#no matter what I did I was never going to be good enough

[bi-writes]

dark matter | ghost x f!reader

INSTALLMENT TWO — TIME ROT COLLECTION

type: one-shot, part of anthology series, can be read standalone (6.5k)

cw: dark!ghost, mature language and content, mature sexual language and content, mw3 spoilers, death, grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, dubcon, size kink, manhandling, breeding kink, cumplay, unprotected piv (18+)

You don't know how long it's been. Maybe days, or maybe it's been weeks, you aren't sure, but it's hard to move when there is nothing that waits for you.

All that's left is a box that sits on your kitchen table. It has his name scribbled across the top, and when you opened it up, just seeing the photos of him tucked into the sides was enough to nearly make you sick. You haven't opened it again since. You haven't touched it. When you touch the cardboard, it burns, it stings.

You don't know what you're supposed to do when the love of your life doesn't come home. You don't know what you're supposed to do when there's bills on the table, when half of the bed is empty, when everything that was supposed to happen died along with him.

You used to sit on this very couch and talk about everything you would do and everything you wanted. You used to lay there, your head in his lap, looking up into those baby blues and tell him about what a good husband he would make, how it was going to be so hot watching him fixing the leaky sink and hanging up the new shelves you bought, being the house husband he was always meant to be.

Someone that pretty deserved to be at home all day, baking bread and fixing a vintage car.

He promised you so much. He promised you love. He promised you laughter. He promised you a lifetime of something more.

But there never really was anything more. He never married you. He never proposed. He just fucked you full before every deployment, whispering into your hair as you drooled about how, "I'll see ye when I get back, bonnie, 'n I'll tell ye how much I luv ye."

But he didn't come back. So you really aren't sure now how much he loved you.

You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, fluffing a brush over your cheeks. The makeup helps, but you look dead, and your eyes are dull.

You don't want to go to work, but you can't pay your bills, and Johnny wasn't your husband, so the box in your kitchen stands as a loving gesture from his mother, and that is all he left behind. And when you went to the service and asked for something, for anything, they said it was out of their hands.

You are entitled to no compensation—because on paper, you are nothing to anyone, and you belong to no one. And though his mother kissed you shakily, with tears in her eyes, you couldn't bear to ask her for anything, because she hurts, too, and you are nothing to anyone, and you belong to no one.

So you work; you work, and you don't stop, and you sleep only a few hours before you get up and do it all over again, and even after a long day, you count the pennies in your purse, and it isn't enough. You let yourself get comfortable, you allowed yourself to succumb to a man, a man you loved, and what did it get you?

Fuck all. You have fuck all, and you let a man do it to you.

Fate and destiny are a cruel reality. Unforgiving—they don't care about the choices you make because they happen anyways, and it's hard to be angry when this is how it was always going to be. It doesn't make you hate any less, and it doesn't make the dust collecting on the box any less thick.

When you do gain the courage to touch it again, you have a week left to find a new flat. You don't know where you will go, but you're packing, and you rip the top of the box off as harshly as a band-aid. Your eyes focus on the knick-knacks that Johnny must've kept. A few different sized sketchbooks, the nubs of worn and used graphite and charcoal pencils, a crystal and beaded rosary that his mother gifted him when he first enlisted. You pick up the crinkled and well-loved papers that are stacked at the bottom, and your eyes blur with fresh tears at the ripped out sketches that sit in your hands.

It's you, in different angles. Asleep, staring out at something, smiling at him. He captures your face beautifully, and you can see where he's smudged the shading with a thick finger to cast shadows and light over you. He sketches in exquisite detail—he always has, but he has always had a certain style, a certain eye, that made lead look like real life. 

It’s odd to see what you looked like through his eyes. Bright. Lovely. Soft. He draws with a breath of fresh air, and you can see where his finger has rubbed away all the harsh lines. When you see a few places where the graphite on his thumb has stamped his fingerprint onto the paper, you feel your throat close up. You want to feel those fingers on your face. You want him to brush the hair out of your eyes and look down at you. You want to feel that hand tracing your jawline, your nose, the lid of your eye—you want to feel the warmth that he always radiated, and you want to breathe in the scent of him until you forget the smell of anything else.

You pick up a loved and bound book, with thinner pages that you know can't be a sketchbook. You unwind the leather string on the front, flipping it open, and you swallow thickly when you realize what this is.

A journal. You never knew he kept one.

