#i still look at this and am like. how. no like literally HOW. how did they look at this and not be like

[plethorawrites]

TW: Mentions of dub con/non consensual intimacy or coercion. (From his past lovers, not reader) (A/N this is my favorite thing I've ever writtenreader

TW: NSFW content.

2.5k word count

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Okay, this could be a bit of a hot take, but I am a firm believer in soft Jason Todd during sex.

Especially at the beginning of a relationship. He died young and his only sexual experiences were with Talia, who groomed him, Essence, who he believed betrayed him for the longest time and maybe Artemis, (Idk if that's canon? Can someone confirm or deny?) who was probably pretty rough given her arrogant, abrasive, and violent personality.

So, when he dates you, he's more than just hesitant. He's pretty much terrified. But he's used to hiding his feelings because they make him feel vulnerable and weak, which he hates. When you start tearing down his walls, he starts to panic. He likes spending time with you, thinking about you, kissing you. Especially that last part.

But it never goes very far because he always pulls away when things get more heated. Like, you in his lap, him nearly fully hard before quickly picking you up by your hips and moving you to the other side of the couch before standing up, clearing his throat and leaving.

It takes over two months before he feels comfortable enough to even tell you the reason he doesn't want to be intimate and the only reason he did is because you started to feel like he wasn't attracted to you or you had something wrong.

He rushed to reassure you that wasn't the case and finally told you the —partial— truth. He had scars he didn't want you seeing, he had bad prior experiences, he felt like he was being used almost every time he slept with someone and couldn't stand that feeling because it made him physically ill.

It took several weeks after that to slowly adapt to that realization and discuss how to make that feeling go away. Taking things slow, making it last, keeping it gentle, seemed to be the best way. And it was somehow perfect and tortuous all at once. He let you ride his thigh, at first. That was the first time he'd ever allowed any form of intimacy between you too. Partially because you looked desperate and he felt bad and partially because he genuinely wanted to see what you looked like while doing that.

Not to mention, he was still too afraid to be the one doing anything. So, it was best if he just helped.

His grip was firm, his eyes glued to you. You whispered more praise in those few minutes than he had heard from anyone in months all together, maybe even the year. He felt good. He was helping you. You appreciated it. You appreciated him. He was attractive. You were thanking him for giving this to you. Practically begging for his help.

And it made his heart clench, not to mention his teeth. There were other forms of physical intimacy after that, still only to you, because he didn't want to risk showing his scars or get that nausea in his stomach again during sex. You'd allow him pretty much anything and everything, if it meant he was more comfortable with you and your body. Sliding his hand under your shirt while you slept over (quite literally just falling asleep after eating dinner together) brushing his knuckles against your breasts, hesitant to touch them, but finding comfort in it all at once.

You assured him three different times—before he did it, when his hand was just barely under your shirt, and when his fingers first tugged at your nipples. It's when he's finally a bit more comfortable, pressing his lips to your shoulder blade that you hum and roll over. Your hair finds his hair, stroking it and he presses his lips to your neck, almost on instinct. You let him kiss lower and lower, gently guiding his head towards your breasts, all while repeating more and more praise, reminding him he's under no obligation to do anything, ever, if he doesn't feel comfortable.

But he does. With you, he does.

It leads to him kissing and sucking at your chest until he loses track of time and you're painfully wet. That was plenty, you promised. He doesn't need to do anymore than that. But he does, because he doesn't want to take his hands off your soft skin. So you gently drag his hand down, keeping the other firmly on his shoulder while you stare into his eyes, as his fingers slide through your slick. A sharp inhale makes him hold his breath. The other women he'd been with only ever wanted the most physical part of sex, never to do something like this. You were so soft and warm, assuring him he was doing fine while guiding his hand until you eventually couldn't keep looking at him and had to close your eyes. He liked that. A lot.

The way your hand moved, letting him do what he wanted while you gripped the sheets. He listened so well, trying to make you happy or just keep making those sounds—his name falling from your lips. If you wanted his fingers to move faster, they would. If you said deeper, they were. If you said to curl them, they'd curl. You were so... captivating, he had found. Usually, he was too in his head, so focused on how long until it was over that he never even considered being able to enjoy it.

But he wasn't rushing with you. He didn't want you to stop saying his name. When you finally came down from the high he'd brought you, your first words were a question, asking if he was alright. When he nodded, you started telling him how perfect he was, how good that felt. He liked that almost as much as your moans.

Yet, you felt guilty, never taking care of him. He never asked. In fact he repeatedly denied the offer until you chose to stop asking rather than upset him.

Until one day, when you were on the couch, leaning against him as he read, your hand perched on his thigh. He didn't know if it was the fact that you were wearing such a low cut tank top or how you'd been absent mindedly rubbing circles around his sweatpants while reading over his shoulder, but he was worked up. It took twice as long to finish a page with your motion making his mind go to places it shouldn't.

He was worried, about you rejecting his desires, or something like that. Something mocking or doing something that was uncomfortable. People had done that before, eliciting physical reactions he didn't want to feel. But he wanted to try, to feel you on him the way he'd felt you.

His hands grabbed yours and when you looked up in confusion, he just gently and silently slid your hand a bit further on his leg, towards his erection. He'd absolutely taken care of himself, and often, because it was a quick stress relief that left him tired before bed. But lately, the more he did it, the more his mind wandered to you and that, for some reason, made him finish a lot harder than usual.

Your hand brushed against it and you asked if he was sure before pressing a kiss to the side of his shoulder and sinking down to the carpet below, on your knees in between his legs. Running your hands up and down his thighs in a soothing sort of gesture both calmed him and felt like torture all at once. But it only lasted a little bit, while you promised him he was in control, because that's what he needed to hear.

That he could say no at any time if he was even the slightest bit uncomfortable. When you slid his boxers down, his heart jumped in panic. Of course you noticed the scars on his thighs instantly. But ignored them, because he still hardly ever showed them aside for occasionally wearing short sleeves. You were silent and he was scared but all you'd said at last, was that he was pretty.

"Pretty."

That word had never been used to describe him. Not before his death and certainly not after. Even the feeling of your gentle kiss on his skin and your thumb swiping over the top had him gripping the pillows, still stressed. Your hand took his, squeezing it when your lips finally enveloped him, his length disappearing into your mouth. His breaths were shaky, his hold on your hand getting painfully tight.

He felt like he was in pure bliss, his mouth falling open to pant as his head fell back against the couch practically begging you to keep going. The feeling of your hums had done him in. And his moans, loud and tough, getting whiny towards the end as the euphoria wore off assured you he was fine. He slid his boxers and sweats up quickly, his cheeks red, from the act not embarrassment (he'd say and lie) but you just laid your head on his knee, staring at him, asking how he was.

Good was an understatement. Great, too. Incredible. Amazing. None of those compliments came out. He couldn't speak, just looked back up at the ceiling as his breathing came back under control.

All you'd done in response was tell him he didn't have to say anything if he didn't want to, climbing back into the couch and wrapping your arms around his midsection, resting your head against him. You stayed like that—silent. The only question you dared to ask was if he'd want that again and his response was a kiss.

He realized after that, how truly deeply he loved you.

A feeling he was so unused to, he couldn't pinpoint it for the longest time. You felt safe. Maybe that's what made him want to finally seal the deal with you. Or maybe it was the way his body physically ached in a way that no amount of help from his own hand or your mouth could fix.

Something about it was missing.

He wanted the lights off. You had accepted that, but told him you'd really rather see him. He caved almost instantly, because as afraid he was of you seeing him, he wanted to see you too bad to care enough. You were undressed first, naturally. He'd seen that before, in bed while touching you, or just as you changed it got in the shower. He wasn't any less smitten, still obsessed with every inch of exposed skin. It took a few deep breaths and reassuring words before he was willing to unbutton his shirt.

In fact, he couldn't. He'd asked you to do it.

That felt oddly more intimate to him. Your fingers moved slowly, undoing them one by one, a bit more of his chest exposed with each button undone. You had seen a lot of his scars, after he got more comfortable wearing shorts or shirts that showed his arms. He still never revealed his chest and when you did, he looked away, his teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek to keep from tears brimming in his eyes as he heard the small gasp leave your lips.

He almost jumped when you touched one, your fingertips feeling light as a feather. Tears kept pricking but he refused to let them fall. He was being vulnerable but he couldn't allow himself to be that weak. Your other hand found his cheek, pulling his face to look at your face, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip as you pursed your own, tightly to keep from any strangled sounds escaping.

Your voice was equally as emotional when you eventually spoke, telling him in a shaky voice that he was still pretty. Those words or perhaps how your voice cracked when you said them, broke him. A tear slipped down his cheek and you were quick to brush it away with your thumb and kissed his cheek softly, confessing that you loved him.

He couldn't stand it anymore.

He wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your neck letting himself breathe for what felt like the first time all over again. A real breath. One without any heaviness attached to it because you'd stolen all the stones from his walls one by one. You repeated it, so he knew it wasn't a mistake or accident and he started peppering short kisses to your neck, all the way to your lips, which he kissed deeply, his bare chest pressed entirely around your own.

Your arms were around his neck, in his hair, pulling him closer and his hands started to wander, desperately craving to have you without any barriers anymore. He stared at you, or at least tried to, when he felt your velvety walls surround him, clenching tightly when his hips were finally flushed with yours. His jaw was locked tightly until you started running your hand up and down his spine, telling him he could take a moment, if he needed it.

