictober Challenge

Y/n finally opened her eyes, long after the war had ended. They had won, but at what cost?

“You’re awake! I’ll inform the others,” Elain said quickly, rushing outside. Y/n remained still, taking in her surroundings, trying to piece together what had happened. They may have won the war, but she had lost.

Moments later, her sisters and Rhys appeared in her room. “You’re finally awake. We were so afraid we’d lose you- we nearly did,” Feyre said softly, a flicker of relief in her gaze. “Azriel brought you to Madja and Thesan the moment you collapsed. They managed to save you just in time. If he’d been a minute later…” She trailed off, her voice heavy. “We would have lost you.” 

“Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t want to be saved?” Y/n’s voice was low and cold, stripped of any emotion.

A startled silence filled the room. “It took great effort to save you. Not many received that chance,” Rhys said quietly.

“Then you shouldn’t have wasted it on me. You should’ve just let me die.” Her tone was flat, unyielding. 

“Y/n, how could you say that? We love you.” Elain’s voice wavered with hurt.

“I think we should let her rest,” Feyre said gently. “If you need anything, we’ll be right outside.”

As the other left, Nesta lingered, her eyes searching Y/n’s face for a moment before she, too, left. At the door, they ran into Azriel, who had just arrived and asked if he could see her. Feyre hesitated, warning him of her fragile state, but he was insistent.

He entered and took a seat in the armchair beside her bed, leaning forward slightly. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Nothing. I feel… nothing.” Her gaze was fixed on the wall, her expression blank.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Why?” She turned to look at him slowly, her face emotionless.

“I… because I wasn’t there to protect you.” he murmured, searching her eyes for a reaction.

“You wouldn’t have, even if you were there,” she replied, her voice chillingly even. “He would’ve snapped you like a twig. Or maybe he would have ripped your wings from your body, watched you writhe in agony before slitting your throat. And there would’ve been nothing you or I or anyone could do about it but watch.” The detached way she said the words unsettled him, sacred him. The Y/n he knew would have shown fear, pain, or some flicker of emotion, but this…this was something- someone else. 

She turned away from him, pulling the blanket up slightly. “I’d like to rest now.” 

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally, he nodded to himself and left the room quietly. 

Over the next few days, they brought her food, but she refused to eat or speak to any of them.

Until one day when Feyre visited again. “We buried your father next to ours. Would you like to visit them?”

“No.” Y/n’s answer was flat, her gaze distant.

Feyre hesitated, then reached into her pocket. “Azriel found this when…when he carried you,” she said, offering her a letter.

Y/n looked at it but didn’t move to take it. “I don’t want it.”

“It was from your f-”

“Throw it out, bury it, I don’t care.” Y/n interrupted, her tone sharp and final.

Feyre bit her lip, placing the letter on the bedside table. “You should eat something.” She kept her voice gentle, leaving the food nearby, but Y/n remained silent, her gaze unfocused, lost.

Elain and Feyre took turns bringing food and encouraging Y/n to get out of bed. But Nesta kept her distance, visiting one once since Y/n had woken.

The day Y/n decided to get out of bed was anything but pleasant. She demanded a place of her own, far away from the others, and Feyre agreed. Y/n gave Feyre Truth-Teller to return to Azriel, but Feyre hesitated, hoping that Y/n might be willing to give it back herself- maybe even talk, show some emotion. So Feyre suggested she give it to him directly. Y/n took the blade without a word and left the house.

“Where are you going?” Feyre asked, watching her intently.

“To find a house.”

“You’re going to walk all the way? I can winnow you to the city.”

“I don’t want your help.” If they thought the Y/n they knew was cold and heartless, they were in for a shock with this new Y/n. 

Azriel found her that evening, after Feyre had told him what happened. She was wandering through the city, her gaze blank, unfocused. 

“Hey,” he greeted softly, but she brushed past him, her attention elsewhere. “Feyre is worried about you. We should head home.”

Usually, she’d retort with something like. “That’s not my home,” or argue with him, but now she remained silent.

Finally, she turned to face him, her icy blue-gray eyes meeting his, and held out Truth-Teller for him to take without a word. As his scarred hand brushed hers, he noticed her fingers were cold as ice. 

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, concern tightening his features. She simply turned and began walking again, but he reached out, gently grasping her wrist and pulling her back around to face him. “Y/n, talk to me. Say something, anything. Just, please, don’t-”

“I don’t feel cold,” she replied, her voice flat, though she didn’t pull her hand from his grip as she met his hazel eyes.

“You’ll catch a cold if you keep going like this. I’m taking you home,” he insisted.

“I want to walk,” she said, her tone barely softening. It was the most she’d said to him in days, so he agreed, keeping close to her. 

Once they reached the Town House, Y/n informed Feyre she’d found a place. Feyre agreed to let her move in on one condition: Y/n was to stay at the Town House for a week, eat regularly, and only then, once Feyre was satisfied she was alright, could she leave. Y/n said nothing and headed upstairs to her room. 

“And we should be able to see you at least once a day,” Feyre added as Y/n climbed the stairs.

And so began the week of forced togetherness. Since Feyre didn’t specify how many times she’d need to eat, Y/n chose the bare minimum. She would come down once a day, eat either lunch or dinner, and then retreat back to her room without a word. 

On the third day, everyone was gathered around the table for dinner when Y/n entered. Since it was the last meal of the day and she hadn’t come down for breakfast or lunch, she was compelled to sit with them. To everyone’s surprise, she took a seat next to Cassian.

“Missed me? Because I sure missed you,” Cassian tried, throwing her a playful grin, but she neither looked at him nor replied. “Come on, Y/n. By now, I would’ve expected to say something snarky or insulting… nothing?... Does that mean I finally won?” He leaned forward, trying to provoke a reaction, but she just looked at him, expression unreadable.

“Pass me the salt.” Her voice was even, unfeeling.

“Say please,” he taunted, his lips curling in a grin, but she ignored him, quietly starting to eat. Feyre shook her head subtly, warning him not to push any further. Cassian relented, handing her the salt. 

“You’re welcome,” he said, though his smile faded as he studied her still, expressionless face.

Rhys was recounting a light-hearted story, trying to lift the mood, until someone jokingly mentioned his death and resurrection by the High Lords. Y/n froze. She hadn’t known. She knew nothing of what happened after the King of Hybern’s death. She hadn’t heard about Amren turning into a High Fae, or how Rhys had sacrificed his life, or how close they’d come to losing even with the King defeated. She didn’t know where Feyre and her sisters had buried their father, or about the treaty discussion that followed, bridging peace between the courts and the courts and the mortal realm. She had known none of it- and didn’t care to, but hearing how Rhys got a second chance struck a nerve.

“So you and your mate get to live, while everyone else who sacrificed their lives remains dead and forgotten,” she said, her voice cutting as she turned to Feyre. “Tell me, why do you deserve to live while they do not?”

Silence blanketed the table. No one seemed to know how to respond. But she went on, her voice low and hard. “You all act as if nothing happened, but if he’d stayed dead, I doubt any of you would be laughing now. You want me to come down and sit and eat with you, but if it had been your mate who died, I wonder if you’d be able to do the same.” She set down her fork and stood, her expression still unreadable, before turning to leave the room.

“Y/n, no one expects you to go back to normal. You have suffered so much,” Feyre said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “I wasn’t trying to force you into anything.”