The first few pages are dated from when he first enlisted, a few years before he met you. He writes just as eloquently as he draws, and you settle into the couch behind you as you read about his enthusiasm joining, the purpose he finally has, the weight of the world lifting off of his shoulders as he thinks about all the things he will be able to do as he rises through the ranks. You let your fingers skim over the words, feeling how his pen has pierced the paper, and you try to imagine him—fresh shaven with less muscle, life in his eyes as he thought about serving his country. You smile a little, but it hurts after a few moments.

You flip a little further, your eyes skimming over times he cursed out his commanding officer, punched a private for sneaking into the women's barracks, the love he has for a detonator that began when he soldered his first pins. His personality shines, and it's like you can hear him talking to you all over again, and when he begins to talk about a love he doesn't know how to handle, you smile to yourself, because you think he's talking about you.

But when you look again, the dates are wrong. You hadn't met him yet, not at this point, and your smile fades when you realize he's talking about someone else.

He never says their name. He writes at length about them, someone who has captured his eye, someone he says he can't have. Someone unattainable, unavailable, and then there is his own reservations. You don't realize until his entries from a few months later that he's talking about a man.

never felt this way before. not about anyone. rosary i always look at is fucking mocking me, i think. i can hear mum, somewhere, telling me to find a good catholic bonnie, but this is real. i know it is, but i don't know what to do about it. not like anyone i've ever met. can't explain the bond. but i look at him, and i think he looks at me, and i just know. i know. it can't be just in my head, can it? i'm not mad. i'm not. but what am i supposed to do?

You flip the pages frantically. There's sketches of hands on one page, hands that hold a handgun, that squeeze a trigger. They're tame sketches, but you feel a little sick because you feel like you're looking at a part of his life that you're not supposed to be looking at. The intimacy of these sketches—just hands, and you feel like they should be censored to your eyes.

The sketches and the words, they morph as time goes on. Sketches of closed eyes. Of blonde lashes. A harsh brow, a scar cutting across a thin lip. There is no softness in these sketches. Johnny draws with an abrasive pencil. It cuts the shapes, jagged edges akin to glass.

i can't tell anyone. i want to tell the whole world. won't let me. want to scream it from the fucking roof that i love you, but you're such a stubborn bastard. so fucking stubborn.

The sketches suddenly become warped. Angry, spiked, and you can see the emotion from how hard he presses the pencil into the page. More hands, and you can’t help but notice how he draws them simply functioning. Hand over wrist. Holding a utensil. Picking nails. These hands tell a story, and you can see the bumps and bruises and the wounds that litter the surface of them—these hands are anything but delicate. They have wrought. They have dug until their fingernails bled. They have been stuck through barbwire, maimed to the point of texture and roughness and the blurring of scar tissue.

don't fucking believe you. it isn't just me.

You're blind for a few moments from the intensity of your tears. You wipe them furiously, you need to know more, you need to know. The dates skip, and you pause on the day that you met.

so bonnie. so beautiful.

Softer sketches. The delicate lashes that are your own, the gentle curve of your pouty lips. You recognize yourself, but only barely, because he draws you like you are out of focus. He draws you as if you are too far away, just out of reach.

she's everything i've ever wanted. so why can't i let it go?

Your bottom lip trembles when sketches of a butterfly overlap skulls. The motifs never disappear, not completely, and it's only obvious what his true feelings are when you smooth a finger down the sketch of a butterfly escaping its cocoon that hangs from the mouth of a discarded skull head.

haunt my fucking dreams. go away. go away. go away. the ring is right there, so why can't i give it to her?

You close it abruptly. It falls to the floor, the cover of it thudding as you cover your face with your hands. Was he thinking of someone else all this time? Every morning, every kiss, every time he looked into your eyes and told you that he loved you—was all of this meant for someone else? Someone he wanted but couldn't have? Someone that just didn't love him back?

You scream. You toss the coffee table. You shatter the flowers that have died, you pick up the box of his things, and you throw it. You watch the papers fly, the books fall, you hear the rattle of his dead memories meet the floor of the home he left behind, and you scream at all of it just to stop, please, stop, stop, stop—

You're not even sure if it's really Johnny you're angry at. Maybe yourself, because you've never really been good enough to be loved by anyone. No one has ever loved you and you only—you've only ever been additional, on the condition of loving another, never enough to be the one and only, and maybe that's your real problem. Maybe the real problem is that you want to die because you always give everything you have, and no one has ever wanted it enough to give you the same.

Maybe you just want too much. Maybe your dreams are too big, maybe it's just that no one wants what you are handing over. Packaged pretty, all shiny and new, but if no one wants it, you shelve that kind of love, and that's where it rots.

