#it comes out when they’re sassing or angry

[south-of-heaven]

HAHAHA THE WAY DAMIANS NEW YORK ACCENT JUST TOOK OVER LAST NIGHT

[formulaforza]

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words part two part three part four part five

18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.

There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus. 

Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away. 

Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance. 

You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show. 

The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo. 

“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.

“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.

You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”

Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”

Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again. 

You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”

He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister. 

His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick. 

A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of  your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves. 

The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league. 

He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol. 

“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask. 

He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care. 

It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you. 

Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem. 

You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.

This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut. 

Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension. 

Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving. 

The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled. 

You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion. 

He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”

He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.  

You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”

His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”

You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”

[18 minutes later]

You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”

He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold. 

He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig. 

It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand. 

Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses. 

He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”

You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.

You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”

He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”

“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret. 

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement. 

“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”

He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache. 

But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail. 

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”

He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils.  His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”

“It’s not for you,” you goad. 

“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”

Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”

“Fuck off.” You first. 

“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.

You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions. 

His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you. 

You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”

He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy. 

He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt. 

Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”

“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”

“It’s different,” you grumble. 

“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets.  A woman can only make so many sacrifices. 

You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”

His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check. 

You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity

Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”

“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth. 

Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar. 

“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”

“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”

You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open. 

“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth. 

He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.

“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll.  You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air. 

God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts. 

“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning. 

That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other. 

You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”

His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him. 

When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return. 

He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess. 

He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily. 

He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you. 

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”

“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal. 

You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”

“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you. 

You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms. 

“I promise.”

“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.

“Absolutely not.”

“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”

He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment. 

“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you. 

Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work. 

You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember. 

God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t. 

You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled. 

You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky. 

You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point. 

Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t. 

You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace. 

Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged. 

You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?

You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder. 

Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?

You roll your eyes. No.

Ok.

You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.

You couldn’t pay me.

Door’s unlocked.

Give me 20.

You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time. 

You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble. 

“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”

You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway. 

“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”

There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”

He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”

You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”

“–We aren’t friends.”

You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”

You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”

“No.”

You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together. 

When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”

You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”

“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.

“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me! 

“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky. 

(Eleven minutes later)

Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole. 

He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed. 

Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer. 

It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost. 

He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements. 

“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right. 

“Watching what matters.”

“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”

He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”

He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors. 

Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response. 

You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”

He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”

A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock. 

He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?” 

He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.” 

He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer. 

There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.  

He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”

Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe. 

“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”

“Fuck you.”

“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.” 

His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.” 

You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern. 

You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them. 

It won’t be happening again.

[anzulvr]

What do you think Karma would be like with a calm/chill reader who's easygoing and effortlessly charming personality sometimes turns completely 180 when they feel strong emotions? Like they can go from sweetly comforting Nagisa to yelling oddly detailed threats at Terasaka while chasing him with a metal bottle for eating her food. (Maybe mix in some passive aggressive sarcastic sass when Korosensei's being annoying?)

Karma x Chill(..but actually really passive aggressive) reader 🤗🤗 Ty for the request!! (Sorry took long)

— You don’t argue often and you are also very good at listening to everyones perspective and ideas even if they’re different from you. People view you as very understanding so seeing you actually getting into a heated fight it’s surprising at first.

— Karma is so surprised when he sees you angry for the first time like he didn’t know you had it in you to say the things you did.

— He TRIES to get you pissed off just to see you react, since you know he’s kidding and dating him gives you a soft spot for him it’s basically just him failing to annoy you.

— This one time Karma scribbled over your paper to bother you and all you did was frown for a second and erase / re do anything he messed up. (He felt bad and helped you when he realized you weren’t going to fight 😭)

— then in a group project with Yoshida (also Isogai and Rinka) Yoshida scribbled a little bit on your notes (not nearly as much damage as Karma made) but it pissed you off so badly you grabbed a marker and started scribbling on his face

“I’ve been working on those notes for days you actual dumbass”

“Hey- I’m sorry!! I’ll rewrite them— get off me your using permanent marker it’ll be hard to take off!!”

“GOOD.”

— “Damn [name] that mad?” When you hear Karma mention how you reacted you stop so fast

“I wasn’t actually mad. We we’re just playing right Yoshida?”

Only out of fear he agrees “Right..”

— You’re tolerance for everything is way higher for Karma because you like him too much to get mad, that doesn’t mean you never get mad at him it just takes a little more to.

— Some of the things you respond with are shady in the way people expect Karma and it’s just so confusing cause it feels so out of character for you.

— but it’s definitely one of the things Karma likes the most about you because 1. It’s funny 2. Hes glad to see you stand up for yourself once in a while because he’s usually the one telling people off for you.

— passive aggressiveness would come whenever Korosensei or really E class is too pushy about certain topics.

For example before Karma confessed to you theyd push you to do it first and come up with crazy plans to make things happen.

— they full on locked you in a room together and instead of waiting it out you found a way to break the doorknob (together #romanceisreal)

Angry you and happy Karma is a mix end class fears because he’ll be constantly hyping it up😭

Like you’ll be be hitting Terasaka with a notebook because he said something stupid and Karma will go:

“[Name] wait— Use this one it’s way thicker!!”

(took inspo for ur original request lollol)

Karma will support anything you try and honestly rile you up more to see what you do

Angry you and Angry Karma is definitely the worst mix of all

hell on earth

! but it hardly happens since you usually reel each other in

Just tell him to chill tf out😭

Having strong emotions isn’t all bad, you’re empathetic, kind and care for everyone in class— even Terasaka no matter how much of a pain he can be.

mom friend-ish?? (Awe yeah Mom friend definitely)

They don’t actually mind it and are grateful for the times you stand up for them bc they know you love them

Especially Karma even though you’re prone to getting into arguments like all couples do it’ll work out fine because you both care to much about eachother.

If you’re the type to remind people you love them after arguing it’s another thing he loves about you, since he himself has trouble saying he’s wrong first it’s helped him swallow his pride and apologize faster.

(Literally so cute my fave relationship dynamic)

[charnelhouse]

I feel like Joel would be best at ‘you almost got yourself killed and I’m so angry at you but I love you also’ fucking

A/N: Joel Miller x F!Reader. Lack of CPR knowledge. Smut. Hypothermia. I used this gif bc he looks really fucking hot ok

Joel dreams of you often. He doesn’t tell you this, refuses to admit it as if the confession of dreams would somehow weaken his defenses. In the foggy, wooly vortex of sleep, he sees you:

Dead.

Broken.

Covered in spores. 

It irritates him. He has learned the brutal, ragged details of loss and having nightmares about the girl he’s fucking is not good. It means that some tiny unconscious piece of him fears for you-to lose you would sting. It is a chip in his armor. A weakness. 

He lies in his makeshift bed as he stares up at a ceiling speckled with moss and water damage. You’re curled against him, bare ass snug against his thigh. He takes deep pulls from a bottle of dust and whiskey. Between his legs, his cock is soft and damp from fucking you into the mattress. His back smarts from your nails and he doesn’t understand how their sex is so aggressive and yet he finds you in his head afterward. He’s fucked countless people. Never cared. It’s his psyche that worries about you when it should be flat, pulse-less and numb in the dark. 

His gaze slides to you sleeping beside him. Your face is buried in the sweatshirt serving as a pillow, your mouth parted around steady, even breathing. Swamped in moonlight, you’re beautiful—the kind of beauty that would get you killed or worse out there. That’s why I keep, right? Some leftover smugness at having someone like you with someone like me?

He leans over your body, the bottle swishing its dregs of old whisky. With gentle fingers, he maneuvers your hair away from your face, he touches your lower lip before abruptly pulling away. 

Not good. 

***

Being who he is, Joel keeps fucking you. He tries to be a little meaner—colder—but he’s not man enough to release you in order to find someone less complicated to warm his bed.  

You stick by him like a barnacle. A very pearly one. Smooth and shiny. 

“We have things to do,” he declares one morning, the slip of red dawn drifting over your skin from the narrow window. 

“Alright,” you murmur as you roll out of bed and shove on your jeans. 

You don’t complain or whine, which he hates. He’d love for you to backtalk him. He’d die for an ounce of sass or bitchiness, but you’re too fucking smart for that. You know what it costs. You know that he’ll use it against you and then chastise you for wastin’ time because this is what they do now. This is how the world works. 

Someone took something from us and I intend to get it back.

Us. 

When did it become us? 

Fuck.

***

They follow the road at the edge of the forest. The woods stink of loam–sweet and dark. The first snow has powdered the ground.

The cold is wicked, binding his limbs together and reminding him of his age. He’s not really that old. It’s only been eight years since the outbreak (his birthday). 

“I hate winter,” you grumble, the subtle evidence of your frustration that you’ve been forced out here to begin with. Most of the time, he thinks he should keep you at his place when he runs these missions, but he’s decided that you’re safer with him. He doesn’t miss the way the creepy old fucks look at you and there’s no such thing as locks. Not now. Not here.

“Fuck!” you yelp and Joel hears your boots skid, knee cracking on asphalt. “Shit. Shitt.”

“C’mon,” he grunts, not even looking. He doesn’t want to. He thinks that if he sees you in pain, he’ll go to you.

You curse a few more times before your footsteps sound again.

You catch up to him with alarming speed, casting him a violent glare. “What if I’d broken something?”

“I’d come back for you after I handle the Waltons.”

“Sure,” you reply flatly. “Probably drag me back home by my ankle.”

His lips twitch. They’re making good time, maneuvering rapidly through the dense woods toward the lake. His adrenaline is spiking, his fingers curling as he prepares himself for the inevitable fight. “Hardly, sweetheart,” he replies. “I’d wrap a rope around your waist—pull you that way.”

“Cruel.”

“You’ve always known that, darlin’.”

“You’re–”

He freezes and then abruptly grabs you before pulling you against a tree. One of the Waltons is outside their cabin, chopping wood. Behind him, the smoke puffs from the chimney. Black-gray against the too-blue sky. 

“We wait until he goes inside,” he whispers against your ear. You’re bleeding-hot and his hand is secured right under your breast. Surprisingly, your heart pulses at an easy rhythm. You aren’t scared or nervous. You’re calm as can be and really that’s probably why he keeps you around.

And maybe the sex. 

***

It’s fucked. The whole damn thing. 

Joel is covered in blood, two fingers definitely broken. The man on top of him has him in a chokehold and he’s shoving back against him, trying to find some leverage to flip him over. 

He hasn’t heard you for a minute and when he lifts his head, he sees one of the Walton boys—the greasy, blonde one—pinning you against the dock. You’re too far away from Joel as he watches you kick and spit like a feral cat. 

You don’t call for him. You don’t scream his name or beg him for help and it’s because you’re too fucking proud and you probably think he’d get fucking mad at you or something, which isn’t the case. 

So, he shouts your name. Why? He doesn’t know. It bursts out of him as the head Walton punches him in the ribs.

“Ss’fine,” you yell back and then the sun catches the silver blade of your pocket knife. It flashes once before disappearing and the blonde Walton squeals.

Thatta girl, he thinks. The expression feels tender—sweet with pride and he’s so caught up in watching you stab the kid that he doesn’t realize what’s going on until it’s too late. 

The blonde snags your jacket and rolls you both into the frigid lake. 

Joel doesn’t think. He may have roared or bellowed, but he wouldn’t know. He can’t recall. Instead, he plants his hands and snaps his head back into his attacker’s nose. It cracks. Splatters. He feels heat on his scalp and in his hair. The weight on him is gone and he twists, finding his knife a few feet away in the snow. He snatches the handle, flips it and plunges the blade forward. It goes through the guy’s chest—finds bone. He rips it back and does it again. A third time in a more vulnerable spot beneath the bastard’s jaw. There’s blood on his face, but he can’t worry about that now.

He runs to the lake. 

***

“C’mon, girl,” he whispers frantically as he performs CPR. Your lips are cold as a fish belly. Your lashes wet and stuck together in clumps. He presses against your chest so hard that he worries he’ll break a rib. 

You weren’t even under that long.

He pumps and then pinches your nose and breathes into your mouth. C’mon. C’mon. C’mon. 

You twitch. Yes. You choke. Better.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he urges.

Your eyes fly open as you sputter, coughing up icy lake water that dampens Joel’s jeans. Relieved, he sighs, placing his hands on your shoulders to keep you from moving too quickly. His fingers have begun to smart, the knuckles swelling to purple.

He’s not sure what to say as you blink up at him—incredulous and a little frightened. WIthout thinking, he darts down and kisses you hard. It might not even be considered a kiss. Just an angry collision of teeth and a hint of tongue. He tries to warm your mouth with his own before pulling away. He didn’t intend to do that.

“Joel?” you rasp, lids drooping heavily.

“You almost died,” he states in a flat voice. Should he comfort you? Reassure you that you’re fine? He’s not sure how to do that. He’d done it before with Sarah, but–

He shudders, stuffing that thought somewhere he’ll not touch.

“J-Joel.” Your teeth are chattering in your mouth. Your eyes slightly unfocused. “Mm cold.”

“Well,” he replies matter-of-factly. “We can go in the cabin and figure that out.”

He says this like you couldn’t potentially die of hypothermia. 

***

Inside the house, a fire still burns. It’s orange-yellow as a Texas peach and his mouth instinctively waters. He hasn’t had fresh fruit in a long ass time. 

Your fingers are curled into his shirt, your cheek pressed flat to his chest. You’re freezing—stiff and unyielding as a corpse. He places you on the rug in front of the fire before scouring the house for blankets and sheets. When he finds them, he makes a nest on the floor and then crouches down behind you to rub your shoulders. 

It doesn’t seem to do much because you’re still trembling. Your hair is soaked and your clothes–

Jesus. He’s a fucking idiot. 

“Lift your arms,” he murmurs, but you keep on shaking, seemingly unable to move them. He does it for you. He gets your jeans off, mindful of the areas where bruises will begin to form. “Did he hurt you?”

“S’nothing-g bad.” Your words are staggering into each other like you’re drunk. Not an ideal sign.

He scrubs a hand over his face, his beard. He exhales sharply as he watches you stammer and ripple like a ribbon in the wind. 

He’s on his knees in front of you—staring like a damn fool. “What do you need?”

Your hands fumble in the blankets, your expression puzzled. Shit. What are the symptoms of hypothermia? Confusion? Exhaustion?

He says your name softly and you make a broken noise that startles him.

He doesn’t know how to provide you reassurance. He understands actions. He understands pleasure. Isn’t the best way to heat someone up through skin contact?

He wrenches his jacket off before finding the hem of his shirt and tugging it over his head . He unbuckles his belt, shimmies out of his pants. You stare up at him, your eyes glassy and red. 

“Skin to skin,” he explains and when he opens his arms, you fall into them. You press yourself against him, curling your cold body inward as he attempts to cover you with his own. He strokes your arms, legs and waist. He maneuvers you around so that he can press his front to your torso. He grips your thigh and hauls it over his hip before pulling the musty blankets over them. He doesn’t want to think about how unwashed they probably are, but they don’t have a choice. 

He settles as you relax against him. Your heart pounds a brush faster than before. Good. 

“Rest,” he instructs. “You’re okay.”

It’s the best he can do.

***

It takes a few hours for you to return to yourself. You pull away so you can stare up at him. He tips his chin to hold your gaze, his hand finds your cheek. “You almost died,” he says and, suddenly, he thinks of the dreams he’s had. He thinks of you gone from him, vanishing into the dark where he can’t find you. 

He’d saved you today, but the next time? Surely, there would be a next time and—

“Thank you.” You lean into his touch, nuzzling your nose into the creases of his palm. Not as distressed as he would like.

“You almost died,” he repeats. “I could fucking kill you.”

Your eyes widen. “Why?”

“It was a stupid move.”

You frown. “Was there another option I had?”

“You could’ve not come with me.”

Your tongue darts across your lower lip as you lift an eyebrow. “Ah–so really this is about you.”

Of course it damn well is. It’s always him. He can’t afford you getting yourself stabbed or beaten or drowned.  

“I could kill you,” he growls as he grips your hips and flips you on your back, eliciting a yelp from your lungs. He wedges himself between your thighs, sliding his mouth over your puckered nipple and then your belly. 

You wiggle, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist. 

He kisses the scar beneath your ribs and then the top of your cunt. He licks the warm crease between your folds just to tease you before he climbs back up.

He plants his arms on either side of your head as he bears his weight above your body. He’s hard, his cock full and bobbing against his belly. He feels your small hand drift over his hip, the wiry hairs at his groin before it wraps firmly around his shaft. It jumps in your hand, desperate for you in a way he doesn’t mean to show.

