#he was sick and he was still creating!! he never stopped!! he should be so proud of himself but he's not :(

[dykephan]

this is just a stream of consciousness please don't take anything serious from this... but it makes me so fucking sad that phil still isn't proud of the things he did during dan's hiatus. he still thinks of himself as a babysitter, he thinks of his work from this time as filler content, meaningless and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. it makes me feel insane!! no, i won't argue that this content was groundbreaking or the highlight of his career, but it was comforting and safe - not because he ignored the real world or the struggles he was facing, but because he was honest about his feelings. he made the best of a tough situation and pushed through the limitations being placed on him. he was going through it with health problems and anxiety on top of the normal amount of covid stress and the steady decline of youtube's popularity and his videos only got the most views when they contained a tiny tiny glimpse of dan. how demoralizing that must have felt, to already be feeling scared about how he'll proceed without being Dan and Phil™ and then seeing the justification for that fear manifesting in real time. and then to not even be able to turn that time period into something tangible and real like we're all doomed represented for dan, something that helped dan get closure over a transitional time period and gave him something to look back on to remember it.... it kind of breaks my heart that phil never got to have that catharsis. knowing he had ideas that never came to fruition, that all the work he did create in this time period will forever be seen as "the hiatus" even though phil was working hard the whole time trying to make us happy and give us what we want. to get up on that stage at tit and tell everyone how scared and lost he felt, only for the whole chat to still just be talking about dan. idk. man. idk. there's a time and place.

[a-b-riddle]

Part Four

Can't stop thinking about reader losing her cool.

"So we're closed, John." You said, trying to be cordial.

"Is that all you have to fucking say?" He practically growled before huffing. A humorless chuckle rumbling out of his chest. "I suppose not since you won't respond to any of us."

"Don't do that." You said taking a step back. Trying to create some distance between you and him. John would never physically hurt you. That much you knew.

"What?" He asked. His voice rising as he stepped closer to you. "Be angry that you pulled that shit and then left? Stopped talking to us. Changed your fucking locks. Last thing we even knew about you was that you got on a fucking plane and left. Even your friends wouldn't tell us anything besides that you were okay." "Which considering this came out of bloody nowhere, I find it highly unlikely that you are in any way 'okay'."

You took a deep breath. You wouldn't be intimidated. You wouldn't clam up. You wouldn't cry. You won't go back on your decision. You will be cordial and polite and not unleash everything you want to.

"I understand you might be upset, but it's for the best. It wasn't working out and I wanted to end on somewhat good terms. I would appreciate it if you lowered your voice and stopped speaking to me in that way." You could barely recognize your voice. It sounded so scripted. So robotic. But it was something you had been telling yourself. Excuses you had been telling yourself.

Because if you told yourself the truth. The picture you would paint would tell a different story. It wouldn't highlight the fact that John spoke to you like he was one of your men or that Johnny had the emotional capacity of a teaspoon. It wouldn't show what a flake Kyle was or that Simon was well and truly a mean-spirited person.

It would show how you weren't worth it. Four possible men. Four possibilities of happily ever after and none of them chose you. That no one ever did and no one ever would. You weren't worth it. You weren't loveable.

It wasn't right, but it was what the voices had been telling you late in the night. When you would crawl into your cold bed. The silence of the room not filled with John's steady breathing or the sound of Kyle's heartbeat as you laid you head on his chest. The absence of Johnny's occasional snoring or whatever Simon was watching playing in the background of your dreams.

In the void, all your dark thoughts came back at you.

"Upset?" He asked, his voice still louder than you would have liked. "An understatement considering the stunt you pulled."

"You think it was a stunt?"

"So Johnny thought with his dick and didn't plan things out. You should have told him instead of crying to Simon and then pulling this shit." "Christ, I knew you were still young, but I didn't take you for that immature."

"You know what?" "I'm done." "I am so fucking sick of making excuses for you all." "You want to act like I'm the immature one, John?" "You are 35-year-old man who cannot separate his work from his work like. You have continuously talked to and down to me like I am one of your men, only to turn around and always blame your shitty fucking attitude on work. I get that your job is stressful, but I did not sign up to be your verbal fucking punching bag."

"And this come and fucking go incident with Johnny. It has been a consistent issue with him coming over just to fuck. I've asked him for that last six months that 'hey, we've been seeing each other for a year and a half, I would love to meet your family' and suddenly the dates stop. He doesn't ask to see me until after 7 PM. He brings food occasionally, fucks me and leaves. Sometimes before I even wake up."

"And the only reason Kyle is the person I am the least pissed off with is because I haven't even seen him." You took a step closer, not noticing how the anger in John's eyes had softened. "I have not seen Kyle in weeks, to no fault of my own. I stopped reaching out to make dinner plans after the third time he canceled on a date night when I was either on my way or already at the restaurant."

"And Simon?" You scoffed. "Well, it doesn't really matter. After all, as he said I get mine. You all make me cum which is supposed to magically erase how shitty you've all been as partners. It's supposed to erase the nights I've cried myself to sleep debating on whether or not there was something wrong with me. How I'm not good enough to meet anyone else in your lives like some dirty fucking secret. How none of you can even bother to pencil me for a group dinner so I can tell you a publishing house picked up my book. How at some point you all stopped caring or maybe never did."

You took a breath. Blinking quickly to keep the tears at bay.

You wouldn't cry. You wouldn't cry.

"As Simon said it best, I should have known that spreading my legs wouldn’t end with one of you putting a ring on your finger.”

For once, John was silent. Unsure of what to say. An apology starting to form at the tip of his tongue before realizing 'sorry' wouldn't cut it. Not this time.

Had he really been that sharp with you? He knew that there were times he had gotten short, but he almost always apologized immediately after. If not at the very moment he took in your crest-fallen face, then definitely later. But he almost always told you he was sorry. Didn't he?

"So as I said," you swallowed down the lump in your throat. "I'm closed. We're done. Now get out." Your face held no sadness. Even though your eyes were nearly full to the brim with unshed tears, you weren't sad.

You were finally angry.

[apppletea]

die your daughter.

act one.

sipnosis: Your own desires were alien to your family, to the point where you are determined to commit an atrocious act but suddenly everything is 7 years ago when you were only 13 years old. Something has changed and you're not sure what it is.

w ; suicide, self-harm.

Your whole life was in her hands, in the hands of that woman and now in the hands of this family who didn't give a shit about you! So how should you react when you returned to your fresh 13 years? Should you have just been happy and cried? No, never.

Your room had become a mess, a mess worse than that family, the furniture thrown over next to the books, the posters you once loved torn and ripped, the trophies you earned with great effort lying near some wall due to the blows you gave them.

How? HOW THE FUCK?!

Soon you felt tears of pure helplessness fall on your cheeks, you looked at the plushies on your bed, they were all obligatory gifts, nothing was genuine, nothing at all! So what? Now what? What should you do? It was probably a horrible, terrible nightmare. No, it shouldn't have happened. You brought your hands to your neck hoping to finish again, hoping to choke on your saliva, you pushed harder and harder until the sudden click of the door sounded.

Alfred entered, worried or not really due to the commotion that sounded in your walls, his gaze fixed on your suicide attempt and quickly sprang into action, approaching you and holding your hands, while you caught your breath and tears wet everything.

‘young master...!!’ The adult's worried voice brought you to your senses for a moment. This was really real. It wasn't a lie, it wasn't a cruel nightmare. You had returned to that prison.

You sobbed, moans of pain leaving your mouth as you still struggled to catch your breath, Alfred stayed by your side, holding your hands to prevent you from trying again, He'd never seen you like this before, never thought you were capable of doing something like that, and the more he thought about it, the more terrified he became. What if you had a gun? A knife? Oh, He would never forgive himself for that.

Your eyes were too watery to see clearly, your gaze fixed on the now open door, the whole mansion was silent, but to you, they were like whispers, whispers that never left.

‘ugh—!... i feel sick.’ You murmured softly, abruptly removing your hands and seeking comfort within yourself, hugging yourself and hoping nothing more would happen but it didn't last, really nothing. You felt a gaze, a gaze that you could recognize from a distance, it was him, you looked up to find him watching the scene you created.

Alfred looked at him and simply looked away for a moment before greeting him properly. ‘master Damian.’ He said with a calm voice, the situation was serious but he... He was he.

You felt your body tremble and you could feel the anger that you had held in for 7 years, you didn't know what you were doing and you couldn't think clearly either, you only knew one thing, you hit Damian.

Alfred stood still like a statue, he knew you were in a vulnerable state but he didn't recognize that you could easily break at the sight of your family or at least, your brother.

‘wha— what's wrong with you?!’ He screamed but that scream you hated to hear because you knew he was ready to despise you, you grabbed another trophy to throw it at him but Alfred intervened, this time he took your side, he never did.

‘master damian! Please, stop. She's in serious condition.’ Alfred quickly justified it, Damian remained silent and looked at you again, this time realizing how you were and how the room was a mess. ‘So what? She thinks can throw a tantrum? Definitely not.’

‘shut up—!’

‘what?’

‘SHUT UP! I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!!’

‘You—? oh.’

He remained completely silent as you writhed in the shadows that embraced you, shadows that never left you alone and perhaps you should have been grateful to them for not going completely crazy.

Alfred sighed, his eyebrows furrowed and he gave Damian a little push to leave the room, he left, still looking at you with an expression of confusion and deep pain that tried to disguise. Your words echoed completely in his vivid memory, his hands buried themselves in his hair as he gripped it with great force while his back slid against the wall next to your door. ‘UGH!—’

How can you hate him? How?— Aren't you that little girl who entered the mansion and tried everything to get close to him? Your older brother? What changed? What happened? What, what?! He couldn't allow himself to fall apart just because of that, he shouldn't let your words get to him, maybe you only said it because you were angry, yes, surely. He shouldn't have broken just because of that, he's... a well-trained boy, Talia al Ghul's son, he can't, no... So why does frustration fill every part of his being?

You felt like your eyes were exploding, they hurt, and so was your head, or rather, your whole body hurt, even your arms with scratches and cuts, your cheek with a scar that you got without thinking. All of this was real, it was real that Alfred took your side for the first time, it was real how Damian reacted quickly to your pitch, It was real like your room was the same, the pain was real, everything was real, so so real that you still couldn't believe it.

Alfred carefully pressed the wounds, slowly wrapping your arms with bandages. You weren't someone sensitive, not after what you went through in what is now your old life. You had had an insensitivity to pain, with all the wounds you got through your life, all your skin couldn't feel it properly and maybe it was an advantage, you never felt each wound again.

Still, you felt less human. If you couldn't feel pain, what were you then? A punching bag for those kids at your school? For your family? Maybe.

The older man's voice brought you out of your thoughts and you looked at him momentarily before looking down and losing yourself in the ocean of feelings you felt. He sighs again and leaves the room without being able to say anything, how could he anyway? They had neglected you so much that you were about to end your own life, he should tell the lord of the mansion but he can't, he doesn't know why but no, he can't.

Night had finally arrived, you knew everyone would leave, where to? You couldn't say, it was always a mystery but it was an opportunity not to escape, but to study the mansion and everyone, although in your old life you had allowed yourself to remember everything about each other, now they were just distant memories that were no longer in your head.

You didn't know where Alfred had gone but you didn't care, that didn't matter anymore so you barely heard the last one of them leave, You opened the door to your room and walked out silently. You were already dressed in your pajamas, ready to sleep, but today wasn't the time to sleep when everyone was awake too.

You looked around and walked carefully, going down to the main room and looking around again until you noticed something strange, maybe the mansion wasn't completely empty. Your gaze focused on the feet dangling from the armrests, large feet. ‘damn...’ You murmured as you noticed who it surely was, you approached trying not to be so noticeable but perhaps you knew that wouldn't work at all.

The figure was larger, of an adult, Jason.

The oldest brother, The resurrected one, the Robin, or whatever, you also temporarily sought his attention and affection but like everyone else, he was too busy to think about you. He was clearer with you, he made it clear that he didn't want you around even when you were determined to read all the books someone recommended just to keep you quiet.

Sigh... You looked closer and he was just sleeping with a book on his damn face, maybe it was a trick, you couldn't tell, you must have walked past and not paid attention but the air was cold or at least for you. You noticed that he was in his usual clothes,, you looked at him a little longer and simply placed a blanket over him and left, following your mission.

...

Silence, that was all, you had passed through a corridor so long that you felt it would never end. You had realized why, it was a corridor or hallway with all the family portraits, from the first Robin to the last, except you were the last and you had given up on the idea of being Robin. That's why yours was different, not with the idea of being special, it was the idea of seeing yourself as cool as all your siblings, so intimidating but at the same time with an aura of calm.

You loved your portrait, even as the years passed, you always admired yourself as a child, for your love of weapons even though one almost killed you. You, being the little 8-year-old with one of those long guns posing and holding it at the same time, loved your past self, brave, strong, and capable of doing anything. You are now a shadow of what you once were, and you didn't dislike it at all now.

And now, in that moment, it was just you and the shadows hiding in the darkness of this mansion.

new chapter yayy, excuse my inactivity !

I tried to focus a lot on the reader's reaction to having returned to that life again, it's like, I feel like she has to have some kind of anger because she ended her life because she didn't want to LIVE in that house and now shes back.

I have also seen in many fanfics that the reader first wanted the attention of the oldest brother, Dick, and wanted to change that because this reader is the youngest in the family and she wanted the attention and affection of Damian, her older brother.

and thats all... btw I'll be making the taglist soon, if you want to be added, please comment and make sure your settings allow it!

have a good day (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠).

[namelessgakusei]

Mada Dame Yo

Mark Grayson x reader

Warnings: Death, violence, use of a gendered term: wife (once)

Notes: Reader is like Homura/Subaru in this case, dying and going back in time whenever Mark becomes a killing machine. Based off my meager knowledge about Invincible. I really need to watch the show.

add. note: I knew I saw a similar idea somewhere and I finally found it again! @tunapestopasta posted an idea like this! Go check it out! :D

Noi! The Clara Dolls! (cont.)