“Yet you put these conditions on me when all I want is to be left in peace,” Y/n replied, her tone weary and final as she turned and disappeared back up the stairs.

Rhys reached for Feyre’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Give her time,” he murmured, attempting to reassure her.

On the evening before Y/n’s planned departure, it was Nesta who came to see her.

“So, you’re just gonna leave me here with them?” she asked, standing by the door, her tone wavering between anger and vulnerability.

You didn’t turn to look at her, her gaze fixed outside the window. “You are your own woman now. If you don’t want to stay, then don’t.” 

“So that’s it, then? You’re going to abandon me again?” Nesta’s voice broke slightly, her fists clenched at her sides.

Y/n’s gaze remained unfocused, her words sharp. “I never abandoned you, but if that’s how you want to see it, then so be it. I don’t owe you an explanation.” Her tone was cold, far harsher than she’d ever spoken to Nesta before.

Nesta’s face hardened, her eyes narrowing. “You’re a coward. Running away again, just like back then. Instead of facing your problems.”

“Is that what you tell yourself before bed? That I ran away?”Y/n’s voice grew colder, a bitter smile playing on her lips. “What about you, Nesta? Where were you when Feyre risked her life, hunting to keep you alive?”

Silence stretched between them, thick and painful. 

Finally, Nesta’s voice softened, a hint of raw honesty breaking through her frustration. ”I need you, Y/n. We just lost our father.”

Y/n’s lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “Don’t pretend you care now. You hated the old man. Or are you feeling guilty because, in the end, he still loved us, no matter what?” Her words were cruel, and even as she said them, she felt a strange emptiness behind them. Nesta’s face fell, and her mouth opened and closed as she processed the words. She had never expected Y/n to say something like that to her, she was heartbroken.

After a beat, Nesta’s eyes hardened, and she uttered words she regretted the moment they left her lips. “You want to talk about guilt? What about you, huh? You let them die. You had all this power inside of you, and instead of using it, you did nothing. You just watched, waited until they were dead, and then you struck. It’s almost as if you wanted them to die.”

Nesta’s words struck Y/n like a blow, and for a moment, her carefully constructed mask cracked. “You’re right,” she said bitterly, voice low. “I did let them die. I failed them, and now… I just don’t care. You, Elain, Feyre, you can take care of yourselves. I am done trying to protect you. Mother knows I did a bad enough job of it as it is.” She let out a huff, dismissing the pain in her own words.

“You did,” Nesta whispered, her voice breaking as tears pooled in her eyes.

Y/n looked at her coldly, her voice quiet but cutting. “You’re no longer my responsibility. And I wish you’d stop being my weakness.” 

Nesta’s face crumpled, a single tear slipping down her cheek as she turned and walked away, leaving Y/n alone in her room. It was the last time they would speak to each other for a very long time.

After Y/n moved into her own apartment, Nesta soon did the same. Neither of them interacted with anyone from their past lives, but at least Nesta would meet Feyre briefly every month. Though their reasons for isolation were similar, each went down their own path of self-destruction. Nesta frequented bars, either drinking herself to sleep or fucking her way into exhaustion with reckless company. Y/n, on the other hand, brought the chaos to her doorstep. Each night, she invited people over, and they partied until sunrise, indulging in every dangerous substance she could get her hands on.

In the past, she’d avoided even casual drinking, saying it dulled the mind and that she needed to be alert, in control. Now, she wanted nothing more than to escape her own thoughts, to numb every feeling, to let go of everything. It began the day she moved out. She’d gone to a bar and asked for the strongest drink they had. The bartender sensing her desperation introduced her to someone with access to stronger poisons. Soon after, she met others who reveled in the same reckless abandon, who didn't care about anything either. When they discovered her identity, they were wary, but she assured them that as long as they didn’t cross her, they had nothing to worry about- no threats from a certain High Lord. The wild gatherings became a nightly ritual. People came to her place, taking all manner of poisons, but no one dared to touch her without permission. She was repulsed by physical contact; even a friendly brush would make her recoil. Yet, as she saw it, life was good- an endless cycle of highs and freedom from responsibility, a blissfully numb existence.

One day, Feyre visited, hoping to explain the Fae cycle to Y/n and offer her help when the time came. But Y/n dismissed her, saying she’d handle it herself and that it was none of Feyre’s concern. She made it clear she didn’t want Feyre;s or anyone else’s assistance and even told her to not contact her unless absolutely necessary. Feyre, unsure of what else to do, convinced herself this was Y/n’s way of healing.

As Winter Solstice approached, Rhys found himself standing on Y/n’s doorsteps. She opened the door, half asleep, assuming it was one of her usual party guests. But when she saw who it was, her body went rigid. 

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice flat.

“Solstice is in a few days. I- we expect you to be there,” he replied, his tone firm.

“To hell with that,” she scoffed, leaning against the doorframe, barely meeting his gaze.

“It’s your sister’s birthday. You owe her that much.”

“I owe her nothing.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “She’s paying for your apartment and…other activities, whatever they are. If you don’t come, those payments stop.”

Y/n’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “Fine. Family reunion it is. Yay, can’t wait.” She let out a bitter laugh before slamming the door in his face.

Conveniently, Y/n and Nesta arrived at the same time, neither of them acknowledging the other. Inside, the others were exchanging gifts , laughter filling the room until they noticed the two standing by the door. Feyre hurried over to open it, offering to take Nesta’s coat. Y/n, however, wasn’t wearing one despite the snow blanketing the ground outside. Elain appeared in the foyer, linking her arm through Nesta’s and leading her toward the living room. Y/n and Feyre exchanged a quick look before Feyre guided her twister inside. 

“I’m glad you came.” Feyre said softly.

“I had no choice,” Y/n replied, her tone indifferent.

By the fireplace, Azriel’s gaze fixed on Y/n, his hazel eyes brightening at the sight of her. His shadows trailed after her, drawn to her presence. Though she looked worn, there was at least a hint of color to her cheeks, a sign of life he hadn’t seen the last time she’d stayed. Back then, she’d seemed like a ghost- just breathing, merely existing. 

“We were just starting with presents” Elain announced to her sisters, giving Y/n and Nesta a warm smile.

After wishing Feyre a happy birthday, Nesta began a brief conversation with her, speaking in low tones. The others gradually resumed exchanging gifts, the festive atmosphere returning. Elain handed Y/n a small package from herself and Feyre, and Feyre offered another to Nesta. 

“I don’t need anything,” Y/n muttered, eyeing the package with reluctance.

“It’s a gift. Just take it,” Elain insisted gently, her eyes hopeful. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

Y/n noted her sister’s excitement and let out a quiet sigh. “You seem more interested than I am… fine, I’ll open it.” As she removed the wrapping, she revealed a simple, embroidered navy-blue gown. 

“You always liked handmade gifts,” Elain said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Feyre designed the pattern, and I embroidered it.”

Y/n studied the gown, her expression unreadable. “I see… I didn't bring anything for you” she replied quietly.

“You’re here. That’s enough.” Elain’s voice softened, her words laced with relief.