“You can kill me,” you whisper and he drops his head to capture your lips. He thrusts his tongue into your mouth, slipping it behind your teeth. It’s a wet kiss–dirty and panicked and i fucking hate you so much because it’s so damn obvious that i don’t. You give him an experimental stroke, thumb pressing into the head. He grunts, jerking forward. 

“I want to feel you,” he confesses and it’s the most honest thing he can say here. Not i don’t want to see you dead ever. Not i really care about you. 

Just feel. 

You smile sweetly before guiding him into the molten suction of your pussy. It takes nothing for him to claim you. He sinks inside, straight to the hilt. He shoves his hips forward so that you’re forced to take all of him. Even when he’s buried balls deep, he leans on his arms, one hand clasping the top of your skull so he can push further. Your nails bite into his ass. You arch.

“Fuck,” you rasp, breath hitching. “Fuck–oh my god.”

They’re sealed together. Breasts crushed to his chest. Stomachs flattened. He uses his thighs to spread legs wider. He pins you there, enjoying the way your heart snaps against your ribs as if it could buffer his own.

“Thatta girl,” he coaxes, managing to plunge deeper. Something low vibrates in his throat. Something half-human. He can’t breathe, overwhelmed by the scent and feel of you, and so he sits aback on his heels, grips your knees and forces them against your tits. “You gonna take it for me?”

Your eyes roll back, cunt contracting around him. “Yes.” 

Not loud enough. He spanks you between your legs, right against the tender flesh wrapped around his cock. It hurts both of them. You whine and reach for him. Yes. Yes. Yes. Joel. Please. 

He eases himself out to the tip before driving forward. The force knocks you up the floor, causing your back to scrape against the wooly blankets. Another sharp thrust that punches a gasp from your throat. You shut your eyes, holding your legs open for him as he continues. It’s rough in its own way. Not the worst he’s done, but his strokes are deliberate and powerful. He fucks you hard enough that he can hear it. The slick noises that accompany every stab of his cock.

He has half a mind to say what he’s trying to through sex. When he’s nearing the end, he lowers himself over you, broken fingers pinching your chin. The pain in his hand welcome, adding a bite to the act itself. “Look at me,” he murmurs and you open your eyes. He fucks you and fucks you and every slam of his hips makes your lashes flutter.��“Look, darlin’.”

“What?” you hiss because he’s taunting you –holding you firmly over the edge and shit–he loves that about you. When push comes to shove, you’ll make it known when you’re pissed. He loves the fact that you never screamed for him as you tried to save yourself. He hates it and loves it and he’s really fucked up. 

He swallows hard before pressing their foreheads together. “You won’t do that again,” he warns.

“Do what?”

Another perfunctory snap of his cock.

“Fuck–Joel.”

You’re shuddering in his arms, walls spasming around him. You’re one screaming nerve of sensation. You almost died. 

“You won’t do it.”

You say nothing. Instead, you nod as you tighten around him, heels digging into his lower back. He’s certain you know what he means. He just didn’t want to say it out loud.

[vodika-vibes]

Okay, silly ask and you can decline if you don’t do the pregnancy stuff! But I was thinking a Crosshair x reader where they were an item pre-O66, and then the Kaller and brainwashing happened and they went separate ways because, ya know, chip went: “yo kill your brothers those hoes ain’t loyal.” While they’re separated, reader finds out she’s pregnant, and Crosshair only finds out when he lures the rest of the batch back to Kamino and they’re in that training room.

(Bonus if the rest of the batch only found out semi-recently too because reader’s mentality was “okay, I’m pregnant, no biggie. I’ll tell them later when it actually becomes an issue” and Tech figured it out right away but never said anything either)

That's What Family Does

Summary: Being pregnant sucks. Being pregnant with the baby of a man who’s actively hunting the people keeping you safe is worse. The fact that you still love him is just the icing on the “bad year” cake. Still, you probably should have listened to Hunter when he told you to stay on the Marauder rather than risk Crosshair seeing you. Ah well, you’ve never been the best at listening.

Pairing: TBB Crosshair x F!Reader

Word Count: 1771

Warnings: Pregnancy and Childbirth, and complicated relationships

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly @kimiheartblade @mire-draws-things

A/N: So, I know next to nothing about childbirth, on account that I'm both childfree and infertile, so it's never been something that I had to worry about. So I did almost no research on this topic. Also, I've still never watched TBB, so I played around with...everything. But this has also been half-written for the better part of two weeks, and I just needed inspiration to strike me. Anyway, I hope you like it!

“You just had to come with us, didn’t you?” Hunter hisses as he shoves you behind Wrecker, “Why don’t you ever listen?”

“Because you’re not my mother,” You hiss right back at him, as you grab the over-large shirt that Echo’s been trying to shove over your head for the last five minutes and pull it on. It does…very little to hide your stomach. But then, the boys, and Omega, have only recently found out about your pregnancy. And only because you finally started showing and couldn’t hide it anymore.

Needless to say, Hunter and Echo weren’t thrilled about the sudden surprise. Wrecker was torn between excitement and dismay. And Omega…well, she’s been bubbling with excitement since she found out.

“Great, now we have to keep anyone from finding out that you are 8 months pregnant with a clone baby.” Hunter grouses, “Omega, stay with her.”

Omega nods rapidly, and wraps her arms around you, “I’ll bite anyone who tries to touch her.”

Absently, you pet Omega’s head and glare at Hunter, “Well, if you don’t say the words ‘clone’ and ‘baby’ next to each other, no one will ever know.”

“Yes, because your relationship with Crosshair was the best-kept secret on Kamino,” Hunter replies, deadpan, “there’s absolutely no way that anyone will ever figure out that you're pregnant with his baby.”

“Okay, tone down the sass, Mister. It’s not helping.”

Hunter grabs your shoulders, “You irk me. You’re irksome.”

“Hey! I’m pregnant, you can’t talk to me like that!”

For a moment, you think Hunter is going to shake you, but he stops when Tech taps his back, “He is here.”

Abruptly, you’re shoved back behind Wrecker and Echo, nearly tripping over Omega who’s still wrapped around you, and you only manage to catch a glimpse of Crosshair. 

His face is pinched and angry-looking, and you see his hand twitching towards his blaster.

Oh, you really hope that this doesn’t turn into a firefight. You don’t want to have to explain to your baby how they don’t have a dad because he got himself killed.

That would be awkward.

The nice thing is you’ve sped through all five stages of grief, and have just accepted that Crosshair isn’t the man you thought he was. And here you thought you were going to need, like, so much therapy to come to terms with it.

“Hunter.” Crosshair’s voice is cold. Colder than you’ve ever heard before. 

“Cross,” Hunter sounds tense, and you feel a pang of guilt. He wouldn’t be half as stressed if you and Omega just stayed on the ship. If you get out of this alive, and, you know, not a prisoner of the Empire, you should make him some apology cookies.

There’s a tense silence and Wrecker adjusts his weight slightly. You can tell by his body language, Echo’s too, that if this turns violent, the pair of them will remove you and Omega from the scene. Then again, that does tend to be their job most of the time.

“I assume you’re here to surrender.” Crosshair says. You know him better than anyone, you can tell he doesn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. 

Hesitantly, you peek around Wrecker and Crosshair sees you immediately. His sharp gaze lingers on you for a moment, and you see something like regret flicker across his face, though it vanishes as soon as Echo shoves you back behind Wrecker. 

“You have to leave the doctor behind,” Crosshair says flatly.

“No,” Tech says immediately.

“She belongs to the Empire.”

“Technically, my contract is with the Republ—” You counter, indignently.

“Stop talking!” Hunter, Tech, and Echo say in unison and you close your mouth without finishing your thought.

Hunter glances at you, and then at Crosshair, “She’s not a slave, Crosshair. She can come and go as she pleases.”

You can hear the argument continuing in the background, but you’re not really listening anymore.

Something doesn’t feel right.

And then you’re slammed with a cramp so intense that your legs nearly buckle. Your hand lands heavily on Omega’s shoulder and you exhale sharply. “Are you okay?” The little girl whispers, doing her best to not draw too much attention to herself…or you.

“We need to get back to the Marauder.” You say though clenched teeth.

“That’s the plan, but—”

“Meg.” You interrupt her, “I’m pretty sure I’ve just gone into labor.” You keep your voice very, very calm, not wanting to scare her, but she stares at you with wide eyes.

“WHAT!?” The men stop arguing at Omega’s panicked shout and turn towards her. “You…you can’t! It’s too early! You’re only 8 months!” Omega continues, her voice pitching high in her panic.

You don’t answer her. Can’t answer her, really, because you’re too busy trying to breathe through the waves of pain that kind of make you want to cry, scream, and throw up all at the same time.

You’re pretty sure you’d sell all of the clones on Kamino for some pain medicine.

You’re also pretty sure that that’s the pain talking and you’ll feel bad for having that thought as soon as you’re no longer in labor.

The waves of pain fade enough for you to recognize that your boys are in the middle of panicking around you. Panicking and not helping you.

Great.

Lovely.

Super.

You reach out and grab Wrecker’s forearm, “I need to get to a bed, preferably on the Marauder, because if I have to give birth in a training room, I’m going to murder all of you.” You say through gritted teeth.

And then Crosshair is there, his gaze lingering on your stomach, and if you were feeling even remotely charitable you’d say that he looks guilty and hurt.

But, you’re in so much pain right now that you really couldn’t care less.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” He asks.

You grab him by the collar of his armor, “I am in the process of pushing a watermelon out a hole the size of a lemon. And it’s all your fault.” You snap, “I need to get to the Marauder.”

“...you know it takes two people to make a baby, kitten—”

The string of curses that fall from your lips after his comment, is enough that the boys push themselves into high gear and then rush you back to the ship. 

24 hours of hard labor later, your babies are finally here.

And you finally know why you went into labor early.

Turns out you were pregnant with twins. Twin girls, to be specific.

Right now they’re sleeping in a cradle that Echo stole from Kamino, wrapped in a black and a red blanket specifically.

So far, Hunter, Echo, Wrecker, Tech, and Omega have come to meet the babies. But no Crosshair, though you know he’s still on the ship.

Hunter said that Crosshair refused to leave while you were still in labor. And now that they’re born, he wants to raise them with you.

It’s a nice thought, you suppose. Aside from the whole “wanting to kill his brothers” thing.

Plus, he still hasn’t come to meet the babies.

You tilt your head to the side as one of the babies yawns widely and then falls back to sleep. You hear the door slide open and then shut again. When you look up, you see Crosshair standing, awkwardly, at the door.

He’s dressed in his blacks and isn’t armed.

Hunter probably told him no weapons in the medbay. He’s a good brother-in-law, you’re lucky to have him.

“They’re cute.” Crosshair says as he walks over to the babies and peers down at them.

“They look like wrinkly potatoes.” You correct.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that?”

“I just spent 24 hours pushing them out of my vagina. If I want to call them potatoes, then I’m going to call them potatoes.”

“Ah,” He’s quiet for a moment, “Are you…okay? There was a lot of blood, Tech said.”

“Yeah, well…he had a bunch of my blood stored up for this scenario. Just in case.” You admit with a shrug, “I’ll recover. I’m going to be weak for a while though.”

“What are you naming them?”

“...I dunno. I was only expecting one baby, not two.” You pull your blanket up higher, “You’re such an overachiever.”

“...I’m sorry?”

“Whatever. I’m too tired to be properly angry.” You pause, “We are going to have to talk, Crosshair.”

He rubs the back of his head, “Yeah. I know.”

“You walked away.”

“I know.”

“And it was easy for you to do. How could it be so easy for you to walk away?”

He sighs, “I’m sorry.”

“Would you have even come with us if I didn’t go into labor?” You ask.

Crosshair shakes his head, “I don’t know.” He pauses, “You’re mad.”

“I think I have good cause to be mad, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He’s quiet for a moment, “A condition of me staying with you and the twins is getting the chip out. And no weapons until they’re sure that I’m not going to try to hurt anyone.”

“Let me guess…Hunter?”

Crosshair nods, “He’s very…protective.”

“He always has been. But Hunter was the one who let me cry on his shoulder when you walked away. He might be a bit angrier at you than anyone else.”

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

You shrug, “Well, you did.”

The pair of you fall into a, slightly, awkward silence, and then you sigh, “Luna.”

“Sorry?”

“The twin with the silver hair, I’m going to call her Luna, I think.” Crosshair blinks at you, and then glances at the babies, finally noticing that one of the babies has his coloring, while the other one has yours.

“And what about her sister?”

“Don’t you want to name one?”

He looks momentarily surprised, and then he glances at the baby who looks like you, “Willow. I want to name her Willow.”

You tilt your head curiously.

Crosshair doesn’t acknowledge your silent question for a moment, and then a small smile lifts the corner of his lips, “The first date we went on was a picnic under a willow tree.”

“...I’m surprised you remembered that.”

“It’s important.”

You watch him for a moment, and then laugh softly, “Alright. Luna and Willow, then.” You allow your gaze to linger on Crosshair as he looks over the twins, and your smile widens.

The both of you aren’t okay. There are a lot of wrongs that need to be righted. But…well, he’s here. And you can’t help but think that that’s a step in the right direction.

[whiskeynwriting]

Recovery

Simon “Ghost” Riley x OFC “Bones” 

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Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI)

Trauma, physical therapy, some reader descriptions (strong/muscles), dirty talk, size kink, grinding/dry humping, mentions of male masturbation, spanking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, mentions of smoking, tattoos.

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A/N: Hope y’all aren’t getting sick of Ghost x Bones because they’re not leaving anytime soon lol. Also this gif has my HEART, baby has some makeup in his eye lol

ALSO also, thank you to @thesleepingmusicneek for honestly just being an amazing fucking friend but for helping me SO much with my writing 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

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Simon “Ghost” Riley Masterlist

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Nothing but scribbles stumble across the page, now disfigured with angry wrinkles. And the writer, no more frustrated than he is stubborn, sitting with the pencil’s tip just at the paper’s edge. What’s worse than watching him struggle, is knowing there’s little to nothing you can do about it. This journey is up to him; his progress, his growth, his recovery, it’s all in his hands. 

“This is bullocks.” Finally, he tosses the pencil down with an aggressive huff. “Never even was a lefty.”

“That’s not the point.”

Looking away with a frown, he mumbles, “I know.”

Simon’s physical therapist tries his best, he really does, but his patient is stubborn, and these injuries are unforgiving. Having you here is the main thing that keeps Simon going, out of both pride and general encouragement. In the therapist’s eyes, your open sass doesn’t help. But hey, it’s how the two of you bond. 

“Try it this way, Ghost.” He then offers, speaking into the growing silence. 

“I’ve already tried it that way. Fuckin’ hurts!” His left hand wasn’t ever his strongest or most favored out of the two, but practicing his writing skills is a step in the right direction in regard to his healing. 

Sometimes, this was embarrassing for him, having you watch him struggle. But even through the bad days, and the really bad days, he insisted that you come. Your support meant more to him than anything, and you were glad to tag along. He found great offense in the mere offer of you leaving, which was suggested many times by his therapist. They claimed he’d focus better without you there. A fucking distraction. 

“She’s my doctor,” He’d state firmly, eyes burning holes into his PT. “Not you.”

And this was true. Price had allowed you to be Simon’s main physician, figuring there really wasn’t anyone better. You had both personal and professional reason to be here. So, Simon’s physical therapist can suck it. 

“Perhaps if we had some privacy, maybe -”

“This again?!” Ghost shouts, and you try your best to hide your chuckle. He should’ve known better than to bring this up now, when Simon is most frustrated. “Bloody fuckin’ hell, how many times do I have to tell you?!”

“Hey,” Laying a hand on his forearm, you request gently, “Take a breath.”

Regardless of his deep inhale, Simon’s dark eyes continue to glare at the physician. Though, as irritated as he may seem now, Ghost truly has come a long way. He’s gotten a lot of feeling back in his feet and legs, and can even wiggle his toes and feel pain. On this area of his body, the therapist has moved onto moving his entire foot. 

“Why don’t we try the lower extremities?” 

“‘S difficult, too.” Glancing away, Simon focuses on the view past the windowpane. It’s a sunny day, soon to rain but nice enough now. 

The soft rub of your thumb on his forearm is what pulls him back, nodding with a sigh. “Alright, fine.”

Redirecting his focus to his feet, Simon concentrates, determined to do… something. He’s been instructed to wiggle his toes, which he does successfully. And the gentle squeeze you give him offers the slightest bit of encouragement. 