"I dream of the morning. It's not time yet. It's not time yet. What color will the morning be? It's not time yet. It's not time yet. The night is still only half-eaten."

You don't know when it started. When Mark started acting strange. When he got his powers, his personality slowly shifted to a more... sinister one.

Sinister!Mark stood in front of what remains of your city, bloodstained teeth grinning down at your form. You were the only one spared, left to run on your own like a mouse. You were rightfully scared, who wouldn't if your boyfriend suddenly turned on the planet he was supposed to be protecting and ate its residents??

The GDA were no use either, most of them were eaten, if not, too injured to fight anymore. Earth was done for and it's all thanks to this cannibal maniac. His smirk faltered when he saw a small white creature hop to your side.

"Do you want to make a contract with me?"

You woke up in Mark's lap after that. Thinking it's merely a bad dream, you clung to him, eagerly trying to forget what you just witnessed. But this Mark, while chuckling and hugging you back, doesn't sound like your Mark. His voice... is a bit raspier.

You don't notice the ring on your middle finger.

This Mark doesn't possess any powers, but that didn't stopped him from being a daredevil. Since when is Mark so reckless? Sure, he still like Seance Dog and treats you like you're the most precious thing in the world, but...

His eyes look crazed.

It didn't took long for Mohawk!Mark to gain his powers after that. His new found abilities fueled his arrogance, easily creating a rift between him and the GDA. It didn't took long for him to get bored and snap.

Your "dream" repeated itself when he stood in front you, cackling and snaking his arms around your body, the blood from his suit seeping into your clothes. You feel sick. His laughter doesn't sound like the one you grew to love. Maybe he noticed that you were hyperventilating and let you go to inspect what's wrong, but you blacked out after that.

This time, you woke up inside your room. What was that?! Your fingers ghosted over your body, looking for the ghost of blood that Mark's clothes put on you. There's nothing. The world outside your window isn't destroyed. You're safe... You're always safe! Mark... Mark never hurt you!

Mark.

Where's Mark?!

Hastily grabbing your phone, you scrolled through your contacts to look for your boyfriend.

There is no Mark Grayson.

???

Suddenly, a loud crash shook the ground, making you fall face first on the floor. Is that an earthquake? You heard an explosion, is there an attack? You heard nothing for a few minutes, making you slowly get out of your room and out to the yard, but your eyes caught someone's in your backyard.

Those familiar brown eyes bore holes at your shocked form.

Mark?!

You immediately opened the back door and ran to his side. Why is he in a ship? Why did he crash land in your backyard?? Why is he wearing... that?

You don't dare ask about his new suit and just helped him inside your house, fussing over his injuries. But before you can go to get a first aid kit, he caught your arm.

"How do you know my name?"

Viltrumite!Mark was calm. There was a bit of miscalculation when he arrived at Earth but nothing that can jeopardize his mission. He is intrigued by the earthling who knew his name, who looked at him with something he can't decipher. Perhaps he should study humans more before taking action.

At first you thought that he hit his head. That he got alien amnesia or something. But the way he looks at you with such innocence, like he really doesn't know you, breaks your heart. What's going on?

You learn that he wasn't your Mark a few hours after that. He's a Mark who was taken by Nolan after Debbie gave birth to him. Oh. That explains why he doesn't know you, this Mark didn't grew up in Earth. He grew up to be a Viltrumite.

What does that make you? What about you? He's your boyfriend. He was your boyfriend. But he now isn't. He doesn't even know you.

You swallow a sob and made an incredibly foolish decision.

Maybe you could prevent Earth's destruction this time.

All you need to do it guide this Mark to see that it isn't worth it to destroy this planet. That there are many things here worth protecting for. Maybe you'll even arrange a meeting with him and his mom! Debbie's... safe here, right? Probably?

You thought you had everything under control, with him following you around like a puppy, too curious about humanity and how you teach him things. Human culture, food, entertainment, you tried making him invested in your world. He looked so cute when he figure things out and runs to you like a child waiting for praise. The first time you did, he was confused when you touched him so softly. Clearly he's unused to anything aside from the Viltrumite regime.

You thought that this time, no one has to die. Even if it hurts that everything you know isn't what it is now, you chose to ignore it, in lieu of not wanting to remember the previous Marks. You thought that this Mark will be different.

Now you realize that it's a foolish decision on your part. Earth burned, Viltrumites came to conquer, Humanity was almost eradicated, and Mark stands in front of you, with a gentle smile on his face. The same one he practiced with you to not scare other people with his scowl. The same one he wears whenever you two were together.

He kneels down and cups your cheek, a gentle gesture, like you taught him. With bloodshed around you, Mark uttered the words you both love and hate to hear.

"I love you."

You found out that you can manipulate time to an extent by the fourth Mark. This one, like Mohawk!Mark, has a few screw looses. NoGoggles/Lensless!Mark is a damn sadomasochist. He brings you up in the sky purely to see you cling to him in fear, he purposely tortures you for a reaction, and when you fight back? Oh, he's over the moon! He's begging for more, all while clinging to your leg.

He was about to kill the entirety of the GDA when you accidentally stopped time, allowing the others to escape. You don't know if it's fear of seeing your friends die again, but suddenly, your clothes changed, a small shield appeared on your arm with a gemstone on the back of your hand. Cecil didn't let you go by then, having you support the team while they fight back against Mark. Your abilities don't last forever, so they're on a time limit. But it seems like no matter what they do, they just can't seem to kill him.

He accidentally killed you when your ability ran out and time continued, you don't remember if you died from his punches or from the car that was thrown at your direction.

By the fifth Mark, you were so sick of it. You want your life back. You want your Mark back. Not the one who looks like his dad and demands that you become his wife. Omni!Mark pursued you relentlessly when you fought back with your powers. Stopping time to steal firearms, you found that you could also store items inside your shield. This could do, you'll help the GDA fight off this bastard who wears the face of your beloved.

You ended up in his arms not long after. Not in a loving embrace, he's literally squeezing the life out of you as he spats about you being ungrateful.

Your life ended with him as the last thing you saw.

The cycle continued for so long that you became desensitized. You wake up, Mark's there, Mark becomes an enemy, You fight back, you die and then you wake up again. You've seen so many variations of him, both the reasonable and unreasonable ones. Some of them were reluctant to conquer Earth, only doing it because it's too much to fight off the Viltrumite Empire. Some of them joined you in the rebellion. Some of them outright killed you for not seeing their ways.

Each and everytime, you wake up in his arms.

This version is no different. You opened your eyes and you're in Mark's room. Some of his versions doesn't even have one. Seance Dog posters are on the walls, the comic books were on his table, his bed smells like the faint memory of your original Mark.

You don't even remember him anymore.

This world's Mark is sure to be the same as the others. The harbinger of destruction. Those with eyes who look at you with so much love that it makes you sick.

The door opens and Mainstream!Mark smiles at you.

[really-fanny-longbottom]

in sickness & in silence

azriel x reader | because actions speak louder than words. words: 2.9k a/n: one year ago i created this page and never did i thought i would gain the corage to write and post my own fanfics, how crazy is that? (anyways, i'm back 😊)

masterlist

it was currently eight o'clock on a cold, white winter morning.

some inhabitants were still sleeping in their warm beds that protected them from the cold that reigned in velaris at that time, while others were already on the streets, preparing for another day of work.

azriel was one of them, one of those who was already walking through the streets, with a mission in hand.

but this mission was not like the others, in which his brother gave him instructions to travel somewhere in order to have to do something that would taint his hands or mind.

no, this mission was not guided by orders but by his heart.

the male's steps remained firm and fast as he walked towards the white house with the blue door whose porch was decorated more with flowers than with the stone of the stairs. 

the house that one day he wanted to walk towards, not to visit but to stay. 

the house that, for some reason, made his mind calm and body relax.

maybe not because of the house itself but because of the young female who lived there, the same one with green eyes and dark brown hair. 

the same one whose perfume reminded him of a peaceful spring morning, whose presence lit up a room as if she were the sun, whose shampoo reminded him of the flowers in the gardens, whose hands made the best chocolate chip cookies and whose voice was so sweet it seemed to have been made of honey. 

the same young female who burst into his life and brought with her all the colors of the world. 

azriel began to climb the hill that would lead him to his destination. how many times had he passed that hill? five? ten? thirty? a hundred? 

and still, he had never passed the front door of that white house with the blue door. 

azriel doesn't know when he lost his heart to her, but he didn't want it back anymore. what he wanted to know was why she hadn't come to the house of wind in three days.

three days and no warning—no letter, no sign, nothing.

azriel had even gone to the river house to talk to rhysand, who was busy exploring the new concept of fatherhood.

the conversation lasted only two minutes—long enough for the high lord to say that he hadn't seen you, that he didn't know anything about you, and to say that you should probably be at your house.

azriel didn't waste any time and almost immediately headed to your house.

now standing on the sidewalk in front of the said house, the male looked it up and down before opening the small wooden gate, also blue, and starting to climb the steps.

with each step he climbed, his heart skipped a beat, and another, and another.

he couldn't deny that he was frustrated for not having heard from you for three days but where there was room for frustration, there was also room for worry and fear.

and those feelings spoke louder than the previous one.

azriel stopped on the second to last step before knocking on the wooden door and taking two steps back.

the male waited, and waited until the green curtain of the front window moved to the side and. . .there you were.

something calmed the male's heart just by seeing you and he couldn't help the somersault his heart did when you smiled softly at him before disappearing into the house to come to the door, at least he hoped so.

the male took another step back, precisely a second before you opened the door just enough to peek out.

your eyes met his and for a brief moment, it was just the two of you before you broke the silence. 

“azriel? what are you-?”

“it's been three days.” azriel simply replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

you were alright and that was good, but he still didn't know why you just disappeared.

there was a hint of confusion in your eyes. whatever he was trying to say, you clearly didn't understand. 

“ahm, i. . .i don't understand.” you tilted your head slightly to the side, something you usually do subconsciously but that always provokes something in him. 

the male took a deep breath, his fists clenched at his sides with his knuckles turning white. 

“you haven't been to the house of wind for three days. you just disappeared without saying anything and that's not okay. you can't-” 

“azriel-” you opened your mouth to explain but was quickly interrupted.

“don't,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for arguing “you can't just disappear like that. if you're mad at me, then just say it. say it, scream it, hit it, anything.”  

he climbed two steps of the stone stairs, being at your eye level now, “do whatever you want but not this. don't disappear on me without a word.” 

you stared into his hazel eyes for a moment—a moment of silence and contemplation.

his reaction took you by surprise, you had never seen him react like that about anyone—not even his brothers. 

you couldn't ignore the confusion you felt from his words but you could feel his worry and fear. 

you waited a few more seconds until you were sure that the male in front of you was calmer and there were no signs of him interrupting you again.

“azriel,” you said calmly with a small hint of a smile in the corners of your lips “i'm not mad at you or avoiding you.” 

the male, stubborn as always, crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. his way of saying he was waiting for an explanation and that he wasn't leaving without one.

you let out a small, almost imperceptible chuckle and shook your head.

this male was unbelievable.

“i'm sick,” you said, looking at him and seeing his broody expression falter a little.

“. . .what?” he asked quietly.

his answer made you smile and you couldn't help the laugh that followed or the coughing fit as a result of the laugh.

“i caught the flu a few days ago but i sent a letter to rhys to inform him.” you explained.

azriel's eyebrows furrowed in the middle of his forehead. this information was unknown to him—why hadn't rhys told him when he went to his house to ask for you? 

“you're sick?”

you opened the door and stepped forward to reveal your appearance.

your hair was tied up in a nearly undone braid, you were wearing white polar pajamas with brown teddy bears and a red blanket was over your shoulders. 

there were dark circles under your eyes and your nose was slightly red. 

his eyes softened and the male found himself fighting a smile that wanted to form on his lips.

his worry vanished and was immediately replaced by a sense of protection and caring.

even though you were sick, you looked beautiful and especially adorable in your teddy bear pajamas. 

azriel couldn't hold it in and let out a chuckle, “you look adorable in those pajamas.”

a blush began to form on your cheeks, leaving you slightly flushed but you were quick enough to blame the cold for it. 

as you cleared your throat, you wrapped the blanket tighter around you, your only barrier against the cold of the street “you can let rhys know that i'm better but it will take me a few more days to return to work.” 

azriel climbed the last steps, his figure now towering over you.

you tilted your head up to meet his eyes—the ones you would often get lost.

the male placed a hand on your cheek, his scars caressing your soft skin, making your heart skip a beat at the gesture as those hazel eyes studied you.

“i don't care about your work. i care about you," he said as his thumb caressed your cheek in a slow rhythm, “i'm not leaving until you get better.” 

butterflies formed in your stomach, and your skin was on fire. suddenly, you were very aware of all the sensations that were invading you and the cold was no longer one of them. 

“i. . .i’m already feeling better-” you tried to say before he interrupted you—again.

“that's not what i meant and you know it.” he looked above your head and into your hallway before his gaze returned to your face “can i come in?” he asked.

“please say yes” his begged in his mind.

the caress of his thumb made you wake up from the trance you were in and very quietly, you replied “the flu is contagious, azriel. i don't want you to-”

your sentence was interrupted—once again—by azriel's hand grabbing the back of your neck and gently pulling you forward until your body was flushed against his.

his other hand found the curve of your waist, placing it there with an open palm. 

azriel closed the distance, placing his lips on yours.

your cheeks heated up and a tingling sensation ran up your spine, making your skin even hotter. 

your blanket fell to the floor, the tips of your feet lifted slightly and your hands found a place on his arms.

your mouths moved in sync as azriel deepened the kiss, one that was gentle and tender.

the kiss lasted a few seconds, sending a silent message that azriel had no intention of leaving your side anytime soon. 

the male finished with a small peck to yours lips before pulling away, his hand on your waist gave you a soft squeeze while his other hand came to tilt your chin. 

his hazel eyes locked on your greens and with a smirk curving his lips, he asked quietly, like you were the only two people in the world “i'm afraid i'm infected now. will you let me in and take care of you or. . .” his eyes fell on your lips “do i have to kiss you again?” 

your mouth was slightly open as you studied his features, your mind still trying to process what had just happened but you managed to nod. 

azriel chuckled, his fingers letting go of your chin to trace your jawline.