As the gift-giving continued, Azriel took the opportunity to move closer to Y/n. He’d hidden a gift for her, something he’d intended to give her ever since he’d found it at the Dawn Court when things between them had been good, or as good as they could be. Seeing her reaction to her sisters’ gift, he realized this wasn’t the moment. Still, he couldn’t resist the urge to speak with her, to hear her voice directed at him once more. Though his shadows had kept him updated on her wellbeing, he hadn't seen her since the day she left.

“Happy Solstice,” he murmured, his gaze steady, searching her face.

She glanced at him briefly, her expression impassive. ”Nothing happy about it.” Sheshifted away from him, choosing a seat beside Elain and remaining silent.

As the evening wore on and everyone began to tire, Y/n muttered a quiet goodbye to Elain before heading toward the door. Feyre followed, handing her a slip of paper.

“Here. Payment for rent,” she said softly.  

Y/n accepted it without a word, slipping it into her pocket as she exited.

Moments later, Azriel appeared at her side, a coat in his hand. “You didn’t bring anything to keep warm. Here,” he said, extending it to her.

She looked at the coat, then at him, her gaze cool. “I’m not cold.” She turned, begging to walk away. 

Ignoring her protest, Azriel draped the coat around her shoulders, his voice gentle but firm. “Even so, you’ll catch a cold. I’ll walk you home.”

“Get back, Spymaster.” The title was cold, distant. She’d only called him that once before- when they first met, when he was nothing more than a stranger to her. Since then, he’d gotten used to her calling him Shadowsinger, the name laced with familiarity, even warmth. And on the battlefield, when she had finally called him by his name, it had melted his heart. But ever since that day, she had barely spoken more than a word or two to him. From sleeping on his chest before battle to treating him like a stranger now- it shattered him. 

“I will, once you’re home safe.”

“I don’t want your company.” Her voice was flat, devoid of the spark he once knew.

Azriel’s jaw clenched. “Aren’t you tired of all this?” His tone sharpened with a mix of frustration and desperation.

“What I am tired of is you and your family. Why can’t you all just leave me alone?” She narrowed her eyes, her words like a wall she was intent on building. “I was perfectly fine on my own.”

“Fine? You mean the partying and taking every poison you can find, just to see which one will be the one that finally kills you?”

Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Ah, so you’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

“Of course I have. Did you think I’d stand by and let you go down this path without even checking on you?” His voice softened, a hint of pain slipping through.

She let out a weary sigh, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Stop- just stop. I need you to stop caring.”

“Why?” His voice held an edge of anger now. “Because if I, Mother forbid, or anyone else tries to get close to you, you’ll push us away?”

“You’ve got it aaall figured out, don’t you?” She forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow.

“Come back to the house.” There was a plea in his voice he couldn’t suppress.

She snorted, shaking her head. “I don’t want to be part of your happy family. Stop trying to make me fit in.” With a defiant motion, she let the coat fall from her shoulders and land on the snow-dusted ground. 

“That’s not what I-”

“I want to be left alone. What I do with my life is none of your business.” Her voice grew colder, words clipped. “If I choose to waste it, it’s my choice. Stop following me, and don’t send your shadows after me again.”

Azriel’s face softened with hurt as he reached for her hand. “Don’t shut me out. You used to-” But as soon as his fingers brushed hers, she recoiled, her eyes narrowing, a shiver visibly running through her. For the first time, she could see the heartbreak on his face, the pain her reaction had caused. 

“What I used to be is in the past. The Y/n you knew is dead. Move on.” She turned her face away, her voice lowering. “There are things better left unsaid. Don’t make me say things that will hurt you.”

His expression hardened, masking the pain her words had caused. “You’ve already done that. So go ahead. Say what you want.”

Her eyes met his, cold and unyielding. “You’re not worth my time.” She shook her head, walking away from him and disappearing into the dark streets. 

But he followed in silence, staying in the shadows, his heart heavy. And though he moved unseen, she knew he was there- she could feel him, a silent presence lurking in the dark.

Tags: : @st4r-girl-official @judig92 @5onedirection5 @nayaniasworld @blackgirlmagicforever @stained-glass-eyes0708 @slytherintaco @aehllita @nebarious  @t0uch-starved-h0e @bravo-delta-eccho  @sylvermoon @going-through-shit @latinxbipride @i-am-infinite @azrielrot @fuckingsimp4azriel @theravenphoenix26 @hanatsuki-hime @fantanbietsson @rcarbo1 @weasleymagic @secretsicanthideanymore @spymaster03

[gyudons]

despicable

updates as of 22 oct

Travis Dermott knew that he would draw attention with his actions in the Coyotes’ home opener against the Anaheim Ducks at Mullett Arena on Saturday. The Arizona defenseman just hoped that the spotlight might shine on the issue that he was addressing, not on him.

“You don’t really want to go against rules that are put in place by your employer, but there’s some people who took some positive things from it,” Dermott said. “That’s kind of what I’m looking to impact.

“You want to have everyone feel included and that’s something that I have felt passionate about for a long time in my career. It’s not like I just just jumped on this train. It’s something that I’ve felt has been lacking in the hockey community for a while. I feel like we need supporters of a movement like this; to have everyone feel included and really to beat home the idea that hockey is for everyone.”

“I won’t lie,” said Dermott, who is playing on a one-year, two-way contract. “From the outside, it’s easy to see that I’m putting my career on the line for something. I definitely went through some emotional ups and downs that night, not regretting anything by any means, but I’d love to have maybe done a couple of steps a little different by making sure that everyone was aware of what was going on before I did it.

“I don’t want to put my teammates or my coaches or my GMs or the equipment managers in any kind of bad light when it’s their job to kind of look out for something like this happening. It was definitely something that I did just by myself and was prepared to kind of deal with whatever repercussions the league decides to push towards that. I’m not going to back off and say that this battle is won, but we’re going to find better ways to do it.”

As Dermott noted, LGBTQ+ inclusion is an issue that he has supported for a long time. Without getting into specifics, Dermott said the issue is personal for him because it impacts people close to him.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t shed tears about this on multiple occasions,” he said. “So yeah, it’s something I’m definitely very passionate about.

“I’ve met a lot of people that from the outside, it looks like they have everything going right in their life and they have a smile on their face every time they talk to you. But sometimes when we get closer to people and get comfortable enough for them to open up to you, you can see that there’s some pretty dark stuff happening to some good people. It doesn’t take too many times encountering something like that for it to really change someone.

“I’ve been blessed to have some of those opportunities put in front of me to really change my view of what being a good person means; what being a good father and a good example and role model means going forward. You really see how people are hurting and it’s because of a system that maybe no one’s intentionally trying to be malicious about, but until you’ve really had that first-person experience seeing people hurting from it right in front of you, it’s tough to kind of take steps.”

It would be a surprise if the league handed down any sort of punishment. The optics alone would add to the public relations damage that the original ban created. Even so, Dermott reiterated his desire to bring the entire franchise into the fold before he takes similar actions in the future, but he also made it clear that he will not be silenced on the topic.

“It’s not like I’m shutting up and going away,” he said. “I know more questions are going to be coming. We’re just going to be as prepared as we can be to just spread love. That’s the thing. It’s gay pride that we’re talking about, but it could be men’s health. It could be any war. It’s just wanting world peace. Everyone’s got to love each other a little bit more.