“Alright, now let’s try your ankle. Start with the right one.” 

“Rotate it fully?” Scoffing, he raises a brow.

His therapist shrugs. “Any movement at all.”

Narrowing his eyes, Simon zones in on his right foot, doing anything he can to make it move. A twitch, a wiggle, anything. But by his quick yet shallow breaths, his small grunts, you can tell he’s becoming agitated again. 

“Be patient with your body.”

“My body can do so much more than this.” He spits out in return. 

“Yeah?” You return, not one to take his sass. “Then show me.” 

There was nothing more motivating than your snarky remarks, always ready to challenge the man you love. And wouldn't you know it, a small shudder runs through his ankle. The way Simon’s head immediately snaps up toward you makes you grin, his eyes wide with little crinkles on the side, evidence of his eager smile. It's like he himself was surprised by it, and to say you’re proud of him would be an understatement. 

“Way to go, big boy.” With the widest grin, you congratulate him. “You’re making progress.”

And even though he doesn’t respond, he keeps his smile. He’s proud of himself, too.

*

*

*

Subtle glances, small brushes or touches, cheeky grins and flirtatious laughs, that’s what accounts for your interactions. And while your exchanges have been sweet, they’ve also been dulled, in a way. The fire doesn’t seem to be there anymore. Your love still grows, is still everlasting, but the desire you had for one another, it’s faded.

Or at least, it seems that way. 

The first few months of Simon’s recovery were the most difficult. Getting him stable was more important than anything, and you were by his side through it all. You weren’t thinking sexually, those thoughts weren’t anywhere near your headspace, not when you were so worried. But the more Simon healed, the more touchy he should be, right? It makes sense in your head. Going so long without so much as kissing or even hugging you, you’d assumed he’d want to put his hands on you as soon as he got the chance. 

The injuries on Ghost’s face and head have healed, externally, at least. So, he’s been lifting his mask more around you, but only to the tip of his nose. And you wonder if he regrets showing himself to you. But even with that thought lingering heavily in your head, you also wonder, why hasn’t he kissed me yet? Why hasn’t he initiated anything? A small hug? A peck on the lips? Anything? Honestly, it feels like you’re losing him all over again.

Simon has shown his love for you through his actions and words. The two of you don’t often say it, but it comes up every now and then. His physical intentions, though, those were much more prominent. They came in the form of voicing his requests for you to stay, whether it be at his therapy sessions or just throughout the day. He wasn’t shy about that. Occasionally, he’d compliment you, call you smart and sweet, call you his doctor, his girl. But nothing more, nothing even remotely sexual. And it’s strange because Simon used to be so sexual. Even when he couldn't do much with you, couldn't he have said something to express his physical interest? 

On the other end, Ghost’s worrying about this topic just as much as you. While you’ve been waiting for him to make a move, he’s been waiting on you. His body has always been scarred, mutilated with cuts that ran deep and marred with burns over his flesh. But he wasn’t insecure about any of that, not until these recent injuries. He knows he looks different, especially on his left arm and legs, even his face a little bit. Simon hasn’t felt truly insecure in decades, but that rotten feeling has now been clawing at the insides of his chest, breaking free and wreaking havoc on his mind. 

Simon wanted to give you space, give you the option of turning away. He wouldn’t blame you, this wasn’t exactly part of the package. Besides, you can’t help it if you’re not attracted to him anymore because of these injuries. He’d understand it. It’d crush his entire being, but he’d understand. 

And so, he waits, wondering if the day will come where you’ll make a move, where you’ll show him that you’re still attracted to him. But he refuses to bring it up to you, he doesn’t want to push. 

“‘M sorry,” Simon grumbles quietly, somberly. 

“You don’t have to be.” His regret is obvious, and you appreciate the gesture of him apologizing. But you’re used to his attitude during those sessions, and you honestly don’t blame him one bit. You can’t imagine how frustrating this situation would be if it were you personally. 

Moving about the room, you clean up your station, sorting notes into files and wiping down the desk. And Simon watches you with thoughtful eyes, hoping for a chance to reconnect. You’re the most precious and special thing he’s ever had the pleasure of possessing. But not possess in a way of dominance, possess in a way like his own soul possesses his body. Natural, connected, at peace. 

“How was your day?” He asks, voice low and muddled by the rain tapping against the windowpane. 

Without turning, you respond with, “Normal. Nothing too crazy.” 

“What was your favorite part?” Simon pries gently, not wanting the conversation to end.

Now, you do turn. Leaning back against the edge of your desk, you grin. “Spending it with you.”

And it’s true. Regardless of the worries slowly but surely consuming you, it was nice to be with him. 

Swallowing, his pulse becomes thunderous in his ears, heart beating against his chest. He wants you, wants to feel you next to him. So, with great hesitancy, he requests, “C’mere.”

Excitement shoots through your limbs as you all too quickly prance over to him, ecstatic that he’s even asked. And your eagerness makes him smirk beneath the mask. Sitting yourself down on one of those round, swiveling chairs, you rest beside his left arm. Out of curiosity, you look down, eyeing his decorated forearm. His tattoos no longer look the same, some of them having changed with the healing of his stitches. 

“Bunch of bullshit.” Ghost murmurs, glancing down, too. “Paid good money for those.”

Laughing, you give your head a single shake. “They still look hot as hell.”

Eyes widening, he speaks before he can stop himself. “Really?”

With you being so close to him again, and now complimenting him, he feels like he’s soaring. 

“Fuck yeah.” You respond, as if it were obvious. To you, it is.

Impulsively, you lay a hand over his forearm, fingers brushing the black and white ink. And for a split second, it feels electric on his skin. But you’re quick to flinch away, wide eyes staring up at him. “I’m so sorry, did that hurt?”

But all he does is shrug. “Not at all. Stitches are healed, love.” 

Love. You swoon. 

“So, I can touch you?” It obviously isn’t meant to come off dirty, but Ghost’s brain registers it as that, anyway. 

“Of course you can.” He nearly blurts out, his tone hopeful and welcoming. And immediately, you’re wrapping both hands around his sleeve. The small hum he exudes prompts you to glance up, grinning at the sight. Ghost has closed his eyes, chest releasing a relaxing breath. 

“Feels nice.”

“Just this?” Humored doubt laces your tone. 

“Feels like ages since you’ve touched me.” 

His words twist the thoughts collecting in your head into something new. Has he… he’s wanted me to touch him?

“I know…” The way you say it expresses your sadness, your regret. “Just need you to heal, ya know?”

Because of what he’s now said, you feel the need to explain yourself, explain why you haven’t fulfilled his expectations. Throughout this entire healing process, you focused mostly on his physical health. You never once thought to tend to his emotional wellbeing. It’s a failure, on your end. 

“Does it,” Inhaling a motivating breath, he finishes with, “Does it bother you?”

“What?”

Lifting his arm slightly, he gestures to himself. “These stitches, the injuries.” 

Twisting your face in confusion, you lean back a bit. “Um… no? Why would they?”

“Just… missed your touch, is all.” He’s mumbling, quiet and very obviously insecure. “Missed you.”

“Baby… I’m so sorry.” All at once, regret hits you like a truck. He’s been suffering, and you’ve done nothing. “I’m sorry I haven’t done more for you.”

“You’ve done everything you needed to.”

“No, I haven’t. How could I let you feel this way?” 

An abrupt knock on the door dissipates your conversation into seemingly nothing. Instantly, you pull your hands away from him, turning in your chair to greet whoever’s about to approach. And to your delight, it’s Johnny.

“Hey Lt.” He grins, walking in and giving you a nod. “Lovely Bones.”

There’s that flirtatious nature again. As always, Ghost knew it meant nothing, not really. But now that he feels like you’re falling through his fingers, he wants to tighten his grasp now more than ever, wants to pull you back into his chest and never let you go, whisper all the sweet things he’s been dying to tell you. Especially when another man compliments you.

“How’ve ya been?” Striding forward, Johnny takes a seat opposite of Ghost’s bed. Spreading his legs and leaning in on his knees, he flashes that cheeky smile, giving Simon his full attention.

“I’ve been fine, Johnny. Nothing new.” Simon answers simply, almost in a kind of brain fog. Switching conversations so quickly is difficult for him, still trying to regain his focus from the incident. 

“See your scars are healin’ up nicely.” Pointing to his forearm, he nods. “That’s good to see.”

“Yeah, messed up my bloody ink, though.”

“Ah,” Soap waves a hand, “Looks better that way.” 

The team visited Simon fairly frequently. And since you’re by his side for ninety-five percent of the day, you get to see the guys every time they come by. Oftentimes, they’d bring him little treats, a snack from the cafeteria or his favorite energy drink. And while Ghost knew they had the best intentions, their pity disgusted him. Sometimes he wished they would just leave him alone. Especially now, considering the two of you were in the middle of a rather important discussion. 

“Oh!” Johnny then says, startling you. Reaching into his back pocket, he retrieves a small package. Tossing it Simon’s way, Soap says, “Know you like these.”

Catching it easily, Simon reads the wrapping. A Snickers, he can’t remember the last time he had one of these. And that was mainly due to his brain injury. 

“Thanks, Johnny.”

“I know all this can’t be easy, Si. I’m for you, ya know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ghost sighs, staring down at the candy bar. Johnny rarely called him Si, and it tugs at his heartstrings. 

Soap can feel something is off in the room, the energy is just weird. He’s been wanting to ask about your relationship, but hasn’t had the balls to. He doesn’t want to make either of you uncomfortable and hasn’t had the chance to be alone with Simon or you. 

“Well, I’ll let you lovebirds be.” Smiling cheekily, he stands. “I’ll visit again soon, yeah, Lt.?”

“‘Course, Johnny.” 

Before Johnny leaves, he offers you a hug, strong arms embracing you fully. And you rest against him, leaning into his sturdy frame. He’s been a great part of your support system since all of this happened; Simon’s injuries have only brought you and Johnny closer together. 

“It’ll be alright, yeah, sweetheart?” He sighs quietly against your head. Nodding, you take in a steadying breath.

“Yeah, it’ll be alright.” 

Another knock, another groan from your end. “Come in.”

Opening the door is the other half of the medical team assigned to Ghost, making their way in so they can clean. Their tasks were to change the sheets, wash Simon and his clothes, wipe down surfaces and mop the floor, the list goes on. And while you were more than happy to do these things, Simon wouldn't allow it. Ghost’s recovery prompted new boundaries to arise in your relationship, lines that he was firm on setting. The first regarding this exact circumstance; you already cared for him medically and he refused for you to do anymore, he didn’t want you to be his full time caregiver. He would never want to burden you with that, and he knows it would cause nothing but strife in your relationship. Besides, the mere thought of you changing his bedpan and regularly washing his sheets was humiliating. So, whenever it was time for those types of tasks, you left, fulfilling other duties. 

But why did they have to come now? 

“I’ll, um…” Turning back to Simon, you see he’s already looking toward you with a pleading gaze. Stay. 

All you want to do is stay. 

But at the same time, Simon doesn’t want you to see him this way. 

“I’ll… see you later, Si.”

Swallowing, Simon’s rough voice then appears. “Babe,”

Immediately, your eyes widen, if only ever so slightly. For him to call you that in the presence of others speaks volumes. Sure, Price had you sign those HR papers about workplace relationships, but you hadn’t exactly made it known to others after that. The two of you favored your privacy. But right now, that simple word is speaking louder than anything else he could’ve said.

“C’mere for a sec.” Grunting, he does his best to reach out to you, using his left arm. And as soon as he does it, Johnny is letting you go, wanting you to meet Simon’s gentle plea.

Leaving the sergeant’s arms, you do just that, stepping over to Simon’s bedside. Placing both of your hands in his left, you grin, looking into those deep, warm eyes of his. 

“You’ll come back, yeah?” Ghost asks quietly, your team beginning to work around him.

“Of course, I will.”

“Eh, won’t be long.” Johnny chimes in, “She can come hangout with me and the boys, get a game of pool in.”

“Sounds lovely.” You return with a murmur, eyes not leaving Simon’s. “I’ll be back later, baby.” And that, coupled with the kiss you give his palm, is shocking to your team. Though it sends waves of butterflies through Simon’s stomach. 

These public displays of affection are entirely foreign to your relationship, but you’re both basking in the sweetness of it. And maybe this is the perfect time for you to explore it, for you to outwardly show your love and attraction for him just when he needs it most. 

On your way out, Johnny doesn’t mention the way every single person’s eyes widen in the room when your affectionate nicknames are exchanged, or the way a few heads turn. He chooses to stay silent, smiling to himself while leading you out of the room. 

*

*

*

Returning to a sleeping Simon is bittersweet. You’re glad he’s resting, but you’d do anything to finish your earlier conversation. But it’s late, and you figure at this point, you’ll have to wait until morning.

The rainfall makes you tired, too, yawning as you walk further in. It was only three days into Simon’s recovery that you started sleeping in his room, bringing a small, foldable cot for you to curl up on. His bed wasn’t big enough for the two of you, and besides, you’re pretty sure Price would light a fire up both your asses if he caught you snoozing next to him. 

As quietly as you can, you unfold your small bed and bring it to the side of his. It sits lower, but Simon often made up for that by dropping his arm, letting you hold onto his hand throughout the night. But with him asleep, you don’t think you’ll get that luxury tonight. Nevertheless, you curl up in your blanket, resting only in your underclothes as you doze off beside him. 

“Miss you.”

That rumbling voice almost scares you in the near silence, your body jolting ever so slightly. When did he wake up? Still, those two simple words make your insides burn bright. 

Lips curling happily, you mutter, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Quietly, you then ask, “Want me to come up there?” It’s happened once or twice before, but only for some cuddles. Simon’s grown quite accustomed to your touch. 

With a heavy sigh, he gives in. “You know I do.”

Absolutely thrilled with his request, you pop right up, situating yourself on the right side of his bed. Simon likes it best when you curl up on this side, allowing him to wrap his good arm around you. Cuddling into him, you revel in the closeness - you haven’t done this in weeks. He’s resting on his back, the same position he always sleeps in. And with you by his side, he turns his head in your direction, releasing a contented breath. 

“Hey, gorgeous.” He says to you sweetly, fondly, covered lips pressing to the top of your head. 

“Hm…” Sighing happily, you twine your legs between his much bulkier appendages, draping an arm across his abdomen. You’re so happy he still wants this, wants you and this relationship. 

“Cozy?” He chuckles, eyes closed as he grins. 

“Mhm,” Snuggling further into him, he can feel your smile press against his bare skin. Ghost usually slept nearly naked, only black boxers hugging his body. And you liked it best this way, for multiple reasons. One being that you’re able to see more of his tattoos. He has some on his chest, one reaching up to his collarbones and neck. And you just love them, found them incredibly interesting and undeniably sexy.

“Love this…” Tracing a particularly larger tat, your smile becomes brighter than ever. “Love the way you feel.” 

“Yeah? Even when I’m like this?” His tone expresses the dry humor he’s far too familiar with, the same dry humor that covers up his emotions. 

“Big teddy bear.” And that makes him fully laugh. “Strong.”

“Don’t feel too strong.”

Simon was never one to be insecure of his body, of the multitude of scars on it. Cuts that dug deep, burns that marred his skin, none of it bothered him, not even when he showed himself to you like this. What did bother him, though, was the fact that he looked weak. He couldn't stand it, and to say his ego was taking a hit would be an understatement. 

“Baby,” With a heavy breath, you shake your head lightly beneath him. “You’re so fucking hard on yourself.”

All he does is grunt in response, becoming quite pensive. Though, he tries not to be. Getting lost in his thoughts wasn’t something Simon liked doing. Lucky for him, your hand serves as a distraction. Running your palm down his torso, you take this opportunity to feel the muscles along his stomach and ribs, the v-line leading down to his pelvis. And it makes him shiver with anticipation. 

You’re not sure how to start this conversation again, mainly because of how distracted you’ve become. Feeling Simon’s naked body always made you feel excited inside, always made you feel eager and lustful. But you want to care for him emotionally, too. 

“I hope you know how much I still love you.” Continuing to lower your hand, you suddenly feel Simon’s chest dip, releasing a heated breath. “How much I love your body…”

“Hm…” The further you get, the more interested he becomes. The fact that you still find him appealing, even like this, it’s repairing his ego bit by bit. Truthfully, it’s everything he’s needed. “Miss you touchin’ me…” 

“Do you miss this, too?” Lightly, ever so lightly, you cup him over his clothes. And the gentle stimulation is more than enough to arouse him.

The intimacy you share with Simon is addicting, and the withdrawal has been a bitch. But just like that, as soon as you get the tiniest taste, you’re hooked all over again. 