Maybe this kind of love died with Johnny. Not the beginning of something, but the reality of it, and now all you can do is accept the things you cannot change and tame the heart inside of you that isn't good enough to be for anyone else.

When you pick up his things off the floor the next morning, you find a scribbled address on the back of a torn sketch. So, you do the kind thing, and you gather his things back into the box, close the lid on what never really was, and you carry it with you out the door.

The door is unmarked. The paint on it is peeling, but you know this must be the place because there's a pair of dark boots caked with mud sitting out by the bottom step. You raise your hand to knock, and you tap it with your knuckles timidly, adjusting your hold on the box in your arms.

A few minutes pass by, but no one answers. You knock again, louder and firmer this time, and it finally swings open. From the dark flat emerges a large man, sticking his head out from behind the chain latched and glaring down at you. You think he's about to close it on you, but then his eyes flicker down, and you know he must read the name scribbled in big letters on the box that you hold.

It’s enough to make him pause. It’s enough to make him stay, rooted to that spot, even if you can tell all he wants to do is sink back into whatever void he came out of.

"Hi," you whisper, and you have no control over how broken the word comes out. "I...I just thought you should have this."

Because he never really loved me. Not really. Not the way he loved you.

The door shuts, and you hear the chain unlatch, and then he opens it wider. He emerges in the doorway, taking up the entirety of the width of it, and he snarls down at you from behind the mask he wears.

He opens his mouth to spit something at you, but then you hold it out to him with shaky hands, and he can see the tears that are coming down your face. You can't control them, he can tell that much, and he reaches out to take the box from you. You look at his hands, and you recognize them immediately. Uncanny, the resemblance, and you recognize the scar that cuts across the knuckles on his left hand. You know if you push his mask down, you could trace with closed eyes the scar he must wear that starts at his nose and ends at his chin.

He doesn’t know it, but you know what he looks like. You know what he is. If he took off that mask, you would see a face you know, even if Johnny never drew the entirety of it at once. Always bits and pieces of him, but you’d know them if you saw them put altogether. You have the puzzle pieces of him in the back of your mind, and you know you could put them back together if you really tried.

He would not be able to do the same for you. The pieces of you are scattered, and you know they are lost, and that there is no getting them back. Johnny took them to grave; you would never ask for them back, anyways.

You don't ask who he is. He doesn't ask you who you are; but when your eyes meet, there is some kind of understanding. Some kind of knowing. You almost don't want to leave—you know he mustn't be kind, not from what you’ve read of him and the way he looks, but Johnny loved him, and you want to cling onto anything that still breathes that might connect you to him. You hate him, but you love him, and Johnny loved this thing, so maybe...maybe—

The door slams shut in your face, and you catch yourself with the step railing as you crumple to sit there, on his dirty step, crying into your hands. You don't know how long you sit there, but it is dark when you drag yourself home.

It is much too dark outside for you to see the shadow that you pick up along the way—and you’re too in your head to realize it never leaves.

When you come home from work, your knees are weak when you see the letter that’s taped to the front of your door.

EVICTION NOTICE.

They give you until the weekend, a courtesy they tell you they don’t normally give to anyone. You aren’t allowed to stay, even if you come up with the money, and you’re in tears as you pack up your flat. The last place you shared with Johnny, and it’ll be gone soon. You don’t know what you’ll do with your things. You don’t know where you will go.

Johnny never married you. You don’t have any family. You’ll have to stuff your car full of as much as it can hold, and you’ll need to toss the rest. You’ll have to—

The knock at your door startles you. You get up off the floor, where you were trying to stuff all your dishes into a small bag. You pull the curtain back on the window beside the door, and your eyes widen when you see a giant man standing at your door. He feels your eyes on him, and he turns his head towards the window, tilting his head to the side menacingly when he looks at you.

You wipe your face, trying to dry the tears on your cheeks. You open the door shakily, poking your head out.

“Hi,” you say. You wish your voice was steady, but it cracks. “Can…C-Can I help you?”

The mask he’s wearing today is different. There’s a skull mouth painted on it, and his hood is flipped up over his head. He seems taller with his boots on, and he takes up nearly the entire width of your doorway. He’s got so much bulk on him—if you reached across and touched him, you know your hand would hit nothing but a solid wall. No give, just pure muscle and fat. His eyes are still dark, and he still looks like the most unapproachable man in the entire world. He clicks his tongue under the mask, and you swallow when he snarls a bit.