He did.

Not because he was nervous, since for once, he wasn't, but because he wanted to stare at you in this state and revel in your feeling for a moment more. He did, until it became painful for both of you and every thrust he made was slow and deep, staring into each other's eyes, taking full breaths in at the same time for several moments until his pace was quick, along with your breathing.

Your praise never stopped, even when it wasn't fully coherent and ended in a moan or whine. His own praise for you wasn't lacking either, telling you how perfect you felt, how badly he wanted you, how much he appreciated you waiting on him because he really was enjoying it, probably more than he'd enjoyed anything in his entire life.

When you're both a mess, panting and quiet from the feelings that washed over you both, his body goes limp, laying on top of you. Your hands rub his shoulders reassuringly, although slowly and his hands hold either side of your head, fingers threaded into your hair as he pressed his forehead against yours, feeling your breath on him. It was silent, until he eventually lifted his head to admire you, your stray hairs sticking to your face, your puffy lips, your blown pupils.

He said it back, at that moment.

He loved you too and couldn't stand letting you think anything else for a single moment more.

You didn't respond, but your lips curled into a grin and a heavy sigh left your chest, your hands moving from his shoulders to cup his face and lean up to kiss him.

He rolled you over, causing a slight squeal from you, letting you lay on him so he wasn't crushing you any longer. You rested your head against his chest, silently tracing his scars as he messed with your hair, the moonlight streaming in through the window.

His voice eventually broke the comfortable silence when he whispered to you, asking you to "Say it again."

You didn't hesitate to tell him you'd "Say it as many times as he wanted to hear it."

With his lips twitching, the slight wit he always possessed came back, questioning what you'd do if he "Wanted to hear it forever."

Like before, your response was immediate when you replied, telling him you'd "Say it forever, then."

[mariasont]

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

Space Between Distraction & Indulgence - A.H

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

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's absolutely a boob man.

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes lift—quick, practiced, almost indifferent.

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You make a noise, half scoff, half petulant whine, and shift your chin against his shoulder, angling yourself just enough to shoot him a pointed glare. "You always say that. What's the point of having such a capable assistant if you're not going to use her?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His answer is immediate. Too immediate.

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

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

A slow inhale, a slight tilt of his head, then—his pen moves again, like nothing's changed. Like you haven't changed anything. You exhale against his skin, hiding your smirk in the crook of his neck, fingers idly tracing slow, featherlight circles along the nape of it. He's humoring you, and that's fine.

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

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

"Sit still."

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

"Sweetheart."

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

Aaron's breath comes out sharp, ragged, the sound scraping its way from his throat like he's been holding onto it for too long. His chest pushes against yours, every inhale pressing you closer, every exhale heating the space between you. He leans back, just enough to create the smallest sliver of distance.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, savoring the friction that sends a shudder through you, tightening every muscle in your body with anticipation. The feeling sparks through you, sharp and intoxicating, sending heat pooling in your stomach. His reaction was subtle, the shift of his jaw, his hand brushing against the desk, like he doesn't trust himself to touch you yet.

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

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

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

You push against him again, grinding just enough to feel the press of him, the heat of him, and god. His fingers dig in—tight—like he's trying to stop you, but you don't miss the way his breath catches, the way his grip falters for half a second. Your fingers curl into his shirt, and suddenly, you can't remember what your original plan was.

You shift forward, your body molding to his, your breath fanning against his skin as your lips brush his ear. Your teeth scrape, light, but not accidental.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I told you to stop," he murmurs, but the way it sinks into you, the way it wraps around your ribs like something stretched too tight, tells you exactly what kind of trouble you're in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His fingers flex, testing. Feeling.

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

The words settle in your spine, and suddenly, you don't feel like you know what you're doing. Like you're the one pulling at a thread you don't quite understand, but it's already too late to stop. A shiver rolls through you, bone-deep, leaving your muscles lax, your body melting into his like you were always meant to be here.

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

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

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

Your grip on his shirt is useless, you're clinging to him, to anything, but he's the one in control. His hands settle on your hips, demanding, guiding you over the hard line of his cock, forcing you to take the friction, to feel every inch of him through the layers still between you.

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you feel that?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

And then he finds you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please." It falls from your lips like a confession, like you'd say anything if it means he'll give you what you want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don’t move yet."

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

"Just a little longer," he murmurs, his hands absently smoothing up and down your spine. His voice drops, lower, rougher—

"I want to make sure it sticks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tilts your chin up, catching your gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wow?"

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

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

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

"You said something earlier."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows furrow. "It does?"

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

"It's a defense mechanism. A way to compartmentalize. It doesn't mean I don't notice you. It means my brain assigns the highest level of urgency to the task at hand, and everything else—everything outside of that—is temporarily shut out."

"When I do that, it makes sense that you would feel like I'm not paying attention to you," he continues. "Because in those moments I'm not."

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

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

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

Aaron leans in a fraction, his eyes holding yours.

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

You blink. "Uh... sleep?"

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

Your face warms. "That's just—,"

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

"I—,"

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

You swallow.

"No."

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

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

Your scrunch your nose again and he smiles.

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

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

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

Aaron sees it immediately. "Sweetheart."

You shake your head quickly, sniffling.

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

He smirks. "Are you sure?"

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

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

Your smile is instant, automatic, the kind that takes over your whole face before you can even think about stopping it. Your arms tighten around his neck, fingers curling into his shirt like you have any intention of letting go.

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

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

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

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

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme @pansexualhailstorm @averyhotchner @looking1016 @everythinglizzy @sky2nd @alexxavicry @spencerssatchel @candyd1es @storiesofsvu @pleasantgardenwitch @kodzukenmaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spennciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @jstcln @just-here-to-read13 @c-losur3 @wondergal2001 @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @estragos @khxna @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @justyourusualash @whimsicalpolitical @kcch-ns @cool-light32 @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @ssamorganhotchner @persephonestears @moonyxstars @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @imsonotweird @jungchloe @she-wont-miss @duchesz @may-machin99 @historicallyweirdandqueer @in-the-kosmos @lcvealwayss @p13rc3-th3-m4tt13 @babyhoneybyhs @reire11

taglist is closed for now until i can figure out the best way to include more than 50 mentions :(

[steddieas-shegoes]

i don’t know why i can’t take my eyes off of you

for @steddielovemonth day one using You and Me by Lifehouse

rated t | 1186 words | no cw | tags: future fic, second chances, mutual pining, idiots in love, songwriter Eddie, teacher Steve

🛒🛒🛒🛒🛒🛒🛒🛒

Steve’s walking down the frozen section of Melvald’s when time stops.

Not literally. The watch on his wrist is still ticking. The clock on the wall at the front of the store is still moving. People around him are still grabbing their groceries.

But Eddie Munson is standing in front of the ice cream section like he belongs there.

Eddie left Hawkins five years ago.

He kissed Steve on the lips, then the forehead, and left.

Steve’s thought about it, about him, every day since.

Eddie hasn’t noticed him yet. Maybe Steve should leave before he does. Last he’d heard, Eddie was working at a recording studio as a songwriter, halfway making his dreams come true.

He’s happy, or at least that’s what all the kids have said when he’s brought up. They don’t know about the kiss, at least Steve doesn’t think they do. He’s never told them.

It’s busy enough in the store that Steve’s pretty sure he can sneak away before Eddie sees him. He starts to back away, but immediately bumps into an old woman.

“I’m so sorry, are you okay?” He’s asking, and she’s brushing him off and saying she’s fine. He feels terrible.

“Steve?” Eddie’s voice is like music, always has been a melody made specifically for Steve.

“Eddie,” Steve says as the old woman walks away. “Hey.”

Steve forgets he’s in public as the world around him fades and all he sees, smells, wants, is Eddie.

“I didn’t know you were still in Hawkins,” Eddie says quietly, leaning forward on his toes. He’s got a new battle vest, though it looks well-worn. Steve wonders if he knows that his old vest is hanging in his closet, if he knows that Steve pulls it out every once in a while so he can put it on and feel a little less alone.

“Yeah. Never left.” It sounds worse than it is. Steve always said he’d leave when all the kids left, but once they did, he didn’t know where to go. It’s not like he could follow them around, couch-surfing across the country a month or two at a time, burdening them with his self-imposed loneliness.

“You look good,” Eddie says, changing the subject.

Leaving Hawkins was a touchy subject for Steve the last time he’d seen Eddie. It still is. Eddie must sense that.

“So do you,” Steve breathes out. He does. He looks healthy and happy, something Hawkins had completely drained from him before. “What are you doing back?”

“Just visiting Wayne. Usually he comes to see me, but he insisted he didn’t wanna deal with the ‘big city’ this time. And I’m the best nephew, so I said ‘sure, old man, I’ll go back to the town that hates my guts!’ And here I am trying to find my favorite ice cream at the store. They don’t have it,” Eddie shrugs. He rambles when he’s nervous, still. “He hasn’t mentioned seeing you around or anything, though.”

“Yeah, I guess we don’t cross paths much,” Steve laughs awkwardly. He can’t remember the last time he saw Wayne. Must’ve been around Christmas, when Steve was helping Joyce with her decorations while Hopper worked overtime and Wayne stopped by to drop off some lights. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s good. Stubborn as hell. Won’t retire even though he could,” Eddie shakes his head. “Think he’s scared of being bored.”

“Or lonely.”

The words escape Steve before he can hold them back.