“Fuck, yes.” Groaning in frustration, he forces out a breath. And fuck you’ve missed that, hearing the eager roughness to his tone. “Been so long since I’ve had you.” 

Feeling your hand on his crotch like that, it lights a fire inside him. All over again, he wants you, wants to throw you down on this bed and take you. Shove himself inside until you’re fluttering, spurting with cum before he releases his own. Hold you down and make you take it, for however long he likes. Rub his face over your chest, down the valley between your breasts, sucking on their soft flesh. Haul your leg up over his waist and grab a fistful of your ass, spanking it until the pain turns into something irresistibly sweet. 

But he can’t. He physically can’t. 

The arm holding you tightens against your body, against your own strong muscles. Irritation courses through his veins, knowing he can’t do much but god damn if he won’t try to do what he can. Turning his head, he ducks down, pressing his covered lips to your own with a forceful breath. Easily, wholeheartedly, you embrace him, hand lifting to cup his jaw. Your mouth presses to the shape of his lips, the covered kiss far too teasing for the current moment. 

“Baby, can we? Please?” Sliding down ever so slightly, your fingertips graze the edge of his mask, wanting desperately to see him; any part of him.

“I… I want to, B.” The hesitancy in his voice is worrying. “But it just… it won’t be the same.” 

Even through the mask, you can feel his breath, experiencing the humid touch of it against your face. 

“I don’t care how it is, I just want it. I want you, Simon. I’ve missed you so fucking much.” Impatiently, you tug on his mask, leaning up against to press your mouth to his skull covering. It’s needy, it’s wanting, so openly throwing yourself at him he honestly can’t believe it. He hasn’t seen you like this in far too long, and he’d be an idiot to let this opportunity go, especially when it’s all he’s fucking thought about.

The way your tongue slides out, pressing against the white and black fabric, it makes him growl with passion. Quickly, yet shakily, his left hand rises, flipping the edge of his mask up before grabbing onto your jaw. Squishing your cheeks a bit he brings you in, bare lips crashing into your own. Open mouths press together, wet and warm and familiar. And those thick fingers dig into the fabric along your hip, wishing it were bare skin. 

“Baby,” With your fingernails scraping down his chest, you have to stop yourself from digging in too deeply. But it’s difficult when he’s kissing you like this, when he’s shoving his tongue inside your mouth so he can map it out all over again. “How could you ever think I’m not attracted to you?” 

The air leaving your chest is instantly sucked back in, your chest rising and falling as you feel Simon’s hand glide down your waist. He’s bringing you in even closer, pressing your body to his, feeling your warmth. 

“Don’t you know how fucking sexy you are, Simon?”

“Get up here,” That gruff voice suddenly demands, “On my lap, B.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice, your eager movements are evidence of that. Slipping your shorts and panties down your legs, you leave them on the cot as you slide easily on top of him. Your thighs encase his hips as you make yourself comfortable on him, center lowered right onto his. And your lips don’t even leave, he wouldn’t allow it.

“That’s so good…” Both of Simon’s hands now fall to your hips, holding onto you firmly. 

The way his teeth nip at your lips makes you sigh, little whines spilling from your mouth when they turn into bites. And all at once, his hands are roaming your body, sliding up beneath your shirt to feel your bare stomach, the skin of your hips and sides. The way you’re embracing each other is so lustful, so impassioned and fervent. It’s like it’s the first time all over again.

“You’re fucking perfect, you know that?” His words make you laugh, but he’s insistent. “Every goddamn day, whether you’re working or not, even on that bloody mission, you’re stunning, B.” 

“Simon,” You begin to protest, but he continues, mouthing at your lips as he bursts with praise for you. 

“Such a pretty girl for me,” Your lover says, hips beginning to grind up against you. “Always so pretty…” 

“Ugh, I fucking missed you. I need you, Si. I need this.” Holding his face with both hands, you lean in, resting your forehead over his own as you begin to meet his gentle thrusts. “I don’t give a shit how many scars you have, how many injuries I have to see through. I’m here, Simon. I’m here and I’m not fucking leaving you.”

“I love you.” He suddenly blurts out, as if he’d been dying to say it this entire time. “I can’t lose you, B. Never opened myself up to anyone but you.” 

“I know, baby. I know… and I love everything you’ve given me. Everything you are.”

“Not everything.” Giving his head a quick shake, hands guiding the sway of your hips over him. 

“Everything.” 

Your correction prompts Simon’s direct eye contact, a small pause in this heated moment. Flickering between your irises, Ghost’s own pupils widen, filled with something akin to adoration, something made of lust and absolute devotion. 

“Simon,” Whining quietly, you resume your subtle shifts over his lap, his own hips easily resuming their pace, too. “Please, I need you again, baby.” 

“I, I just… it won’t be the same, Bones.��� But he’s still kissing you, still grinding up against your sensitive core and breathing the air puffing past your lips. And you can feel him, having fully hardened and sitting firm between your legs. 

“I don’t fucking care, Simon. If you want this, tell me. And I’ll make it happen.”

“Yeah? And what’ll you do?” He asks, grinning while lifting his good hand to the back of your head.

“Ride you,” Panting, you grind yourself over the thickness of the erection rising steadily in his briefs. “Just like I used to.”

Betraying his rotten inner emotions, the ones that had convinced him you no longer saw him with the same desire in your eyes, a smirk forms on those smooth lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Devouring him, your tongue slides into his mouth, swallowing his moan while dragging the wet muscle over his own. But he quickly takes the lead, using the hand on your head to move you how he likes. He takes great pleasure in this, in having some semblance of control while you’re like this. 

“Fuck, do it.” He finally decides, his entire body shuddering with desire. “Fucking do it.”

Instantly, you’re dropping one hand from his face and reaching for his boxers. You find him easily, pulling aside the fabric and watching as he practically jumps into your hand. 

“Christ,” Red and leaking, throbbing, Simon’s cock weighs heavy in your hand.

“Excited?” Grinning wildly, you lean in, running the tip of your nose over his cheek. 

“Very.” Evidenced by the liquid warmth drooling from his cockhead, he’s correct. 

Running your thumb over his slit, you take great pride in watching him twitch. “Don - Don’t tease. Just put it in.”

It’s too damn easy for you to listen to him, to follow his every command. Lifting yourself, your eyes fall to the sight you’ve so dearly missed. And with both of you watching, you line him up with your entrance, licking your lower lip with anticipation. 

“C’mon, come down now…” His hands are pulling on your hips, becoming impatient. “Put the tip of my cock against that pretty little hole.”

Fuck, you missed this, the way he talked to you during times like this. He was always so good with it.

“Mm…” Slowly, you sink down, inch by thick inch. The whine that slips past your lips is shrill, feeling his head spread you open. But Simon is quick to hush you, bringing you in for a bruising kiss. 

“You can do it, just like before.” He says to you through sweet, wet kisses. 

“Simon…”

“Just like that, just like that, princess.” His hands continue to urge you on, pulling you down onto him. “What happened, huh? Get a little tighter without me around?”

“F-Fuck,” Dropping your head onto his shoulder boosts his confidence incredibly; your submissive side is coming out again, and it’s making him feel dominant. 

“Oh, just look at the way it stretches for me, Christ…” Feeling your velvety inside envelope his tip, it’s almost too much for him. “Such a good pussy.”

“Baby…” Turning your head, you press a flurry of fervent kisses to his mask. “I’ve needed you for so long, you don’t know how bad I’ve missed this.” 

“I know, trust me.” Releasing a dry laugh, Simon’s eyes raise with awareness. 

Clinging to his shoulders, you gasp when he finally bottoms out inside you, sitting entirely over his pelvis. And with your ass flush against his lap, he throbs violently against your walls, every thick vein pulsing beneath your core’s hot squeeze.

“Sweetheart,” Taking in a lungful of air, he says, “You know how many times I’ve thought about this? Thought about fuckin’ you again? Thought about this sweet ass on my lap, about the way this pretty pussy grips me…” 

 “Tell me,” Clinging to his shoulders, your nails dig into him once again, lips pressing to his neck. “Please tell me.”

Wrapping his right arm around your back, he pulls you flush against his chest. The sudden movement knocks you away from his neck, with Simon’s lips returning to yours all over again. The embrace is sweet and smooth, his talented lips captivating your attention. 

“Whenever you weren’t here… I took every goddamn opportunity. Fucked my fist to the thought of you, B. But, ngh…” Feeling you wiggle over his lap, he grunts. “It’s never the same. Not even bloody close.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Using those broad shoulders as leverage, you lift yourself, setting a steady pace over him. 

“Christ,” Head lolling back, his eyes follow. “Didn’t, fuck… didn’t want to pressure you.”

“I like when you do that to me. Make me feel small, and needed.” 

The stride you continue with over Simon’s lap is baffling to him, riddling his body with overstimulation. Every time you meet his pelvis, you grind down onto him, onto the grown-out hairs surrounding his base. 

“You’re always needed.” He whispers to you, kissing your cheek as it rests beside him. “Fucking hell, princess, I can feel you dripping down my shaft.” 

The sound your wetness creates resonates throughout the room, prompting a bashfulness to rise hotly in your cheeks. Dropping your forehead to his shoulder, you moan openly into his ear, feeling both of those broad hands lower to your cheeks. Summoning every ounce of strength he has, he bounces you down onto his lap, punching himself into your depths. And every thrust he gives shoves him even deeper inside, his tip nudging your most sensitive skin. 

“No,” He then seethes, moving his head in your direction. “Don’t hide yourself from me, not now. Not when I finally have you again.”

But when he turns his head to the side, his mask shifts, a bout of frustration rising within him. “Fucking, ngh.”

It’s a quick decision, one he makes out of genuine love for you. 

Reaching up, Simon tears his mask from his head, tossing it to the floor and grabbing your face again. Before you can get a good look at him, his mouth is on you, the hand he used on his mask now pawing at your breasts. 

“Take it off, love. Take this off for me.” 

But you’re still processing the fact that he just took off his mask, and you want to see him. He doesn’t let you, though, he’s too busy tugging at the ends of your shirt. So, you oblige him, leaning back to lift it from your torso. Just as it leaves your head, Simon is lifting his chin up to your chest, mouth enveloping your left nipple. 

“Baby, let me,” Hands holding his head, your own tips back, mouth falling agape with a graceful moan. 

Ghost’s mouth sucks on you fervently, tongue flicking over the delicate peak before biting at it ever so gently. 

“Please let me see you.”

Insecurity overtakes him then, now that you’ve fully asked. And you can tell - he practically curls in on himself. 

“You don’t want me to?” And with that gentle inquiry, he’s taking in a steadying breath, eyes beginning to lift. 

From beneath his brow, those dark eyes lift to yours, chin following soon after. And for the first time since this horrid incident, you’re seeing him, fully seeing him. 

“No,” Giving his head a light shake, he stares into your dazzling orbs. “Don’t stop, babe. Please, don’t.” 

And you want to listen, want to give him what he wants but it’s hard when you’re witnessing the beauty of Simon’s face. The scars, the cuts and curves, his nose and jawline, all of his features coming together as one, once again. The memory of his face was once a painful thought, but now… it can be replaced. 

“It’s so nice to see you again, baby.” 

The strength of his arms and hands continues your movement, pushing you forward onto his chest. Here, he nuzzles into you, arms securing themselves around your midsection. Simon’s nose rubs against your neck, committing your scent, your feel, to memory. 

“Only for you.” He murmurs, placing a tender kiss. “Can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.” 

“You’re everything I need.” Grinding up into your center, he forces a gasp from your chest, spreading your cheeks until slight pain begins to bloom. “Christ, I’m not going to last long like this, not with these gorgeous fucking tits pressed against me like this.”

“Baby, we need this more… can we please? Please?”

“Every chance we get.” Nipping at your ear, the low groan he exudes sends a shiver right through you. 

The pleasurable waves flowing through your hips are nothing compared to the sharp jolts of ecstasy every thrust of his hips gives. At times, you think about how foolish he is to think that his strength has left him, what with the way his muscles bend and ripple with every firm grab, every harsh slap he now delivers. 

“Look at me.” Ghost demands in that deep, rough tone. “Look at me, and listen well.”

Lifting your head, you do just that, memorizing every feature of his face. Subconsciously, your hand lifts, cupping his clean jawline with your thumb stroking his cheek. 

“You’re mine, understand? Mine to fucking keep. And there’ll be no more misunderstandings between us.”

“No more,” Shaking your head, you hold his gaze, lips parting from his continued movements. “F-Fuck.”

“You gonna cum for me, huh? Just like you used to? Back when you first cared for me, back when we’d smoke in the Jeep…”

“Yes,” You don’t want to look away from him, but your head drops regardless. The pleasure flowing through your thighs turns every muscle you have to jelly, the wetness growing beneath you evidence of this. “I miss it.”

“Then give it to me, before I give mine to you.” 

The way he phrases it has you falling apart in his arms, still strong enough to keep you together on his chest. His body, thick and bulky, holds you tightly against him, feeling your limbs quiver above him. His fingers continue to dig into the softness of your cheeks before landing another harsh smack, listening to your shrill cry while you shake on his lap. It’s all-consuming, blinding, the euphoria bursting inside your body. 

“Goddamn,” Simon huffs out, his voice tense and strained. 

The grip he has on you turns bruising, his body curling around you as he releases. And his teeth bite into your shoulder as he does, the muscles in his abdomen flinching with every milky rope that leaves him. 

You can feel it, the evidence of his pleasure washing your insides white. The way he throbs against your walls, swollen and pulsing, his entire body releasing. Every ounce of worry and stress, any bit of anxiety, it’s flushed away with the help of your reassurance, of your devotion and unwavering passion. 

Fully wrapping your arms around his neck, you rest flush against him, mouth pressing to his stubbled cheek over and over again. And the next sound to delight your ears is Simon’s laugh. 

“Mm…” His groan sounds… content, relaxed. “You make me happy, B. Happier than I’ve been in… a long time.” 

“Happier than you’ve ever been,” You correct him cheekily, shuddering slightly as you come down from the pleasure he so wonderfully brings. “You can say it, baby.” 

Rolling his eyes, he gives your backside a light tap. “Don’t get cocky with it, now.” 

“Simon,” Inhaling a deep breath, you allow yourself to be fully vulnerable with him. “I don’t ever want to be that far from you again.”

And he knows what you mean. Ghost was never known as an emotional man, and likely never will be. But with you, it’s a different story. 

“You won’t be.” He reassures you quietly, calmly. “We’re here, everything’s just like it should be.”

“Mhm,” Nodding, you keep your arms around him, not wanting to let go. 

“It’s just you and me, B.” 

[justmeinadaze]

Take It Out On Me Part 11 (Steddie X Plus Size Reader)

A/N: It's about to go down. Ya'll ready?!

Enjoy <3

Warnings: Dom Steddie & Plus Size Sub Y/N and all that implies (I regret nothing!), Smut and ALL the angst. These three confront the parents and as you can imagine it doesn't go well. Steve's dad is a douchebag and Y/N is referred to as a whore a few times. Eddie gets hit *cries*. He in turn gets a little rough with the reader but Steve intervenes. A bit of a cliffhanger ending... I mean I guess lol I think that's everything!

Word Count: 3335

A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you slowly open your front door and enter your house, Eddie and Steve following close behind. 

Both your parents are standing in the living room and to your surprise so are Steve’s. His dad visibly looks a mess, his hair and suit completely disheveled.

“Oh, Steven!”, his mother exclaims as she runs to give him a hug.

“You can leave.” Your dad gestures towards Eddie.

“I could but I’m not. Do I need to call my uncle so we have everyone who needs to be here present?”

“It’s not like you can call his dad.”, Mr. Harrington sasses under his breath as you angrily glare at him. 

“Mr. Munson, you don’t need to be here. I asked for my daughter to come home with Mr. Harrington here—”

“Yeah well, my understanding is you have a problem with me to so…”, Eddie shrugs. Your dad turns to your mom and whispers something to her before she rises to head for the kitchen to use the phone. “He works at the mill up there. He should be in by now.”

You three sit on the couch as you try to keep your emotions in check. The way everyone is staring at you guys terrifies you but you were also extremely angry, knowing how this conversation was going to play out. No matter what they said, you loved Eddie and Steve. You weren’t leaving them. 

“Wayne said he would be here in 15 minutes.”, your mother notified the room. 

“Good. He can take his nephew when he gets here. Now while we wait, Steven, I’m just going to say this out right, stay away from my daughter. This thing you two have is over.”