He fishes something out of his jacket. You recognize it—Johnny’s journal. He holds it out to you, expectant, and you open the door wider to take it from him. You feel tears come all over again at the sight of it, and you hold the leather to your chest, hugging it. Johnny never married you, but he would’ve taken care of you right now. If he would’ve known you were here, about to live in your car, he would not have hesitated moving you in with him. Getting you into his bed. Shielding you from the world that was much too scary, much too unforgiving. Johnny would know what to do.

Johnny’s dead.

Just as you are about to close the door, a thick boot stops it. You flinch a bit, looking up, and then a big hand presses against your door and pushes it open until it hits the wall. The man cranes his neck to look around you, and he narrows his eyes at the heap of your belongings huddled in the living room of your flat.

You sniffle, shaking your head.

“I’m just…moving.”

You step aside when he moves. He ducks his head just slightly to get through, and you watch as he walks around, taking stock of what’s in front of him. He seems to find what he’s looking for when he sees the notice on your kitchen counter. He snatches it up and and turns it around to face you, and you just stand there, frozen.

“I told you. Moving.”

His house is soulless. White walls. Beige carpet. Grey tiles. There’s one couch, one coffee table, and one TV mounted to the wall. There’s only dishes in the kitchen enough for one person, and he only has one bedroom. It’s the same lifeless place in there, too. His mattress is on the floor, but he has the decency to put a mattress cover and sheet over it. There’s one nightstand, with just a few cables where he must charge his phone, and one lamp. There are no decorations. There is no other furniture. His house is functional, not valuable.

He puts your bag in the bedroom. That settles that.

You cry that first night. You sleep early, curling up under his one measly sheet, and you cry. You cry because you’re sad. You cry because you’re lonely. You cry because you feel like you owe this man now, this stranger who hasn’t told you his name, and you have no idea how you will pay him back. You cry because you miss Johnny, and he never even loved you.

You jump when the bedroom door opens. He walks in, kicking the door shut, and you watch as he strips himself of his jeans and hoodie, tossing them onto the floor. You sit up on your elbows, meeting his eyes, but he doesn’t take off his mask. Instead, he comes towards the bed, plopping down on the mattress next to you, and you pull the sheet up to your chin. You hadn’t anticipated sharing a bed with him, but you’re also too afraid to complain.

“I can sleep…on the floor if—”

A big hand covers your mouth. You’re silenced, startled that he would touch you this way, and you start to cry again when he presses until you are laying on your back again, moving his hand back until it rests behind his head.

“Please—” You hiccup. “Please don’t hurt me.”

He hums at that. Satisfied. Pleased at your reaction. He could pluck your strings right now, and you’d play music. He falls asleep with that thought.

You try to give him money. He never takes it. You try to buy groceries. You find the notes you spent stuffed back into your wallet later. You try to pick up a broom to clean up, and he locks the supply closet after that. The only way you find out his name is when you find his dog tags in the bathroom drawer, because he still hasn’t spoken a single word to you.

Simon “Ghost” Riley. That’s who Johnny really loved.

You don’t know why the sex started—you don’t know why you let him in, not exactly. Simon had been gone, one of his usual spurts of absence that he occasionally had, but he came home earlier than you expected. Simon likes to shower as soon as he comes home, but you are already in there, under the hot water, leaning against the tile as you empty your head of any thoughts. Simon doesn’t knock, and he pulls back the shower curtain even though he sees your silhouette. There are no words exchanged as he comes in, getting under the hot water, and there are no words exchanged when he takes off his mask for the very first time, and he hoists you up against the wall and fucks you into it.

You know this, too. Your hands trace his back, and you can feel every scar you know will be there, and you can taste the same things Johnny said you would taste when you lick over his jaw. Tobacco. Citrus. Animal.

It almost feels like cheating, but you’re too empty inside to be sad about it. It really feels like lying, even though Johnny’s too gone to hear your excuses. At the same time, it feels like getting something back. Not in its entirety, but something close, something that doesn’t feel the same, but feels so good anyways.

You cry again when you realize you like it better. You cry more when you realize that you’re starting to lose your dreams of Johnny in favor of Simon. You see in the dark instead of in blue. At first, you used to mumble Johnny’s name into the pillow. You used to bury your face into it, muffle the sounds as Simon fucked you from behind, two big hands pushing your ass apart as he pulled you back over and over onto his cock. Now your head is turned to the side, and you’re crying Simon’s name, and he’s fucking you harder, getting down onto his elbows, pressing you into the mattress and using your throat as leverage so he can arch your back and get your ass shaking with how firm he pushes his hips against you.

You’re so delicate, but he can’t be nice. He can’t be gentle. He needs to see teeth marks on your thighs and on your back. He needs to taste your blood and your cum and your spit. At first, he thinks he was doing it because he was lonely, too, but now he just wants to eat and eat and eat.