Eddie’s face softens, but it’s not full of pity. Everyone always gives Steve this look, like they know he’s putting on a brave face. Not Eddie.

“Wayne’s always been content alone. He’s got friends, and he calls me when he has something new to argue about,” Eddie leans in closer. “I don’t really worry about Wayne. Other people, sure.”

“Like who?” Steve swallows.

“You settle down yet?” Eddie asks in response.

Steve’s so shocked by the question, he doesn’t answer.

“I figured the kids were just being nice by not telling me if you did, but you’re not wearing a ring and you’re grocery shopping alone, so…” Eddie rambles again. Steve feels his heart flutter in his chest.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Are you dating someone?”

Steve shakes his head. “Haven’t really found anyone interesting.”

“Interesting? Since when does Steve Harrington want someone interesting?”

Since the most interesting person he knows kissed him and then left. Since everyone else is boring in comparison to you. Since he realized he was dumb to let you go.

“I guess what I thought I wanted is different now. Has been for a while,” Steve shrugs.

It’s strange how easily Steve becomes wrapped up in Eddie’s orbit, how quickly everything else didn’t matter the moment Eddie started talking to him. It’s just the two of them.

“Excuse me,” a man says to their left. Steve jumps back and apologizes for blocking where he needed to be. Eddie’s eyes never leave Steve.

When the man walks away, Steve clears his throat.

“How long are you in town?”

“How long will it take me to convince you to come back with me?”

Steve chokes on his next breath. “What? Come back with you? To…”

“New York or Chicago. I’m getting a promotion and they’ll let me pick where I wanna go. I’ve been leaning towards Chicago because more of the music I enjoy is making a mark there,” Eddie explains. “And there’s plenty of options for you there, too. Dustin said you just finished your teaching degree.”

“Dustin talks about me?”

“Only when unprovoked,” Eddie grins. “Have you been waiting for me?”

It’s blunt, but Eddie always has been. Steve can hide a lot of emotions from people; It’s been a survival tactic for most of his life.

He’s never been able to hide shit from Eddie.

“Not on purpose.”

Eddie looks at his basket of items. He was really only here for a few things, but he saw his favorite cookies were on sale and he couldn’t resist stocking up. He looks between the basket and Eddie’s eyes.

“You wanna come to mine for dinner?”

“Is dinner cookies?” Eddie laughs, poking at the package closest to the top.

“That’s dessert,” Steve laughs, too. He finds it easy. He never thought it could be this easy after the time that’s passed, the distance they had between them.

“First dessert.”

“What are we, hobbits?” Steve asks.

Eddie’s jaw drops open. “Steve, please. Not in public.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know you read it!” Eddie groans, but he’s smiling, so Steve’s not actually worried.

“I’ve read a lot of things! I’ve been waiting for you, remember?”

An announcement starts in the store— someone’s car is blocking a delivery truck entrance— and they both take a step away from each other. They were much closer than they should be in the grocery store.

This is still Hawkins, and people already don’t like Eddie. Looking cozier than two dudes normally would might be dangerous for both of them.

“So. Dinner?” Steve asks again. It’s easier to remember there are other people around with some distance between them.

“Sure. Dinner.”

Time starts again.

[nativegirltapes]

⋆ ˚ ꩜ ｡ ⋆୨୧˚ what happens when sweetheart!reader invites drew over after their recent movie together finally wraps . . .

pairing: sweetheart!reader x drew starkey

warnings/notes: smut but not much until the end. also new reader yay <3 hoping to get her moodboard out tmr 🎀 lmk your thoughts sexies

the tension between you and drew was undeniable, to the both of you and the rest of the world; your friends, his friends, and both your guys' fans. it's not like you guys tried to hide it though, you were both constantly staring at each other whenever in the same room, especially during interviews, or the way you would both subconsciously have your hands all over each other, or maybe the way you'd both find a way to bring each other up when the other wasn't around.

and now that the movie you both starred in was wrapped, you both felt some weight fall from your shoulders. drew didn't feel like much of a pervert since you weren't exactly his costar anymore. and you didn't feel like you had to suppress the way your body reacted every time he got too close to you.

you hated how much you liked him, he made your stomach do literal flips. the feeling was mutual though, drew adored you in a way he hadn't anyone else. "nice place you got." drew said as you showed him around your apartment. "thanks." you stopped when you made it to your bedroom, drew looked around, your bedroom making him realize how much he really didn't know about you. "so, this is where the lucky guys get to come huh?"

"guess so," you plopped on your bed, letting your dress ride up your thighs. you'd be lying if you said that you didn't have intentions of getting somewhere with drew tonight after inviting him over alone. and it would also be a lie if drew wasn't hoping that you had intentions tonight, because he definitely did.

"am i one of those lucky guys?" drew questioned as he sat next to you on your bed. "are you?" you questioned him back, flashing him a little smile. "can i be?"

you shot out of your bed, standing up in front of him. "don't know. can you?" you teased him. drew chuckled, you were playing hard to get and it surprised him. you were the shy type yes, but there was something playful and even a little daring about you tonight and drew loved it. "do you like messing with me?" drew looked up at you as you still stood in front of him. it took a lot for him to not pull you down on his lap and kiss you. a lot actually. "maybe."

"we both know you want me just as bad as i want you right now," drew's hand fiddled with the end of your dress. "and what makes you so sure about that. hm?" you took a seat on his lap, his arm wrapped around your body, they felt even bigger than they looked. "i don't think you would've let me in your bedroom if you didn't." he said. and he was right, he was absolutely right and you didn't like it.

but clearly not enough because before you knew it, you were both tearing your clothes off each other and you were riding him. "fuck, i'm obsessed with you." drew said squeezing your ass as you bounced on his cock. his tight grip making you squeal a little, you knew it would leave marks but that was the last thing you were worried about. "you're so fucking perfect." you watched as drew's chest rose and fell at a certain pace. "cmon, talk to me." he begged.

your whole body felt so good that all you literally could do was let out moans and squeals, "s' good." you whispered, your eyes instinctively shut from the amount of pleasure. "wanna fuck you all the time." you said.

"yeah? you can baby. i'm all yours." drew responded. it was your first time having sex, but holy, the way your pussy felt wrapped around him; he swore he'd never even want to fuck anyone else ever again. "knew you weren't that shy."

you felt your cheeks get red at his comment, "m'gonna come!" you fell into his chest, heavy breaths leaving your lips as you collapsed on top of him. your manicured nails gripped onto his big arms, "me too." drew's breath hitched. you laid on him as you both caught your breath, "soooo, i am one of those lucky guys?"

[pretentious-blonde]

new neighbour

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve is down because of his dating life, or lack thereof. that is until the new girl captures his attention

warnings: literally none, nervous and sweet steve!!

a/n: i have been gone for 3 months but uni has finally settled down! also if anyone wants a pt. 2 with steve trying to help move r in i am so down! i have so many ideas!!!

A steady stream of gray light filtered through the wide front windows of Family Video, illuminating the rows upon rows of VHS cases. The day was uncharacteristically slow, the kind of weekday lull that left the store feeling hollow and cavernous. Steve Harrington stood behind the counter, leaning his elbows on the chipped laminate surface, tapping his fingers in a pattern he’d repeated so many times in an attempt to give him something to focus on. 

His eyes hurt under the fluorescents, and though he tried to keep a casual expression, anyone who looked long enough could see the small, flickering signs of boredom crossing his features. On the other side of the store, Robin roamed the aisles, a small stack of VHS tapes in her hands, placing each one in its rightful place on the shelf. Every so often, she’d glance toward Steve, as if expecting some lively remark, but he remained lost in his thoughts.

“Hey,” Robin called, sliding a Night of the Comet tape onto the appropriate rack. “So… Vicky and I were talking the other night, and we thought, maybe this weekend…” She paused, drifting closer to the register so her voice wouldn’t echo.

Steve raised an eyebrow, still drumming his fingers on the counter. “Yeah, maybe what?”

Robin placed the last tape in her stack onto the shelf with a gentle thud. “Well, we’re making dinner. A real dinner—you know, in an actual kitchen, with actual groceries. Vicky wants me to learn her mom’s lasagna recipe. The whole shebang.” Her bright eyes searched his face. “Why don’t you come over? Eat with us?”

To anyone else, that might sound like a friendly suggestion. But there was a flicker in Robin’s eyes that Steve knew well: an undercurrent of pity. After all, he’d gone on a date last weekend that hadn’t exactly gone well. He was used to being the one with endless charm, the guy who always had a witty quip or a warm smile to keep a conversation going. Yet none of that had worked on Tanya—no matter how hard he tried. God was he trying.

Steve sighed, pushing himself upright. “Yeah… no.”

Robin visibly balked, confusion knitting her brows. “What do you mean, ‘yeah… no’? You can’t just respond to an invitation like that.”

“Exactly how I just did,” he said, mouth tilting into a faint, lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks for the invite, but I’m not interrupting your date night just because you feel bad for me. I know you guys are trying to, like, throw me a bone or whatever.”

Robin’s cheeks puffed out in a mock sigh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She turned away, pretending to occupy herself by adjusting a crooked VHS case. The slight shift in her voice told him otherwise. She always was a terrible liar. 