“Dad—”

“And as for you, you disobeyed us. We told you to stay away from him especially since he’s associated with this one here.”, he points to Eddie. 

“Which ends today to. I don’t want you spending any more time with this freak.”, his dad adds.

“Well, what does it matter, dad? According to you, I’ve already tarnished our name by not making into college, right? I’m too fucking stupid and lazy. Isn’t that what you said?”

“You’re goddamn right! We raised you to be better than this.”

“You didn’t raise him at all!”, you defended. “He’s spent half of high school alone in that big house.”

“Y/N!”, your mother scolds and you immediately fold back into yourself. 

The boys glance your way before looking back down at the floor. “I guess we see now why she was so meek and scared before.”, Eddie softly smiles as he reaches for your hand. 

“Hey! Don’t touch my daughter.”

“I love your daughter! No one has ever cared about me or made me feel the way she does.”

“Wait…”, Steve’s dad rubs his palm over his eyes. “I’m confused. Steve, you told me you were dating Y/N.”

“I am and I love her to.”

“But he just…”

Your eyes meet your mother’s before hers drift towards the ceiling. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

A knock on the door brings everything to a halt and your dad quickly answers it to allow Eddie’s uncle entry. “Get your nephew and get out of my house.”

“Wait. What is happening?”

“You to, Bill! Get your son and leave. It’s obvious we need to have a long talk with our child.”

“We can talk as long as you want, dad, but that’s not going to change how I feel. I love them to and after we graduate, we’re moving in together.”

“Huh…well that explains some things.”, Wayne smirks as he looks at all the other adults in the room. “I mean I had a feeling but didn’t want to assume.”

“You’re ok with this?!”, your mom shrieks. 

“Yeah, I mean… they aren’t doing anything wrong. They aren’t a gang or something. They’re three people in love. It’s nice and rare at such a young age.”

“Exactly! ‘Young age’! You three are way too young to understand what you are feeling!”

“ENOUGH!”, your dad booms as all conversation ceases. “This is over.”, he points his index finger towards you. “End it now. As long as you are under my roof, you will follow my rules. You are not allowed to see either of these boys again.”

“You can’t keep us from her.”, Eddie responds as he grips your hand tighter. 

“I sure fucking can! I’ll call the cops! I’ll send her to live with family in other states! I’ll—”

“You’ll call the cops and tell them what? Your daughter is spending time us? And you can send her anywhere you want, no matter what, we would follow her.”, Steve interrupts reaching for your hand as well. 

“Steven Harrington, you think about this now. If you insist on staying with this…whore…I will cut you off—”

“Hey now.”, Wayne cuts in. “No need to be rude or disrespectful. If you say something like that again, I’m ending this and taking all three of them back to my home.”

As Eddie’s uncle spoke, your eyes scanned your parents. Their angry eyes were staring into a void they seemed to stuck in. What killed you most was while Wayne defended you, your mom and dad remained silent, seemingly agreeing with Steve’s father. To them…you were a whore.

“Cut me off, dad. I don’t care. I’ve spent my whole life trying to impress you and be what you wanted me to be. Now I just want to figure out who I am and I want to do it with this woman here. I may not be the best student, man, or even fucking son but I am good at taking care of baby girl here.”

“Do you agree with his dad?”, you blurted your question as you addressed your family. “Do you two think I’m a slut?”

“What-what are we supposed to think, Y/N?”, your mother stutters. 

“It’s not like I’m-I’m opening my legs for all of Hawkins! I’m in a relationship with these two. I—”

“Stop it, Y/N.”, your dad warns.

“No!”, you suddenly rise to your feet. “I’ve never done anything wrong or given you two any reason to worry before. You both always said I was smart and knew how to make my own choices! Why is this ONE suddenly wrong?”

“Sit. Down. Y/N.”

“Sweetheart…” Eddie tries to pull at your hand to get your attention, getting to his feet as well. He recognizes that look and tone from your father; he’s seen it before on his own. 

“Dad, they are both so good to me. If you just got to know them—”

As your dad’s arm rears back, the metalhead slides between you two, taking the slap that was meant for you. Wayne moves forward as Steve stands, tugging you behind him. 

“We’re done here. I’m taking them to my trailer until Steve and Y/N feel safe coming home if at all.”, Wayne growls.

“You can’t do that.”

“Oh, I assure you I can. Unless you want to call Hopper down here so we can explain to him how you just assaulted my nephew.” His uncle reaches for Eddie’s arm and guides him towards the front door. “You kids get a head start. I’ll be right behind you.”

Without speaking, the three of you exit the house and quickly move to Eddie’s van. 

“Do you want me to drive?”, Steve asks.

The metalhead shakes his head, opening the passenger door for you before slamming it shut. As he begins the drive back to the trailer, you start replaying everything in your head. You knew your parents weren’t going to approve of this relationship but you never expected them to be this angry to the point where your dad would react the way that he did. 

 Eddie got hurt, Steve was cut off, you and he didn’t have a home anymore. Then everything that happened last night… this is all my fault… 

You tried to hide the tears that flowed as you curled into the window. After a while, the trailer came into view but even after the man parked no one moved. You glanced over at the driver, suddenly realizing his chest was rising and falling rapidly. 

“Eddie… are you okay?”

Steve followed your eye line as he shifted to the other side of the van. “Munson. It’s okay, man. You’re okay.”

Eddie’s eyes shut as his mouth opened to release a loud scream as he repeatedly hit at his steering wheel. His hair blocked his face as his head hung to his chest. The driver’s side door gradually opened as Wayne leaned against it, reaching for his nephew’s arm. 

“Come on, son. You’re okay.”

Gently, he tugged his nephew out and the rest of you followed suit. As you entered the trailer, you and Steve sat on the couch while Eddie’s uncle looked him over. 

“He got you pretty good but…it would have probably done way more damage to her. That was a brave thing you did, Eddie.” The metalhead’s shoulders deflate as he exhales. “You two are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. Y/N, I can give you some cash and after school tomorrow you and the boys can go into town so you can buy some essentials.”

“I’m sorry…”

Wayne came over and bent down on his heels beside you. “You have no reason to be sorry, honey. You are not a whore; you’ve done nothing wrong. Okay?” He smiles when you nod. “Ed, I have to get back to work. Are you three going to be alright?”

“Yeah, we’ll be fine.”

As his uncle straightens up, he reaches over to pat Steve’s shoulder. Once he leaves, Eddie abruptly turns and heads for his room. You two trail after him, finding him in a chair with a cigarette dangling from his lips as he tries to light it. 

“Fucking…piece of shit…lighter…”, he growls before angrily throwing it to the floor. 

Slowly, you place yourself in front of him, extending your hand out to run your fingers through his hair. Eddie sighs again as he leans forward and rests his forehead on your stomach. 

“I’m…thank you…” The tears start flow again as you hug him to you. His hands glide up to your lower back as his lips press against your tummy. The metalhead’s eyes glance up to meet yours for the first time since you left your parents house and the pain you found within them killed you. It was like the man now was fighting with the scared little boy he was back then, trying to remind himself that he was in control. You lean down to kiss his lips before nodding you head, whispering against them. “Use me.”

With incredible strength, Eddie lifted you under your arms and all but threw you onto his bed. He tore off your clothes, rapidly trying to do the same with his own. After opening your legs, he spit into cunt, gripping the base of his cock and guiding himself roughly into your body. His hips pounded aggressively into yours as he remained pushed up on his palms, long hair blocking his face from your view. As you reached up to move it out of the way, his hand flew to your wrist, pinning it flat to the mattress. 

You winced at the feeling of each hard thrust; he had never been this rough with you before. He began muttering things under his breath you could barely hear as you caught every other word. 

“Fucking…asshole…I could…knock him…out.”

“S-sir?”, you whimpered as Steve knelt by the bed, scanning your face.

“Color, honey?”

“Yellow, Da-daddy.”

“Eddie, she needs a minute.”

“They think…tell me…what to do…no. I’m…in control.” Your eyes widen as his hand suddenly flies to your throat, gripping it hard between his fingers.

“Eddie! Stop!” Steve quickly shoves him back and he tumbles off you, releasing you from his hold. “Y/N, are you ok?”

You cough as you try to catch your breath. 

“Fuck. F-fuck, Y/N. Sweetheart, I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t even hear you. I…fuck!”, he shouts as he hits the trailer wall with his fist. 

You glance over at him before looking up Steve, assuring him you were alright. “Take these off, Daddy.” You tug at his shirt collar and he nods, rising to his feet.

“Don’t. Don’t touch me. I don’t want to hurt you again.”, Eddie’s voice shakes as you turn and place your hand on his chest. 

“Do you trust me?”, you whisper.

“Yeah, I just…don’t trust myself.”

Leaning forward, you tenderly kiss his lips as you push him carefully on to his back and straddle his waist. “I do, Master.”

A moan escapes his beautiful lips at the title, his palms coming to rest on your thighs as you carefully slide his cock into your entrance. Balancing above him on your hands, you grind your hips as you tilt your upper half closer to his chest.

“You’re always so protective of me. I feel so safe with you and Daddy.”

Steve climbs on to the bed behind you as you crane you neck to watch him spit in his hand and stroke it along his length. His eyebrows raise as if to ask if you’re ready and you subtly nod, allowing him to grab your waist and push himself into your ass. 

Once again, you felt so full by both of them immediately, moaning at the delicious stretch of them inside of you. Steve’s arms came into your field of view as his chest pressed against your back and his hands rest near yours against the mattress. 

Your eyes rolled as he began rolling his hips into yours, panting against your skin. 

“You both feel so good. Oh my god… Please, Sir. I NEED you to move.”

“You need me, princess?”

Eddie licks his lips as his hips thrust upwards eliciting a loud moan from you both. Steve leans back onto to his knees, guiding your movements with his palms as he glances between your bodies.

“F-fuck, baby. You take us both so well.”

The metalhead nods underneath you, agreeing with his friend. “Such a good girl.”

“Mmm—use me. Fill me up, please. I need you to. I need to—mmm-- feel you cum inside me.”

Eddie’s fingers reach up to caress your face before gripping the back on your neck, bringing your lips to his. 

“I love you, Y/N. You are safe with us. I’d never—God—I’d never let anyone hurt you like that.” His glassy, blown out eyes lock with yours as he pumps into you harder. Steve tries to match his pace, slamming his hips into yours. 

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” Your pussy clenches around him as you cum. Eddie grunts below you at the feeling, clinging to your waist as he follows you.

The other boy holds you against his chest as he chases his high, his arms holding you tightly as he thrusts his spend into your body. 

Without a word, they each gradually pull out of you making you hiss and wince at the slight sting. The metalhead gently takes your hand and walks you towards his shower. After cleaning you and making sure you were comfortable, he places you back on the mattress in front of Steve who casually begins brushing your hair. 

“Wayne doesn’t need to give you too much cash. I, um, I bought some stuff and have them here for when you spend the night like that brush.”, Eddie gestures towards Steve. “We just need to find you some clothes more than anything. In a couple days, maybe my uncle can talk your parents into letting you swing by to get your stuff. You may have to wait till we find an apartment to bring everything… Trailer is kind of small.”, he smiles. 

You fingers reach out to move some of his hair back so you can see his face. 

“I’m really fucking sorry, princess. I didn’t mean to… Your dad hit me and I just felt like a boy again, you know? I got lost in my brain.”

“It’s okay. I understand. I genuinely do. I’m sorry he hit you.”

“I’m sorry for my dad to…talking down to both of you like that.”, Steve sighs. “You’re not a whore, Y/N. That goes without saying but…”, he chuckles. “I know you like to be called that in bed—”

“By you two. But even then, when you say it, I know you don’t mean it like they do.”

They nod at your statement, each man leaning in to kiss your lips. The rest of the night, they kept an extra close eye on you; making sure you were fed and comfortable before falling asleep in their arms. While Eddie leaned out his bedroom window smoking a cigarette, you shot up in bed, grabbing your heart as you panted. 

“Hey! Whoa, sweetheart. It’s ok, you’re ok. It was just a nightmare.”

Silently, your head feel back against the pillow as you sobbed. He tossed the end of his smoke out into the yard, closing the window, and enveloping you in his arms. The metalhead tenderly kissed your forehead as you rolled over, pressing your face into his bare chest. 

“I know, baby. It’s ok. I’ve got you. Master’s here for you.”

##########

That following morning, Eddie gave you a shirt to wear so you could at least have on something different than yesterday. All eyes felt like they were on you as you three climbed out of his van and headed for the campus. 

“Is it just me or are there more eyes on us than normal?”

“Well, King Steve did just show up with the freak so I imagine there’s a lot of gossip there.”

You squinted towards the metalhead, pursing your lips. “I hate when you call yourself that. You aren’t a freak.”

“Y/N?”, Masie called as she waved you to her locker. 

“We’ll see you in class, alright? Everything is okay.”, Steve soothes as he tenderly pets your head. 

“Hey Maze. What’s going on?”

“I was going to ask you that.” Your best friend takes a few steps closer to you as she lowers her voice. “Is it true that you’re fucking Steve Harrington AND Eddie Munson?”

“I—what—I mean—where did you hear that?”, you ask as you stumble over your words. 

“Y/N, Mr. Harrington went to the bar last night talking about how you ‘corrupted his son’ and how delusional the three of you are. The whole town knows about it. Is-is it true? I mean I know you spend a lot of time with them but I thought they were just friends.”

“I…um… what if I was in a relationship with them both? Would that be so wrong?”

Masie’s eyes widen as she takes a step back from you. “I-I-I don’t know what to say.”

Your eyes begin to water as you slowly back away. “No. I completely understand. Um, take your time and I’m just, um, going to go to class.”

“Y/N, WAIT!”, she screams after you as you run away from her down the hallway. You don’t stop till you’re outside your first classroom which is currently being blocked by students.

“Move! Everyone out of my way!”, Mr. C pushes through the crowd and you follow close behind. 

A couple of boys were on the floor wrestling with Steve and Eddie. The desks were pushed out of the way and blood had already began staining the linoleum. A few other teachers with campus security ran in pulling everyone apart. 

“What is going on?!”, your teacher shrieked. “Mr. Munson? Mr. Harrington? Care to enlighten me?”

They were furious, you could see it reflecting in their beautiful eyes even as they tried to avoid your gaze. Another student finally piped up and pointed towards the blackboard where you and Mr. C quickly turned to look. 

In big bold letters, written in yellow chalk read the words, “Y/N Y/L/N. CLASS SLUT OF 1984.”