Eat Johnny’s pretty girl. Fuck Johnny’s pretty girl. Keep Johnny’s pretty girl, because how dare he keep this one a secret, and how dare he try and hide her from him? Johnny wrote a lot of things in that journal, but he didn’t talk about Simon’s insatiable appetite, and he didn’t talk about Simon’s rules. He blamed the entire world for his seemingly unrequited love, but the reality was that Johnny was selfish.

Johnny didn’t want to share. He wanted it all for himself, so it’s no wonder he died for it. When your world isn’t in balance, it compensates. Johnny ended up on the wrong side of the scale.

That’s the fucking truth.

Simon’s got you on your knees again. He likes you this way, ass up, face down, on display. On your back, he stacks enough under your back that you’re nearly upside down, pussy in his mouth as he bends you in half and eats it like that. Now, he’s squeezing your hips, pressing down between your shoulder blades, thick tongue inside of you as he teases your ass with his thumb. Johnny used to love that, but you’re such a jumpy girl.

He’s going to fix that.

Johnny is so predictable. Letting you run around, spoiled, never telling you the way it should be. Johnny made you think you were a pretty princess. He probably intertwined your fingers and fucked you in missionary like a good Catholic boy, but soft, delicate things like you don’t need to be reminded of what they are. They need to be so cockdrunk and dizzy that they don’t know anything else but this place right here, in his bed. Simon knows that’s what you really need—to not know the world outside of this bedroom.

Love is useless. Love can be lost. Love comes and goes, it’s subject to change. Time bends it, rusts it like iron, and Simon doesn’t need something else that will slip through his fingers, no. He needs something that is latched onto him forever. He needs to take one of your ribs and absorb it. He needs to taste you on his tongue and between his teeth always. He needs your blood to be his blood, and he needs your eyes to be his eyes.

Marriage is not finality. Love is not permanent. No—it isn’t enough. He couldn’t keep Johnny, and maybe he can’t keep you, but there is something he can give you that will keep you with him. Even if you left, you would stay somehow, some part of you, and he can see it in some distant place.

Once Simon sees something, it’s as good as true. It might as well be real. Simon is something himself of a manifestation, and he realizes now that maybe he never really saw Johnny because it was you hiding in what he couldn’t see.

Everything is in focus now. He knows what he has to do. Johnny was too stupid to see it—to preoccupied with how beautiful you are between the legs, too mindless when he was cock-deep inside of you to understand what he had in his hands. They don’t make things like you. One of a kind. Once in a lifetime. Something that will never be again if you let go, if you look away.

Simon knows all too much about what it means to leave a scar. He understands permanence. It’s why he’s still alive. It’s why he’s got you here, right here, underneath him, wet-faced and sobbing and clenching so tight around him. Your nails are fixtures in his back, holding him here, and he knows that you understand, too. If he asked you, you would think about the answer, but your body knows. It knows who Simon is and what he wants. He’s certain it does because even if he wanted to, your cunt has him tight, barely enough give for him to pull out and push right back in. It doesn’t want him to leave, and he’s glad for it.

You cry so sweet. Blubbers and gentle tears. You want this; it’s evident in the way you claw at him and pull him back in every time he pulls out just enough. When you pull just that hard, he drops onto his elbows, caging you in, and you sob into his mouth as he grinds his pelvis into yours. The wet smack of his thighs has stopped, but the pressure against your clit has you whining so nice. Fuck, you are beautiful, and you look so sad. From the first moment you showed up at his door, you were all big eyes and sadness. You drag around an air of heaviness that hasn’t left, and Simon is so sick of it—Johnny wasn’t man enough to eat you whole, won’t you just fucking let it go?

Maybe Simon did love him, too. Maybe he did love him back. No, he must’ve—that feeling in his chest still hasn’t left. Simon made a thousand excuses. A man like him, simply unloveable. A soldier like him, just too busy and too dedicated to have anything for himself outside of duty. A victim, what a rotten word, but that is what he is; no one can want him, not really. He saw it, in the back of his mind, peeling back layers of himself just for someone to make a face. After everything, after breaking his nails crawling out of an early grave, rejection just might be the thing that finally killed him. Not a bullet, but the sheer pain from the cut of giving a nasty piece of himself over and not even getting everything back.

Johnny was careless. Loving two things at once, pulled in opposite directions. Too distracted by what he couldn’t have that he forgot about how good he really had it—what a fucking dog. Greedy. Naïve. Fucking delusional. Johnny gave up this to chase something that could never be real. It was pathetic. It was stupid.