“Like my parents said growing up, ‘How awesome would it be to be the guy that people look up to?’ That’s what really hit home when I was a kid, especially from my mom. You want to grow up and be that guy. You want to be the guy that’s having the impact on kids like NHL players had on you. If they had been racist or bigoted, that’s going to have an effect on you.

“With how many eyes are on us, especially with the young kids coming up in the new generation, you want to put as much positive love into their brain as you can. You want them to see that it’s not just being taught or coming from maybe their parents at home. They need to see it in the public eye for it to really make an effect.”

[sttoru]

Omg could we see reader getting jealous of Sukuna having sec with his other concubines? And maybe liek the other concubine rubs it in readers face?

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. true form!sukuna x concubine!female reader. angst (no comfort), suggestive \\ smut aspects. size difference. one tiny mention of reader being a crybaby. reader gets called ‘little one, brat’ \\ kuna’s an asshole! not proofread, excuse the grammar. no part 2. wc: 3.3k

you’ve been away from the estate for three days; three days too long for the king of curses. so much had happened while you were away to take some well deserved rest—a small vacation that sukuna had granted you because you needed it.

perhaps that was his first mistake. giving you permission to leave his side ended up being a bad decision. he hates that faint feeling in his chest, the feeling of missing something.

missing someone.

it couldn’t be. sukuna doesn’t have any weaknesses, and yet he can feel his body reacting to that unfamiliar emotion again. all because of you— that one human who always succeeds to occupy his mind.

he couldn’t let himself succumb to it—he’s not going to. sukuna is not going to let a mere human like you deter him from his superior identity that he’s had for decennia. he’s not going to let you have that power over him and his body.

and thus, when you return to the estate, you find yourself being laughed at. you were unpacking your luggage when two concubines stand at your doorway, hiding their evil smiles behind their handheld fans.

they don’t waste a single second and immediately rush to ruin your carefree mood.

“you know, you shouldn’t have returned at all,” the brunette giggles, her laugh sounding like nails scraping against a chalkboard. she looks to the other woman next to her before glancing back at you, “i mean—heh—lord sukuna definitely didn’t seem to mind your absence.”

you figure it’s just another way to get you riled up, so you do your best to ignore them. you put your packed kimonos in your wardrobe as your back faces the two.

yumi, the second concubine, nods along. she knows what she’s about to reveal will get on your nerves. and deserved, if you ask her. they had successfully caught the attention of their king while you were away. for the first time in a good while since your arrival in the estate.

the fact that they managed to spend quality time with sukuna again, is a wonderful first step to your downfall. one that will surely crumble your confidence as his so-called ‘favorite’.

“mhm,” yumi grins as she recalls the memories of her time with sukuna. time spent together that you were unaware of, “lord sukuna definitely didn’t seem to mind your absence when he had me in his bed last night.”

you freeze.

your brows furrow and the corners of your lips twitch. you don’t know if you should believe them—they could’ve lied about it for all you know. although, the voice in the back of your head had already rang the alarms.

guessing by the way they were dying to talk to you the second you came back - which never happens - you realise that they’re probably telling the truth. they’re only telling the truth to agitate you. it’s so painfully obvious, and yet so. . . hurtful.

“what?”

you don’t recall when you’ve choked up. you feel a lump in your throat. it shouldn’t even be there. you promised yourself to not get attached to a monster like sukuna.

so what if he went to bed with his other concubines?

but of course he’ll get pleasure from his other women when you aren’t around. he doesn’t feel any love, he sees it as worthless, so why did you expect him to not indulge himself? he still has his other concubines around for a reason.

you really shouldn’t be surprised by this revelation.

“what do you mean ‘what?’ - you heard me,” yumi shrugs, that cocky smirk still on her face. she’s clearly enjoying your reaction to everything she’s revealing. all the two concubines wanted to get out of this encounter with you, is to break that delusion of yours.

the delusional thought that you’re special to the king of curses—the delusion that sukuna considers you as something more than a toy to emotionally manipulate and play with until he’s tired of you.

“my lord spent all night with me in his chambers until the sun rose,” yumi continues without an ounce of shame. she bites her lip as she remembers the way sukuna had her body positioned on his large bed. for her, it was a dream come true.

though for you, it’s a living nightmare. even if you try to deny the fact that it physically and mentally hurts. there’s a painful twist at your heart—reminding you of the truth.

the truth being that you had truly thought that sukuna wasn’t really a monster of a man. you thought he was a different, more softer person around you.

you should’ve listened to the servants when they told you to not get tricked by sukuna’s special treatment, that he could easily manipulate you and make you do and act as he pleases.

“do you want me to explain it in detail?” yumi crosses her arms over her chest as she looks down at you with a menacing glare. both of the concubines are loving that face you’re making. that face of defeat that you’re attempting to hide from them, “how he held me and pleasured me until i—”

“enough,” you cut them off with your hands clenched into fists. you don’t want to hear another word. you’re already feeling awful; already, not even an hour into your return. you can never catch a break.

you have an urge to throw things around. you already feel stupid, and if you decide to throw a fit, you bet that you’d feel even dumber. you truly do not know why you’re getting this worked up about it.

maybe it’s because of the special treatment. the delusional thoughts you have about your relationship with sukuna. you really thought that you two had something special. an unofficial romantic relationship, perhaps, or something that resembles it.

a secret, unspoken deal where you’re promised his loyalty in exchange for your body and soul.

although, those dreams have been shattered this very instance. you’re once again reminded of the animalistic nature of the being called ryomen sukuna.

he told you clearly that he’d never tie himself to someone, a human no less. devotion to one person? why would he.

“out of the way.”

you push the brunette and her sidekick the other way. you’re going to confront the man yourself. or at least, you’ll try to. you can hear their sick laughs and chuckles fade into the background as you stomp your way towards sukuna’s chambers.

the other concubines seem to have gotten the gist. some peek their heads out of their rooms, grinning at you in victory. seeing your confidence slowly crumble and the realisation kick in - the realisation that your dear lord’s special treatment means absolutely nothing - is a sight for sore eyes to them.

you enter sukuna’s room and close the heavy doors behind you. you swallow the lump down your throat and try your best to look presentable.

no tears, you promise yourself. you’re not going to waste them on something like this.

“oh, it’s you, little one,” the familiar voice calls out. sukuna’s low and husky voice rings from his bed. he’s laid back against the many silky pillows, blowing smoke from his kiseru. he lays there like he doesn’t care about your reappearance at all.

he eyes you up and down, “how was your vacation, hm?”

sukuna asks like it’s the most normal thing to do. it seems like he’s trying to catch up with you, to ask you how you’ve been enjoying your time alone, though it also seems like he couldn’t care less at the same time.