#########

@manda-panda-monium @sherrylyn628 @needylilgal022

@local-stoner-bitch @katethetank @danandphilequalsmemes

@alienthingstwo @sidthedollface2 @mandyjo8719

@bexreastoomuch @chelebelletx @shayeddie @anaibis

@wroteclassicaly @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes

@siriuslysmoking @raptorbait529 @miarosso

@micheledawn1975 @paleidiot @unfocused81

[madmaxified]

letting myself cook and sharing my dead boy detectives swap au on here ‼️

( also i wanna note that if an adult and teen swap so do their ages, so some characters are aged down and some are aged up )

the night nurse ( or charlie as i have graciously renamed her in reference to what charles said in the finale ) takes edwin's place, still dies in the 1920’s but however, instead of dying at the boarding school, she dies in a ‘I hate women look i have a spell book boom demonic sacrifice’ style hate crime and that’s how she ends up in hell ( it’s giving rosalie from twilight’s death ) she’s still a bookish, nerdy little shut in, but there’s less of edwin’s sass and more of her being so blunt and straight to the point that she often comes off as quite rude

jenny takes charles’s place, she dies in the late 1980’s early 1990’s but instead of getting attacked by classmates her abusive, alcoholic father almost beats her to death and then she wanders out into the night in the middle of winter and dies of extreme hypothermia. she’s a lot more upbeat and outgoing than canon jenny is but is still giving jade west vibes. when it comes to her trauma and how she died, she’s alot more cagey about it and gets angry and just flat out mean any time someone brings it up so charlie always avoided talking about it. she’s a gay little fella and is one hundred percent fully aware of and comfortable with that fact.

charlie is still absolutely and one hundred percent in love with jenny but has a really hard time understanding feelings and so she’s not really sure what she feels most of time. jenny is utterly devoted to and in love with charlie but never knows when to tell her

esther is swapped with crystal comes from a long line of witches and has inherited those magical abilities and ability to see everything supernatural, but she’s lost her memories due to a sketchy deal with a demon she made in order to get out of some ‘trouble’ ( she killed her cheating boyfriend and his lover and wanted it covered up ) her and jenny make out a lot and it’s very messy and filled with way too many feelings and they’re not super good for eachother and it only makes charlie hate esther more. she’s a lot most mischievous than crystal is and legitimately believes lying, scheming and violence is the solution to every problem the agency encounters, she eventually leans tho because character development!

monty is swapped with niko and is the scooby doo obsessed nerd that lives across the hall from esther. he’s just as sweet as he is in canon and is the girl’s emotional support, grounded in reality member who’s job is essentially to make sure nobodies emotions get so incredibly out of whack no one can do their job

crystal and niko are a witch / physic medium and her cat familiar who was once a human girl. niko’s relationship with charlie is not romantic at all and instead niko and crystal have an insane toxic yuri arc going on. once they were both human and in love and happy but after lillith granted crystal eternal life niko realized she needed a way to be with her forever. crystal promised they could be together if niko let her ‘change’ her and then she made her gf into an immortal cat who she kinda emotionally manipulates ( toxic yuri save me save me toxic yuri )

edwin is esther and monty’s landlord, instead of running a butcher shop he runs a small independent bookstore and is still struggling to figure himself out. he’s less mean than jenny is initially, except to crystal he’s very mean to her, but is still very overprotective of his tenants

charles is the night nurse, overworked, underpaid and stuck in a job he doesn’t want, he’s just working towards retirement, and if he can catch those slippery dead girl detectives that might just been the case that fills out his retirement requirements. he’s just as fed up, if not more, than the night nurse is in canon

maxine is the cat queen, and on top of flirting with charlie and giving the poor girl a horrible sexuality crisis, she’s also flirting and teasing jenny every time the two get close, something jenny does not appreciate at all. her connection to crystal is through niko because since she’s a cat most of the time she’s technically one of maxine’s subjects so she’s always looking out for her

thomas ( the cat king ) is the pet shop manager with big heart eyes for edwin, who after being set up on a date with edwin by monty, reveals that he’s actually a creepy weirdo and then he dies ( everyone cheered )

bonus : when charlie confesses to jenny on the stairway to hell jenny confesses back and they share a kiss before escaping hell forever

( bonus two : this is only one of two swap aus I have for this show mwa ha ha )

[chdarling]

I can count on one hand when snape has lost his cool in canon . in poa when harry saved sirius , in OOTP when sirius vs snape , when harry saw his memories . In hbp when harry called him a coward . And that's about it . While majority of time he is composed , confident and insults people with coolness and sass . The list is too long . Like he has coolly sassed Bellatrix , peter , sirius , harry , Ron , hermione , james , lockhart etc .

I love and deeply appreciate your talent but imo snape's behaviour is reversed in TLE , he is just too angry here to think coherently let alone insult or attempt at sarcasm .

I mean Remus has more sarcasm and wit than he has in canon and i have no complain there as i am a sucker for wity banter and humor , but it feels like injustice to Snape's personality to me .

I’m sorry you feel that way! I emphatically (and amicably) disagree.

I think for me it comes down to the fact that I am not trying to replicate the characters exactly as they were in the books. TLE is a prequel, and thus for all the characters — but especially Snape because he actually survives — this is a story of becoming. They’re not meant to be perfectly reflected versions of who they were in the '90s, but rather versions of themselves that could feasibly grow into the characters we see in canon.

The Snape in canon is a 35ish year old man who has survived a war and had years and years to master his emotions and become a top-notch spy who, as you say, sasses the likes of Bellatrix, not to mention lies to Voldemort's face. The Snape I’m writing in TLE is a 17-year-old boy who has done none of that yet but is raw and bitter and wrathful enough to be convinced joining a fascist hate group is a really swell idea.

To me, the moments you point out when Snape loses his cool in canon are the entire point of his characterization, not an occasional aberration, and these scenes were crucial to me when building his character. Rage is crucial to his character. It’s notable, I think, that almost all of these moments are related to the Marauders/Lily in some way. It’s the moment the mask slips and the wounded teenager comes out.

A few examples, just for fun (emphasis mine).

(This got a little long, but I was distracting myself during some severe weather that was stressing me, so I hope you’ll take this in the spirit of fun discussion, and not anything else. 🙂)

From POA, after Sirius escapes:

“THEY HELPED HIM ESCAPE, I KNOW IT!” Snape howled, pointing at Harry and Hermione. His face was twisted; spit was flying from his mouth. “Calm down, man!” Fudge barked. “You’re talking nonsense!” “YOU DON’T KNOW POTTER!” shrieked Snape. “HE DID IT, I KNOW HE DID IT—!”

“Fellow seems quite unbalanced,” said Fudge, staring after him. “I’d watch out for him if I were you, Dumbledore.” “Oh, he’s not unbalanced,” said Dumbledore quietly. “He’s just suffered a severe disappointment.”

From OOTP after Harry sees his worst memory:

“So,” said Snape, gripping Harry’s arm so tightly Harry’s hand was starting to feel numb. “So…been enjoying yourself, Potter?” “N-no…” said Harry, trying to free his arm. It was scary: Snape’s lips were shaking, his face was white, his teeth were bared. “Amusing man, your father, wasn’t he?” Said Snape, shaking Harry so hard that his glasses slipped down his nose. “I—didn’t—“ Snape threw Harry from him with all his might. Harry fell hard on to the dungeon floor.

From Half-Blood Prince, after Harry calls him a coward:

“DON’T—” screamed Snape, and his face was suddenly demented, inhuman, as though he was in as much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the burning house behind them— “CALL ME COWARD!”

These are all such extreme reactions that, rare as they might be, they definitely suggest an undercurrent of deep rage and, I might add, a pattern of losing control when provoked with certain memories.

And then, of course, there are the flashbacks in which we actually DO get glimpses of young Snape:

“Tuney!” said Lily, surprise and welcome in her voice, but Snape had jumped to his feet. “Who’s spying now?” he shouted. What d’you want?”

(Interesting, I think, that his first instinct is to shout. Petunia hasn't said anything yet.)

There was a crack: A branch over Petunia’s head had fallen. Lily screamed: The branch caught Petunia on the shoulder, and she staggered backward and burst into tears. “Tuney!” But Petunia was running away. Lily rounded on Snape. “Did you make that happen?” “No.” He looked both defiant and scared. “You did!” She was backing away from him. “You did! You hurt her!” “No — no I didn’t!” But the lie did not convince Lily: After one last burning look, she ran from the little thicket, off after her sister, and Snape looked miserable and confused…

Snape’s whole face contorted and he spluttered, “Saved? Saved? You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friends’ too! You’re not going to — I won’t let you —“ “Let me? Let me?” Lily’s bright green eyes were slits. Snape backtracked at once. “I didn’t mean — I just won’t want to see you made a fool of — He fancies you, James Potter fancies you!” The words seemed wrenched from him against his will. “And he’s not…everyone thinks…big Quidditch hero—“ Snape’s bitterness and dislike were rendering him incoherent, and Lily’s eyebrows were traveling farther and farther up her forehead.

He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking. “I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.” “No—listen, I didn’t mean—“ “—to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?” He struggled on the verge of speech, but with a contemptuous look she turned and climbed back through the portrait hole…

This to me does not read as a composed, confident boy. This is (in my opinion) an extremely angry, troubled boy who is buffeted around by his emotions, who hasn’t yet learned to articulate them fully, let alone control them. Learning to conquer these emotions and be the cool, calm, and collected double-agent-man we see in canon is a big part of his journey, but it's certainly not something he's mastered yet at 17.

.......But, at the end of the day, this is just a fanfic and everyone has different interpretations of these characters. Which is fine and fun! TLE Snape has always been somewhat polarizing, but I'm pretty set in my interpretation of him. I'm looking forward to exploring more of his journey as he grows into book Snape. He's just not there yet. :)

[lightwise]

TBB S3 E12 Reaction

Alright, this was the last episode that was truly represented in the trailer. I can’t wait to see Hunter kick some Juggernaut butt (why does that sound so bad lol)

- Hemlock wipe that damn smirk off your face

- Again with the shoulder shoves dude

- No why is CX-2 just walking away? We need to follow him and find out who he is!! *low-key screaming in frustration* lol

- I love how Hemlock is so arrogantly confident and uncaring that he comes across as almost respectful in how he takes the time to explain things to other people

- Come on Emerie, you’ve come so far! Don’t keep playing into Hemlock’s hand! You know Omega isn’t safe here and neither are you

- Lol he’s too busy to even wait for the test results. Bitch

- I do wish they had given us Crosshair telling Hunter and Wrecker about Omega. BUT I was very much correct that Hunter would not waste time being angry

- Every time Crosshair says something more about Tantiss it just keeps getting worse and worse 🥺🥺 don’t make that man go back there! Dee’s vocal inflections and the way he talks about Nala Se and Tipoca City is so regretful

- The trust and vulnerability he’s willing to show though with his hand shaking and admitting he doesn’t want to go back he’s so traumatized 😭💔

- No WAY they are bringing back Admiral Rampart! Kudos to those who called that one

- PHEEEE and AZZZZ

- Cross goes from pointing his rifle in Phee’s face to straight up telling her they’re taking her ship 🤣

- Okay, it finally happened. I finally teared up. Phee and Crosshair immediately sass each other, then she drops the fact that she and Tech were close and talked a lot and he TOLD HER ABOUT CROSSHAIR (and in a good light) and we got a BROWN EYES 👁️ 👄 👁️. I was in a puddle on the floor 🥹🥹🥹

- The way she treats all of them like family and helps them and puts her life on the line for them. It is just so satisfying to see her relationship with the Batch continue to develop like this. Truly family to all of them.

- More Andor vibes with this labor camp

- Of course Rampart is still a dramatic bitchy asshole. Prison hasn’t changed him AT ALL (except for the beard. Sorry guys but I’m just not seeing it 😆)

- Aw Wrecker giving Mel a little pat. He’s so sweet

- “Oh relax. I expect you to know a stealth approach when you see one” 🤩🤩 TECH you need to come back and marry this woman RIGHT FREAKING NOW

- Gosh they were so made for each other 😭

- That entire maneuver was insane and incredible

- Hunter’s helmet float 😄 at least one of them was having fun

- As others have pointed out I also really appreciate that they animated Phee with so much aging and tiredness and lines and wrinkles showing on her face. She’s a real woman who’s seen and done a lot of things and she’s incredibly gorgeous and badass and caring and intelligent and she doesn’t need perfect skin or a youthful glow to be completely amazing

- When are we getting the “day in the life of a storm trooper” workplace comedy? I need it Star Wars!

- It’s so good to see the boys working together like this

- The textures and lighting in this episode are just so real looking

- Wow Wrecker really just sucker punched that guy

- And he actually remembers plan 55 😁 so proud of him

- The music when they saunter in 😂 and we got a “how touching” too?!

- Rampart’s face is in the dictionary next to the word offended

- “Hunter, they’re sealing off the bridge!” Hunter: drives faster

- And he was giving Phee a hard time for her flying?? Boy is approaching Evel Knievel levels!!

- I need to see Hunter in a dirt bike rally now 😧

- Pretty sure Hunter is firmly in his Joel Miller Era. He does not care what he has to do or who he has to kill at this point

- “Not exactly a stealth exit boys” such a great line

- “We’re all in this together” sure Rampart sure let’s see how chipper you are about that next episode

- Emerie and Omega’s glances at each other 🥺

- “This is your new home” yeahhh I don’t think so

[imagionationstation]

Hi! I read your TMNT 2012 separated au that you made with ellestrade and it really gave me brainworms so I wrote a small one-shot for it! The characters kinda ended up writing themselves haha.

anyways, wanted to share it with you and also make sure that you're okay with it. Not sure how you feel about other people taking inspiration from you ideas, so if you would like me to take it down, just let me know!

Thanks for sharing such fun ideas. Here's the post (I've also tagged you in it but sometimes tags are weird and don't always show. Also its on my fandom specific sideblog, but I am the same person haha)

Gotta love those brain worms! (Ironic statement from a 2012 viewpoint, actually-) HOLY CHALUPA, BRAIN WORMS IN THIS AU UNIVERSE, WAIT WAIT ACTUALLY WAIT-

*background rambles and spazzing*

Okay, I’m back.

I’m always a-okay with whatever fan things anyone wants to create with inspiration from something I made or helped make. As long as it isn’t containing some stamp that says “this I deem canon” when neither me (nor my partner) deemed it canon, no one ever has to worry with me getting upset over some story/comic/art.

I’m going to give some thoughts and I want to disclaimer.

When I discuss my thoughts on your POV of events in the AU, I will never, in any way, intend to diss or attack the story. I think the flow was excellent and Raph’s analysis of the events occurring was intriguing. I loved it! And nothing I say will be a statement otherwise.

But, since I have a distinct inability to keep my mouth shut when it comes to turtles and you asked, I have thoughts 🧐

My brain is now turning and ya’ll have to deal.

Characterization:

Donnie: Much distrust. Much sass. A strong sense of duty to defend his brethren turtles who don’t deserve it but he’s doing it anyway.

Very on point. Much approval 👌

Mikey: Could not be more perfect. I love him. Sweet soul ✨

Leo: He’s a bit less… Forceful. Cold and calculating. Than I envision.

I’d imagine that he had to learn to shut feelings down in order to survive. Fidgeting/smiling/visibly hesitating is out of the question. Staying in Shredder’s graces meant learning to play the game. His silence is what earns Raph the ability to be loud. The only times that he’s himself is when him and Raph are alone, outside of the sight of cameras, or when someone in is danger and fear/fury overwhelms all else. He seems bland to outsiders and it takes the Hamato brothers a while to see that that he’s just a scared little boi at heart that’s just trying his best in a cruel world.

He’s also set in his beliefs, so he’s going to assume that they’re being tormented mentally, if not physically. There’s no place in his mind that wonders if they were actually safer elsewhere.

I do like your POV, though. Plenty for me to play with.

Raph:

He’s ABSOLUTELY the first to question the differences between how Shredder treats them and how Splinter treats their brothers. He doesn’t jump the gun, but as devoted as he is, he’s never really liked Shredder. I love the implications that he’s been filing away concerns subconsciously and his brain keeps poking him like “HELLO?!”

He’s very deep. I can’t decide how I feel about that 🤔

Shredder would have wanted to fan that temper into something unforgiving and vile. Or course, that doesn’t mean he stops being a sensitive soul. It could… Have something to do with Shredder manipulating him into being angry when he wills it (basically all the time) and solemn and still when he doesn’t (such as during lectures, punishments, etc).

His brain registers this situation as one where he’s not meant to be loud and angry, and so he’s kinda… Shut down. Sassy, but mellow. Processing. Adapting. Letting what happens happen because he’s not meant to stop it.

It’s a reason that Leo gets so defensive when punishments come into play. It forces Raph to feel small. It make him vulnerable.

HOLY MOTHER OF MUTATIONS- I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS NEW TAKE ON THE AU @ellestrade TELL ME IF I’M ONTO SOMETHING

Anyway, commentary:

“in one of Takeō's strategy books he couldn't care less about”

It’s like Space Heroes. He claims so and YET he read, recalls, AND clearly has DEBATED the passage so I call sus vibes.

I get giddy when I think of Takeō discovering Space Heroes-

“Junkō and Kōta— or Donnie and Mikey, whatever false name they’d been given—”

My brain made connections. I don’t know if it was intended, but I always believe that they knew them by Shredder’s names through the beginning of season one, end of season one/beginning of season two they were associating them as both, and then by the time that the City is under attack, they’ve adapted to using their real names. (But the Saki brothers still keep their Foot names.)

So, now I assume this is somewhere in that middle plot.

Fun little Easter egg~

“Takeō and Akihitō were the offense, and Donnie and Mikey were the defense” “They held their own. In fact, they dominated.”

I’m in love with Raph’s simple acknowledgment of their roles in battle. It’s a very practical outline of exactly how their dynamic on the field plays out and he's so certain of his place.

On the other hand, I’m a bit uncertain about whether they’d dominate. I do believe that they are trained and can hold their own, but I don’t know about them being as impressive as Raph&Leo, simply because Splinter trained them to defend and Shredder trained them to kill. The Hamato brothers haven’t had much time to practice in the offensive, especially since that’s Leo&Raph’s job. (In non-AU canon, they are all offensive/defensive.)

I think Mikey might learn that kinda strength at the farmhouse after being taught by Leo&Raph, and Donnie will step back from that, finally finding his place not as a fighter/leader, but as a scientist.

Definitely an interesting take, tho 🤔

“Only now does he think that, perhaps, there was a reason their master made their primary weapons blunts and not blades.”

I am chewing on this line so hard. It’s so powerful.

I can’t even tell you why. It just is.