It was mine.

“Look at me.”

You do. Your eyes, hazy and wet, meet his, and your hands are shaking as you cup his face and sob because yes, yes, yes, please—I need it, it hurts s-so good.

It does hurt. It burns. It steals. It takes. It swallows, like a brush fire against dry land, licking and eating and tearing apart whatever it can reach. Your moans enrage it, and your cunt feeds it, whatever the thing is inside of his chest that is begging to come out.

This isn’t love. This isn’t romance. This is necessity—survival. Without him, you will come apart, and without you, Simon will starve. He used to take bites out of Johnny. Just enough to make the screaming inside of him quiet a little, just enough to be distracted; but he hasn’t eaten in months, and whatever you’re made of is too good to let go of.

This time, he’ll make it permanent. He’ll make it forever. Where you end, where he begins, where his hands have sunk into you, where his teeth are stuck; he’s going to fix himself to this place, and then he’s going to make himself forget how to leave.

You’re buzzing. You’re somewhere else. You feel like you’re floating above yourself, but at the same time, you’re right here. Simon’s so big; he told you he would be, but it’s another thing entirely to have this man inside of you and hitting your squishy cervix. He’s nasty about it, too—he likes putting a big hand on your stomach and pressing; he likes to feel himself inside of you and laugh at how you cry, and he likes the sound it makes when you’ve come, and your thighs are wet, and his skin smacks against yours with a toe-curling squelch.

“‘s mine,” he says, and you whine, and you nod. You don’t know if he’s asking you a question, but you figure he isn’t. Simon isn’t the kind to ask. He just takes what he wants. He always has. When you come back from the dead, consequences don’t apply to you any longer. You’ve cheated reality, and now you get to reap your rewards.

“Yeah.”

Yeah. Yes. Of course. Yes. Yes, Simon, whatever you want, Simon, anything for you, Simon, yes, yes, yes, yes—!

It will take time. As Simon puts his thumb to your clit to hear you sing, he thinks about how it won’t take much of it. You’re already so docile. You’re already in his bed, eating his food, crying with his cock inside of you and your thoughts filled with nothing but white noise and his name.

Simon won’t be like the man before him. Johnny drew you as a butterfly—something in need, but something that would eventually fly away. Fuck that. If there is a light in you, Simon will snuff it out. If he has to keep you from discovering your wings, he will just cut them off. If it’s the blood inside of you that keeps you warm, he will let it drain from the wounds left behind by his teeth because I will keep you warm, I will make it better, no one else, just me—

His index and middle finger in your mouth silence you. You choke on whatever you are saying in favor of sucking on his wet fingers, your eyes crossing a little as he bites down on your ear and pants there. It’s rare to hear him; Simon tends to swallow any noises he makes in favor of concentrating on hitting that same spot inside of you, but you can hear him now. It’s low and rumbly, so much so that you can feel his chest vibrating against yours. A groan—fuck, he sounds so good. To know your pussy feels so good, it’s making him falter is enough to have you just at the cusp of something white-hot and blinding.

You come when he comes. Simon’s other hand has an iron-grip on the side of your thigh, hiking it up around his hips as he comes hot and heavy inside of you. You shake underneath him, sucking hard on his fingers as he presses his pelvis to yours. You can feel it dripping between your thighs, and the heat of it makes you come, too, a sob coming out of you as you spit his fingers out in favor of closing your mouth over his.

He tastes like you. You suck on his tongue softly, lapping it up, and he uses his wet hand to hold your jaw at an angle so he can spit into your mouth and kiss you again. You grip his dog tags hard, tugging him back to you when he tries to look down at where he’s inside of you. He suffocates you when he lays over you, but you don’t care. You need him skin-to-skin. You need his mouth on yours, his cock still this deep, sharing breath and spit and heat. If you lose it, you’ll lose something else, something more, and you can’t lose it again.

His weight crushes you, and you don’t register the significance of one of his hands underneath you and between your shoulder blades. He feels for something that you can’t see, and he kisses you again when he’s satisfied with what he finds. The lack of something. The killing of it. The knowing that you’ve gotten what it is you’ve been searching for all this time.

He holds you like that always. He keeps your eyes on his when he comes inside of you—always wants to look at you when that first spurt of cum fills you entirely. He likes the way your lashes flutter when he brands you. He likes the way you lose the ability to speak. He likes the way your entire body goes rigid and pliant all at once, seizing up and then melting underneath him until it takes no effort to turn you over onto your stomach and do it all over again.