“to which one of my questions is that nod for?”

you opened your mouth to speak but could only manage incoherent words, before you lowered your head to hide your blush again and step aside, inviting him silently to come in.

azriel chuckled, his heart swelling with affection for you. he leaned down to pick up your blanket and wrapped it around your form, his gesture both protective and maybe a little possessive “here you go, love.”

when he stepped in, he guided you inside as well, placing a hand on the small of your back. 

he made sure to close the door quietly behind you, shutting out the world and making it just the two of you for the moment, taking this moment to calm his jumping heart from what he just did.

the male turned back to you and watched as you walked inside, his gaze lingering on you as you settled on the couch. 

his heart clenched at the sight of you in your teddy bear pajamas, this was the first time in all the years he had known you that he had seen you in such a vulnerable state. 

he looked around, inspecting your home. small but comfortable, just like you.

azriel walked over to the couch, gently grabbing your legs and helping you lay down. 

he took a brown blanket that was on the back of your reading chair and covered you with it,  tucking the blanket around you and making sure you're warm and comfortable.

he leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, “rest and let me take care of you. i'm going to make you some soup, okay?” 

“okay, thank you.” 

azriel smiled and walked towards the kitchen and started to gather everything he needed. 

as he started preparing your soup, he would occasionally look towards you, making sure you were alright.

his eyes softened at the sight of you sick, you looked so small and defenseless on the couch, making his heart clench.

he had to fight against the urge to pull you in his arms and lay with you, tried to tell himself that this was all because of you being sick and that he was just worried.

but deep down, he knew that wasn't true. seeing you like this triggered something within him. 

suddenly, realization dawned on him, causing him to roll his eyes as he realized why rhys had lied to him about your situation.

not even after he was married and had a child, his brother would stop meddling in his love life. 

bastard. 

as if his brother could sense it, azriel could swear he heard a laugh in his mind. 

ignoring it, he focused on the task at hand, and made sure to make your favorite soup.

twenty minutes later, azriel picked up the bowl with a slice of bread on the side and walked towards the couch.

he maneuvered the bowl in one hand while using his other to lift your legs and placing them on his lap as he sat down.

you sat up a little straighter, ready to pick up the bowl but the scene in front of you stopped you. 

you watched as azriel gently blew on the spoon to cool the soup before holding the spoon out to you. 

your eyes traveled between his face and the spoon. you raised an eyebrow as if to say 'seriously?' 

“what? i don't want you to get your hands cold.” azriel said with a small smile, bringing the spoon closer to your mouth. 

you shook your head and smiled before giving in, you couldn't lie that it felt nice to have someone to take care of you.

you tucked your hands underneath the blanket again and opened your mouth.

“mmm, it's delicious.”you said as you enjoyed the tomato soup accompanied by a slice of bread, just the way you like it. 

“how did you know i like tomato soup? and that i always eat it with a slice of bread?” you asked before opening your mouth for another spoonful.

“i pay attention,” azriel answered, already grabbing another spoonful.

“right. mr spymaster always paying attention to the little details.” you joked before noticing the seriousness in his face.

“that too, but i meant i pay attention to you.” he said, making your throat dry.

you cleared your throat before pointing at the small coffee table in the center of your living room “water, please.” 

azriel chuckled but did as you asked. 

after helping you with the water and the rest of your soup, azriel helped you with your medicine before helping you laid down on the couch again and tucking the blankets around you.

he did the dishes, and started to prepare some tea for later.

he added more firewood to the fireplace before his eyes landed on you again.

finally, he couldn't help himself any longer and gave the green light to his thoughts.

he took off his coat and placed it on the back of the chair before taking off his boots and placing them next to the door where your shoes were also.

the difference between his boots and your sandals didn't go unnoticed by him, drawing a smile from him. 

azriel, then, moved towards the couch, hovering over you. 

you looked up at him, a slight pout on your lips “i can't seem to get comfortable.” 

azriel chuckled and reached for the blankets “i think i can help with that.” 

he moved the blankets off before helping you to sit and laid himself down on the couch, his back against the fabric of it.

he then pulled you forward without warning, making you lay on top of him.

he reached for your red blanket, leaving the other one on the floor, covering you both with it. 

the moment your body collided with his, you immediately relaxed. 

you nuzzled your face against his chest a few times, before closing your eyes and letting out a sigh.

one of his hands went to the back of your head while he leaned slightly down to kiss your forehead. 

after you were both settled, his hands fell to your back, one of them going under your pajama shirt and rubbing it softly. 

“rest, i'm here and i’m not going anywhere.” he said softly, his lips falling to your hair. 

with your eyes closed you smiled, exhaustion taking over your body.

moments before your mind was off, you managed to let out such simple but so meaningful words “i love you, az.” 

azriel's heart stopped for a second before it started beating again.

he had loved you since the moment rhys had ordered him to travel to illyria when one of the camp lord's sent a letter about how a young female was wreaking havoc in his camp because they refused to train her.

every day since then, he waited and prayed for you to feel the same.

and, now, here it was, what he most wanted in this world.

he always thought he would be the first to give in and confess his feelings to you but apparently you had anticipated him.

“i love you more,” he whispered softly while wrapping his wings around the two of you, but you were already asleep. 

but that was okay.

he would tell you again tomorrow and every single day after that.

after all, he wasn't going anywhere.

a/n: thank you for reading!

general taglist: @emryb @fantasyandshit @azrielover @shadowsingercassia @littlelou22 @brieflyclassymortal @lilah-asteria @meul-a @lure-of-writing @pruvii @olive-main @mybestfriendmademe @anuttellaa @mrsjnalvarez @lively-potter @avajustreads @talesofadragon @circe143 @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @dark-chaos-314 @tequilya @scoliobean @saltedcoffeescotch @charlotteintumbleland @agirlwithwifiandalaptop @987coley

*if you asked to be tagged and you weren't, it's because i couldn't find your blog.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[marifilue]

Affectionate

Oneshot: Having a cold fever with Logan as your bf

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Tags: Fluffs

Word count: 656

You will never understand people who prefer winter over sunny, warm summers. You could write a whole goddamn essay on why summer is so superior.

Cold weather has always been a menace to you. Your horrible body temperature regulation doesn’t even try to help. The endless snow has made your nose runny, paired with a fever, headache, and a sore throat for good measure.

You wish your mutation let you set things on fire or something—just to feel warm. Or maybe, just maybe, you could be like Logan, your boyfriend who can’t get sick thanks to his regenerative healing ability. Sure, moving things with your mind is a pretty cool mutation, but at this moment, it’s completely useless.

You’re curled up in your shared bedroom with Logan, heavy blankets piled on top of you. You’re trying so hard to focus on the pages of the book in your hand, but the words blur together. Breathing through your nose is impossible, so you’re stuck using your mouth, leaving your throat painfully dry and sore.

A click at the door shifts your attention.

“Hey, baby,” Logan says softly as he steps into the bedroom. Reluctantly, you close your book and set it aside on the nightstand.

“Hey,” you respond, your hoarse, sickly voice sounding so unlike your usual self.

Logan wastes no time unbuttoning his flannel leaving his white tank top on, tossing it onto the floor, followed by his jeans. Now, he’s left in just his boxers. You’ve had plenty of talks with him about this—no outside clothes on the bed—and he’s finally reached the point where he listens. Somehow, boxers are more tolerable.

“How are ya feelin’?” he asks, crawling toward the edge of the bed.

“Not gettin’ better. Stay away, Lo. I’m disgusting.” You clutch the blanket tightly, attempting to create a barrier between you two as he moves closer.

Logan frowns. “You’re delusional,” he says simply, effortlessly pulling the blanket away. His hazel eyes meet yours as you feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“What if you catch the cold?” you ask, genuine concern in your voice as you look up at him.

“You realize who you’re talkin’ to?” he teases, raising a brow.

You flush with embarrassment, momentarily forgetting his ability. “Right. I forgot,” you admit with a weak chuckle. “Still, I’m disgusting.” You clutch at the blanket again, but it doesn’t budge under Logan’s weight.

“You’re not. Never will be.” His voice is soft yet firm as he leans in, closing the distance between you. His lips meet yours, and you feel the faint tingle of his beard brushing against your skin.

He kisses you once, twice, then a third time before pulling away slowly. “How’s your headache?”

“Terrible,” you say, exaggerating a frown. “You should really sleep on the couch tonight. I’m gonna be insufferable.” You sniff, struggling to breathe properly.

Logan presses his lips to your forehead. “Not a chance, toots,” he says, already climbing into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms. You lie weakly on your side as he wraps himself around you, his warm breath brushing against the hollow of your neck before he places a chaste kiss there.

“Logan…” you murmur, your breathing heavy, exhaustion evident in your voice. He kisses the spot again, then gently sucks at your skin.

His lips linger for a moment before stopping, sensing your fatigue. His hand rests on your stomach, drawing soft circles before moving up to your temple.

“This okay?” he whispers, his voice low and soothing. You hum in response and nod. He brings his middle finger up to join his index, massaging your temple with slow, deliberate movements.

After a while, his hand returns to your stomach, holding you close. Your eyes grow heavy, the sound of his heartbeat in the background lulling you to sleep.

For a fleeting moment, you swear his heartbeat aligns with yours, just like how the moon aligns with the earth that night.

[cyripticchronicler]

Healing

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You had spent years in pain and agony, wanting nothing more than to go home to your mate. But now that you are home, you're unsure if he still loves you.

TW: Torture, wanting to die, potential SA, depression, crying, short mention of needles and blood.

A/N: This isn't my best work ngl but I was malaptive daydreaming about it this morning and figured I should make it into a fic! It's also my first Azriel/ACOTAR fanfic which is crazy! I love this dude and I'm definitely going to write about him more <3 It's a short fic but I hope you still like it!!

Masterlist

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ten years. You’d been gone ten years. 

Ten years of excruciating torture. Of being poked by needles. Touched by strangers. 

You’d always loved humans. You found them fascinating and tried to learn as much about them. But they wanted to know about fae as much as you did humans. 

You were sent on a task by Rhysand. It was simple; go to the human lands and see if it’s possible to form an alliance with them in the future. Everything was going smoothly until you were taken by an older man who spent his life researching fae and was determined to find the answers to his curiosity. He was a cruel, evil man. He took away your life. Your freedom.

You used to be happy. A blaze of sunshine that not even the biggest clouds could cover. And you had many reasons to be that way, the mating bond between you and Azriel had snapped; not yet accepted but you had planned to do it soon. You had a place in the IC. You worked hard for your court and created a home for yourself in Velaris. 

If you had known how quickly everything could be taken from you, you would have worked harder to protect it. 

You had almost given up, almost begged the man who hurt you to finish you off. To kill you. But the Gods weren't finished with you, and, no matter how much you wanted to die, you were found before you could. You were thankful, of course, but, despite being home with your loved ones once again, it doesn’t remove the long-lasting memories of agony and longing. 

Azriel hadn’t stopped looking for you ever since you went missing. While you spent ten years being tortured, he spent those years in his own sick form of torment. Each night he was plagued with dreams of you and each day he was troubled with worries of how you were doing and where you were. It was a never-ending cycle of you. 

When he found you, bound in chains with blood running down your cheek, he swears his heart stopped. You were back in his arms, wrapped around you so gently like you were made of glass. You’d melted into his warm body, tears freely falling down your scarred cheeks as you quietly sobbed. 

That was the only time you allowed yourself to cry in front of him. In front of anyone, for that matter. You didn’t want to worry anyone with your problems. They’d already spent years worrying about you, they shouldn’t have to anymore. So you jumped straight into your old self. You were talkative, made friends with Feyre and the other Archerchon sisters, and smiled and laughed when expected to. 

Despite your happy facade, Azriel hasn’t done more than hug you. He’s slept in the guest bedroom in The House of Wind while you’ve stolen his bed, his silk sheets nice and familiar. You’re unsure how to approach him. Does he still want to be with you? You’ve seen how he looks at Elain, eyes soft and caring. 

Ten years is a long time. And you’re worried that during that long time, he’s moved on. Maybe that's why you’re trying to act like yourself again. If he sees that you’re the same as you were before when he loved you, he’d love you again.

Your last straw was a month after you came home. All the tears you’d been holding back, and the emotions you’ve ignored overflowing one random night. You were lounging in the living room with Elain, Nesta and Feyre. You were nestled in an armchair, arms wrapped around your knees that are pressed up against your chest. 

You’ve already zoned out of the conversation, eyes glazing over as you stare at your frail hands, still so thin and shaky, like you never left that place. You only tune back into the conversation when a certain someone mutters your mate's name. “Azriel is a really good kisser. I bet he’s better than Rhys and Cassians,” Elain states casually, as though this was a normal thing to be talking about. Feyre and Nesta immediately jump in and defend their mate's skills but you’re already standing. 

Tears blur your vision, unable to be stopped with your usual pinch on your arm. Your fears had come true; Azriel, your mate, your love, had moved on. “Honey?” Your walk to the door abruptly stops, your lip pulled between your teeth and your eyes downcast. “Hey,” You’re embarrassed by the way your voice cracks. 

Azriels scarred hand tentatively reaches up to grip your shoulder, his other hand gently gripping your chin. He tilts your face, forcing your eyes to meet his own, warm caramel making your heart melt. “What’s wrong?” You shake your head moving away and wiping the tears from your face. “Nothing. I’m going for a walk.” He doesn’t respond and you take it as your sign to leave, hands eagerly reaching for the door handle as you escape into the chill night. 

Azriels footsteps were silent, a habit from being the court’s spymaster for centuries. His silence was why you didn’t notice him, loud sobs breaking free since you figured you were alone. By the time he makes himself known, your loud sobs have quieted to quickly falling tears and you’ve found yourself a bench to sit on and think. 