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You know what I’m talking about.” He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though the memory of last weekend pricked at him more than he liked to admit. Tanya had been gorgeous—dark hair, lovely eyes, a laugh that could probably stop traffic. At first glance, she was the perfect fit. But after an hour of him asking question after question and receiving nothing but uninterested one-word answers, he’d realised that appearances weren't enough to carry a conversation. The spark was missing, that intangible something that made him want to stay, to laugh, to learn more. It just wasn’t there. He was beginning to think it never would be, at least for him.

Robin finally turned back. “Okay, so maybe I know you’ve been bummed. But it’s not pity, Steve.” She rolled her eyes. “Vicky genuinely likes you. We both do.”

“Sure,” Steve said, gently drumming his fingers again. “Vicky likes me enough to let me crash her romantic, candle-lit dinner with her girlfriend.” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Yeah, that’s not weird at all.”

Robin shot him a look. “It’s not weird if we invite you. And besides, it’s not like this is going to be some super fancy dinner. There might be candles, but that’s only so I can see the food properly, okay?”

Steve snorted, though the weight in his chest didn’t quite lift. “Look, Rob, I appreciate it,” he said, voice softening. “I do. But I’m not sure I’m up for third-wheeling on a Saturday night. I think it’s safer for everyone if I steer clear, especially given your experimental cooking.”

She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile. “Wow, way to appreciate me trying to feed you.” Though she spoke jokingly, she studied his face for signs of deeper sadness. He was Steve Harrington—he was supposed to be the one with the perpetual easy grin. But ever since his dating and social life had crashed and burned, Robin could see the twinge of hurt in his eyes. He was insecure. He liked to feel needed, he always had. He had no problem giving himself to others. So watching everyone else find their person only made him more self-conscious. The truth was nobody needed him, and that knowledge was slowly eating away at him.

“You know,” Robin added, resting her hands on the cart that held a few more tapes, “it’s not just about the date. I get it—you’re lonely. It’s okay to admit that. We’ve all been there.”

He opened his mouth, his gaze slipping away to look out the window at a slow-moving car. The driver was just a blur behind the glass, but it gave him something to focus on. Because she was right. He was lonely, and part of him wanted to accept Robin’s invitation so badly. The other part of him couldn’t bear to insert himself as a third wheel—he knew that feeling too well. He’d spent years longing for something real, something effortlessly mutual. Maybe he’d find it eventually, but not if he was hanging around a couple who only extended the invite out of sympathy.

“Okay,” Robin said, exhaling the tension that had built up between them. “If you change your mind, call me. Seriously, no guilt trip, no questions asked. Vicky won’t mind. We’ll have a plate ready.”

A genuine smile tugged at the corners of Steve’s mouth. It still looked like it held a bit of sadness but he covered it up to not upset her further. “Yeah. Thanks, Rob. I promise, if I get the sudden urge for a crisp lasagna—”

“Hey!”

He grinned for real this time. “—I’ll give you a call. Right now, though, I think I’m just gonna stick to renting a movie and ordering takeout. Maybe keep my Saturday night simple.”

Robin nodded, accepting his declination. Her gaze lingered, and she wanted to push harder, but she knew Steve well enough to sense that pushing too much would only drive him further into his own shell. “Alright,” she said softly, reaching out to pat his arm. “You know where to find me if you need to talk.”

“I know. And thanks.” He meant it.

Their eyes met before Robin moved off to shelve the remaining tapes. He watched her go, then slowly leaned forward on the counter again. Outside, the sun was getting a little brighter, illuminating the Family Video sign and casting reflections across the empty parking lot. He was trying to think about whatever movie he would undoubtedly be bringing home with him for the weekend, alone. That is, until he sees you.

You’re walking at an unhurried pace, shoulders slightly hunched against the cool breeze, but there’s something about you that holds his attention. The way your outfit matches in a way that feels effortless but intentional, the way your hair catches the light, styled just enough to suggest effort but not so much that it seems like you’re trying too hard. 

You push open the glass door, and the bell above gives a soft jingle that seems to echo in the stillness. The warmth of the store envelops you, a cozy contrast to the lingering chill outside. Rows of tapes tower around you, aisles lit by bulbs that buzz quietly in the background. It all feels a bit nostalgic, not too intimidating. 

Behind the front counter, Steve stands with his elbows braced on the worn surface. For a second, it looks like you’ve interrupted him mid-daydream—his brown eyes are distant. The moment you step inside, he blinks, and you can practically see the switch flip as you catch him. Suddenly, he’s all awareness, standing straighter, swallowing once. A faint flush colours the tips of his ears, though he tries to hide it by running a hand through his hair.

He looks at you in a way that he hopes is welcoming, he’s not sure if he should say something immediately or give you space to browse. There is a gentle lift of his shoulders as he inhales, working up the courage to speak. You offer a polite nod and slide toward the nearest aisle before he can get a word out.

He exhales a shaky breath he didn’t realise he was holding, mind racing as he tries to place you. He can’t recall seeing you here before, and he was certain he would remember if you had. He drags his fingers over the keyboard, tapping random keys to pretend he’s busy. In truth, all he wants is to keep glancing your way. It was maddening forcing his attention to the computer screen. 

You wander among the rows, taking in the titles. There’s something oddly comforting about the smell of plastic VHS covers. Occasionally, you catch sight of Steve peeking over from the desk, just for a moment, before he ducks back down to avoid being caught staring. You find yourself smiling at his obvious attempt to be casual.

He, meanwhile, is silently scolding himself. He knew he was being weird—God, he needs to get a grip. But there’s a traitorous part of him that can’t help noticing the delicate way your hair frames your face, or the look of your jacket—well worn, well loved, taken care of. Even though your aura was disarming, he felt like he was in high school all over again, unable to stop staring at the pretty girl in the corridor.

Eventually, you settle on a tape, The Empire Strikes Back—something classic you’ve been meaning to watch again. Taking a steadying breath, you head to the counter, the plastic case clutched in your hand. As you approach, he forces himself to appear relaxed, collected, though inside he’s buzzing with anticipation.

“Um, hey… Steve,” you look up from his name tag, placing the tape before him. His eyes dart down to the cover, then back up to you. “Do you work here?”

The moment you say it, you realise how silly it sounds—he’s in the company vest, with a company name tag on it. Heat flares across your cheeks.

A laugh bubbles out of him—warm, kind. He shakes his head gently as if to say, Don’t worry about it. “Yeah, I do.” 

You nod, cheeks still burning from your awkward question. “Yes. Sorry, I, uh… obviously you work here.”

“Nah, no problem. I’ve gotten weirder questions,” his smile widens, softening around the edges. You’re cute when you’re embarrassed. “Good pick, by the way.”

As he scans the tape, you notice the slight tremor in his hand. It’s barely there, but you sense the sweet, nervous energy radiating from him. His gaze flickers to you, then back to the screen, then to you again—like he can’t quite decide which deserves his attention more. You, probably.

“So, um,” he starts, clearing his throat, “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you… new in town?” He tries to sound casual, but a hopeful note creeps into his voice, as though he’s crossing his fingers for you to keep talking.

You brighten at the question, happy to have something normal to say. “I am, actually. I just moved here a few days ago. The apartment is literally right across the street—well, I think you can see it from the window.”

His eyes widened with interest and with the knowledge of your close proximity. “Yeah? Pretty convenient if you want a movie.” And maybe to see me, he almost adds. “So, when exactly did you move in?”

“Three days ago,” you reply, letting out a breathy exhale at the memory. “I’ve been knee-deep in boxes ever since. I finally decided I deserved a break, and what better way than a movie night to make the new place feel more like home, right?”

He nods fervently, excitement sparking behind his eyes. “That’s true. Shame I wasn’t working that day—maybe I could’ve, I don’t know… helped haul a box or two?” He offers a tiny shrug, his words stumbling a bit as he realises how forward that might sound. “I mean, not that I… I just… you know,” he begins to backtrack.

A warm giggle escapes you, putting him at ease. “I appreciate the thought. My arms hurt for, like, the whole day afterwards.”

He huffs a little chuckle, feeling relief wash over him when you don’t seem put off. “Exactly.”

He glances around the store for Robin knowing she’s probably lurking somewhere, listening in with a sly grin. But in this moment, he can’t bring himself to care too much; he wants you to have his full attention.

“If you don’t have a membership yet,” he says, fishing around under the counter for a form, “you’ll need to fill this out.” He slides a paper and pen toward you.

“Right, I’m totally new,” you reply, stepping closer to read the sheet. As you lean in, Steve notices the light scent of your shampoo—or maybe your perfume—and it makes his pulse skip. He’s had customers before, obviously, but none have made him feel this flustered. It wasn't a feeling he necessarily disliked. 

Fighting the urge to stare too obviously, he busies himself with looking at the returns papers, occasionally sneaking a glance your way. He notices the way your brow furrows as you fill in the different boxes, huffing to yourself when you wrote your previous address, crossing it out and starting again. It was so human, so endearing, he had to turn away fully or his amused smile would give him away. 

Once you’ve filled out the form, you pass it back. He types in your details, the corners of his mouth quirking up as he commits your name to memory. “Perfect,” he tells you, printing out a fresh membership card and sliding it across the counter.

“Thanks,” you say, tucking it into your wallet. “Feels official now.”

He can’t help but feel upset that this moment is slipping away—any second, you’ll thank him, smile, and leave. Then he’ll be stuck behind the counter once again, replaying this conversation over and over until you come to return it, which could be a week from now. That would be unacceptable.

He clears his throat. “Uh, so,” he begins, voice wavering ever so slightly. “You got any big plans this weekend? Since you’re, you know, new here.” You could tell he was aiming for confident, but that casual tone of his falters as he seems genuinely invested in your response. 