He notices the change before you do. The tender breasts, the warmth of your lower belly. You are wet always now, eager to be bent over wherever you are because the ache between your thighs is tenfold now.

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long while, and you’re smiling, hips hiked up on the couch, your dress crumpled around your middle as his cum drips down the back of your thighs. Simon licks his lips as he sits back on his heels, thumbing over your puckering hole.

You lay underneath him in your cocoon. Death at your doorstep, and you let him right in. You draw it around you tight, tucked into this blanket of security and warmth and factitious love that you think will hold this time. Simon’s hand draws around your throat, but you easily fall into him. When he squeezes, crushing what you’ve built back up, you sigh with relief, letting yourself fall into his chest and stay there.

When you close your eyes, it feels like something familiar. Like a place you’ve been before. When you open them, it’s gone. Simon is there, staring at your curiously. Your shadow that never leaves. The thing that remains. Time passes, but you know this will stay, you know it won’t go away. When he bends you over again, his hand slides low, cupping your belly, and your mouth twitches—the ghost of another smile. You put your hand over his there and press, feeling the scars you know by memory alone.

You will give him new scars; and these ones will be only for you.

[joemomrgneissguy]

via @iamthepulta

When I was around 13 or so, I got introduced to a friend to Christianity after being brought up in a mostly atheistic household. My parents had also just gotten divorced and my Dad had coincidentally decided that then was as good a time as any to start going to church again, and so would start taking us because we seemed interested in it.

As a pretty lonely kid with a big desire to fit in or have community, it was a formative time in my life, and I took to it quite quickly.

But the thing about a lot of evangelical spaces is, there is no room for nuance, and, perhaps more crucially, having doubts is seen as a crisis. If you are saved by faith alone, the thinking seemed to be that faith must be total and absolute.

For teenaged me, that meant not questioning things too much, at least not openly, and just accepting what was said at face value like anything I had learned in school up to that point. There were limits to this, like when my church brought in a guest speaker that claimed evolution wasn't real and that the dinosaurs had survived Noah's flood, but on the whole, I didn't have enough of a basis to dispute anything I was told.

Enter 'Mark'. Mark went to the same middle school as me and the same highschool I attended freshman year, and he was a really annoying and combative atheist. At some point he clocked that I was Christian, and he started arguing with me all the time. Most of it wasn't all that substantive. We were young teenagers, after all. But it often got heated, because how dare he question this stuff that is obvious truth?

I realize now that me getting into arguments with him so much was based out of a certain emotional immaturity, and a desire to justify to him and myself that I was right in making a decision that I myself was unsure of. It was performative, to an extent, so I didn't actually hate the guy when everything was said and done.

That beef died down after a year or so. The arguments were getting nowhere, and Mark turned out to be a pretty good guy with perhaps a bit of an antisocial streak. We started hanging out a bit more, and talking about things other than religion, and were eventually at least nominally friends.

This same thing played out with a friend that was Jewish, and another that was Mormon. This was all around that same time in my life. We bickered over things for a while, and then eventually religion just wasn't a factor in our relationship.

These pointless arguments made me realize the simple idea that arguing over religion, trying to convert people to your side, is ultimately a pointless endeavor because it is unprovable, and that I could just as easily be "wrong" with my beliefs. They had just as much 'evidence' as I did. So no matter how hard I 'believed' in this stuff, I just had to accept that some other people never would, and that's okay.

That is somewhat heretical in an evangelical context, since the whole idea is to evangelize, but it opened me up to there being space for other religions and belief systems in the world, and that they were comprised of good people who deserved nothing but love and respect.

This seed of openness and maturity was ultimately what allowed me to change when I moved for college, where I was exposed to stuff like the actual science behind evolution, friends who were LGBT, and programs challenging ideas of creationism.

I owe my life now to those conversations. My career, my friends, my outlook on life could have never occurred without them.

And it's why I now could never return to the same spaces I grew up with, because I can now see them for the toxic, hateful places they are.

I don't know how to navigate faith these days, but I am eternally grateful to "annoying" atheists in my life, and for the patience people had when I was still figuring myself out.

We need the obnoxious atheists back. I know they engineered their own destruction by being annoying and pretentious, but it has become apparent how essential to the ecosystem they were. The religious fanatics have become too bold without their natural predators. Jesus wojaks would have been torn to shreds in 2011.

[vacate-et-scire]

*̩̩̥͙　-Your Tears Kill Me-ˏˋ⋆

Jason has seen you cry before.

A misty-eyed sniffle when you watched a sad movie. A few stray tears when you laughed too hard. That one time you got frustrated over something stupid and wiped your eyes before you even realized you were crying.