You let out a squeak when he sits beside you, jumping up from your sitting position. You whip your head around, letting out a sigh when you notice the familiar face. “You can’t just sneak up on me,” You mutter, cheeks flushing in embarrassment as you sit again. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers genuinely, eager eyes tracking your every movement. “We need to talk.” You sigh, slumping against the bench as your heart beats faster. “Do we have to?” You’d rather live in oblivion than hear what he has to say. He’s going to tell you he’s in love with Elain and that he can’t be with you. Then you’re going to have no one and you’ll end up alone and sad forever-

“-I’ve been trying to give you space. To let you process what happened. But I don’t think you are processing things, honey.” He sighs, hand reaching up to rub at the back of your neck. “I want to be there for you. I’m your mate and I love you. Let me in.” His eyes are pleading, begging. 

Your breathing turns ragged, heart pounding in your chest. “Don’t-” You shake your head, turning away from his face. “Don’t lie to me.” You shrug his hand off your shoulders and scoot further down the bench but he doesn’t let you go far, hands holding your face as he leans into you, desperate. “I’m not lying to you, baby. Why do you think I’m lying to you?”

“B-because Elain-” You can’t finish your sentence, breaking into desperate sobs before his eyes. His eyes are knowing, laced with guilt as he pulls you into his chest. “I was planning to talk to you about this when you were feeling a bit better.” He ensures your eyes are staring into his when he speaks. “Elain and I kissed once. A year ago. I was- Gods I was so lonely without you and I was drunk and she was there. I swear when I squinted she looked like you. But as soon as I kissed her I regretted it immediately.”

He’s desperate for you to understand, voice pleading as he as he grips your face tighter. Tighter but never hurtful. “You are it for me, baby. I don’t want anybody else. I’d rather spend hundreds of years alone than be with someone else.”

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, hanging your head in shame. He’s quick to calm your worries with another hug. “Don’t be sorry. I should have talked to you about it sooner.” You shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck and hiding your face. “I am sorry, though. I should have talked to you sooner. I just-” You’re sick of the way your voice thickens with tears. You’re sick of crying.

“I’m so tired.” You break, pulling him tighter against you. He hugs you just as tight, not wanting to let you go. “I want to be myself again. I want to be happy again but I’ve changed, and I’m scared you’re not going to like who I become.” You spill all your deepest worries, holding onto the lightness in your chest that you’re afraid won’t last long.

His breath fans your ear, a warmth that makes you shiver. “I’ve never expected you to stay the same. Even before you were taken. You’re changing but I’m changing too. That’s okay. You’re okay.” You pull away with a shaking sigh, hands moving to wipe your tears but Azriel pulls them into his own. 

His soft lips kiss your forehead, evoking another shaking breath. His lips then travel to your cheek, hot breath fanning against your flushed skin. As he places a kiss on your other cheek you can’t help the soft smile that lights up your face. Excruciatingly slowly, his lips graze down your cheek and to your jaw, light kisses making your skin heat.

He pulls away ever so slightly, breath fanning across your lips. He stays still, eyes eager as he waits for your response. He doesn’t have to wait long, your hands moving up to fist his hair. You quite practically yank him to you, lips greedily searching for his.

The kiss is warm and gentle and perfect. Love pours through him with each touch of your lip and swipe of his tongue against yours. You haven’t felt this loved in so long. So cared for. You keep him close, each touch mending the frail cracks in your heart.

“I love you,” you whisper, smiling your first genuine smile in years. “I love you, too. I always will.” Butterflies fluttering in your stomach, a sense of comfort washes over you. 

You know you’re not okay. But for now, you feel like you are. And that one moment, spent cuddled up to Azriel while the stars glisten down on you, gives you faith that you’ll be okay one day. As long as you have Azriel on your side.

[thesuperiorrobin]

Last trimester~

Pairing: Husband! Damian Wayne x Pregnant!Wife! Reader

Warning: Mentions of vomiting, reader is like 6-7 months pregnant

Word count: 750

Damian is confused. Every inch of his home has been clean to the T, not a single dust left behind to stick itself on any surface it comes across. So why on earth are you still vomiting your guts out? It started once you had emerged into the third trimester of your pregnancy, everything seemed to be going smoothly, and you were lucky enough to only handle a handful of morning sickness and after a while, they just stopped. Maybe it was karma coming to bite you in the ass for bragging about not getting sick every five minutes and here you are now, sitting on the couch, relaxed as you lean back wearing a pair of black sweats and a shirt that was once too big for you rolled up over your stomach to show off its roundness.

A sigh escapes your lips as you soothe away the slight pain after the precious being you’ve been creating and holding for the past seven months has decided to be cruel and kick at you to stop. “Here you go Habibti” Damian comes from the kitchen with a glass of water in his hands as she walks over to you and passes it down to you. You take it from his hands with a small ‘thank you’. He notices that slight pain expression on your face as he watches you rub away at your belly. “Have they been given you a hard time?”

“Not as much as I’d like to admit,” you say as you take a few sips of water. Damian takes it upon himself, after watching you finish the drink he takes the glass from your hand—kneeling right in between your legs as he places the glass cup on the ground. You watch him with tired eyes as his arms lift and his warm hands replace yours; finding a spot on your stomach. His warm hands feel much better than yours, the context making you sigh out and your own hands find his to be placed on top of. Damian’s hands start to roam around your stomach, your head falls back slightly, and find yourself closing your eyes as you enjoy the warm sensation.

“I cleaned the bathrooms, kitchen, our bedroom, the baby’s bedroom, and any other spare rooms in this house” he mumbles, eyes never leaving you as you hum. “Thank you, but you didn’t need—“

“I do if unwanted smells have been making you ill” A soft smile breaks out on your lips, eyes still closed as you sigh for the nth time. “And besides, it’s the least I can do. I feel useless seeing you in such a state. I feel like I’m not doing as much as I should be doing for my pregnant wife” Damian can feel you grip his hands slightly as you open your tried eyes and glance down.

“Oh ~” you coo, “you’re doing more than enough. Trust me” he cracks a smile, hands leaving your stomach as they find a place beside your thighs. He lifts himself, but not fully as he leans over your relaxed from on the couch. His green eyes find yours:

“I love you”

“I love you too” and Damian leans down to steal a kiss, one that lasts for a while but is cut very short with a rough push on his shoulders. He takes a glance of concern. Your face is pale and a hand over your mouth.

“Bathroom?” He asked and all it takes from you is a nod and he’s rushing you into the bathroom. He holds your hair back, watching as you vomit up your breakfast lunch, and snack. You can feel his warm hand rubbing your back gently. Damian helps you up and helps you freshen yourself up.

“I don’t think he likes it in there anymore, think he just wants out” You poke at your stomach and wince when you feel a harsh kick “Rude”

“He?” Damian asked “How can you be so sure?” you and Damian are waiting for the baby to be born to find out the gender, so it’s unknown to both of you at the moment. “Call it a mother’s intuition” you shrug with a smile.

Damian pinches at your cheeks softly with one hand and the other finds a place on your stomach once more “I still think it’s a girl”

“Nope, it’s a boy. One hundred percent” he rolls his eyes, dragging you to your shared bedroom.

Where the hell have I been?😭

[dawntized]

warnings: somewhat brat tamer!josh, he uses the name “slut”, edging, p in v sex, umm yeah

a/n: first post on here !!!! hope you all enjoy my sick lil thoughts about joshy <3

“do i look like i’m fucking messing around? hm? do i look like i won’t punish you?” josh spat as he grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “flirting with mike.. right in my face.” josh shook his head disapprovingly.

you had a smirk on your face, knowing you had josh right where you wanted him. you purposefully pissed him off just so he’d fuck you good to remind you of who you belonged to.

“i should treat you like a little slut since you wanna act like one, huh?” josh asked as he leaned down, his eyes boring into yours. his pupils were blown and his eyes were wide as he watched you.

josh stood up straight, letting your jaw go. “get on the bed.” he ordered. josh felt his blood boil when you didn’t move an inch, still watching him with hooded eyes. “i said, get on the fucking bed, now!” he yelled, his deep voice startled you, causing you to scramble up onto the bed.

josh wasted no time, pushing you back onto the bed and turning you on your stomach. arousal pooled in your panties with the way josh was manhandling you into the position he desired.

he pulled your hips up, creating an arch in your back. "this is what you wanted? for me to fuck you like a little slut? is that it?“ josh pressed his clothed bulge to your heat, “want me to remind you who this pussy belongs to?" he asked, delivering a sharp smack to your ass.

josh smiled sadistically when you cried out. he quickly unbuttoned your jeans, pulled them off of you before doing the same with your panties. “look at that… little slut’s turned on cause i’m punishing her.” josh chuckled, running his fingers through your slick before he pulled them away.

josh stepped away from the bed, leaving you spread out for him, “beg for it.” he demanded. you turned your head, peering over your shoulder at josh, who was standing with his arms crossed. “c’mon, better start begging if you want my cock.” he began to take off his flannel, tossing it across the room. “cause right now.. doesn’t seem like you deserve my cock.” he shrugged.

you glared at him, “i’ll just get mike to fuck me.” josh felt his blood boil at the mention of mike’s name. he swiftly moved over to the bed, his eye twitching with anger. “you’re on thin ice, slut.” he seethed, “you must not want to cum tonight.” josh pressed two of his fingers to your entrance before thrusting them in roughly.

he smirked as he saw your mouth go agape at the pleasure. he quickly pistoned his fingers in and out of your cunt as you cried out, your hands gripping at the sheets below you. “already falling apart just from my fingers.” josh tutted.

before you could get close, josh pulled his fingers out of you, laughing mockingly at your whines. “you thought i was gonna let you get away that easily?” he asked, “you’re gonna have to work for it, princess.”

josh unbuttoned his pants, shoving them down along with his boxers. his wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, pressing it against your hole.

he slowly pushed the tip of his cock in before pulling out. “are you gonna be a good girl, now? gonna stop being a brat so i can fuck you good?” he asked while teasing your cunt more, pushing in further before pulling out.

“mmph fuck, josh! i’ll be good, ‘m sorry.” you whined, trying to move your hips against his cock. “fucking pathetic,” he huffed, giving in to your pleas as he fully thrusted in.

josh gave you no time to adjust before he began to rock his hip, setting a deep and fast pace. "you're gonna learn your place," josh panted, "gonna ruin this cunt for anyone else." josh’s hips never faltered, his cock pistoning in and out of her soaked heat.

loud moans erupted from your chest as your walls fluttered around his cock, your orgasm building up with every thrust. “g-gonna cum, josh-!” you cried.

josh’s hips slowed, he leaned over you, his lips near your ear, “so tell me, who does this pussy belong to?” his hand slid around to your clit, lightly drawing circles on the bud. “no, josh, please! belongs to you!” you whined, your hands grasping at his arms around your waist.

“good girl,” he purred, “say it louder. i want everyone to know that this cunt is mine. that you’re mine. my good little girl." josh began thrusting his hips once again, the tip of his cock reached deep inside of you as you moaned loudly.

“you’re clenching me so- tight! cum on my cock, baby.” josh panted, feeling himself nearing the edge. “let everyone know who’s fucking you this good.” with a few more deep thrusts, your vision went white as your orgasm hit, your walls fluttering around josh’s length.

josh’s name left your mouth in a scream, his hips not slowing as he chased his own high. “fuck, i’m cumming, princess-!” josh grunted. he pressed his hips flush against yours as he released his seed deep inside of you.

josh pulled out, collapsing beside you on the bed. “no more flirting with mike,” he panted, a smile forming on his face as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your spent body closer to his <3

[sacr1ficialang3l]

Pretty boy, natural blood-stained blond⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: teenage angst. john winchester's A+ parenting. underage drinking. fluff. 4.6k

You sit on the roof again, clay tiles pressing on your bare thighs, their warmth just as comforting now at the edge of seventeen as when you were a child.

Nothing has changed, and somehow everything has. 

You haven’t seen Dean since he skipped school on Monday, and then on Tuesday, and then again on Wednesday. It is Thursday afternoon now, and you’re getting worried. It is always hard to watch him go, but now his absence is real. Because he isn’t just the guy you observe from a distance anymore, no longer just the face of a fantasy you’ve created in your head. This time, you’re going to miss the real him.

Your lip is about to break from your teeth’s abuse when screaming reaches your ears. It comes from Bobby’s house, and the voice screaming back is the same one you heard that first time. Then, suddenly, a figure stumbles into the salvage yard. Teared up camo jacket and bloody knees, Dean Winchester struggles to hold himself together for the first time since you met him.

You don’t think twice. You quickly get up, almost tripping and slipping off the roof, and crawl back inside your room. You tug your boots on before running down the stairs and rushing toward the salvage yard.

You evade the house itself, from where screaming is still audible. IInstead, you sneak around the rusting carcasses of old cars until you catch sight of Dean sitting on a long piece of metal that serves as a bench.

He’s bleeding, just like the first day you saw him. His honey-colored hair—which was slowly darkening as the burning summer sun transitioned into something softer—is stained with crimson speckles, and it feels like that’s how it was always meant to be. His lip is busted, his shirt and jeans also torn apart, and he is holding his side like something else is hurting, a wound hidden far away where you can’t see it.

But his expression, that’s what makes you feel sick. His eyes—which always look either angry or amused—are red. Glossed over, but stubbornly not shedding a single tear. His hands are trembling, his mouth downturned, his shoulders slouched. He looks vulnerable. Scared, almost. And you finally catch a sight of the broken boy who hides under all those sharp weapons and lazy smirks. 

You take a careful step forward, then another, sliding out of the shadows and into the intensified sunlight of the last warm days of the year. Gravel crunches beneath the soles of your boots, and Dean snaps his head toward you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He spits out, his eyes burning holes into your skin. 

Like a wounded animal, baring its teeth when you get too close—one last attempt at self-preservation before it gives in to the bleeding.

But danger has never really put you off, so you walk into the wolf’s snarling mouth—willing, docile, unflinching.