His smile drops as he hears your reply. “Actually, yeah, I do,” his heart sinks, mind already going into overdrive. You’re probably telling him politely to let him down. He knew he was being too brazen, but he couldn’t stop the embarrassment from settling in his chest. 

“I need to head into town and get some furniture,” you explain as his head looks up, stopping him from spiralling. “I heard there’s a store a few miles away?”

He smiles at the fact that you’re still talking and didn’t just shut him down, you’re just busy—and that’s okay. “Oh, yeah,” he nods eagerly. “There is, um, it’s about a ten-minute drive, tops. Depends on traffic, I guess, but Hawkins isn’t exactly wild.” He lets out a weak laugh. “What are you, uh, looking for?”

“Mostly a bookshelf. I thought I could just stack my books, but they’re already in danger of tumbling over.”

He is listening, but a large part of him is cursing how little attention he paid in English class. Wishing he could humour you more. “That’s cool,” he says safely. “So, you’re a big reader?”

You nod, eyes lighting up. “Oh absolutely, I love getting lost in a story.”

He can’t help but think how sweet you are, the warmth in your expression filling his stomach, urging him past his nerves to finally ask what he had been wanting to. “Well, if you need help lugging that thing up the stairs to your apartment, I’m, uh… not working this weekend.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, he realises that, once again, it may have been too forward. 

“Really?” You ask, face brightening before he had the chance to overthink. “That’d be great! I was kind of worried about getting it back here on my own.”

His heart does that little flip at your acceptance of his offer. He nods enthusiastically, a few rogue hairs settling on his forehead, making his appearance more boyish. 

“It’s no problem,” he tells you as he puts his hands in his pockets, trying to appear relaxed as if this wasn’t the most exciting opportunity to happen to him all year. “I’ve got a car that’s… well, it’s big enough. Definitely more roomy than your average trunk. If yours can’t handle the bookshelf, mine can.”

You break into a grateful grin. “Wow, that’s really nice of you. Seriously.”

A blush creeps across his cheeks at your kind words, his face turning bashful. “Honestly, it’s no big deal at all.” It really wasn't, if all it takes is transporting some furniture to spend more time with you, he would gladly do it.

You lift your shoulders in a shrug, feeling slightly indebted. “Well, at least let me buy you a coffee or something afterwards, to say thanks. I insist.”

“No, that’s—” He starts to protest, but the look on your face tells him you’re determined. It’s kind of adorable how your eyebrows pinch together.

“I insist,” you repeat, a little more firmly, and he laughs quietly. So you're stubborn, he can work with that.

“Alright,” he concedes, holding up his hands in surrender. “Coffee it is. How about…” Think, Steve, think. “Saturday morning, I can meet you out front, say, 10:30? Unless that’s too early?” In truth, he’d be ready at sunrise if it meant spending more time with you, but he doesn't want to sound desperate.

“That’s perfect,” you say, beaming as you pick up your rented tape. “Thank you again, Steve.”

“Sure,” he replied, feeling a grin stretch across his face, so genuine it almost hurts his cheeks. He is shocked at how he managed to do this. How—by some miracle—you of all people had moved across the street. 

You give a small wave, and the door shuts behind you, the bell chiming one last time. His heart is still hammering away as he stares at the closed door, trying to process that he just—did that. He just set up what is basically a date… or at least a coffee situation. Either way, it’s something.

In the sudden quiet, he hears a muffled sound from behind him, and when he spins around, there’s Robin standing in the break room doorway. She’s practically bouncing on her heels, eyes wide with excitement.

“Oh, my God,” she says, not even bothering to hide the grin overtaking her face. “Was that—did you just—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he cuts her off, rolling his eyes even though he can’t keep the giddy smile off his own lips. “Shut up, Robin.”

She doesn’t shut up, but he doesn't mind. All he can think about is Saturday morning, and the way your face lit up when he offered to help you, and how maybe this is going to be the start of something really, really good.

[youngbounty]

Okay, out of all the things people are complaining about this story (and I am planning to review this so believe me when I say there are problems), Damian’s line right here is what you guys have a problem with?

For those complaining about Jason having one night stands, have you never read any issue of Red Hood and the Outlaws. This is referencing Jason’s lovers being short lived and YES Jason has canonly had one night stands. Literally the first time he met Starfire was on an island naked as a jaybird (no pun intended) and she offered him sex, because it is how she got to know people at the time.

The comic was during the New 52 era and yeah they were being weird with Starfire in the first couple of issues with her being in bed with Roy and sorta Jason, BUT he has had one night stands in that comic. Two of them at least. One of the girls he had a one night stand with got dragged into a spaceship with him when he and the Outlaws were fighting an intergalactic war before she kicked the bucket.

Now, do I like it? Eh… they really did place Starfire OOC in the New 52, but she was dealing with a broken heart in her own way. As for Jason, he was still Jason just as he is in this comic. He just happens to enjoy one night stands when he’s lonely. Also, he never had one night stands in the Rebirth Outlaws since he was in a relationship with Artemis. He also got into a relationship with Rose in Zdarsky’s Batman I guess? Personally, I still consider his relationship with Artemis to be canon.

Point is, complaining about Damian claiming Jason has only one night stands is the most nothing burger to complain about rofl. What? You think Jason would never have one night stands? You think he never had? You think Zatanna never wiped out Batman’s memories so the rest of the Justice League can play Operation with Dr. Light? You think Billy’s Captain Marvel was never accused of pedophilia by the Justice League because he was in a relationship with Stargirl? ROFL you sweet summer child.

In all seriousness, Damian claiming Jason only goes for one night stands isn’t OOC for him and it’s so normalized in DC that the only character over 18 I’d be surprised has ever had a one night stand is Superman. Personally, I thought Damian’s line was funny, because HE’S NOT WRONG. You might as well complain about Tim being a cheating bastard too.

Here’s a tear jar for you 🫙 I don’t know what to tell you.

As for the other complaints, no Damian saying Stephanie is “too female” isn’t misogynist. Most girls go to other girls for dating advice and not guys for the same reason (too male in this case). Damian is only looking for advice from a guy’s perspective, because yes guys vs girls dating have different expectations. Blame it on our cultural society or whatever, but it is what it is. Both genders are guilty of this, because it’s expected from homosexual relationships too.

No, there is nothing wrong with Damian going to Tim for dating advice. It makes the most sense actually. Damian even broke it down in this one.

Damian’s a little shit and will say things in the most mean way possible. I thought that scene was funny, because as I’ve said DAMIAN IS NOT WRONG rofl. I laughed my ass off reading that.

Co’mon guys, let Tim and Damian have their story. We hardly ever see them working together, helping the other or hell getting along. If you’re going to complain or cry about something, at least find something that actually is placing a character OOC. For all we know, Damian could just be saying that just to be a little shit and it’s not like Jason and Stephanie never showed up or got to be a shit back at Damian.

Lolz god this comic is funny. Red Hood’s outfit made my day and Steph kicking Damian’s ass was 😘

I will be reviewing the comic as I’ve said. You can find its entirety in my profile if you scroll down a bit. I’m hoping that those complaining about that one panel in the comic didn’t read it. If so, the entire comic is available on here and I’ve reposted. Read it before nitpicking on nothing burgers.

[vssail]

floury kisses | jason todd x reader

sumary: stressed from work, you try baking therapy. jason comes home to the mess (and the chaos) and is both amused and concerned.

a/n: english is not my first language! // 797 words

yes, the whole hand thing is (an attempt of) a ratatouille reference

It was late—too late for anyone but him to be awake. The apartment was dark except for the soft glow spilling from the living room, shadows flickering against the walls. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the stiffness from the night’s patrol, and kicked the door shut behind him. He was tired. He just wanted to go to bed, pull you close and fall into the dreams realm.

The moment he got into the apartment through your shared bedroom window, he noticed the sweet smell of vanilla filling the air. The smell guided him to the kitchen, where he found you, battling to mix some ingredients in a heart-shaped bowl.

The sight was a mix between charming and worrying. You looked absolutely adorable trying to bake just wearing one of his old hoodies and with your hair in a messy bun. There was flour everywhere - literally - and the state of the table would cause Alfred a heart attack, but it just made the scene more delightful.

But then he glanced at the kitchen door and it read 03:42 AM. And he remembered how much you hated baking. And he took notice of the frown on your eyebrows.

"Hi babe" he started. He decided to stay in the door's frame, give you some space.

You didn't take your eyes off the bowl you were fighting with. "Hi Jace"

Your cold tone only increased his worries.

"Didn't know you were training for Bake Off"

A little joke, an attempt to take that frown off your face. He smiled when your expression softed.

"Bad day at work. Someone told me that baking is relaxing"

"And is it working?"

"Definetely not"

Both of you laugh at your answer.

He could ask what went wrong today. He should ask what went wrong today. But that would only cause you more stress. That topic could be touched later.

"I'm not sure if I should ask you what are you making or the whisk if it's being held hostage" he (half) jokes again (the way you were holding that whisk was concerning).

You giggle, way more relaxed. Jason's smile widens. God did he love to see you smile, laugh - happy.

"I wanted to make doughnuts, but something is not working here and is driving me mad" you explained with a sight. "The ingredients are too stiff, but in the video they mix so easily"

He finally approaches you, his body's warm embracing you. You lay your back against his chest on pure instinct while still trying to mix the ingredients in the bowl. Big hands are placed over your smaller ones, guiding you to leave the bowl on the table.