“just absolutely fine, my lord,” you reply with gritted teeth and an obvious hint of sarcasm. there’s also a bitterness to your tone that doesn’t go unnoticed by the pink-haired man. he frowns—this cold greeting is not what he expected nor what he wanted to hear from your mouth. he expected you to at least smile at him like you usually do, but you didn’t.

on top of that, you seemed to be annoyed with him. that unexpected attitude of yours made something inside of him snap. it irritated him somehow; the fact that you’re so comfortable talking to him like that . . . it reminded him of the recent inner conflict he had which you were the cause of.

one of his hands tightens into a fist at his side. his jaw clenches and his eyes narrow into slits. you’re physically in front of him, which means that he’s also about to experience those complicated feelings again. the same ones he tried fleeing from by letting you go on a break, and by physically taking his mind off you.

he did the latter by taking his frustrations out on his other women. the stress that came with the thought of him possibly liking a human, relieved by pure animalistic sex.

that’s exactly what you’re upset about.

there’s an urge inside of sukuna to act normal. to ignore those difficult emotions and just treat you like he usually does. yet, another part of him is trying to protect his sense of superiority by trying to push you away.

there’s a war going on in his mind as he tries to calm himself down. you’ve always had this effect on him and it’s becoming unbearable. he has to show you, no - remind you, that you’re nothing to him. you mean nothing—nothing at all.

he’s the king of curses, you’re but a human. he’ll need to remind himself of that obvious statement as well. he’s got all the power in this situation. not you.

you cannot rule over him or his mind.

“you dare come back with an attitude? tch,” sukuna scoffs, nearly breaking the kiseru with his fingers as they squeeze around the solid material. he’s turning off whatever emotion present in his body. that doesn’t belong there anyway. he won’t care if you cry—he won’t care at all.

you notice the sudden change in sukuna’s tone as well. you’re sure you’re the reason for it. perhaps you crossed a boundary with how sassily you replied to him when he was simply asking you how your vacation went.

“my apologies,” you murmur with a sigh. you try to avoid getting on sukuna’s nerves any further, yet when you remember the words from the concubine, how she implied that sukuna had given her the best night of her life when you were away, you get mad again.

your eyes have a fiery look in them. you don’t want to get worked up. you don’t have the right to. you were warned from the very beginning to not get attached to an asshole like ryomen sukuna.

you’re to blame for feeling like this. it could’ve been prevented if you just weren’t so weak. if you just stayed away from him.

“did you have fun while i was away, my lord?” you continue, your voice shaking a little. you need the confirmation. you’re sure sukuna knows what you’re referring to by now, especially because of the way you’re acting out of character.

the king of curses raises a brow at your question. you sound even angrier, even more pissed off. he tilts his head after taking a deep inhale of the tobacco from his kiseru. he tries to figure out what you’re hinting at, “what are you—”

and that’s when everything fell into place. the dots connect.

sukuna’s jaw clenches. he realises that you’ve found out about him receiving services from his other concubines while you were away. there could be no other explanation behind your sudden attitude. besides, he knows how his other concubines could be. they must have told you the moment you came back.

normally, he’d say that it’s none of your business. what he does is up to him—he does not care about the consequences of his actions. though, seeing the slight hurt in your eyes, mixed with sadness and disappointment stirred something inside of him. he brushes that feeling away and stares at you intently, awaiting another comment. perhaps you’d cuss him out or bawl your eyes out in front of him.

either way, he promises himself that he won’t care.

sukuna is the king of curses. feeling bad for a human like you would only further tarnish his image, that image of superiority and power he has.

he’s a man of many needs. you should’ve kept that in mind when you left him. he wanted to keep you with him—to hold you down and refuse to let you leave—but that would be another sign of weakness. one sukuna could not manage to show.

when you departed, he was irritated by the fact that he had no one to turn to with his needs. from simple needs like wanting your company to sexual needs like craving your body.

keeping you by his side or letting you go; both decisions seem to clash. either way, there’s one thing he’s sure of, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it: he missed you.

sukuna can’t believe that he can feel an emotion like that. he can’t accept that fact. that’s why his irrational mind took over—his dark urges that strived to prove himself to still be the same old ryomen sukuna. the monster that did not need a single soul. the ruthless man that did not depend on anyone else, especially not a human. a woman like you.

he thought he’d forget all about you if he’s surrounded himself with other women. but, he was quick to be proven wrong, and that only caused to enrage him more and more.

every time sukuna fucked a concubine, his thoughts still manage to drift away to you. to how he wished that it was you he was holding.

nothing hit the same with the other women and that frustrated him. he’d keep them around in his room after he fucked their brains out, something he never allowed a woman to do except for you, yet kicked them out again after a few minutes.

it doesn’t hit the same.

you’re just different. your presence is soothing and calming to the chaotic soul of the pink-haired man. no one else could compare. that realisation made him feel inferior; a feeling he loathes.

sukuna’s red eyes glow. he hates seeing you look so defeated, but he cannot give in. if he tells you the truth, he’ll admit his weakness. he’ll admit that a human like you has completely taken over his brain. that’s no good.

if he doesn’t tell you the truth, he’ll save face. he’ll feel like himself again. his old self—the cold ruthless monster that he was before he met you. one without a soft spot for a human.

it’s an active dilemma that’s running through his mind as he slowly blows out another cloud of smoke. you cannot guess what’s going on behind those intimidating eyes staring you down.

sukuna tilts his head back and scratches his neck, smacking his lips as he makes his decision.

“yeah, i did. i had lots of fun.”

the words sting. they hurt you and make your heart ache in a way that makes you physically weak. you should’ve expected that answer. your shoulders tense up and your fingers curl around the material of your kimono—feeling a sense of anger and betrayal.

you can see a ghost of a smirk on sukuna’s lips, which only reminds you of his nature. his nature as an independent, aloof and cold man who likes to play with his prey. a natural disaster that knows no emotion, that shows no mercy to anyone.

you’re naive for thinking that you could be the exception. all of those times with sukuna were confirmed to be but a lie in that moment. as your gazes meet, you can now easily interpret what that look in those red eyes meant.

‘know your place,’

that’s what it means. you’re foolish, dumb. you take a deep breath to compose yourself after you’ve been made out to be a total fool. you should’ve listened to those warnings, you should’ve known that you were getting played.

this is exactly what sukuna desired to achieve. to build up your trust, to make you comfortable enough with him, to think you’re special and that he won’t need any other woman other than you — just to shatter your pathetic delusions when the time comes.

“tsk tsk. no need to look at me like that,” sukuna scoffs, a mocking laugh leaving his lips. he can hear a small voice in the back of his head telling him to shut up and let you go, to not make it worse, but who is he to listen to that irrelevant thought? he can decide for himself.

“y’ weren’t around, so the other concubines simply did their job by serving me,” he stares the other way, seemingly not interested by your presence anymore. his face is as expressionless as ever, “what do y’ think i keep them ‘round for, brat? for decoration purposes? hah, nah.”

another loud mocking laugh makes you nearly burst out in tears. you don’t know if it’s in anger or sadness. you take a deep, shaky breath for the last time. you unclench your fists and nod, accepting the reality check you’d just gotten.

it’s a slap to the face, but it helped you get out of your delusions. the delusions that sukuna is a man capable of loving someone, even if it is just for a tiny bit. this visit confirmed that there’s not an ounce of love or appreciation in that man’s body.

“i’m glad you had fun, my lord,” you answer after a bit of silence. you bow at sukuna in an attempt to stay polite while struggling with that inner turmoil. you don’t even glance up at him anymore. you need another break already.

sukuna isn’t dumb. you may think that you’re good at hiding your emotions, but you’re not. at least not around the king of curses. he’s spent enough time around you to realise that you’re going through a lot right now.

he’s the reason for it, yet he cannot bring himself to feel an ounce of empathy. he just looks at you with a blank stare, thinking that this is for the best.