Dean’s gaze stays on you as you approach him slowly, poisonous and heavy like lead. You don’t say anything, you wouldn’t know what to say even if you wanted to. You just will your feet to take you to him, sitting down on the metal bench in perfect silence.

For a moment, the screaming inside the house quiets down, and the insects roaming around stop buzzing, and the sky itself seems to freeze. It is only you and Dean, looking at each other, your eyes holding an eerie softness that Dean is just so unfamiliar with.

“You should go.” His words are sharp, but not smooth and shiny like a dagger—they’re ragged and raw, like a broken piece of glass someone clutches as a last resort. But then he mutters your name, and it comes out gentler. “This is not a good time.”

You keep your mouth shut, words still escaping you. You study Dean’s state as your brain scrambles for something to say, for a way to give comfort, for the right thing that will make it all better. 

Instead, your eyes find a piece of fabric tightly wrapped inside Dean’s fist. It is stained red but otherwise clean. Someone probably handed it to him so he could clean up, but now it is just stopping Dean’s nails from piercing the skin of his palm.

With gentle, careful movements, you pull the fabric from his grasp. He lets you, confused but clearly too tired to question you. He is getting used to your quiet weirdness.

You find a patch of the rag that isn’t stained, and then bring it to Dean’s face.

This time, his eyes do widen. He looks ready to push you away, to bite like a dog who’s learned not to trust the hand that closes in. But his eyes meet yours—poisoned forest clashing with ghostly fog—unreadable, but oh so soft.

You press the fabric over his bleeding lip as tenderly as you can. It must hurt, just like it hurts when you take care of your own bloody lip, but Dean doesn’t hisses. He doesn’t move, not even when you press harder and wipe away. 

You lean forward just to make sure you’ve gotten rid of all the blood, wiping the last drop with your thumb. Then your eyes drift up and you find Dean’s.

And fuck, the beast inside of you claws at your chest with a rabid desperation to crawl out of you and into Dean. 

His eyes are still glossed over, but the anger has melted. He’s… surprised. He looks so utterly shocked by your soothing touch. His shoulders have relaxed a bit, his fists aren’t clenched anymore, and when he talks, his voice is devoid of all the venom.

“Thank you, I guess,” he whispers, turning to stare at the ground. He grimaces then, when the shifting pulls at what you assume is a gash on his side.

You wish you could tell him to show you, to let you see every wound and every scar that mars his skin. You want him to show you where it hurts, and you want to lick it all better.

“What happened?” The words are rusty, whispered as they leave your mouth.

Without Dean around for the last few days, you haven’t used your voice much—maybe not at all. But you need to ask, because how did Dean even get this hurt?

Dean licks his lips, his tongue brushing over the still open cut. He’s probably tasting that sweet metallic tang right now, and you wish you could taste it too.

His mouth parts, you get ready to hear the tragedy that might have led up to this, and then steps are heard from behind you two. They are heavy and determined, definitely not Sam’s.

They don’t sound threatening, but Dean might as well have been electrocuted. His posture changes immediately—not nonchalant and confident like he is at school, nor firm and controlled like when Sam gets hurt. No, this time his shoulders are rigid, perfect form that would make the best military trainee jealous. His face hardens like rock, his hands twitching with something between anger and fear. Somehow, he manages to make himself seem both bigger and smaller at the same time.

For a second, you think he’s about to jump up and salute his general.

But instead of the dictator you’re expecting, it’s Bobby who walks out from between the junk.

His eyes widen when he spots you, but the two of you had exchanged enough casual words when you stumbled across each other in the mythology and occult section of the library for the encounter not to be terribly awkward.

“Hey there, kid,” Bobby nods toward you. “It’s nice seein’ you here and not perched up on that roof.”

“Hi, Bobby,” you chuckle lowly, still nervously glancing between Dean—who looks less scared but just as tense—and him. “It’s nice seeing you, too.”

Then his eyes drift to Dean, and the air thickens with something unlabeled but palpable. 

“Sam’s inside. He was out like a light…” Bobby scratches the back of his neck, seemingly trying to find the right words. “Your daddy just left, boy.”

Oh.

So the man dropping off the boys is their father. He’s also apparently the general you were expecting a second ago, because Dean’s face crumbles just before he glues it back together so fast you would’ve missed it if you weren’t studying him like a hawk.

Once again, your words fail you as you desperately wish you could comfort Dean. 

You try taking a step forward, because soft touches seemed to work before, but then Dean kicks an aluminum scrap so hard it crashes against a windshield, sending the glass flying and scattering shards everywhere.

The sound of glass shattering makes you flinch—too many memories of liquor bottles falling off tables and being thrown across rooms.

Dean doesn’t notice, since he’s across the salvage yard and a few steps away from the house in seconds. Bobby does, though, and he looks at you with a kind of empathy you know only comes from shared experiences.

“Go home, kiddo,” he suggests, his gruff voice comforting even in its somberness. “The boy will need some time to…” He gestures toward the broken pieces left in Dean’s wake. “Calm down, or whatever.”

You nod, small and almost imperceptible.

“I’ll see you later, Bobby,” you whisper before turning around and finding your way back home through the maze of dismantled machines.

“See ya, sweetheart.” The nickname brings a small smile to your lips. It’s been a long time since anyone called you something sweet.

Once you’re lying on your bed, your mind swirls with the newfound information. You had noticed that Dean never spoke about his family—no mention of his mom or his dad, and he only talked about Sam if it was about something recent, never mentioning anything from before they lived with Bobby—but you never talked about your mother, so you never questioned it.

But now, you know the reason. It’s clear that Dean has never been shown gentleness, and that his father is someone to be wary of. Dean is violent and unpredictable, a soldier trained for war.

It should scare you, make you walk away. But your fucked-up brain absorbs the information and twists it into something else. Something warm that curls around your softest parts.

Fuck, you want him so bad.

The next day, when you and Dean are quietly walking back home from school, you decide it is time to take action.

For the first time in your life, silence is off-putting instead of comforting.

But it’s because it comes with the scab on Dean’s lip and the slight tilt to the right, where you’re sure a bandage is wrapped around his middle. The silence is off-putting because Dean is sad, and it might just kill you.

“Uhm—” you clear your throat, and Dean’s eyebrows raise as you initiate a conversation for the first time. “Do you—uh, you know the drive-in that…” you shuffle nervously with the lacy edge of your dress, fingers clumsy. “That opened like a month ago in the next town over?”

“I know of it, yeah.” The edge of amusement that’s so characteristic of his every word is back, and it’s enough to convince you to keep going.

Of course, Dean knows. It’s all anyone at school is talking about. Everyone loves the idea of a secluded, parent-approved new makeout spot.

But Dean likes movies—he loves movies—and you want to make him happy. Plus, it just so happens that they’ll be screening your favorite movie.

“They’ll play Scream tonight.” Your hand moves to fidget with the bow wrapped around the end of one of your braids, and you throw Dean a hesitant but hopeful look. “If—I would like—maybe you wanna go? W-with me?”

You did it. It is done, you got it out. 

You could still barely process that someone like Dean even wanted to walk with you, much less actually hang out with you. So the words feel like sandpaper on your throat, but Dean’s dull eyes felt like being ripped in half.

And then his eyes brighten, his mouth shifts into that grin you’ve grown to love so much, and then—

“I can’t.” 

It is like being shot through the heart. 

Right, because why would he. 

Why would Dean Winchester, who has every cheerleader and pretty girl in town with their eyes on him, want to go watch a movie with you.

But there’s a tint of something in his words, almost like he is sorry he can’t go.

It’s the only thing keeping you from running into the woods and jumping off a waterfall into your gory demise, which would be less painful than living with Dean’s rejection.

“I promised Sammy we’d hang out tonight,” he explains, and the bullet in your heart transforms into something softer and sweeter. “He’s… kind of down because of, you know,” he gestures vaguely with his hand. Right, because of yesterday. “So I can’t cancel on him.”

That you weren’t expecting, but maybe you should’ve. Because if Dean prides himself on anything, it’s being a big brother.

“That’s really nice, Dean.” Your words surprise you almost as much as they surprise him. It may be the first time you’ve ever said something that wasn’t prompted by him. “What are you two doing?”

That seems to snap him out of his stupor, and a soft smile takes its place on his lips.

“Don’t know yet. Probably go for a burger or somethin’,” he huffs. “Sammy’s finally gone full angsty teenager. Like all he does is brood and wallow and pout, you know?”

That makes you snort, loud and obnoxious, because yeah, you know. You’ve been there for years.

The noise makes Dean laugh too, and he seems to relax once he realizes you’re not mad.

“He spends all his time nowadays listening to sullen emo crap and glancing out the window,” he continues, his words mocking but dripping with affection. “Seems like the only thing he enjoys lately is watching slashers and complaining.”

The comment lights up a lightbulb in your head. You hesitate, scared of crossing a line. Dean is clearly protective of his little brother, but maybe…

“We—if you don’t mind, and if he wants to, we could all go to the drive-in.” Your voice comes out shaky, but there’s no doubt in your eyes as you stare up at Dean.

“You’d… be okay with that?” Dean’s eyebrows almost reach his forehead, and he stops walking.

You do too, turning around to face him as your hands grasp the straps of your backpack.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Your face twists in confusion, genuine and adorable.

Because Dean looks seriously taken aback by the proposal, speechless for the first time in his life.

“I don’t know, I don’t think most chicks enjoy hanging out with their friend’s little brother.”

Friends. You two are friends. You have a friend.

“I don’t mind,” you shrug, a small smile on your lips. “I like Sam, and I kind of already thought of you two as a package deal.”

Dean laughs at that—actually laughs, bright and loud and beautiful. He starts to walk again, you two falling back into the familiar pace of making your way home.

“Yeah, we are.” He turns to look at you, and there’s something new creeping around his eyes, something warm and engulfing and a little bit scary. “It’s a plan, then.”

You wait until you’re inside your room to freak out. 

“We’ll pick you up at six, sweetheart.”

It’s cute, how Dean is picking up speech patterns you recognize from Bobby. It’s also cruel, because the nickname made you melt inside, and it had you lying bare on your bed, hand buried under the skirt of your dress until you were a mess of goosebumps and teary eyes.

You fix your smudged mascara, change your panties, and reheat some of last night’s dinner before sitting there and waiting.

You’re nervous, because you’re not only hanging out with the boy you’ve been obsessed with since you were ten, but also his sweet little brother, who might just be the most important person in his life.

Hands shaky, breath ragged, eyes teary—not from pleasure, but from the stench of your mother’s passed-out shape rotting away on the couch—you grab one of her vodka bottles and take a swig.

It washes down your throat like lava, corroding your stomach and running through your veins, reminding you of who you could become.

It makes you sick, but it also washes away the anxiety. Not completely, but enough to keep you from throwing up when the horn of a car reaches you from outside.

Sam and Dean are waiting for you in a beaten-up pick-up truck when you walk outside. The old thing is rusted, has no side windows, the bed is full of junk—and it’s fucking perfect.

Dean is in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel and the other draped over the backrest of the bench seat. Sam is sitting in the middle, waving at you just like he did all those years ago.

You wave back before climbing onto the truck, muttering a low greeting that mixes with the humming of the engine.

The drive to the drive-in is quiet, classic rock filling the air as the three of you bob your heads to the beat, wind messing up your and Sam’s bangs.

Dean looks a little uncomfortable behind the wheel, explaining that he doesn’t usually drive trucks, but this was the only car Bobby could lend him.

“He’s just grumpy he can’t drive our dad’s car.” Sam doesn’t miss a beat, picking on him. “He’s like in love with that car. Calls it Baby and everything.”

Dean grumbles but doesn’t deny it.

“I will not be ashamed of Baby.”

You buy the tickets for the movie—more like Dean buys them, because he refuses to let you pay—and then you park in the middle of the grassy field. It leaves you with a great view of the screen, and not too far away from the concession stand.

“Do you want popcorn?” You ask the brothers as you open the door of the truck. 

“I do.” Sam quickly replies as he slides right behind you.

Dean grabs his wrist and gives him a careful look, at which Sam just nods. You try to decipher what it could mean but you are completely lost to their secret language.

You stare at Dean for a second, the beast on your chest whining at the thought of being away from him. You smack it on the snout.

“I don’t want anything. You two kids be careful.”

With that send-off, which makes both Sam and you huff, you make your way to the stand.

The walk would’ve been quiet if it weren’t for the teenagers yelling all around. Some jocks are throwing a football back and forth between cars, and they end up hitting some poor kid on the head.

“Assholes,” Sam and you mutter at the same time. You both look at each other, shocked, and immediately burst into laughter.

Your shoulders relax, the last bit of vodka in your blood sending its final sparks before extinguishing. Maybe you were being dramatic, and you’d be just fine after all. 

You’re both in line, chatting about Sam’s latest English test—he blushes when you compliment him on his straight A’s, knowledge you picked up from one of Dean’s afternoon rants—when Sam suddenly gasps, eyes wide.

You turn around to see a young girl being handed something: a big plate covered in chips and something white on top. It isn’t queso, so what in the world…

“Marshmallow nachos!” Sam looks like he’s about to leap over the counter to steal some for himself.

“Marshmallow nachos?” The words leave a sour aftertaste in your mouth, like a night spent kneeling in front of the toilet, but Sam looks as though he’s just seen an angel descending from heaven.

“I’ve always wanted to try them!” He bounces on the heels of his beat-up Converse, but then his face falls.

“Why don’t you get some, then?” You ask, confused, as the smile fades from his sweet face.

“They’re more expensive than the popcorn,” he murmurs, hands quickly shoving into his hoodie pockets. “And Dean always says he doesn’t want anything, but he’ll want popcorn later.”

You glance up at the menu hanging above the counter and spot the nachos. They’re not as cheap as you’d thought. Probably a new hit with the younger crowd, and they’re striking while the iron’s hot.

“Why don’t you buy both?” You try again, wanting to erase the pout from Sam’s mouth.

He just shakes his head, eyes darting down to where the toe of his shoe buries into the dirt.

“Dad didn’t leave much cash,” he whispers after a moment, and your heart breaks. “So I can only buy popcorn.”