"The butter is too cold, you won't get it mixed unless you wait for it to get warm" he mumbled while hands took yours and guided you to take other ingredients. "We can make the glaze meanwhile"

You turned to look at him, who still was guiding your hands. Sometimes you doubted about how could he be so amazing and not realize it. Like, he reads, cooks, bakes and makes you feel safe in the city of crime. It was in this little dazing moment when you took notice of his face - of his tired expression.

"You should go to bed, Jace" you murmured, your eyes practically pleading him. He probably was exhausted from patrol, he needed to rest.

He met your gaze, his eyes turning amused. One of his hands left yours, only to rest it on your face and caress it. His soft smile turned into a smirk, which made you frown in doubt.

"What? Why are you smiling like that?" you asked.

He simply pointed to the window, and you turned to see your reflection. Your eyes widened when you noticed a big flour handprint on your cheek. .

"You son of- I'm here all worried for you and you come up with this?" you scolded. It only made him chuckle.

He guided the hand he didn't let go and guided it to his lips, placing a kiss on your palm. You could't stop your own lips from turning upwards. He was so sweet and smooth you couldn't resist him.

"It's Saturday- well, technically Sunday. We can sleep all we want after we finish these precious doughnuts, sweetheart"

His free hand took yours again like they just were ment to be together (they did, from his point of view). After another kiss on your palm, you returned to your work.

The night/morning passed with you two cooking while being in love - stealing kisses, giving little love bites and stain the other with flour.

(Maybe you could make these early morning baking sessions a rutine.)

[nakylvr]

could you maybe write one of the girls (preferably dani or sophia) reacting to the readers buzzcut because i’m getting one in february and i am so fucking nervous and i think it would boost my confidence a lot✨ it also doesn’t matter if it’s tmasc or masc lesbian whatever you feel more comfortable with💙💙💙 thank you

im so sorry this took this long 😭 but congrats on it cause i could never 😍 i love my hair too much LMAO. i decided to do both for you 🫶

warnings/tags: established relationship, gn!reader (no pronouns mentioned), fluff

sophia

sophia is always supportive of you no matter what. there's never really a "bad" decision you could make that would upset her ever unless it was drastic. so the day you show up at the dorm unannounced, with all your hair shaved off down to a buzz cut, the way she silently stared had you thinking this was one of those bad decisions. but then she smiles and just lets out a quiet "wow" before wrapping her arms around your neck. her hands gently graze the nape of your neck, the prickly hair making her smile more. first she's asking why you decided to do it, but then she's telling you how good it looks and how much she likes it. while she's partially upset she can't run her fingers through your hair anymore, she can't deny that she loves rubbing her hands down the back of your head whenever she's kissing you. that being said, she will buy you beanies when it gets to winter cause she doesn't want your head freezing.

daniela

dani is your number 1 supporter. always. whatever you want to do, she's there encouraging it even if it's stupid, she's an enabler. so when you tell her you were thinking of cutting your hair, she was like "oh, okay" but explaining you wanted a buzz cut had her literally jumping with excitement. she asks (begs) if she can do it, saying that she can if she has the equipment she can do it and will pout if you don't let her. if you let her, shes ecstatic and is immediately sitting you down in the bathroom to do it. she'll ask a couple times if you really want to do it, and when you say yes she just smiles and starts buzzing the hair off. when she's finished she's grinning, dimples showing as she stands you up and has you face the mirror saying how good she did. she is immediately rubbing her hands all across your head giggling while telling you how good it looks and how much she likes it. she will be taking pictures of you and her in the mirror to show it off and post them while being so dramatic about how amazing it looks. she doesn't shut up about it for the next few weeks, and even then she's still expressing how much she likes it when it's just you two together.

[boreal-sea]

okay sorry you don’t like the word Zionist I’ll come up with a new word and it’s weirdassbitch btw and guess whatZzz ummm yeah you fit the bill. I don’t know man 😭😭😭😭 the fact you’re only posting about gofundmes when it’s about Israeli hostages or only ever being like “okay yeah what’s happening to Palestinians is bad” in conjunction with “so about this anti semitism we’ve been having…” means you’re obviously biased you’re just biased and hey… hey holds your hand it’s okay ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ We can work through this… together *looks away shyly* also I’m like Jewish like by blood. I didn’t even have to convert sorry I’m laughing converts you’re valid but boreal I guess I’m just like…. Better than you at being Jewish? Idk btw and hey maybe the reason why antisemitism is rising is because you guys are all like yeah so we deserve Israel because we lived there 1000000 years ago and if you hate Israel you’re anti Jewish soooo yeah…. Yep maybe having being Jewish synonymous with a genocidal state isn’t smart idk just my thoughts. I think having Jews live all across the world is so beautiful it brings a tear to my eye… I think shoving us all in one place is gay as hell to be frank. Whwtagevrr. I was born in USA born and raised and my family came from Ukraine. I have zero claim to a plot of land 6000 miles away just because I wanna have a sick ass vacation home. maybe that’s why you converted I’m just joshing around it would be funny though if you went through all that just to build a cute little Resort on stolen land. I don’t know boreal. I think I’d just rather have my BLEGH :P, not a :•]

I have not posted a single gofundme for Israeli victims. I’m not sure why you’d make up that lie? Please feel free to look back in my blog as far as you’d like, you won’t find one. It’s even in my blog description that I do not reblog gofundme posts.

I do post links to organizations that directly help Palestinians in Gaza. I have done so fairly often. I don’t recall ever posting a link to aid organizations that only benefit Israelis.

Do I often talk about antisemitism and Gaza at the same time? Yes. These two things are inextricably linked. What is happening in Gaza right now wouldn’t be happening without antisemitism.

Am I biased? No more than the average human being on Earth. I personally consider the folks screaming “Death to Israel!” to be a lot more biased than myself, as I am simply calling for peace between Israel and Hamas. I wanted a peaceful solution from the beginning. You can even find posts on my blog right after Oct 7th where I compare Israel to the USA after 9/11 and state my fears that Israel will have a disproportionate reaction. I loathe the political posturing of both Netanyahu and Hamas and I hate that they both dragged this out so long. Netanyahu wanted this to look like Trump’s victory, which disgusts me. And Hamas allowed their people to suffer for over a year! They’re disgusting, too. Every leader involved in this conflict failed their people.

Our personal feelings about whether or not native people like the Jews “deserve” to live in their homeland is irrelevant — Israel as a country exists here and now. Though it does bring up the interesting question: do you think if the USA just waits long enough, native Americans will also lose their landback rights? How long will that take?

Jews don’t really live “all over the world”. Nearly half live in the USA, and the other half in Israel. This is because all the other countries were so violently antisemitic to the Jews living there the Jews had to flee. In fact, after Israel was founded, a lot of countries literally forced their Jews out under threat of death.

Jews still suffer from antisemitism all around the world, and did so even before Oct 7th. The increase in antisemitism since Oct 7th hasn’t exactly made diaspora Jews feel safe. “A country you’re not even a citizen of did a bad thing, so now I’m going to firebomb your elementary school” isn’t fertile ground for cooperation, is it?

I don’t agree with everything Israel has done. I don’t have to. I think it is a country in crisis that needs major reforms, much like the USA. But I don’t scream “death to America!” either. I live here. I want to make it a better place. I want them both to be better, to live up to the ideals they espouse. To be free, and safe, and prosperous.

I want Gazans to be able to go home. I want them free from the cruelty of Hamas, which has allowed its people to die and suffer since it took power in 2005 and refused to hold any more free elections. They are tyrants. I want Palestinians in the diaspora to come home, too. I want them to have a safe, prosperous country where their culture and children can flourish!

I want peace. If that makes me a “weirdassbitch”, then so be it. I’ve been weird my whole life, anon!

[tarotoftheendless]

Hey, Sand Fam, I am seeing a lot of you blaming NG for the end of this series, and whereas I do think Netflix and the Sandman cast and crew are actively distancing themselves now from NG, I don't think NG is the reason Sandman is ending.

Please remember it took forever for Netflix to greenlight us even getting more or the series. They were likely going to axe it in the first place but the showrunners likely negotiated saying they had plans for a script that would end the series and *THAT* is likely what got us just one more season. That is speculation, that is a guess, but if you logically look at how S2 was handled from the start, then the end of the series was always the plan. Didn't they also call it Sandman 2 and say we are just getting more episodes here and there at the beginning of when S2 was first announced? Like it wasn't even called Season 2...

Also, with the leaked bts photos, of Lyta, the Fates and Gilbert... isn't that all stuff that is end of the comic series stuff that got filmed? And when those photos came out, I don't remember the exact date, but wasn't it just before the NG stuff came out and or literally just after it? Do you think they scrambled to write a quick script, get a location that quickly and get costumes and all that cuz they were all "Oh no, NG is a fucking creep, better end the show now"? No. Filming anything in general takes time and careful planning. It was always the plan guys.

The thing that likely did get affected by NG is how Geeked Week was handled. The bts footage and such was edited in a way to not mention NG at all. I do think that was on purpose.