“good night then,” you add and turn around to walk out of sukuna’s room. your steps are slow as you secretly hope to be called back, like sukuna would do every time you’d leave his room after an intimate night. you just want him to tell you that this was a test of some sort—a cruel joke.

you want to feel like his favorite again. you don’t want to be thrown away like this. you don’t want to be on the same level as all the other concubines. you want to stand out to him.

unfortunately, you don’t hear sukuna’s voice anymore. he lets you walk away without a care in the world. the heavy doors of his chambers close behind you and you feel your knees buckle. “fuck,” you cuss to yourself and clench your chest.

you lean back against the closed doors and try to regain your composure. crying can be done when you’re in your room—not in the hallway where anyone could catch you. you don’t want to give the other concubines more reason to bully you.

you drag your feet across the wooden flooring. all those times with sukuna, all those slight glimpses of his soft side that only you’re allowed to see— all of that is thrown into the trash.

you really shouldn’t have gotten so attached to him on an emotional level.

meanwhile, sukuna is silently sitting on his bed, thinking back to what just happened. he usually never doubts his decisions, but this is an exception. why couldn’t he just tell you the truth?

his mouth had moved before he could let his mind process all that he was feeling. a small part of him regrets it, though strangely, he couldn’t feel any real sympathy for your situation.

sukuna drapes an arm over his eyes, clicking his tongue at himself. he just wants to let the situation go, though his brain isn’t letting him to. the image of you standing at the edge of his bed, clearly hurt by his actions, flashes through his mind again.

he sighs. he’s sure that he’s going to forget about you soon enough. he needed an excuse to get rid of you for the sake of regaining control over his own being and he took the chance. he should be glad that he did—it meant that he’d be his usual self—with no weaknesses to look out for.

sukuna blows out another cloud of smoke through his mouth. as much as he’s proud of himself for not giving in to you, he can’t help but let his thoughts wander again. you’re probably crying in your room. he knows you’re sensitive. you would always cry about the smallest of things and he’d hold you (feigning reluctance) until you’ve calmed down.

he can’t do that now.

well, he can, but he won’t. sukuna has made his decision today: it’s power and status over you. that’s what it’s always been. you were but a toy he used to get a stronger grip on himself.

perhaps he simply is what people make him out to be; a monster. nothing more, nothing less.

[foldingfittedsheets]

I’ve been fired exactly once in my life. In my early twenties I was working at a pizza place. The pizzas were artisanal, thin crust and personal. They’re a huge chain now but when I first started the company was in its infancy. It was the wild west of management, and the core investors would frequently stop by to check on things. One of these people was this round little man with rage issues. A knock off Danny Devito with no charisma at all.

His favorite thing to do was to come in on a Friday or Saturday night. We'd be at our stations: taking orders, making pizza, manning the oven, finishing orders off, running the cash register. He'd shove his way onto the line and start rearranging people. "You, get off orders and work the cash register, you come over and make the pizzas!" With a line of customers snaking out the door he'd throw off all our grooves and rattle us.

Then, inevitably, a mistake would happen.

When it did he'd call the person over and say, "Hey c'mere. You're fired." Just like that. No inflection, just a flat "You're fired." It was absolutely a power kink, and because of his involvement the average turn over was three months. You were a veteran at five months.

One night there was only three of us manning the front. I took an order than went to the cash register to ring them out before I made the pizza. This horrible man watched that then called me into the back. I didn't know if I was about to be fired. But I wasn't. In fact, he had one other move besides firing people. He yelled.

In the back he absolutely lost his mind screaming at me for being on the cash register. I'm talking veins popping, spit flying, red with rage, this man just started bellowing nonsensically about where I should be and how I was just such a failure. It was truly like his brain had shut off, nothing he was saying even made sense. I stood there in the face of this tirade for a minute and then set a record for being the first person to ever cut him short by bursting into tears.

He instantly stopped yelling and it was like Jekyll and Hyde. He was remorseful and consoling, deeply embarrassed by my display of emotion. All my male coworkers just took the abuse but faced with my weeping he about faced and instantly backed off. I went outside to cry and when I came back in he pretended it had never happened.

That was the state of things. The investors knew they desperately needed to keep this man out of the stores, but they couldn't just give him the boot. They needed to move him aside and fill his position with someone. The store manager was this lovely woman who had hired me on the spot at my interview. The entire staff adored her. She was the best fit to get this roided out investor out of the stores for good.

Her replacement was this man called Anthony. He was instantly loathed by the entire staff. Condescending, critical, and lazy he started off his reign by letting go a core lead who "back talked." He spent a whole morning berating the opening crew because the closing crew (who had sold 100 more pizzas than we were even supposed to have on hand) had forgotten to windex the doors. He left the entire crew to close without him while he flirted with a girl who wasn't his pregnant girlfriend. He hired his roommate to replace the lead he fired and even that guy hated his guts.

Our antipathy toward him made him paranoid and resentful and one by one he started finding excuses to fire the whole staff, certain that if he could clean house he'd be able to do the job. My time came, and he sat me down with his boss, my former manager. She cried as he announced I wasn't personable enough and used too many pepperonis.

I looked at her, the woman who had trained me on how many pepperoni to use, but she said nothing. What could she say? He was the boss now and had determined I was going to be let go regardless. Too many in this case was seven. Seven pepperonis on a personal pizza. The correct number was five according to him, which is one pepperoni per slice, and one in the middle.

I sat there for a moment, taking it in. I smiled at my old manager, obviously miserable. I looked back at him and said, "You're a terrible manager, you're doing the worst imaginable job." I outlined some of the things he'd done so she could hear them, then I stood up and left. I made it to the back room before I started crying.

I found out later through a bus boy that he replaced the whole staff with college kids who had such limited availability that the store couldn't run, then quit three months later leaving the whole place in shambles. Most of the old staff returned, but I'd moved onto the sex shop already and was enjoying a job with significantly less risk of being fired on a whim.

However I do have to disclose on job applications if I've ever been fired. I always says yes and list the reason as, "Excessive use of pepperoni." It has never failed to get a laugh from my interviewer.

[tojisun]

i want simon to love you so strongly, he doesn't even know what exactly it is he's feeling.

it is so intense, he cannot even sleep nor eat nor sit in silence anymore. you plague his thoughts day in and day out, filling every second of his day with this vitriolic turmoil.

the first time he realized it was not a passing feeling, simon felt the desire to...lash out, somehow. to get angry. to come to you and snarl questions—what have you done to me?—because he knows that this wouldn't have happened if he never met you. if your paths just never crossed.

if simon was just never interested.

he should have known, then, that his fleeting interest would turn into something bigger than he is, twisting into something that he cannot manage because simon has always been quick to get addicted to many things—ferocious in his hunger, gums twitching with need.

simon still does not know how to take everything in moderation so he’s turned to snuffing out his desires; to containing them until they sit there, buried underneath his ribs and flesh.

but this one with you cannot be buried. it cannot be ignored. it grows every single day, swelling with fangs and tearing into his veins—he bleeds for you, every morning that he climbs from the depths of his raging restlessness—until he is left feeling lost. untethered.

so tell him: what have you done to him?