So that’s what Dean was warning him about. And he still insisted on paying for your ticket.

One day, in another universe, you’d show Winchester Senior just how many tricks you know with your old butterfly knife.

It’s your turn to order, and Sam asks for a large popcorn and a large soda, paying with a handful of crumpled-up dollar bills.

“Hi,” you start when it’s your time to order. “Can I get one medium popcorn, a large Coke, and one of those marshmallow nachos? Thank you.”

Sam’s head snaps toward you so quickly you swear you hear it crack. You don’t turn to face him, but a grin spreads across your lips.

You hand Sam the nachos as soon as you get them. He looks down at them like he’s holding treasure, and his smile comes back full-force, dimples and all.

“You didn’t have to,” he whispers, but he’s already heading back to the car. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Sam.” The money was meant for a new book, but seeing the happiness on Sam’s face is more valuable than any novel.

You’ll just re-read Frankenstein for the hundredth time.

Dean’s eyes almost pop out of his face when he sees you two arrive.

“Where the fuck did you get that?”

Sam climbs into the car, almost dropping his precious nachos. Dean helps him by holding the plate, staring at it with a mix of mild disgust and absolute curiosity.

“They sell them at the stand.” Sam settles in beside you as you crawl in behind him, adjusting the skirt of your dress before placing the popcorn bucket on your lap. “Here, I know you’d whine about it later.” He huffs, handing Dean his popcorn.

“How—” Dean throws you a wary glance, lowering his voice. “How did you pay for it?”

Sam’s cheeks flush, but not in the shy, bashful way he did when you complimented his grades. This time, it’s pure embarrassment, burning and uncomfortable.

“I bought them for him.” You intervene before Sam can stumble over an answer, and Dean’s eyes widen again.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, almost echoing Sam’s words. “I’ll pay you back.”

You huff, shaking your head, braids swishing with the motion.

“No way.”

“I’m serious.” Dean insists, and you should’ve guessed—he’s not the type to accept gifts.

Many would say it’s because of his ego. You think it might be because he doesn’t feel deserving.

“Consider it a celebration gift for that perfect English test.” You wink at Sam, and his face lights up. He turns happily to the screen, already lost in the trailers as he chews on his sweet-and-salty monstrosity.

Dean is still staring at you with surprise, but there’s an undertone of something else. It’s like when you look at your favorite picture and suddenly notice a figure in the background that you’ve never seen before. Either way, he seems to accept that arguing is useless.

“Careful there,” your name leaves his mouth like candy—sugary and smooth. “He might just end up writing about this in his diary.”

“It is a journal, Dean!”

“Yeah, a journal you use to write crappy poetry.”

You laugh, spectral but sweet, like everything about you.

“Don’t worry, Sam. People don’t understand tortured souls like us.”

You have to admit, it’s very out of character.

You don’t wink, you don’t intervene, you don’t joke. 

But there’s a tragic aura to Sam—the same one Dean carries—that breaks you out of the multiple layers of decay that have slowly glued to your skin and hardened into armor.

Maybe it’s because Sam was the first to ever say hi to you. Maybe it’s because he reminds you of yourself—smart, angry, quiet—or maybe it’s easier to interact with him because your heart doesn’t try to climb out of your throat every time you see his smile.

In any case, Dean's eyes stay locked on yours, burning with something unrecognizable until the movie starts and you both turn towards the screen.

But you can barely focus on Billy Loomis’ handsome face as he crawls through Sidney’s window, your mind haunted by the way those green irises—almost golden under the warm lights of the drive-in—had looked at you, with a ferocity you’d never been on the receiving end of.

The movie goes by quickly, Sam and you gushing about it on the low, Dean telling you to shut up but clearly enjoying the whispered conversation. At some point, Dean’s camo jacket ends up wrapped around your shoulders.

“Should’ve known nights are getting colder now, sweetheart.”

It fits perfectly around you, even the rips on the side feel like they belong.

On the drive back home, you let the breeze play with your hair as you roll down the dirt road. There’s nothing but dark woods and the moonlight around you, like the perfect setting for a murder. You close your eyes, focusing on the low thump of Dean’s fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

You’re almost home when a weight drops onto your shoulder. You quickly turn to find Sam, asleep after the sugar rush from the marshmallow nachos wore off, his face buried in the fabric of Dean’s jacket.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Just wake him up, or—”

“It’s okay, Dean.” You smile gently at him, your eyes drifting down to Sam. There’s marshmallow stuck to the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it away with the soft touch you wish someone had used on you. “I don’t mind.”

Dean stops the truck, and only then do you realize you're already in your driveway.

A beat passes, and Dean stays frozen, staring at you. You freeze, too, because this moment feels like it’ll shatter if you move even a little too harshly.

“You’re—really something, sweetheart.”

He says it like it means something. It sinks under your skin like it means everything.

“Is that good?” You can’t help the tremor in your voice, but you’ll blame it on the cold air.

Dean snorts, like even questioning it is a joke. “Yeah,” he whispers, “it is.”

You chuckle, cheeks warming, something shifting low in your stomach. The beast inside you stirs, hungry, and you bolt.

Carefully, you rest Sam’s head back on the seat, then almost scramble out of the truck through the window. A more rational part of you reminds you to open the door like a normal person, but you slam it shut so hard Sam jumps.

“Bye,” you blurt, before darting into the house.

It’s only once you're lying on your bed that you notice Dean’s jacket still around your shoulders. And if you sleep with your face hidden in its neckline, that’s between you and the demon on the corner of your room.

The next morning, Dean wakes up to Bobby handing him a box, only offering him a grin when he asks what it is.

Inside, there’s his jacket. On top of it, written on sketchbook paper with black ink, the letters loopy and flowing, is a note.

“You also are something good, Dean Winchester.”

PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

NOTES: Part two! ugh I love this series so much. if you can't tell, I have a soft spot for young!sam. in the next part it starts to get good, I promise. please let me know what you think, it genuinely makes me so happy! I love you all, hope you liked it!!!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @anxiety-prime-max @southernimpala @ohmykwonsoonyoung <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[unsolicited-opinions]

Bro no one hates jews for ethnicity, news are hated for faith.

If you are an atheist "jew", no one gives a shit about you.

Stop pretending to be a victim and trying to appropriate antisemitic struggles.

I'll address these point by point.

Jewish readers, please share your thoughts!

You wrote: "No one hates Jews for ethnicity, [J]ews are hated for faith."

"Hitler...defined the Jews as a race and not a religious community, characterized the effect of a Jewish presence as a “race-tuberculosis of the peoples,” and identified the initial goal of a German government to be discriminatory legislation against Jews."

[Source]

More here

As David Baddiel put it, "I'm an atheist, but that would get me no free passes out of Auschwitz."

The Jews are a people. Judaism is the traditional religion of that people. A Jew who does not engage with that religion does not cease to be a Jew by Jewish definitions OR by antisemitic definitions.

You wrote: "If you are an atheist Jew, nobody gives a shit about you."

First, see above.

Second, you're incorrectly assuming that a Jewish atheist is not engaged with Judaism.

Here's the thing:

Judaism isn't necessarily theistic.

Let's set aside the explicitly non-theistic movement of Humanistic Judaism for a moment (huge topic for another time) and just talk briefly about theism in Judaism.

Most kinds of Judaism, while certainly encouraging faith, do not require it. There are no thought crimes in Judaism, no crucibles of faith, and no requirements that one announce or perform proof of belief for witnesses. Those things are often parts of Christianity and Islam, but in Judaism...not so much.

In Jewish thought, it is not what you believe about metaphysics which lifts you up, ennobles you, improves you, or makes the world a better place. In Judaism, you pursue those things by how you behave.

Sola fide is a Christian concept which Judaism does not share. Judaism is a profoundly existential religion with ethics which are overwhelmingly humanist.

I was raised in Reform and Conservative congregations...and non-theistic/atheistic/humanistic views were very common there.

When I was studying to become Bar Mitzvah, our congregation's Rabbi made crystal clear to me that there was no contradiction between my identity as a Jew and my inability to swallow the idea of an anthropomorphic, sapient, interventionist God who cared at all about petitionary prayer. He felt that wrestling with God was a very Jewish thing to do. He introduced me to Maimonides' apophatic theology. Decades later, I'm still grateful.

Many Jews pray, I believe, not to be heard by God, but so they can hear their own hearts and minds. This is why kavanah is important and why I disliked (and still dislike) prayer-by-rote and rituals performed for the sake of ritual. It's more mindfulness meditation than petitionary prayer.

There's a famous Hasidic story, recorded by philosopher Martin Buber in his "Tales of the Hasidim," about how Judaism views atheism:

The Master teaches that God created everything the world to be appreciated, since everything is here to teach us a lesson.

One clever student asks "What lesson can we learn from atheists? Why did God create them?"

The Master responds "God created atheists teach us the most important lesson of them all- the lesson of true compassion. You see, when an atheist performs an act of charity, visits someone who is sick, helps someone in need, and cares for the world, he is not doing so because of some religious teaching. He does not believe that God commanded him to perform this act. In fact, he does not believe in Goda at all, so his acts are based on an inner sense of morality. And look at the kindness he can bestow upon others simply because he feels it to be right."

"This means," the Master continued "that when someone reaches out to you for help, you should never say 'I pray that God will help you.' Instead for the moment, you should become an atheist, imagine that there is no God who can help, and say 'I will help you."

You wrote: "Stop pretending to be a victim and trying to appropriate antisemtic struggles."

I invite other Jews to advise if I have appropriated anything which is not mine.

Your opinion, though? Your view, as a non-Jew, about what is or isn't Jewish? On what is or is not mine in my heritage? Your claim, framed by your obvious and absolute ignorance of my life, my family's history, Jewish history, Jewish theology, and Jewish philosophy, that I have not experienced antisemitism and am "appropriating?"

I don't have a single fuck to give about any of that, and neither does any other Jew

Still, thank you for the writing prompt. It helps to crystalize my own thinking and provides an opportunity to educate.

[runninriot]

your heart's safe with me

written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles Valentine's Day pop-up event and @steddiebingo main card fill for the prompt pre-relationship

rated: T | wc: 1.000 | tags: pre steddie, pining, love confessions, implied friends to lovers

   "If I have to see one more couple kissing, I'm gonna be sick. Can they just not? I'm already miserable, don't need them to rub it in like that," Steve groans and Eddie gets it; it's hard being single on Valentine's day.

That is, if you're name is Steve Harrington. Self-proclaimed former ladies’ man, who never really had a problem scoring a date until he lost his crown when he climbed off his high horse and became part of the loveless losers club Eddie's been a member of all his life.

   "Can't even go to Robin's for our annual Fuck Valentine's date because she's seeing her new girlfriend tonight. I mean, I love that for her but- god, it sucks being alone."

   "You do know who you're talking to, right?"

Steve turns to look at him, confusion making way for understanding.

   "Oh, uh, sorry."

   "You should be. I've never had a date on Valentine's day. Or ever, for that matter. But do you see me complaining? No. So suck it up, man. You'll find the right one. Maybe not today but- they're out there somewhere."

Eddie hates to even think about it but there’s no denying the fact that one day, he'll have to come to terms with Steve being in a relationship with someone that isn't him. It sucks, but that's just how things are.

   "You could come to my place after work," Eddie offers before thinking it through. "We can watch some cheesy romcom. You can complain about how unrealistic it is and I can make fun of you for crying over the happy ending."

This makes Steve laugh and Eddie takes it as a win; he loves making Steve laugh, loves the sound of it.

   "So that's a yes?"

After their shift, they separate ways only for Steve to make a detour home because he complained about needing to get out of his smelly work clothes and take a shower.

Eddie would've offered his shower and his clothes for Steve to change into but it’s better that way – better not to give his mind any more reason to create fantasies he definitely shouldn't have.

So, he uses the time to freshen up and clean up some of the bits and bobs scattered around his apartment. It's not messy, not really. Nothing like Wayne had augured when Eddie moved out to live on his own. It's more like organised chaos but because it's Steve coming over, Eddie puts a little more effort in it than he usually would.

An hour later, Steve finally arrives.

   "For how long it took you to get changed, I thought you'd be dressed up a lot nicer for me," Eddie jokes when he opens the door and finds Steve standing there in comfy sweats and hoodie, hair tousled but still unfairly good looking.

   "Sorry. Robin called because she was freaking out about her date, so I had to calm her down. You know how she gets when she's nervous." Steve shakes his head and sighs, smiling fondly, "But I stopped at the pizza place you like. Brought your favourite, as an apology."

His smile turns from soft to cheeky and Eddie happily takes the large box handed to him.

   "I could kiss you right now."

Eddie could kiss him always, but Steve doesn't need to know.

They get comfortable in the small but cosy living room, eating while watching the movie Steve chose - something about best friends who are obviously meant to be but too oblivious to realise it. Eddie's not really paying attention, just enjoys Steve's presence. Letting his eyes linger on the man beside him every now and then, smiling whenever Steve smiles, counting the moles on his face and neck, wishing he could kiss every single one of them. It's stupid, maybe even risky to gawk so openly, but Steve doesn't notice - or at least he doesn't call him out on it.

   "This is so stupid," Steve says and Eddie laughs because he's been waiting for it.

   "How do they not know? I mean- it's clear as day that he's into her. How can she keep looking for love when it's right there?"

   "Sometimes you just don't see what's right in front of you, I guess." Eddie swallows hard; he knows too well what it's like not to be seen.

   "Okay, sure. But then why doesn't he just- tell her. I mean, they're clearly perfect together."

   "It's not always that easy."

   "I'd want to know. If there was someone loving me like this, I'd want them to tell me."

Steve turns to look at him and Eddie's breath catches in his throat.

Does he know? Does he suspect something? That can't be. Eddie never told anyone about his feelings for Steve.

   "What if they're scared?" It already sounds like a confession and Eddie curses himself for not keeping his mouth shut.

   "Scared of what?"

Eddie scoffs frustrated.