The other reason I think ending the show was planned is because S2 has to do with Dream's story and his story alone. Writing a whole script like that takes time and planning. And why I think it was always the plan is because of interviews of Tom Sturridge for S1. He was abhorrent to the idea of The Sandman being only about Dream, and the idea of a movie because, if I remember Tom correctly, "how can you take just one story from The Sandman and make a film about that? The Sandman is a story about stories, not just one guy." Not the exact quote, but you get my point. S2 was always supposed to be the end because they scrapped the whole idea of making it a story about stories and wrote a *WHOLE SEASON OF A SCRIPT* about Dream instead. That was planned.

The end was always the plan. NG is not to blame for this.

The actors and crew now have room to work on bigger and better projects and The Sandman is on their resume, and regardless of NG, that will still look good for them because obviously they are not NG and they did not condone what NG did, so they will not and should not be found culpable for NG's actions at all, therefore will find bigger and better work in the future.

This is not the end of the world, this is the Death card in tarot; something must die for something new and better to be born.

The Fandom lives, the Sand Fam thrives, we are taking back the power of the work from NG and making it beautiful for us and us alone. Don't forget that. This is for us. This is will never be for NG ever again.

My ending thought is this: One of my favorite things about Star Wars: The Last Jedi is Luke's conversation with Yoda. (No, I will not be having debates about how good or bad the film is...) And Yoda talks about the lesson of failure is the greatest lesson to learn and to pass on. Not to ensure the failure of others but to teach them how to handle failure and how to grow past the failure. The last thing Yoda says to Luke that gets me to tear up every time is this; "We are what they grow beyond". And that is where I am taking my love for The Sandman and this whole Fandom. We have grown beyond NG and it is ours now. We have grown beyond him, take comfort in that.

[colombinaa]

radfems, thank you.

my journey of becoming a radfem has been long and rather solitary. throughout 2024 i was able to listen to perspectives i had never heard of before and see new sides of this society, both in my real, personal life and through the voices and testimonies of other women. consequently, my views started developing and evolving.

during this time i never called myself a radical feminist, as i didn’t know all its core points and their meaning/explanation. i did recognise my leaning towards it though.

at the same time, i had no idea about the whole “terf” thing. being straight barred me from a lot of the misogyny around the matter. i had only seen that term in a specific occasion and shoved it back as a non-issue. looking back now, i shouldn’t have.

then november arrived and i peaked. it was heartbreaking, infuriating, disappointing, enraging. i felt betrayed, that stupid girl who never understood why she was always excluded, the foolish young woman who still has that slow heart.

contemporarly, i found out what “she’s a terf” actually meant. i researched radical feminism and its core values and saw my own reflected in it. i started trying to find like-minded women, at least online, and with that i found names of writers i had already heard of, quotes and paragraphs i had already read, women i should’ve looked up on google earlier. i can see how that class consciousness i have gained throughout last year would’ve lead me here anyway, sooner or later.

now i am here. i got basically all the theory to read, in-depth analysis i can’t wait to read and that is gonna help me set my thoughts and values into clear words, something my autistic brain definitely needs help with. i’ll have to learn how to put all this into action too. but the moral compass i’ve been building is already there, and so is the resolution of speaking up.

the female socialisation is still going hard, the internalised ableism and late diagnosis effects too; i’m young and in burnout, and still learning. but i’m happy to be here. i’m happy to have reached this place. both metaphorically and literally ahah. i’ve been on this app for like two months and i already feel like starting to make more personal and chill posts, like that etruscan woman that got the same tittie shape as me (i’ll never shut up about this) like i swear. and to the allistic girlies reading, trust me when i say for me it’s a big thing! (the being more chill thing, not the tittie shape one - i mean yes that too but you get what i mean).

so thank you, radfems, for never giving up.

and also thank you for creating a rather normal community in which we keep discussing topics and practicing criticism instead of preaching dogmas and shunning for thoughtcrimes, i was fucking exhausted tbh

[dekusdante]

Well it's that time again for another JJK rant.

So by this point I would assume that most of you know my eternal hatred towards the enemies to lovers trope when it comes to Gojo x reader stories right.

Well we are back at it again cause I am hoping people know that this type of relationship isn't one that Gojo would ever go for. Like it's one of those things that the fandom latched on to like My Hero Academia Hawks being a flirty playboy. It's not something that fits the character but it something that so many people latched on to that they now believe that it's a thing.

Like Gojo knows his worth and value. He literally dislikes those that he views as stuck up or just down right unlikeable. Aka every reader in the enemies to lovers trope. Like you are telling me you hate this guy for no reason but it's okay because your only saving grace is that he finds you attractive.

Seriously.

That is the how 95% of them go. Also to even it out they would make Gojo do some out of pocket stuff to justify the reader treating him like dirt while also always making him the bad guy even if he did nothing wrong.

I am so sick of this copy and paste trope. Now I know i don't have to read it which I don't. If I see it I keep scrolling. Although there are gems I sadly just skip past them because I'm used to the bad and boring ones. (Lowkey reminds me of the dumbest Gojo x reader story on wattpad called Debt. Freaking dumbest reader/mc I have ever read couldn't even get past the first few chapters. The first and only time this has happened)

Another thing is bad reverse harem stories. Like I don't care the reader is 18! Why are men close to their 30s trying to have a relationship with them? Why is said 18 year old trying to have a romantic relationship with freshly turned 15 year old? Look 18 maybe considered an adult but it's still gross and it would have been better if the reader was 20 and up. Also if you want your reader to have love interests that are 15 then they should at least be under 18.

I am sick of gross age gaps, don't care if you are 20 years old dating a 30, 40, or whatever just make it legal! 18 isn't a cheat code!

Also harems suck since they either end up with no one, end up with someone not in the harem, or worst not even completed. Yet, the biggest crime is as I said it before the gross 18 year old cheat code.

Finally the last of my random rant which has to deal with genders and sexyal orientation. Stop writing about boy x boy if you are only going to stereotype them. Yes gay mean may like to be more of the feminine side but NOT all of them. Not all males who prefer to be a bottom want to wear feminine clothes and act like a femboy.

Not all trans people want to be just a title! Don't include them if you are not even going to try! Same with the non binary or gender neutrals. Don't include them but give traits that have a gender that goes against their stances. It's wrong.

Also I lied this is my final rant. Stop saying it's a reader story if you are not going to be neutral. For example giving a reader appearances that instantly alienate a reader. Sure I understand fem reader or male reader tags but to then give them hairstyles, skin tones that alienate others, or ect. I'm a POC (Person of color) and it sucks when you are reading something and instantly shown you are not included. Luckily the anime community is slowly but surely getting more inclusive. No I'm talking about those that want to read reader stories from fandoms like The Boys (Scarlett Witch took over i swear) or (Squid Games I know it's in Korea but dang why can't I be american?).

Anyway that's all. I would love to read and possibly reply to comments. Some may agree others not so much which is far I am criticizing something so it's 100 okay to throw it back!

[carlarosenakilah]

I'm taking a break from The Osix Family and Wilted Ivory

Hi, you've read that right. I'll proceed to go into detail undercut

Warning that the following will be containing very sensitive topics such as su***idal thoughts, mental health issues, and whatever the fuck I went through to get me here and I don't know how to describe nor name them but overall its not pretty.

Getting straight to the point- im drained. I'm in a horrible place right now and I need to take a step back before it might escalate into something worse.

The Osix Family is always something that I will forever dedicate to. It has comforted me, carried me, and saved me from killing myself three years ago.

I asked myself, "If I'm not here, who will tell the story of The Osix Family?"

That made me stay alive, and im greatful for that because if not, I wouldn't have been where I am today standing with the coolest people I have ever met and my amazing partner in crime @alexusespido-dod.

I love Wilted Ivory too, and that's where it gets tricky.

My only plan for Wilted Ivory is to simply tell a story about growth expressed as a musical au. Hence why the art is so simple– not just to match the original Casino Cups style, but just to tell a story that I hope would inspire and comfort others. Of course, I'm happy it gained lota of love.

The Osix Family though is a different story.

Like I said, it means a lot to me, so I put so much time and energy into this series. I sacrifice time that could've been used to study for the next exam, but instead im working on the next few panels or planning the music and etc. Blood sweat and tears (literally) into making sure the art looks good, story is properly conveyed, scenes carefully picked. Even if it gained me bad scores in my exams that made me stress over about, in the end it was worth it to me. I didn't care if I'd be sick an unable to move, as long as I could at least think about it, then I would be happy.

Episode 3 was my worst.

I overworked myself for that episode. I was always in front of my tablet, I never moved out of my seat, I was just there, working on it even if it was 1 in the morning and that I should be sleeping. I told myself: "Everything will pay off! Sure you're in so much pain right now, but eventually it will all pay off! Episode 3 is looking good and interesting! This will FINALLY gain the audience and love the story deserves!"

I was proud.

Until I wasn't.

Reality hit me like a saw. The moment the episode was released I was hopeful. But nothing happened. It was all the same.

And it just hurt how something as simple as Wilted Ivory can easily gain attention and love because it was Cuphead related something well known. Meanwhile, The Osix Family–despite everything–is just barely seen.

I started to doubt myself. To question myself. Was I not doing enough. What more can I do. What should I do. Am I not good enough?

Is the story just not good enough?

That broke me. I began to have thoughts I shouldn't have. I wanted to end it all. I wanted to quit and disappear from the world. Because what was the point in pouring so much love into something only for it to dismissed.

Its not like I simply began having these thoughts.

I've had them over and over again.

As much as I hated involving him, my partner, Alex, had to deal with the many times I nearly ended it. To the point where even if he was in school, he'd go out of his way to stop me, I still feel guilty, even if he said it was fine.