“Akihitō knows that Takeō isn’t lying. He’d already tried to take tonight's blame all on his own shoulders, spare Akihitō of the punishment. But Akihitō knows all his tricks and he won’t let his brother suffer alone. Again.”

100% behind Raph learning to butt in when Leo tries to take the fall as they get older and punishments get worse.

“Seeing the situation, the evidence glaring at him, Akihitō cannot deny that this wasn’t exactly a great sell. Takeō and him are tied to the ground, trying to convince these two strangers that they would be safe with them. That their clan would not hurt them while that same clan was just about ready to beat them to a pulp.”

I was thinking the same thing 🤣

Leo, dude, seriously. Look around. Think for a second. You are not selling your point. You are doing the opposite.

In the end, it doesn’t even matter. Sensei will always find them no matter where they run. It was better to follow than be chased.

SOMEONE NEEDS TO TEACH THESE KIDS THAT THIS IS A TOXIC RELATIONSHIP. YOU SHOULD NOT FEEL MOTIVATED TO STAY WITH DAD BECAUSE HE WILL FORCED YOU TO REMAIN OTHERWISE. BRUH. RED FLAG.

These were Foot Ninja binds made specifically to hold them. Mutant strength and all.

It makes sense that Shredder would make these. But.

But man. He made those. For them.

Takeō tries to take control of the situation again, the bossy oldest sibling coming out in him.

HA. Got him. Leo is Leo in any universe.

“His name is Mikey.” Donnie glares. “The rat is lying and he has—” “Donnie, its fine.”

Absolutely how they view things. Mikey doesn’t care what they think or do as long as no one he cares about is paying the price. Donnie feels it is a manner of principle that they accept logic and truth.

Leo talking over both of them is valid. This kid, I swear.

“Then tell your older brother to shut up about—”

LEO IS IT OFFICIAL YOU HAVE BEEN DISOWNED

“Sounds like a you-problem.” Donnie stands. “Mikey, we saved them. It's time to go.”

Donnie would die for them <3

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he recognizes it. Takeō always knows when to give support. He’s a good brother. He hopes Donnie and Mikey will know that one day too.

OH. OKAY. WELL. 🥺

THOSE FEELS CAME OUT OF NOWHERE-

He loved his big bro sm hjkhkjhkjhjkkjhkjhkjhku

If Akihitō didn’t know any better, he’d say it was longing.

Oh, don’t worry, he is dying to have other people in his life who genuinely care for him, but as long as you guys are with the enemy, you’re a threat to his baby brother and daddy and not to be trusted

And, just maybe, it could be their world too. 

Oh, so that’s what pain feels like. Glad to be reminded.

[alaskan-wallflower]

lions roars can be heard for miles-i know lions only roar when they’re feeling threatened or something-and i read that they very rarely hiss

so now i’m imagining two times darry in wretched actually hissed/roared:

When Paul helped out him to the entire school. Here he is, gigantic in the middle of the football field, his identity out secret is completely out in the open…and paul has the NERVE to approach darry, to which darry, in all his fear and betrayal, reacts in absolute anger and actually hisses t paul. he can hear the crowd’s collective gasping. He can hear Paul gasping in fear. He can hear his teammates laughing at him…and yet, Paul doesn’t stop trying to approach him, to which all Darry can do is get on all fours and just roar. Loudly. Like it’s probably heard from across Tulsa. And after he does that he just runs, ashamed that he did that, and to Paul of all people (though not too ashamed-he’s more ashamed he let his anger get the better of him)

And the second time

When Pony comes home late from talking to Cherry. He’s pacing in the backyard, probably having knocked some trees over in his anxiety and anger, not caring if he’s digging up the ground with his claws, And when he sees Pony his ears immediately just flatten against his skull so hardly they’re hardly visible, and before he does anything rash, he just growls a bit as he approaches Pony. Pony, being Pony, deos the whole sassing back thing, to which Darry actually hisses because at that point he’s just so so angry that Pony could stress him out that bad and have the nerve to do that, and instead of Pony’s fear coming out as fear, it comes out as frustrated tears that he tries to hold back, and Pony starts trying to argue with Darry and that’s when Darry roars at him. Harshly. And not even five seconds later he just snatches Pony up and yells at him to “Look me in the fucking eyes when I speak to you!” so yeah, on top of being squeezed and thrown around by your giant angry gryphon brother, he’s also roared at

I have some angst for how Darry tries to get Two Bit to take his voice away because he hates that he did that to Pony. Two says no obviously, but for a good while Darry wouldn’t even let himself speak that’s how ashamed he was

I love Wretched angst

[molluskmirage]

I have been deeply perturbed by the revelation that the qsmp egg admins (and other admins) have been unpaid. Anyone but particularly young folks are taken advantage of a lot in the working sphere and it makes me feel deeply ill.

The amount of love those admins have clearly had for this smp and what it stands for is absolutely highlighted all the more. Every time they were on especially if not ‘required’ by plot, thats just pure love. Love for loves sake. And it kills me to know all the obstacles they may have faced irl to work on something purely for passion.

no money. no fame. no name. Every egg always fell quiet upon jokes or jests of there payment. No sass because there was nothing. Nothing to show their families nothing to fund this ‘lifestyle choice’ thats a job that doesnt pay. Being characters synonymous with the series, begged for, all the while with nothing. While the streamer they attend to is getting dono’s they preform on screen. Their streamers meet together offline at big events, while they’re not even supposed to communicate over call with one another. Left behind with nothing, if they want merch from the streamer they hangout with day in and out they must buy it from there own pocket.

(speculation on my part but Dappers admin started getting burnt out around summer, they also hinted at building things behind the scenes, did they do so because that was paid work? Man so many little moments make my stomach turn)

this is a very serious matter.

this isnt to make everything either good or evil. People not getting paid for the work they do is bad. While I can hold the hope and hold accountable that the right thing (in payment and back payment) will and must be done, I hold it very dear when I say there is damage. Nearly an entire year these wonderful human beings have worked for nothing. The same or more work the streamer they are accompanying is praised for. So much goes on in a year that having no pay to show for work done is appalling and detrimental towards. It makes my skin crawl with all the possibilities behind the scenes. I am both incredibly angry and upset.

I do not know how Quackity was unaware. I am ignorant on how that is the case. I will believe it as the admin’s statements have been so but I am deeply disappointed. I do not believe him ‘evil’ he is human but people who are under his name are not having their needs met and I take that very seriously. His mission is good his love is good but this absolutely must be rectified. Not of criticism but of fact it must be done.

young people get taken advantage of so often and quackity himself could be swept up into that category, I am unaware of the particulars behind the project but as its in q’s name he is the one I am looking towards.

I have no particular ills to speak about quackity other then this topic, once resolved can be forgiven but I find it more disheartening how many wish to downplay severity or that they themselves would be happy to work for free. Those attitudes perpetuate cycles of abuse. I so hope for a future were folks come to know their worth and how precious there time, energy and love really is, and that those abusing do better and honor that work or else suffer a downfall.

So sick of people being taken advantage of.

I do think things can be fixed but that does not negate that this is a very serious subject (to me personally). I can believe something is good but requires fixing without it being synonymous with bad or evil. If somethings broke you fix it and its fine. Right now its broke, were in the fixing stage so I reserve judgement upon why this occurred until presented with the fix.

I do not like to villainize or dramatize these people or situations, this topic is serious and needs appropriate care. This can be done. I have faith. What I dont like to see is downplaying needs or making monsters of men.

People need pay for their work.

[snickerdoodlles]

Hi hello me!!! I would like a headcanon please!! 🤲🥰

❤️❤️.

Chay does not like Khun or Kinn when he first meets them. it takes special circumstances for him to shake his first assessments of them to even give them a chance.

Khun’s the easy one—he and Chay match well in personality (the mutual sass when they introduce themselves my beloved!! 🥰) and while they don’t share the same interests, they have enough overlap they have a lot of fun hanging out together. But after their introduction, the parts of Khun that Chay sees are him trying to cope with the chaos Korn’s stirring and Khun’s coping mechanisms, dissociation, and distancing from the stress and triggers come off as very dismissive and even cruel. Chay doesn’t understand it, he doesn’t know Khun well enough to, and he doesn’t try to (why would he? this mafia family ruined his life)

In my mind, the changing point for their relationship comes after the finale gunfight—Porsche begs Chay to stay with Khun because they’re stretched thin and Khun’s spaces are the safest place for him right now. Chay hates it, but accepts it for Porsche, figuring he’ll just hide in a corner or something and ignore everyone.

But, at some vague point during all this, an alarm goes off. Turns out to be a false alarm, but before they figure that out, Chay watches Khun lock down his room, locate his brothers and Porsche, hunt down the problem, etc—basically Khun goes full protective mother bear in every way he can, and a few things start clicking for Chay. because he too is extremely protective of his loved ones but limited in what he can do, and it completely reframes his view of Khun and who he is.

Kinn and Chay’s relationship takes a lot more work.

The first problem is that they have a fundamental personality clash—Chay’s whole thing is that he draws a circle around the people he cares about and guards them jealously. He wants to share their burdens and make sure they’re happy. Chay would burn the world for the people in his circle, consequences be damned. And for a very, very long time, Porsche is the only person in that circle. Kim is the second. Chay hasn’t even considered adding anyone else yet.

Kinn also cares a lot about his people, but his whole thing is taking on all his people’s burdens. He gave up his dream to become the heir for Khun. Kim never would’ve been able to go to college and stay mostly out of mafia business the way he does without Khun and Kinn supporting him completely. Kinn plays his cards to protect other people (Porsche) more than himself and he’ll put himself in the line of fire to protect any of his guards. Kinn’s circle is huge, and quick to expand. Chay doesn’t get Kinn.

Plus, Chay’s upset and kinda jealous Kinn’s so important to Porsche. He hasn’t gotten the chance to deal with the fact that Porsche abandoned him for weeks to go take care of other people—he knows Porsche was coerced and he’s pissed about that too, but Porsche chose to lie—and now Porsche is confiding in Kinn the way he never did with him. Chay’s still pissed about everything in general. He wasn’t happy when Porsche asked if he could take care of him and Kinn, his face just screamed ‘he’s rich and has a whole building of guards, why do you have to take care of him’, but this was also the first time Porsche has ever asked him for anything and Chay will always compromise for the people in his drawn circle, so of course Chay said yes. But the mafia still ruined their lives, is continuing to ruin their lives, and Kinn is the face of said mafia. Entirely fair? No. He’s mostly pissed at Korn, and Kinn’s getting some of that anger just because he’s available whereas Chay doesn’t interact with Korn. But these sorts of feelings aren’t rational, and Chay’s too trapped in it all right now to get a chance to even safely think through and process how he really feels. So for now, Chay’s just scared and trapped and angry and hiding all of it under overt politeness and courtesy and running away from him as soon as he can make an excuse.

Now, I do actually think Kinn and Chay will become really good in-laws one day, I can see them getting on together spectacularly.

But not without getting rid of Korn first. Or at least some extenuating circumstances that give them a break from Korn’s shadow where they have a chance to have a good heart-to-heart. It’s actually one of my favorite scenarios to throw at them in fics in general, Chay’s straightforward approach to life plus Kinn’s caution and determination make for a wonderful combination in Getting Shit Done 🥰

anyways the tl;dr of this is the only Theerapanyakul Chay instantly gets on with is Kim, the others have a mountain to climb first

Send an ask, get a headcanon

[my-mummy-dust]

Promise?

Warnings: mild language, angry hotch, blood, guns, criminal minds stuff.

word count: 3,852.

This is loosely based off of season 5 episode 1 where Hotch is back from a case after being stabbed by the reaper and stuff.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

This was Hotch’s first case back from being stabbed repeatedly by the reaper. You were glad to have him back, but you really wished he would stay home for just one more week. But you know how awful it felt, being forced to stay home, not being allowed to come to work for weeks on end. You know how he felt closed in, like a caged animal. Without the other socializations of work, your world gets so small. So you understood why he was so eager to come back to work. He passed his psych evaluations with flying colors, but as Morgan mentioned; he was the one who made the questions, and knows exactly how to answer the them correctly, without regard if they’re true or not. You know he’d do just about anything to get back to work, but you also knew he was a sucker for staying on protocol, so you were conflicted if he should really be coming back so early or not.

The case you were on now was frustrating. The unsub was rapidly devolving and to add insult to injury, the sheriff was incompetent, and awfully rude. Hotch had gotten snappy. He yelled at garcia when she hadn’t had the chance to get the unsubs full medical history, Rossi when he was trying to talk some since into Aaron, and now you.

You hadn’t done anything wrong, you were just giving him some files; the files he asked you for.

‘Hey, I have the maps you asked me for.”

“Thanks, you can set them on my desk”

You set them on the empty space next him him then hesitated, chewing on you lip in thought before speaking again.

“Hotch?”

“Hmm?”

He looked up from the papers he was holding, but you could tell you didnt have his full attention- hell, you didnt have any of it. He was just..staring at you.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“I’m fine. Get back to work.’

He commanded, his voice getting stern again.

“No, Hotch, please, talk to me.”

“As I said, Im prefectly fine. I wouldn’t agree to work a case if I wasn’t fine, would I agent?”

“Yes, I know that, but you’re acting different. You’re-“

“Agent! Im fine. Get back to work, unless you want to be dismissed from the case?”

The authority in his voice was almost jarring. The frown lines on his forehead deepened, and new wrinkles you didnt even know he had formed. He didnt look completely different, but there was still a difference. You noticed one of his hands balling up into a fist; and his other hand tightened its grip on the papers he was holding. All of that left as quickly as it came, his anger when it did, always coming in short bursts; at least in the time you knew him. He looked back at his papers, dismissing you from the room.

‘Fine. Sorry.”

You said mumbled quietly, a sharp pang of sass in your voice. You quickly walked out the door and straight to your desk, feeling a plethora of emotions swelling in your mind; but guilt and sadness being the most prominent, as well as a some anger.

—————————-

The next thing you knew, you and the team were pilling into the black SUVs, on the way to an old warehouse where the unsub was with his current victim. Your job was to make sure the victims title changed to survivor. It was a dangerous situation. The unsub was armed, but you wernt sure with what, so everyone had to approach with much more caution than normal.

Once the fleet of black cars had pulled up to the warehouse you sighed.

“The place is huge…how are we going to get him and the victim out safely?”

You asked whoever would answer. Rossi was first to speak.

‘No one enters or leaves without checking in with me or hotch, this isnt going to be easy but we’ll find a way. We always do.”

You nodded, unbuckling your seatbelt and stepping out of the car the moment it came to a halt. The team drew their guns and Emily started talking to the unsub through a large speaker on one of the cars, trying to convince him to come out with his hands up. Of course, he didnt.

Then it all went to hell.

The officer, who so far was known for not listening to damn thing that he was told to do, grabbed the speaker from Emily’s hands and yelled loud and clear;

‘You better come out with your damn hands up or we’ll shoot the place down. You dont have the power, we do. Come out with your hands up”

Now normally saying something like that would be fine, but the unsub has a narcissistic personality disorder and a severe power complex. As hotch had made very clear in the minin briefing before everyone go into the cars, no one was to say or do anything that would threaten his complex or make him feel inferior. And that’s exactly what this officer just did.

Before anyone knew it, there was a gunshot, a scream and silence. Then the sight of Hotch running into the building. Alone.

‘Hotch! Wait! You cant go in there alone!”

Rossi called out to him, but he didnt listen, he kept running Untill he had disappeared into the warehouse and a haunting silence took over the space between the bau and all the officers. Then, another gunshot. And another. And another. A total of 5 gunshots had rung out and you lost it.

‘That’s it. Im done.”

You mumbled before you took off into the warehouse. You ignored the team calling after you as you ran. The response was automatic. You didnt know you were running to wherever hotch was Untill your legs were sore and your lungs burned. You had to find him. You just lost him, and you’d be damned if you lost him again.

The scene that unfolded infront of you was sickening. The victim was the first thing you laid your eyes on. She was completely still. Then you saw the unsub on the ground, covered in bullet wounds and blood. But only 2. There was another on the victim, that made 3, but you herd 5 gunshots. Hotch was nowhere to be found.

Rossi ran in behind you, out of breath from trying to catch up.

“What the hell happened?! Where’s hotch?”

“I-i dont know. Get the paramedics, I dont know if the victims still alive, I haven’t check yet.”

Three more deafening shots rang out.

You were the first to speak. Panic was slowly starting to rise in your voice.

‘Stay with the victim im going after hotch!”

You yelled as you turned around and started running again. A swarm of incohearent thoughts were going through your mind, but the only one you could make since of was the fact that you couldn’t lose hotch again. That you wernt. Your lungs burned and your vision was starting to get fuzzy but you kept running and calling for hotch.