   "I don't know, Steve. Rejection? Losing your best friend? Having your heart broken?"

He didn't mean to snap at him but this conversation really hits a nerve.

   "But what if..." Steve trails off, seems lost in his thoughts, "What if they love them back?"

Eddie has the sickening feeling that they're not talking about the movie anymore.

   "They wouldn't know unless the other person gives them a sign."

   "Something like that?"

Before the question even sinks in, Eddie’s lips are sealed with Steve’s that are tentatively pushing, opening up just enough for a hint of tongue Eddie chases with his own, falling easily into the rhythm of Steve's lead.

Eddie keeps his eyes closed for a long moment after they part, contemplating whether he dares to believe this is real.

   "Your heart's safe with me," Steve whispers sweetly and Eddie realises then, that this crush hasn't been so one-sided all this time.

Next year on Valentine's, he promises himself, he'll make it extra special for Steve. Tonight though, sharing pizza and kisses and confessions is enough to make it perfect.

[anatomyleigh]

“A sonic boom is a sound associated with shock waves, created when an object moves through the air faster than the speed of sound.” 

And Invincible, clad in black and blue, leaves one behind as he vanishes into motion, fleeing not from fear, but toward a threat so cataclysmic it warps the air around him. A man engineered for destruction, broad-shouldered and cloaked in white, crashes into him mid-flight and drives him into the earth with the force of a dying star.

_______ doesn’t know how long she’s been lying on the gravel. Air barely able to get into her lungs, ears ringing from the chaos above. She feels the sound energy vibrate the ground. Feels it rattle her bones. She knows she should move.

Move. 

Get up. 

Move. 

MOVE! 

But she can’t. Her fingers could hardly twitch, her body aching. A wet tear slides down her cheek, a daunting thought plaguing her mind: Nobody will save you now. 

“Maybe, you just need a little motivation.” A sinister, grating voice growls above her. 

A massive hand wraps around her neck before she could scream. Her body lurched upward, as if gravity itself had betrayed her– limbs heavy, lungs locked. The pressure against her neck tightened, and her feet scraped uselessly against the air. Her hands clawed at the fingers choking her, but they might as well have been carved from metal. Something cold and unyielding pressed against her back. Not skin. Armor. Muscle. Bone. All wrapped in something too still, too unnatural. An arm slithered around her waist like a vice, locking her in place. The air thinned. Her vision stuttered at the edges.

“Don’t fucking touch her!” Invincible spat–sharp and desperate. But his voice sounded so far away, as if he was shouting from the other side of a void.

“Oh, I am beginning to understand your affinity for these lowly creatures, child.” He leaned in closer, his face brushing hers. The man behind her laughs, but nothing about it was joyous. It wasn’t mirth, it wasn’t even madness. It was a sound that crawled underneath her skin, perverted and sick. Bile burned at the back of her throat. 

“This one has the most gorgeous face. She even cries pretty.” A wet tongue slid up against her cheek, lapping up her tears. Her body recoiled on instinct, but there was nowhere to go. Her stomach coiled with dread, her sobs unending. 

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t stop him.

“Get away from me!” She choked out, voice shredded. The cuts on her limbs throbbed. Blood trickled down her skin, warm and slick. She dangled higher now, suspended in the sky. The world below blurred into a sickening kaleidoscope—buildings, pavement, fire, smoke—spinning like a carnival ride from hell. 

“Look at this, Mark. This is what you’re willing to die for? A weak, trembling little human, begging for her life? How touching. Let’s see how much of her I can rip apart before you beg me to stop.”

Mark? Wait– 

“NO!”

It was only a split second. A nanosecond in the infinity of time. One moment she was suspended in the sky like a marionette on broken strings, and the next–she was falling. 

The wind whipped past her, her limbs flailed uselessly as gravity tore her down, down, down. Towards the distant, uncaring earth. 

A scream ripped from her throat, ragged and raw. 

This was it. This was the end—splattered on the pavement, insignificant, and forgotten. There was no time to regret. No time to think about how she should have told him the truth. Should have told him that she loved him. He’ll know, she prayed. 

But just as the Earth reached up to claim her— 

A deafening crack split the air. 

A sonic boom erupted above her, a force so powerful, it split the clouds. Then—impact, but not with the ground. 

Invincible slammed into her trajectory mid-air, arms catching her with a force that made her ears ring and bones jolt. They spun through the air, before he redirected them both in an arc that sent parked cars below flying from the shock waves. 

The ground never touched her. 

His chest heaved. Blood smeared the collar of his suit. One eye, almost swollen shut. Ribs rising unevenly beneath the tight fabric. His hands trembled—either from fear or rage—but he held her. Held her tight. 

She stared up at him, dazed, heart still hammering inside her rib cage. 

“Y-you…” She breathed, voice cracking. “Mark?” 

His jaw clenched, his lip split and bleeding.

“I’m sorry.” He rasped. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.” 

Tears spilled from her cheeks at the sight of him. Battered, bruised, soft hair swaying with the wind. It made her heart ache. 

“You’re—you’re him.” She whispered. “You’re–“ 

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. 

Above them, a shadow blotted out the sun. A familiar monstrous silhouette began to descend. Mark turned his head, teeth gritting against pain. Something off-kilter flickered in his expression–rage, fury. 

Vengeance. 

He set her down to her feet gently, his hands lingering at her waist longer than necessary. When his defeated eyes meet hers, she swears her heart cracked into a million pieces. 

“I’ll come back,” He said, voice low and fraying at the edges. “I swear. I just need you to call for Cecil. I need you to get out of here and I need you to take Oliver. Do you understand?” 

“Mark–“ she reached for him, tears still falling, panic swelling again. “You can’t go. You’re hurt–“ 

“________! Do you understand?!” He snaps, gripping her arms. Panicked eyes darted across her face frantically, as if he’s trying to hastily memorize this moment. She swallows, and despite the dread snaking around her bones, she nods. 

Before she could say anything else, he was already gone. The wind from his flight blowing into her face, a sonic boom cracked the sky again as he shot upward. A trail of blood, left in his wake. 

She dropped to her knees, heart in pieces. She heaves–heavily and forcefully. She breathes one last broken sob, before her chest hardens and her resolve fights back. 

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: can you tell i haven't posted on tumblr in years? (& note to self–put this in a future fic, fingers crossed!)

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part eight

More lore! Work and life have kept me busy busy busy but trust I am still here for this fic and will be finishing it! (Also if you can't tell I started writing this fic after I first watched the Seaver episodes and thought I can write this so much better and with so much more angst)

Warnings: Rossi being Rossi, Hotch doing something he really shouldn't be doing but he thinks it's justified and maybe it is so who's to say if he's in the wrong!

You first knew something was different about your dad when you were ten.

There were the usual, obvious things that confused you as a kid. Like when he’d go away for long stretches of time, only to return like nothing had happened and act like he was never gone at all. Or when he’d return with these extravagant gifts, as if that made up for the birthday party he missed, or the big recital. Or when you heard your parents arguing, your mom tearfully asking if there was someone else, and screaming “I don’t believe you!” when your dad insisted there was no one.

There are the less obvious things that confuse you now, things you look back on when you want to analyze his behavior. Why he traveled so far to find his victims, why he tried to live a double life, why he did any of it at all. You dip your hands into the memories day after day and each time you come up empty handed. Why did he let you get kidnapped, only to help them find you? Was he ever behind your kidnapping at all? You don’t know. You’ll never know.

Even if you could ask him, you don’t know that you would. Your mom picked you up, changed your name, and moved you away for a reason. She gave you a fresh start. She’s the reason you are where you are, and you’re not going to throw that away. 

You had no idea Rossi worked on your father’s case all those years ago. You knew the BAU had gotten involved briefly at one point, but not who. 

What are the odds and what kind of bad luck streak do you have to have to be working with one of the investigators who helped catch your father?

The ceiling offers you no answers. You left the precinct as quickly as you could, wanting to take a hot shower and crawl in bed and pretend to be asleep when Hotch or Rossi inevitably knocks on your door later.

Rossi knows. He must. Why else would he look at you like that? And if he does, how long has he known? Has he told Hotch? Would he tell Hotch, or would he keep it quiet? Does he know that part of your file is sealed? Does he know you discussed it with Strauss, keeping that part of your life sealed because it isn’t relevant, not after all the work you did to create a separate life?

You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep asking this many questions, but how are you supposed to stop? 

You’ve worked too hard to create a life completely separate from your father to let it all unravel like this. You knew it was risky going into this line of work, let alone the BAU, but with a name change and two decades worth of distance, you thought it was deep enough in the past. You thought you had buried it far enough below the surface.

You cannot afford to have it haunt you like this, to interfere with your work so badly that you flee. You have to figure this out. And you have to get yourself under control.

+++

Hotch and Rossi are, like most nights, the last two at the precinct, trying to squeeze out some final leads before calling it a night. They don’t get far, and it’s Rossi who caves, saying they should get some rest for once. Hotch is quicker than usual to agree.

“What was that about earlier? About The Strangler?” Hotch asks. “Since you worked it, do you think we have a copycat on our hands?” 

It’s a poor excuse for a subject change, and Rossi is onto him in a second.

He shakes his head. “No, we don’t.”

Hotch grabs his cup and heads for the door. “And…Y/N? She seemed shaken up.”

Rossi raises an eyebrow, changing the subject slightly. “You two seemed to be getting along today.”

Hotch lets out a laugh as they exit the precinct. “We’ll be back to our usual selves tomorrow, probably, don’t worry.”

“I hope not,” Rossi says, rounding the car to hop in the passenger side. “You’re the only people who like to hear you two bickering, you know.”

Hotch rolls his eyes, sticking the keys in the ignition. “I don’t like arguing with her. She just insists on it.”

“And you push her buttons.”

“I don’t try to.”

Rossi only smiles to himself, always happy to rile Hotch up in whatever way he can, especially when it comes to you. It’s too easy to do it.

Rossi is able to convince Hotch to head back to the hotel, but not to grab a drink at the bar.

“I think I’m just gonna head to bed,” Hotch says, pausing outside the elevator. “You should too.”

“I will,” Rossi smirks, though he turns toward the bar anyway, nodding to Hotch as he presses the up arrow for the elevator.

Rounding the corner, Rossi finds a familiar face perched on a bar stool, nursing a glass of red wine.

He watches you briefly, gauging whether you’d like to be left alone. He can’t tell. He decides to slide onto the stool next to you, waving the bartender down to order two fingers of whiskey.

You won’t look at him. You won’t look anywhere other than your wine, but you knew Rossi and Hotch had come back. You could hear Hotch’s voice from the lobby, your body tense as you prepared for them both to make their way here and see you not at all asleep like you said you’d be.

You meant to sleep. But your mind was wide awake, and before you knew it, you were dragging yourself downstairs for a glass of wine, hoping the alcohol would tire you out.

And now, apparently, the price you’ll pay is a conversation with Rossi.

Seeing as he’s here alone, you figure there’s no sense in hiding behind cryptic sentences and silence. Better to rip the band-aid off now, while no one else is around.

“How long have you known?” you ask, studying the stem of your glass instead of looking him in the eye.

The bartender sets Rossi’s whiskey down in front of him. Rossi nods to him, and hands a black card over. “Another glass of red for her, please. On me.”

You swirl the remaining swallow of wine in your glass before downing it. The bartender replaces it with a silent smile before leaving you both alone.

Rossi takes a sip of his whiskey, studying the array of liqueurs along the wall across from him. “Do you remember meeting me?”

It’s not an answer to your question and it confuses you. “Yeah? You told me ‘good luck’ with Hotch because I was late.”

“No,” Rossi shakes his head with a fond smile, turning his head to look at you. “You were young.”

You wrack your brain, trying to remember when you might’ve met him. You come up empty, but you’re not surprised that you don’t remember. Your memories are hazy at best from those times, but the few you do remember are vivid. Just none of them include David Rossi.

“It was brief,” Rossi says, taking your silence for the answer it is. “After we had found you, and we needed to talk to your mom about some of what your dad admitted to while we had him in custody while we searched for you.”

That day comes back to you in fits and starts, flashes here and there. A much younger David Rossi floats into your mind, but with no words to accompany him, except—

“Didn’t you offer me a cup of coffee?”

He laughs quietly. “I did. I was trying to lighten the mood.”

“It worked,” you say, remembering with a smile. You pause. “So you’ve known the whole time?”

He shakes his head. “I thought I recognized you the first day, but I ignored it. It wasn’t until tonight that it clicked all together. You are twenty years older, you know.”

“Hey,” you feign hurt, punching him lightly in the arm. “You too, old man.”

“Don’t remind me,” he chuckles, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Have you told Hotch?”

You practically snort into your wine glass. “God, no.” You pause to take a long sip, needing it to steel your nerves. “Only Strauss knows, because she saw my background check before I asked to have some of it sealed. My father and original name were part of what I decided to have redacted.” You take a deep breath. “My mom moved us away and changed our last names for a reason. A fresh start. A new life without being haunted by what my father did.”

Rossi nods slowly. “Well you’ve got everyone suspicious after how you acted earlier.”

You grimace. “I know.” Not your finest moment.

“Why not get it over with and tell everyone?” Rossi asks. “Or at least Hotch?”

You roll your eyes. “He’ll look at me differently.”

“Will he?” Rossi argues gently. “How do you know?”

You give Rossi a look. “Because I know him.” 

Rossi hums. He doesn’t need to say anything to prompt you to continue.

“He already hates that I’m here — as if working with him is any better — and I’m sure he’s looking for any reason he can to tell Strauss to get rid of me,” you scoff. “The last thing I need is him saying I’m unfit for the job just because I’m a little shaken up at a random mention of the man who nearly killed me and my mother.”

Rossi goes still beside you, turning his head slowly.

You sigh, finishing off your second glass of wine. “You’re telling me none of you suspected he had tried anything with my mom and me?”

Rossi shakes his head. “We were never told otherwise, and your mom—”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. “She loved him.”

Rossi frowns at your dismissal, resting his hand on the bar, but not touching you. “No one will fault you if you need time.”