(the words do not even get to fully leave his mouth, not with his emotions bubbling into strings that pull at him.

next thing he knows is that he has pushed you against the wall, and claimed your lips in a feverish kiss.

simon devours the sounds you make—every hiccupped breath, every gasped out mewl, every stutter of his name. he devours it all because it is all he can gulp from you for now; the sweetness of your passion weaves with his own, and he is dizzy with his affections.

you don't tell him to stop, instead, you beg him for more; crystals of your tears cling to your lashes, and simon is in awe of how much softer you are compared to him. how tender you truly are, all putty in his arms, sniffling with your uncontainable pleasure. with your own raging feelings.

simon feels seen, like this with you. he feels understood.)

[tender-rosiey]

How do you think sukuna would act with a baby girl?? The same as his son? Maybe a bit more soft since he reminds him of reader?

troublesome — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: i have something else in store for geto <3

sukuna never planned on becoming a parent, but then you became pregnant. he had two choices: kill the kid from now or let you give birth to it.

he spent a good couple of days deciding on what to do, until he finally made his mind and headed to your room, swiftly. there you were in all your glory, eyes snapping to your husband the moment he entered.

you smiled, standing up, “hey, sukuna.” then walked to him and placed a small kiss on his cheek.

he, however, said nothing and simply kept staring you down then he said a simple phrase, “the kid.”

your eyes widened, your thoughts jumbled, and your nerves were all over the place. still, you manage to get out a response, “what about it?”

he stayed silent, and it drove you over the edge. you needed him to say something—anything. will he let you have it, or will he kill it? he was never fond of kids, always killed them first in his raids. will your own child with him bear the same fate as the others he had slaughtered and even eaten?

is this a joke from the universe? you married the king of curses, and, therefore, your punishment is never getting to experience the joy of having kids? but even if he does end up choosing wanting to kill it, how will he—

“I will let you keep it.”

you never thought a simple sentence would induce so much happiness in you. you cup his face and  start showering him in kisses, and you unceasingly thank him, “thank you, sukuna! thank you so much!”

he grunts, hand resting on your waist, “just don’t cause me trouble, and it better be a boy.” he takes hold of your chin and makes you lock eyes with him, “I don’t want a whiny, slimy little girl.”

and because the world loves him so much, he was indeed graced with a whiny, slimy little girl.

the moment the woman announced that it’s a girl, your face paled, and your husband’s frown could’ve never been deeper. his eyes traced every action that happened from the cleaning of the baby to the little girl being nestled cozily in your arms.

she starts calming down when she feels the warmth of your skin against her own. slowly, her breathing evens out, and she falls into a deep slumber.

the servants rush out of the room, leaving you, your husband, and your newborn daughter.

you don’t know what to do: do you speak first or do you wait for him to do it? you keep searching his face for any positive emotion, something that would give you hope and make you forget about his sharp scowl.

he puts a hand out and orders, “hand her to me.”

your heart fell to your stomach. there’s nothing you could do. whatever he decided on was what will happen. you desperately wanted to hold her for a bit longer and to feel her comforting weight in your arms.

though, your husband got impatient, eyes sharply looking you in the eyes, and he glowered, “y/n.”

despite your heart screaming and trying to resist ever letting him touch a single hair on your baby, you shakily put her in his hand. she starts huffing, puffing, and squirming in his hold. fearing the worst, you squeezed your eyes shut.

you simply won’t be able to take witnessing your daughter’s slaughter with your very own eyes.

you expect to hear a slash, a little thud, but you’re met with nothing, just a groan from your husband as he mutters, “she is small.”

you blink owlishly then stare at him. he is slowly raising and lowering the hand—an attempt to rock her maybe—that has your baby in it. then, he situates her against his chest.

he looks up to you and states, “she is also ugly.”

frowning, you retort, “that’s because of your genes.”

your husband quirks an eyebrow, “you’re balantly insulting me even after I spared it?”

“her.”

“same difference.”

sukuna shuffles until he is seated beside you and silently pulls you into his embrace.

you just took notice of how he is trying to avoid touching her with his nails and how his hold on her is rather gentle. the little girl lets out a small sigh then snuggles into his chest. her dad copies her with a sigh of his own then he grunts, “not a single word.”

a small giddy giggle escapes you, and you nuzzle into his chest in turn. he squeezes you lightly, before scoffing, “or a sound.”

later on that day, after you were transferred into the master bedroom along with your daughter, you’re left to rest in the expansive bed with your daughter napping in the crib right under the window.

you thought the light might give her some sort of comfort—call it a mother’s instinct. you wanted her to grow up in the light, not to be sheltered and hidden in shadows. who knows if these shadows will devour whole or not.

but you will try your best to provide her with a normal life.

as you start to drift off to sleep, you take note of a large figure standing in front of the window. he is blocking the light from sky—at least the one from the window above her crib. quickly, you are able to define its features and identify that it’s—thank god—your husband.

he has this sort of contemplating look on his face, a solemn look, maybe a bit troubled too. he keeps staring at the sleeping baby as she takes small and slow breaths.

she is fragile, he knows. he also knows that a flick of his finger will end her right then and there.

but he finds his hand only capable of gently caressing her cheek, and a wave of shock is sent through him when his daughter leans toward his touch. his daughter. he heaves a sigh and a frown is etched onto his face.

this is going to be a troublesome journey.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader 18+ mdni, these two and their usual kinks, mention/discussion of pregnancy, Simon in his BDU so... you know.

You have a stage five clinger.

That's the only way to describe Simon lately. He's your shadow. The only time he separates himself from you is to take care of the baby, and even then, he's usually always in sight line.

Most people would feel smothered. Annoyed. Fed up, probably. You would have too, with past partners. But for some reason, with him, the irritation doesn't exist. He's working through something in his mind. Repairing something. Healing something. Even though the day in the hospital is long buried, you know it still sticks with him, the evidence clear in the way he still treads carefully, still handles you gently in bed.

The attention, the devotion, doesn't bother you. The need to reassure him drives you into his arms as often as possible, and when he holds on longer than usual, you never pull away.

The last day in your apartment is bittersweet. Mostly packed up, only the skeleton remains, a shell of what was once your home. You expected to feel sad, mournful, as you sweep up the dust in the living room, but your emotions are conflicted, a turbulent sea of satisfaction and already growing nostalgia. You're ready to turn the tide, move forward, while still appreciating the place you became a mother.

You're grateful to Gaz and Cami for taking Orion all day. They're at home, no doubt spoiling him rotten, while you try to wrangle dust bunnies and cleaning the oven. You get lost in the chore of trying to clean up, distracted enough you don't hear the door click.

When heavy footsteps sound in the entryway, you turn.

And lose your breath.

He's in the uniform again. The more formal one, the one that Price makes him wear for meetings. It fits him like a glove, snug in all the right places, and there's no denying what it does to you.

You're already wet. Just staring at him.

He smirks. "Alright?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm just... I'm almost done." You gesture uselessly around the kitchen, half pointing to the oven door, eyes still trained on him, sweeping up and down, over and over.

He steps closer, head cocked, leaning into your space just enough your body instinctively closes the gap. "See something you like honey?"

"Y-yeah."

"Gon' tell me what it is?"

"You look good, in the uniform." You clear your throat. "I... I like it." Your hand unfurls, palm flat, and he tugs on it, folding it over the hard bulge in his pants.

One moment, you're looking up at him and the next you're being spun around, back to his chest, thick fingers plunging into the waistband to tug your panties aside. He groans, stroking over your clit. "You're bloody soaked f'me."