“Hotch?! Hotchner?!”

You screamed as you kept running, trying to find him. You were desperate, and scared. Scared of what you might find when you would find him. Scared if he would be alive or not. Scared of what condition he would be in. Scared of how mad Rossi will be when you get back. Just, scared.

You saw blood again. So, much, blood. You felt sick as you ran around it, following the trail of dark red Untill you found a body. Your whole world went sideways. You stopped dead in your tracks. Everything just stopped. Time came to a hault. You stopped breathing, stopped thinking. The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat thumping wildly against your rib cage in your ear. Scared your heart was going to tear out of your body if it beat any harder.

The body was face fown, blood pooling from the forehead and what looked to be the abdomen.

‘No….no no no no no, no”

You frantically whispered, lowering your gun. You felt as if your legs were about to give out from underneath you. A wave of nausea washing over you. You felt like you were going to vomit, cry and pass out all at the same time.

Than you herd footsteps. You raised your gun on instinct at the footsteps then herd a voice that washed over you like a wave of a million of different emotions you didnt even know a person could feel at once.

“Hey- woah, put the gun down agent. What’s wrong?”

You looked up from the ground. It was Hotch. You were so blinded by the fear that hotch was the one lying dead infront of you, that you didnt even realize it wasnt him. You were blinded by fear.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

You yelled, your voice bouncing off the walls, causing hotch to take a small step back. Something in you broke. Maybe it was the stress of the whole situation crashing down on you, and the realization all a once. It’s not like you knew.

“Excuse me?”

He retorted, a hint of offense in his voice.

“You herd me, Aaron. What the hell were you thinking?! Running in here by yourself, leaving me to find the victim AND the unsub both lying still in pools of their own blood but not a sign of you-“

‘Y/n calm down you dont have to yell-“

“NO, YOU BE CALM. I WAS SCARED OUT OF MY WITTS END BECAUSE YOU GOT TO FULL OF YOURSELF AND RAN IN ALONE, LEAVING TWO POEPLE POSSIBLY DEAD. THEN LEAVING ME TO FIND A TRAIL OF BLOOD, THEN ANOTHER UNSUB LYING DEAD.”

You were full on yelling at this point. You’ve never yelled at anyone like this before. It just wasnt in your nature. But here you were, in some abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere, screaming your mind out to the head of your unit, with a dead body between the two of you.

“ITS NOT MY FAULT THE OFFICER SAID THAT AFTER I MADE IT CLEAR NOT TO. IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH IT YOU TAKE IT UP WITH HIM NOT ME, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

He was full on yelling too. You had only seen him yell at someone like this once. And that was an interrogation. He was stiff, rigid. Obviously shaken up from the events that took place just seconds before you were yelling at him. Before you knew it your tears were blurring your vision and you didnt try to stop or hide them. You sniffled and finally wiped your red burning eyes with your sleeve and put your gun back in its holster.

His demeanor softened the moment he realized you were crying. He made you cry. His shoulders dropped and his muscles relaxed, over half of the creases in his face dissapearing when he did so. He also put his gun away and took a step forward to get to you, to comfort you, to tell ou he was fine, and in fact alive and well, to hug you and tell you how much he loved you and how sorry he was. The second he moved twards you your head snapped up and he saw as your eyes scanned over every visible inch of his body. He knew you were making sure he was ok. He too looked down, now aware of the fact that he was covered in blood.

“Are you ok?”

A small voice asked. It was yours. You felt so small, so helpless, so broken and confused. And panicked.

“Im fine- the blood isnt mine.”

When he saw the questioning look in your eyes he continued.

“There was a second unsub, we were wrong about the profile. The first one, the one we were right about had the victim. He shot her the moment i walked in, and was about to shoot me. He missed the shot and i shot him. The second unsub was planning an ambush, hiding behind the corner i-“

“Aaron. Answer my question.”

Your voice was still so small, but assertive. Your throat hurt from yelling and you still felt dizzy, as if you were going to pass out but you were determined to make it though this conversation without passing out on the floor, as much as you wanted to.

“Yes. Im fine. The blood on my vest is the unsubs, not mine. And it’s just a small cut on my cheek. He had a knife. I took him down.’

“Good”

You nodded and started to turn aroun and walk away. To find the others and tell them what happened. To go back to your hotel and pack your things to leave tomorrow, to go cry in your room and regret choosing line of work.

“So you’re just going to scream at me, then walk away with zero explanation?”

“I told you why I’m mad.”

You didnt turn around, but you stopped walking.

“Im a profiler too, y/n there obviously something you’re not telling m-“

You turned around, a new fit of rage welling inside of you. Your voice couldn’t afford to scream again, so you made your voice as steady and stern as you possibly could.

“Because I was scared.-“

You swallowed down a large lump in your throat and felt the tears again, freely falling down your face this time. Your voice had gotten small again. This time it was barley a whisper that came out, but somehow it was crystal clear.

“-and because I love you, god damnit.”

With that you finally turned around again and left. Without turning back. Leaving a shocked Aaron just stranding there, not knowing what to say or do next.

—————————-

The flight home was painful. You were seated across from Aaron and refused to stare at him or interact with him and all. You stared out the window the whole time, or down at the book you wernt really reading, just staring lifeless my at the pages. you couldn’t think. You felt numb. Everything that happened yesterday played through your mind in an endless loop. Even the good news that the victim was in the ER, with a steady heartbeat didn’t help.

Once the team had safley landed in Quantico, you made your way to the bullpen, going straight to your desk and started cramming your personal belnongings into your bag, trying to get out of there before anyone could ask you anything at all about what had happened in the warehouse.

You had caught hotch at the door to exit the building and he stepped infront of you, stopping you dead in your tracks. You recognized him by his shoes and sighed, bracing yourself for whatever hellfire he was going to bring down you. When you looked up and met his eyes you were met with something you’d never seen before. His brown eyes were so soft, so warm, in contrast to the cold, harsh ones you saw every day. You swore you could get lost in them if you stared long enough so you looked away, back down at the floor.

“About what you said earlier,”

His voice was just as soft as his expression was. It was quiet and calm. Comforting and so, so warm.

“I meant what i said.”

You couldn’t bare to talk to him any longer; for fear of completely breaking down. You managed to keep your wits about you on the jet, but now, you were worn down, and so much more for fragile. So you left. You stepped to the side and walked away. Ignoring the word of protest that was followed by a frustrated sigh form Hotch.

You made it out the building and made your way to your car, the cold night air filling your lungs; providing a sense of calm. You got in your car and drove to your apartment and threw your things down, tossing your keys on the table and kicking your shoes off, wiping your eyes. A pitiful sob escaping your lips. You hadn’t changed it of your work clothes yet. You just curled up on the couch, laying your head on the armrest.

———————————————————

You wernt aware of the fact that you fell asleep Untill you woke up to the sound of knocking. You were disoriented for a moment, your eyes burning like hell. You rubbed them but your vision came back blurry. You had a peircing headache and the knocking didnt help at all. You stumbled to the door, looking at the time the blinked on the oven.

12:05 a.m

You had only been asleep for 20 minutes. When you got the the door you looked through the peephole.

“Hotch?”

You mumbled under your breath as you quickly fumbled with the locks on your door. Eager to see what he was at your door for, but also scared. Once you opened it you saw Hotch. His eyes guilt ridden and tired.

“Can I come in?”

He asked softly. You nodded and stepped to the side, closing the door after him once he entered.

“Sorry for the mess.”

You mumbled, looking down at your feet. When hotch looked at you his world shattered. He saw how much of a wreck you were, and he knew it was him who made you like this. Your eyes were red and puffy, tears still on your cheeks. Every now and then when you blinked, a new one would fall. He was plagued with guilt. That was the whole reason why he was standing in your appartment at twelve o’ clock at night.

“Don’t apologize, it’s fine. You should see my appaartment”

He laughed dryly at the joke and you sniffled, a new tear falling down your face.

“Look, I came to apologize. For what I said…and did”

You nodded again. Taking in a shaky breath, and exhaling slowly.

“It’s fine. I cant expect you to not be stressed, after everything that… you know, with..”

Your voice trailed off, and you sniffled again, that being the only thing that took up the heavy silence that sat between the two of you.

“I know, but I also wanted to know,’

He paused and took a step towards you. When he notced you didnt move or step back he lifted a calloused hand and cupped your cheek, wiping away your tears. You finally met his eyes. Then he continued.

“If you really meant what you said’

‘What part?’

You were joking, but also curious, you said a lot and you were too tired to figure out what he could be talking about.

“When you said you loved me”

You looked down a little, your face resting more in his hand. You turned your head a little and softly kissed the inside of his palm, the meaty part just below this thumb; then turned your head back to where it was before. His other hand came up and cupped your other cheek, now holding your face completely. His hands were so big, so warm. You felt the rough callouses rubbing on your soft cheek whenever you moved a little but it didnt hurt.

You both stood like that for a second. Peering into each others eyes. Then he finally broke the silence.

‘May I kiss you?”

You opened your mouth to speak but no words came out. You just nodded and he leaned in closing his eyes and you closed yours, tilting your head to the side a little. His lips were so soft. The little stubble that he built up over the few days you were on the case, poked and tickled your skin. The kiss was so soft, so gentle. Almost as if he was scared to kiss you too hard in fear you would shatter and blow away.

When he pulled away he looked back into your eyes and moved one oh his hands to the back of your head, resting itself in your hair and the other hand went around your shoulder blades as be brought you into his chest, into one of the best hugs you’ve ever gotten. The two of you stayed like that for a while. Standing in your living room. Your arms eventually wrapped around his neck and you rested your face into the little crook where his neck met his torso. It all felt too perfect, so surreal. The kiss, the hug, everything.

Finally, he pulled away and brushed a little strand of hair behind your ear, then motioned to the couch.

‘Wanna go sit?”

You nodded, having completely given up on talking for now. He carefully led you to the couch and sat down, you sat next to him, but turning yourself twards him resting your face back in the crook of his neck. He gently pulled you onto his lap, exhaling sharply when he was met with the dull reminder of his healing wounds. He felt you tense up in his arms and he held you tighter, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

“shh, its ok, im ok. Im right here,”

You sniffled again, the tears threatening to come back.

‘It’s ok to cry, y/n’

He whispered into your hair, gently kissing the top of your head.

‘Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong. Im here to listen”

You took a deep breath in and exhaled, fidgeting with his tie.

“I was so cared…when I got to the warehouse and saw all the blood, I - I thought you died. I couldn’t lose you again. I cant lose you again Aaron.’

You voice went out at the mention of his name. A small sob escaped your lips as you held onto his tie a little tighter, your body going rigid. Aaron started tracing small circles and shapes on your back. Resting his chin on the top of your head.

“I know, I’m so, so sorry for scaring you like that. But I promise I’m not going anywhere. It’s gonna take a lot more than a couple stab wounds to kill me”

You felt him laugh a little and you did too, before sniffling again.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Just close your eyes ok? I’ll be right here the whole time. Im not going anywhere, dont worry.”

His voice was so soft and caring. So gentle and knowing. It was hard to believe it was the same man holding you who was yelling at you just hours ago.

“Aaron?”

“Hmm?”

He smiled at the use of his first time.

“I love you”

The jet lag and exhaustion hit you all at once, your voice coming out to barley a whisper. You could feel it tugging at your eyelids. You closed them and as you were drifting off you felt him kiss your forehead.

“I love you too”

After that you drifted off into a dreamless sleep. Aaron played with your hair for a little and kept rubbing your back for a while, Untill the exhaustion from the days events wore home down too. And he fell asleep holding you close in his arms.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A/n: I spent all day writing this! Sorry if the spacing is weird. I write these on my notes app, then copy and paste it over to tumblr and sometimes the spacing get all messed up. I hoped you liked it! I loved writing this one!

Tag list! (If you wanna be added lmk!)

@hearthotchner

[seumyo]

okay okay okayyy 🗣️🗣️🗣️

i am here to receive an archived scrapbook

prepare yourself cuz this boutta be long as hell

okay!! so firstly i would like one for my boy hitoshi 🙂‍↕️ so my oc’s name is miu vremya, her personality is very similar to jiro’s (bc she is me and i am jiro) but like.. kind of meaner, kinda

her quirk is time manipulation but idk if u need that uhmmmm her hobbies include dance (not superrr prominent) and like.. combat skills?? like training ig

interests include fashion & music & dance, all that good shit yk and her nationality is half japanese & half russian

she first saw shinso at the sports fest and has a massive hallway crush on him but tells no one (except jiro and then mina eventually finds out) and basically they push her to talk to him when he starts training with classes a & b!! we love number 1 wing woman mina

when he joined class a they just sort of naturally gravitated toward eachother since they’re personalities are sort of similar if that makes sense?? they always matching sass and sarcasm level if u feel me

very black cat bf & black cat gf vibes when they do get together!! in their own lil corner judging everyone

eventually mina & denki had to step in to actually get them to talk abt their feelings 😞😞 but it all worked out and they got together

umumumum miu is a very silent angry person if that makes sense?? she kind of just shuts down and will irritatedly hum in response to whatever u say to her, but it only lasts like an hour max (i mean depending on what was done but yk) - and hitoshi gives me silent anger until he can get his thoughts under control and then confronts the person. so i feel like they wouldn’t argue much?? or for that long. bc once hitoshi’s got his head straight miu’s not mad anymore so they can just talk if that makes sense

very very cuddly couple & always gets candids of eachother

OKAY ENOUGH ABT THE OC

for colors i would love purple & baby blue (and black as like an accent??) and for the song i would say in between by gracie abrams

for an aesthetic could i get grunge maybe 👀 lmk if that’s hard to do for this!! anything edgy works really

anyways wow this is long hope this entertains u 🙂‍↕️

ᯓ★ HITOSHI + MIU!

★ Even before the Sports Festival, Shinsou kept seeing you everywhere—to the point that he was wondering if you had a clone-based Quirk. You piqued his interest unknowingly because he kept seeing you more often than he should (he tries to act nonchalant whenever he passes by you in the hallway).

★ During the joint training with Class A and B, he’s stoked to figure out that he’ll be going against your team (he’s on Class B’s team this time), and he really doesn’t want to embarrass himself because he has something to prove to the teachers, the hero course students, and to the student that he sees around school often (the pressure on his shoulders was HEAVY).

★ After said battle, he just sorts of stays on his own because he doesn’t know the hero course students that well to want to initiate a casual conversation with them, but then suddenly he sees that you’re being ushered toward him by Mina! Ok, Shinsou Hitoshi, act calm and collected.

★ Did not act calm and collected whatsoever; his voice slightly went a pitch higher than his usual one when he introduced himself. Embarrassing, he could never show his face to you ever again. But he redeems himself in the end, trust. He’s actually really glad that you two are similar in a way, because the sarcasm this man has that just comes out naturally at any given moment should be toned down (he’s a dork at heart).

★ Throughout the time you two grew closer together, Hitoshi was sort of second guessing himself if what he felt for you was platonic or romantic. Lots of reading between the lines. Lots of “is this what friends do?” Was all of this just casual?

★ Denki and Mina are super awesome wingmen. During your third year, they finally had enough and made it their mission to just do what has to be done. Feelings were talked about, confusions were cleared, and hooray! He finally confessed (Hitoshi’s heart almost leaped out of his chest when it finally happened).

★ Absolutely loves it when you two match outfits in a lowkey manner. He’s a simple man and dresses simply and just goes with whatever it is that you suggest he wears, but not without saying, “Do I have to?” Yes, he’s already on his way to the changing room even before you could answer.

★ You’re the first to hear of the gossip his radar receives. He would call you, but he prefers talking in person because he really wants to see your reaction while he tells the story (Quality Time is his love language, can you tell?) A huge bonus is when he gets to cuddle against you when he recalls whatever happened, so yes, he prefers sharing gossip in person.

★ Most of the candid pictures you have of him are just him looking like he’s had a 14-hour shift at the hospital without coffee or even sleeping a wink. But there are also cute ones that he really likes! Like that one time he found a stray cat and was all crouched down just to pick the little feline up, or that one time he could barely move his face as he let the face mask you put on him dry.

★ Late-night talks, simple walks in the park, riding a bicycle around town with you on the additional seat behind him (Hitoshi had it installed on his bike just in case you'd want to go with him), having wordless conversations by just looking at each other’s eyes (anyone who isn't close to you two is TERRIFIED of ever walking by whenever you two are together), and just spending time with each other in general with Hitoshi are his favorite things to do with you.