“I’ve had two decades of time, Rossi,” you cry, placing your forehead in your hand. “I thought that was long enough.”

This time, he does reach for you, resting a hand gently on your shoulder. He’s never seen you this broken up, not even when you were thirteen, after they found you, when they all expected you to be upset. You were put together back then, your brain having not had any time to process it all. Now, you’ve had the time to process, you’ve lived your life in between, and it still haunts you. Because it always will. Because these things don’t just go away, no matter how badly you want them to.

“It’ll always be hard,” Rossi says. “I’m sorry I can’t say it goes away.”

You snort, burying your face further into your hand. “I wish it would. He’s dead, I wish he’d stop following me around.”

“You couldn’t have chosen a different career?” Rossi teases, shaking your shoulder a bit before letting go.

It does make you laugh, because he’s right. “I know. What was I thinking?” Your mother tried talking you out of it, but you never listened. She eventually came around to the idea after she heard you talk about how much you loved helping people, but it always worried her somewhat.

“I have no idea,” Rossi says, smiling around his whiskey as he finishes it off. “I’m having another, would you like one?”

You shake your head, sitting up. “No, no…I should actually go to bed now, I think, but thank you. For the wine and the uh, conversation.”

“Anytime,” Rossi says, squeezing your shoulder one more time. “Get some rest.”

“You too,” you give him a pointed look, eyeing the new whiskey the bartender sets down.

“I’ll sleep good after this,” he picks up the glass, raising it toward you.

You roll your eyes as you head back toward the elevator, strangely feeling lighter — and not because of the alcohol. You’ll begrudgingly admit, talking it out with Rossi helped.

But that doesn’t mean talking to Hotch about it will have the same effect.

+++

Back in his hotel room, Hotch takes a shower and crawls into bed. He tosses and turns for an hour, staring a hole into his eyelids. He gets up to take a walk around the room, hoping it’ll help. All it does is make him pause when he spots his briefcase, knowing what lies inside.

The files he asked Garcia to pull weren’t unusual. Just your background check, with one condition. To unseal whatever was hidden. 

Because he had thought it was odd for you to have parts of it sealed, let alone that Strauss agreed to let you. But it wasn’t something he particularly wanted to argue with Strauss about. 

After seeing you stop breathing entirely at the mention of The Strangler — an obscure case, one truly infamous only to Reid and his eidetic memory — Hotch is worried. That’s the only name he can think of to give the feeling swarming in his chest.

He’s worried about one of his agents, and dammit, he feels like that is a justifiable enough reason to do some digging. If it concerns the well-being of one of the agents he oversees, he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t try to get to the bottom of it. Even if they seem hellbent on keeping it hidden.

That’s all the convincing he needs to do for himself before he walks over and snatches his briefcase off the desk, opening it with a click. 

Your file lies right where he left it, along with Penelope’s sticky note. Her gel writing makes him pause.

Should he be reading this?

What’s his alternative, though? Asking you outright? That will only start a fight, or worse, you’ll quit on the spot. You’ve made it clear that you don’t want to tell him what’s going on, and if he pushes too far, you’re both liable to say things you can’t take back.

This is better. It’s going behind your back, but it’s better. Is it really betraying your trust if it’s clear you don’t trust him? You don’t even like him, which you have made abundantly clear. 

You seemed to open up a little to him today, but that doesn’t mean tomorrow you won’t be right back to the way you were yesterday. There’s no way to know for sure.

So, Hotch stops the back and forth, and pulls the file out, flipping to the second page. Then the third. Then to what was sealed.

The words jump out at him too fast for him to understand them, his heart thundering in his ears as he reads.

Your name — the one he knows you by — is not what you were born with. Well, your first name is, but your middle and surname are changed entirely. Your original surname was Adkins.

Adkins. Like—

His eyes scan further, finding the inevitable on your birth certificate. Your father. Carson Adkins.

You were fourteen when your names changed. Fourteen when you moved to Washington state. Fourteen when your mother changed her surname, too, back to her maiden name — the one you now have. Fourteen when your life started over.

Because when you were thirteen, Carson Adkins, The Strangler, threatened to end it.

[l8ncestroll]

This is MY blog and I’m sick of pretending I don’t have a big fat crush on this man

He’s actually SO yum, SO boyfriend material and so criminally underrated, neither god nor satan can stop me from thirsting over this man!!! So anyway I’ve dumped all my insanity under the cut

- HIS HAIR!!! It’s so fluffy and it has so much volume that I’m JEALOUS

- And it still looks good when he’s all sweaty post race and it’s all messy and he looks all disheveled and skrunkly

- I would sell my left kidney to have him put his head in my lap and let me play with his hair

- I WANT TO PULL IT

- listen if he was hovering over you or had his face between your legs you can’t convince me you wouldn’t want to be pulling on his luscious locks while he ruined you and that is that.

- And you could look into his big chocolatey eyes all the time, like can you imagine standing chest to chest with that man and looking up and seeing those big hypnotic eyes? I think I’d melt

- he would give the best puppy eyes ever if he wanted something from you, eyes all wide and needy, just to switch up and look at you all smug and smirking when you do exactly what he asked of you

- I just KNOW when that man makes out with you it’s FILTHY, please tell me other people have noticed his big pouty lips and how goddamn long his tounge is??? Otherwise I might just sound insane but IVE SEEN PICTURES OKAY

- ANYWAYS, I’m talking holding you close for dear life, him taking your face in his big hands, starting with small gentle pecks all over your face but quickly turning into the most disgusting make out ever, biting each other lips and sucking each others tounges, licking each others faces, him fucking up your neck so bad you’ll be in turtlenecks for the next three weeks and you nibbling on his jaw, all rational thinking out the window and no concept of time.

- piggybacking off that last thought, he just knows that his facial hair makes you feel some kind of way

- “hey babe do you think I should shave?”

- JUST to tease you and have you panic, to watch you try and come up with any serious good reason that he shouldn’t, whilst he really knows you’re only worried about the beard burn on your thighs being a thing of the past.

- A while back I saw someone on here call him beefy and I think that altered my brain chemistry

- because YES

- He IS beefy, he’s tall and broad and muscular, you just know that he’s strong enough to snap your neck if he wanted to but he hasn’t!!! And you’re still alive!!! So obviously he likes you!!!

- He’s so sporty too, out of formula one he’s definitely the sportiest of all the drivers, always skiing, or playing padel, doing all of his little side quests

- The videos that float around of him playing ice hockey????

- So hot I wish Canada was real

- He looks so confident and aggressive and in his element when he’s playing. I feel like creating an ice hockey x figure skater AU may be in order because the potential of that is endless

- I have so many thoughts about him in the big scary hockey outfit, stood next to his girl in her figure skating dress

- Now he KNEW, about the contrast between him and his girlfriend’s looks, size, aesthetic, or whatever you want to call it. But he’d never seen it displayed so clearly, him looking all big and burly and ready to play ice hockey versus his sweet little girl, looking all cute and delicate ready to figure skate? Definitely fucked with his head, also definitely turned him on, which you definitely noticed and definitely poked fun at him for, while secretly being just as turned on if not more.

- He’s definitely the possessive protective type, he insists he doesn’t get jealous but it’s only because he doesn’t let himself be put in that position

- Why should you go up to the bar alone? What if a guy tried to hit on his girl and he got jealous? He wouldn’t be having that, so he walks you up to the bar himself and cages you in, hands either side of you while you order, and while you’re looking in your bag for your purse to pay, he’s already swiped his card.

- Even if he was too tired or drunk to keep getting up with you he’s not letting his girl go on her own, he’d rather spend a small fortune on bottle service than send his girl to the cesspit that is the bar in a club

- I see him as the type to love a bit of cliché flirting too, weather it’s the first time you’ve met or you’ve been married for 10 years? That man is GOING to flirt with you, countless little compliments, always pulling out your chair or opening doors for you.

- DEFINITELY the type of guy to do the hand thing, because yeah he wants you too see how much bigger his hands are, but mainly he does it for selfish reasons, it sets alight something carnal and animalistic inside of him to see your feminine little hand against his, it just does something to him when he gets to watch the surprise on your face at how big his hands are (because let’s be fr that man has BEAR PAWS), him looking at you, watching your thought process

- which would probably be something like: aww this is so cute and cliche, okay let’s do it, woah, his hands are huge, or are mine just small?, no I think it’s definitely him, maybe it’s a mix of both, DAMN his hands are huge, damn, hmnnn, he could fit both of my wrists in one hand, 🤭, his fingers are so big…, they’d feel so good on my…, shit he’s watching me😧

- and even though you never said a word he read every thought you had from your face.

- I don’t know if anyone other than me finds this super sexy but he’s so quick witted, in challenge videos he just seems to think for a few seconds and then have some weird solution, or when people ask and uncomfortable hard to answer question, he just takes a second and then comes out with the perfect response, weather it’s a joke or a distraction or a tactful answer, he’s good at using his words

- He seems to like talking a lot too, don’t get me wrong in press conferences and most media things he’s a brick wall (understandably tbh) but in other situations when he’s comfortable and happy he seems to have a lot too say

- do you guys see what I’m getting at?

- he definitely talks you through it.

- I mean just think of him sat up on his knees between your spread legs, “you look so pretty right now, wish you could see what I’m seeing”, and then leaning over you to slap his tip on your clit, “you gonna take it for me like a good girl darling?”, then running it up and down your slit, spreading you’re wetness all over himself, “you’re fucking soaked already, I’m flattered baby”. Him just repeating “fuck fuck fuck” over and over like a mantra when he finally presses into you, “fuck you take me so well”

- idk i just can’t see him being quiet at all, if he’s not running his mouth then he’s groaning breathily right in your ear, enjoying how he can feel you clench around him every time he makes a particularly desperate noise.

- Also he has a praise kink I don’t make the rules, this could definitely make a cute fic actually, reader not knowing about him having an absolutely desperate need for her praise, and rather than just asking for it (because then in his mind it doesn’t count) , he goes above and beyond all the time in every aspect of life desperately chasing after slivers of praise from you to get his fix, and maybe as a prank or a joke or a TikTok trend one time you call him a good boy and he just goes absolutely feral and then you put the puzzle pieces together

-okay I’ll stfu now but before I go I have pictures that relate to this to share to really prove my point that I’ll leave at the bottom of this, (in order, beard, hands, eyes, sexy asf, why he pulling that face? ,And hair)

- anywho I’m so deeply sorry for bringing my depraved obsession to the internet, BUT if you fuck with it at all or wanna talk to me or add anything my ask box is OPEN and my anons are ON

- also I’m considering starting to write again so if you have any tips or inspiration I’m totally open to that even if it’s criticism or whatever

[seraphmeraph]

Crazy? I was crazy once

Slippy Sloppy

MK1 smut with Bi Han

TW: sex (18+), bathtub sex, slight degrading, overstimulation, AFAB reader, dom!bi-han, sub!reader, riding

A/N: Y’all I’m like hella sick so I have nothing better to do than write more Bi Han smut but also like ngl y’all should add me on discord cause I’m mad bored if you cant tell- seraphfrfr - but enjoy <3

You just wanted to set a warm hot bath for your husband after he came home from a dangerous mission, but he had other plans.

You helped your husband undress and sink into the bathtub. Sitting at the bathtub's edge, you began to rub his tense back.

He let out a low groan. "Have you been well during my absence?" He asked, closing his eyes and trying to relax under my hands.

"Of course I have, my love," You replied with a short smile. Your fingers turned him into putty under your hands. It was silent for a few minutes. Bi Han enjoyed your presence. "I'll give you space so you can unwind," You spoke warmly, pulling your hands away, but he gently grabbed your wrist.

"Join me," He looked up at you.

"Join you?" You repeated. "Are you sure? I don't wanna disturb you."

"You're disturbing no one. Now come," Bi Han spoke, letting go of your wrists.

You hesitated for a moment before giving in to his request. Slowly, you removed your clothes and slid into the warm water, your back pressed against his chest as he wrapped his arms around you. The water was soothing, and the warmth of his embrace made you feel safe and loved.

His hands wandered to your breasts, giving them a light squeeze. You couldn't help but blush and playfully slap his arm.

He chuckled into your ear, sending butterflies into your stomach. "I missed you," He whispered, roughly massaging your breasts.

"I-I missed you too," You mumbled, focusing on how his fingers rolled your nipples.

One of his hands went under the water, spreading your thighs just enough where he had access to your clit. Bi Han began rubbing your bundle of nerves.

You moaned softly, gripping his arm still on your chest.

You felt him slightly rub his dick against your back, sending shivers down your spine.

"Turn," He commanded you, and you listened, turning around to face him. The water sloshed side to side. "So beautiful," He spoke, admiring your face. "Did you toy with yourself to me whilst I was away?"

You wrapped your arms around his neck. "Bi Han," You whined at his teasing.

His hand went to grip your jaw, making you look at him. "Tell me, did you?" He asked.

"I just missed you so much…" You admitted.

"You little whore, couldn't wait until I got back?" He spoke. "I'll show you what you were missing."

With that, he lifted you, positioned his dick under you, then slowly slid it into you.

A moan escaped your mouth. Bi Han let you adjust to his size again, but not for long since he began moving you. You helped him gain a rhythm. His lips crashed against yours, pulling you into a vigorous kiss.

"Your pathetic fingers could never compare to me," He grunted, his hands resting on my hips, aiding me up and down.

"No-No, never," You moaned. The water splashed out of the tub as your movement got desperate. You were on the verge of release and didn't care about the mess you were creating.

"Come for me, show me how good I feel," He spoke, his deep voice leading to your release. You came around his cock, stopping momentarily before Bi Han's hand slid under your thigh, pushing you up and down. "I'm not done," He grumbled.

You whined, feeling your overstimulation take over.

But it was only a short time before he joined you. The way you looked at him so pathetically was enough to make him want to cum. He pushed you deep down on his cock, pumping his cold fluids deep inside you. You rested your head against him, panting as he wrapped his arms around you, kissing your forehead.

Good luck cleaning, considering you'll be at it for a good hour.