I don't understand myself anymore.

Why do I even have such an attachment to this series? Its just a stupid silly series for funsies isn't it? Why does my life to depend on it?

Unfortunately, it just does.

It sucks. Pushing away my needs for the sake of this passion, only for it to just not go as I hoped it would go. Did I mention I'm also losing followers on the osix family blog? Thats so silly and coquette.

I'm so sorry if im coming off as guilt-trippy, please I don't want it to sound that way, I just want to express how deeply troubled I am because to me it actually DOES HURT.

I envy people who couldn't give a flying fuck about whether or not their stuff goes famous or gets love, I don't even understand why I am so dependent or hungry on whatever attention it gets. I hate that im like this. I want to be free from it but I just crave it.

So, for the sake of my mental health and whatever is left of my sanity, im taking a break, for good.

I will not be updating The Osix Family or Wilted Ivory at this very moment. For how long? It depends on how fucked up I have actually turned out to be today.

I might still post, keyword: MIGHT, its not any update but to just simply draw for myself, but the chances of me posting anything is horribly low.

I'm going to focus on myself, my needs, and whatever makes me happy or have fun with.

To those who supported The Osix Family or even bothered to check it out: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

It means a lot to me, you have NO idea. Every single like, reblog, comment, hype or even the silliest amounts of theories or thoughts, they make me so happy, it actually heals me.

I can't remember names im sorry, but there was a time someone expressed how they were invested in the lore and loved the world building, it really made my day. Or when someone pointed out some small details on my waiting in a miracle animatic, it warmed my heart.

I have troubles expressing it, but im so, SO greatful.

Especially when some of my mutuals started making OCS FOR THE SERIES?? Like– it felt like a HUGE compliment.

I cant believe im tearing up as im typing this haha im so stupid lmao, but

Thank you. A lot.

And to those who weren't really into The Osix Family, its okay, don't feel bad, sometimes things are just not our cup of tea, I just needed to express my grief, cause honestly bottling it up isn't going to end well for me (and it really didn't multiple times).

I apologize for any false hope or let down your hype as Wilted Ivory was just starting and The Osix Family was finally coming back– but this treatment is overwhelming me that I need to take a step back.

That's all for now.

Thank you for... actually reading, you listening means a lot to me too.

Goodbye.

[temporary-joyride]

Thoughts I am Thinking about after Bridon finale

In love with the frame of unimpressed LG and distressed CXS after the latter thinks his friend signed him up for sex work

Episode name fits. A perplexing one indeed.

"Why is it every time you look at me you have this murderous intent in your eyes?" is such a killer line I love it

The whiplash I got from Vein speaking perfectly normal Chinese only to bust out "what a pity!' in the most British accent ever

No way it means literally anything but I just found it interesting how Vein and LX say the same phrase in this ep. Different circumstances, same conclusion. What a pity.

"They say she can see right through someone in just 5 minutes" really great psychologist? Ranpo-level detective? Got some sort of other supernatural shenanigans running amuck? Only time will tell

THINKING SO HARD ABOUT "I know I can't stop you. But I can make you stay a little longer" SHAKING LINK CLICK BY ITS SHOULDERS- WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT? WHAT EXACTLY DOES HE MEAN BY THAT???

The FUCK do you know, LG? It's ok you can tell me

So much to talk about but I'm 100% caught up on this. "But I can make you stay a little longer" I'm gonna leave the Xia Fei and CXS mom stuff to you guys, I'll take care of this one and think about it every waking second for the next two weeks dw

Allowing CXS an extra few moments to connect with his mom? Mmmmm sure. It's not like CXS promised to drop it all and not get anyone else involved, not like LG would have any way of knowing mother and son were talking unless son broke that promise

Genuinely not even joking I thought LG was trying to delay Vein by a few moments to get him hit by a bus or something

What exactly happened is even crazier. What was that, man. What was that. My guy's doing voodoo over here when did he learn that.

"I don't want to change the past. I just want to lead us all to a new future.." not entirely sure those statements are all that different but go off

LG screwed as hell Xia Fei was so serious about finding his boss's killer.

Or... non-killer? How long do you think until he learns Vein is still alive?? Imagine Xia Fei killing CXS in their photo studio in Vein's stead. Picture it. I'm having a vision here.

Pretty fun season but maybe a little awkward? Perhaps just because of the fandom on tumblr but I feel like I was so freaking immersed s1&2 but Bridon felt so silly at times I couldn't take it seriously

hrnngh one timeline, he says. over and over. what does it all mean. how does fate play out. if we're looping only one timeline multiple times then why does it feel like it's slipping through my fingers. the clock is melting right here in my palm. ripples in the stream at my feet. im not sure where the present even is anymore-

time's up!

[chaifootsteps]

https://www.tumblr.com/flower-boi16/773685360298442752/i-find-it-annoying-how-the-fandom-constantly

^ this 100%. a character who hurts people out of ignorance rather than malice is still hurting people

the intention might not be there but the effect is the same.

And also, Stolas' ignorance is plainly the result of privilege. It doesn't make it suddenly OK for him to fetishize Blitzo and abuse his butler if he "just didn't know that was a bad thing to do!"

his entire perspective revolves around fundamentally not seeing imps as autonomous beings but treating them like objects. that he didn't mean to cause harm is immaterial - and to make matters worse, he has no excuse at this point in the show not to know

Blitzo has told him in the strongest terms possible - once yelling at the top of his lungs with tears in his eyes - how Stolas makes him feel. the only way Stolas can still be ignorant that there's a problem is if he's actively denying that he could ever be doing something wrong at this point

and newsflash, fandom - that exact thing happened in the show!! Stolas deadass spent the entirety of episode 9 denying he ever looked down on Blitzo (he did and still does frankly) to the point of guilting him into an apology that Stolas did not deserve

and that's where he crosses the line from ignorance into abuse: when he's told point blank what the issues is and plays dumb because his self-perception will never allow him to view himself as anything other than "the victim"

Absolutely. I'm going to drop one of my favorite literary quotes here, from Black Beauty...

And then I'm going to point out that this doesn't even apply to Stolas, because Stolas is about as unaware of how he makes the people around him feel as I am unaware of my love for pizza. Stolas knows exactly how he makes people like Blitz and Octavia feel because they say it to him repeatedly point blank, and as you pointed out, in some cases literally scream it into his face.

He's not ignorant, he just simply doesn't care.

[butchisrevolution]

dolly dog man readthrough #5

PART #1 BC MY ASS CANNOT STOP YAPPING

for whom the ball rolls

THERE IS SO MUCH TO ANALYZE IN THIS BOOK

holuy shit now they're tackling minority power struggle, racial discrimination and class war in dog man . wtf

is this that autism speaks thing or am i tripping

asl dogman my beloved

that must be stressful for li'l petey. like, you have two dads, the one you were created by and the one that adopted you. you have an deep rooted emotional attachment to the one who created you despite his flaws, "even crack babies love their mama", but you look up to your adoptive dad so much more because he aligns with your values. he does what's considered the right thing.

but he also has an innate dislike to your birth father, due to issues that predate you, issues you can't rectify. you know your birth father is trying to fix them, but you still have to watch your adoptive father unlearn his distaste for him. you know it's getting better, but it hurts just to see it. even one glimpse of hatred towards someone you love BY someone you love hurts immensely. but you just have to watch and wait, do what you can and stay optimistic because it's out of your control.

also, i like the artistic choice that every time there's an important or moving piece of dialogue it just shows their silhouettes and a color corresponding to the feelings that it brings up. its a nice touch

FUCK YEAH ANARCHY!!

also

my fav polycule . the gang is back together again. YES

from an analysis standpoint, he's feeling super insecure right now. he definitely doesn't want them around solely because he feels inferior to their parenting skills and thinks it would be too painful to have them around due to that. he also thinks his kid would like them more than him, which probably is making him feel unloved and unwanted. his kid's hesitancy is feeling like a rejection of him, which makes him question his identification with being better than his own father. he's thinking this subconsciously, of course, i don't think he's currently self aware enough to realize that

THE CONTRAST BETWEEN THIS SCENE AND THE PREVIOUS SCENE WHERE HE MADE HIM SLEEP IN THE CLOSET AGHH

THE CONTRAST AUGHHH

THEY'RE DOMESTIC NOW

WHAT DID I SAYYYY . IT WAS NEVER ABT DOG MAN AND 80-HD IT WAS ABOUT HIM. AND HIS DADDY ISSUES

shiiiiit

YESSS.. NOW THAT HE HAS CONFRONTED AND DISCUSSED THE ROOT OF HIS DISCOMFORT HE CAN FOCUS ON WHAT'S BEST FOR ALL OF THEM WITH LESS INSECURITY. BUST

my shaylas... theyre sharing the custody... my fucked up gay polycule... i am overjoyed

aweee... my shaylas ... <3

they r figuring out their family struggles and finding a healthier dynamic. this is great

also this is a rlly funny bedframe considering my petey npd theory.. LMAO

this is also literally just like what sleeping in a bed with an actual cat is like

generational mental illness confirmed. this is how u give ur kids disorders

oh baby. ow. he was repressing the guilt with cognitive dissonance, excusing it by thinking li'l petey wouldn't remember, but now that they've finally aknowledged it he has to confront it.

the symbolism in the last panel. the noises are scaring li'l petey. he's literally trying to shield him from the generational trauma :(