"For you." Is all you can manage, voice twisted into a whisper, and he rips your pants down to your feet, lifting them out to kick your legs wide.

"Hands on the counter," he presses you forward until you're nearly at ninety degrees, cool air ghosting over where you're exposed, slick and swollen. "There we go, jus' like that." He grips fistfuls of your hips, your ass, and then tugs at his zipper, its echo instinctively rising you up onto your toes. He's still in his uniform, completely dressed, and you stare at him over your shoulder, legs trembling, soaking it in. You think you might be drooling. Blunt pressure notches at your pussy, the crown of his cock working its way forward before he slams the rest in, your scream pinging through the empty flat. "Fuck."

"Simon- ah,"

"I know, sweet girl, I know. You can take it, pussy looks so good stretched around me." He's teasing, in control though the clench of his jaw hissing through his teeth is clear, hips snapping over and over, rocking inside you. His lips graze your temple, breath hot on your cheek. "I want you to stop taking your birth control." You shudder, clenching around him. "We're ready, mama. You're ready. Let's," He shoves deep, deep enough you turn to liquid, body bending to accommodate, "have another baby." The rough fabric of his uniform pants scrape against your ass, brush and burn delicious with a bite, and you moan.

The mind has a funny way of erasing the memories of birth. Oxytocin is a finicky trick, the halo effect obliterating trauma and replacing it with joy. You can't say no. You don't want to say no, and the idea giving Orion a sibling, holding another sweet, squirmy baby in your arms, one with Simon's eyes, detonates in your heart, flutters spreading all the way through to your fingers and toes. Your spine arches, hips flexing back towards his own, and he chuckles-

before pulling out and flipping you over, hoisting you up onto the counter with your legs wrapped around his waist. Your eyes roll backwards as he slides home again, pinching your jaw between thumb and forefinger. He looks at you expectantly. Waiting.

The agreement sears on your tongue, incendiary heat forcing its way through your lips. "O-Okay."

"Say it." He thrusts, rubbing your clit at the same time, rolling you close to the edge. "Say yes daddy like a good girl."

"Yes, daddy." His nose touches yours. For a moment, you're both suspended, pupils dilated, sharing the same breath, the same DNA, the same blood. He slows down, and you squirm. "No, no don't stop- p-please-"

"'Say yes daddy, I want another baby' and I'll make you come mama. Tell me." He licks your cheek. You're barely hanging on, holding the front of his uniform. He teases your clit again, working it slowly, and you whine.

"Yes daddy, I want... I want another baby." It's enough. Enough for a dark glint to spark across his eyes, the same glimmer you see from time to time, the possession, the instinct, deep rooted desires.

It sends you into orbit, head tipping back, his teeth on your neck, the two of you coming together and riding through the wave until it's over, and he tucks you into his chest, cock still seated deep.

"I love you." He murmurs. "I'm gonna take care of you this time. I'm gonna be here." You don't ask about the what ifs, what will happen when he's away, what if he misses it. You just bask in the warmth of the moment, and sigh.

"I love you too."

[dragonsholygrail]

Proper Appreciation

It had started innocently enough. You were lounging around and admiring your Dragon Hybrid Husband as he hovered over the fire in your shared den, preparing a meal for the two of you. Always so happy to provide for you and take care of you. To make sure you were eating enough and happier than you could’ve ever dreamed.

You almost couldn’t believe it. This dragon was your mate. He was yours as much as you’re his. Emotion wells up inside your chest, gratitude and affection blossoming within you as you stare at your husband. A husband who is totally unaware of your current oogling or the hearts currently present in your eyes.

Now, now, that just wouldn’t do. Is a mate truly at their happiest unless they know how utterly loved and adored they are? You think not.

Throughout your relationship with your Dragon husband, it’s been revealed that there are many differences between the ways that humans and dragons show their affection for another. You sneakily glide up to your husband and give his ass an appreciative slap, but it’s not until he whirls around, staring at you as if you’ve lost your mind do you wonder if dragons have this sign of affection or not.

“Mind telling me what that was?” Dragon husband asks, his face aghast. Even as he shivers at the echos of the sting left on his bottom. A blush creeps up on your cheeks as you scramble to explain.

“I thought you looked hot.”

“And that’s how you think to tell me? Is this another human custom I have yet to learn?” He saunters over to you, walking around the fireplace like a predator cornering their prey. The dinner he was making now long forgotten.

Heat blooms in your belly as fierce as a dragon while you gush with arousal. One look at your Dragon Husband and you’re absolutely fucking soaked.

“Kind of,” you say, your voice sounding breathier than you expected. Your husband’s eyes flash with a deep simmering lust. The fire inside him sparks to life and you know you’re toast.

“And is that how a human male show his appreciation for his mate in return?” He rasps.

He scoops your plump form into his arms with ease and before you can even manage to hold on he’s plopping you down on the pile of furs that make up your bed.

He throws your body around like it’s nothing, flipping you over onto your belly and jerking your ass high up in the air. And you swear you’ve never been so desperate. You know he can see your glistening folds by his low growls, your arousal dripping down your thick thighs and onto the chains of gold he adorns you with.

You startle when you feel his hands cup your bottom, pulling the cheeks a part to make room for his big aching tip. You can feel how affected he is by this too as he smears his pre-cum into your slick, mixing them together and teasing you. Clearly waiting for your answer.

“Yes! F-fuck, yes they do,” you whine, rocking back into his cock and trying to take him inside you.

Just as eager as you are, your Dragon Husband slams into your wet scorching heat in one solid stroke. His hips slapping against your ass at the same moment his hand does. You release a pitiful scream, full of need. A need for more.

His hips move in a blur, pumping into your fat cunt at a brutal pace, spurned on by the act of spanking you. It drives you just as wild as you rock back, meeting his every hard thrust.

Obscene noises of pleasure fill the room as he fucks you like a beast unchained. The loud squelch of his massive length stuffing you full meets the loud ringing of his hand meeting your ass. Your toes curl as the delicious sting mixes with the waves of ecstasy that course through you with every jerk of his hips.

“Please, baby, please h-harder!” You beg, tears pricking at your eyes.

Your husband lets out a low hiss, his hand swinging down and delivering a hard smack on your ass. Your body surges forward at the force and you moan, body arching. The invitation more than clear.

“As you wish. My mate needs to know the true depth of my appreciation after all.”

With a renewed vigor, your husband picks up his back, pounding into your gummy walls with in-human stamina. His hands delivering blows in equal measure and his claws only adding to the sensation as they prick and tease at your skin with each smack.

The mix of pain and pleasure has the pressure in your belly growing tighter and tighter till you can’t take it anymore. The cord snaps and you don’t recognize the mewl that comes out of you as you cum so hard on his cock you see stars.

Your body shakes with the force of your orgasm and you lose all feeling besides the pleasure washing over you. You lay limp as your husband works you through the best release of your life. He cums deep inside your pussy with a roar that shakes your entire den.

The strength of his climax takes as much out of him as it did you as his tall form curls around you. Keeping his cock inside you to the hilt. Not wanting to put too much pressure on your red sore bottom.

Though He can’t stop himself from giving it a little squeeze, relishing the way you hiss and clench around his cock. His mouth hovers over your ear and his hot breath sends goosebumps down your arms.

“Think you got the message, mate?” He growls, giving your bottom one final little slap.