But this? This is different.

You’re sobbing.

Not quiet, not composed. It’s ugly, gut-wrenching, heartbreaking—the kind of crying that makes your whole body tremble, the kind that says this isn’t about one bad day, or even one bad week.

This is everything crashing down at once.

And Jason doesn’t know what to do.

He just stands there, stiff as a board, watching as you clutch your arms around yourself, shoulders shaking, breath hitching violently between sobs. You’re trying to talk—he can tell—but all that comes out are broken, gasping hiccups.

His heart clenches, because fuck, did he—?

"Hey, hey—" He steps forward, hands hovering awkwardly. "What happened? Did I—? Shit, did I say something?"

You shake your head wildly, but it does nothing to stop the tears.

Jason curses under his breath. "Then what? Talk to me, sweetheart."

But you can’t. Not yet. You’re still unraveling, like a dam finally bursting after holding back years of pressure. And Jason—who’s so good at fixing things with his hands, with his weapons, with sharp words and sharp instincts—doesn’t know how to fix this.

So he does the only thing he can.

He pulls you in.

You collapse against him like you were waiting for it, hands fisting into his shirt, your weight pressing into him like you’re afraid he’ll let go. He won’t. He won’t.

"Shh," he murmurs, running a hand over your back, his touch uncertain but there. "I got you. You’re okay."

You shake your head again against his chest, a choked noise escaping your throat. "I’m not."

Jason’s breath stutters.

Because he knows what it’s like to believe that—to feel like no matter how many times someone tells you you’re okay, you never are. And knowing you—someone who always smiles, always finds the light in things, always keeps going—are feeling that way?

It guts him.

"Fuck," he breathes, tightening his arms around you. "I—" He swallows hard. "I don’t know what to say, babe. I don’t know how to make this better. But I’m here. Okay? I’m right here."

You just sob.

And Jason? Jason just holds you through it. Through the shaking, through the gasping, through the way your fingers clutch at him like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He wishes he had the right words, wishes he could take whatever weight you’ve been carrying and break it over his knee like he does to every bastard who deserves it. But he can’t.

So he stays. He holds you, rocks you gently, presses kisses into your hair, murmurs reassurances even if he’s not sure they help.

And eventually, eventually, the sobs quiet. Your breathing evens out. Your grip on his shirt loosens, just a little.

Jason leans down, voice soft. "You back with me?"

You nod weakly.

"Yeah?"

A sniff. A small, fragile, "Yeah."

Jason lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. "Good." He presses his lips against your forehead. "Now, you wanna tell me what’s going on, or you wanna just sit here for a while?"

You don’t answer right away. But you don’t pull away, either.

And that’s enough.

So Jason stays. He holds you tighter, presses another kiss into your hair, and lets you breathe.

Because if you ever start breaking again, he’ll be right here to catch the pieces.

Every damn time.

[mommyslittlebird]

Prelude

Stepmama!Wanda x Reader

Summary: Things with your mother had never been good, but when you truly couldn’t take it anymore, you turned to the only place you had left.

Word Count: ~2k ish

CW: MOMMY ISSUES, leaving home, references to past/current abuse.

A/N: Please leave your comments and thoughts on this! I’m not really sure where I want to take this series yet, and I would love to hear what you all want to see!

Prelude to Mama

———————————————————

You weren’t exactly sure what would be the final straw in the relationship between you and your mother, but you had always imagined it’d be something big. You always thought there would be one final moment, when she did something crazy, like maybe she would make some threat on your life or chase you out of the house with a knife or set all of your things on fire.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

There were no threats, no shouting, no one even raised their voice. It was just like any other Thursday afternoon, really. You were going through the cupboard, looking for something to eat for dinner. As usual, they were largely empty aside from some dry pasta, some stale potato chips, some cereal that would require milk you didn’t have, and some various unlabelled cans. You grabbed the cereal. You could make something work. You always did.

Your mother came into the kitchen snacking on a bag of Blue Diamond almonds. She shook the bag and held it out to you. “Do you want some almonds?”

You froze briefly. You were allergic to nuts. “No thanks. I'm allergic, remember?”

She tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “No you’re not. Since when are you allergic to almonds?”

Since second grade. You had eaten some at a birthday party and went into anaphylactic shock in a bouncy castle. You had to be taken to the hospital. You ruined the whole party. You cried everyday for the rest of the school year because no one wanted to talk to the weird kid who had to get a shot in her butt cheek at a birthday party. You never got invited to another one. How could she not remember?

You looked at her silently for a long while. This wasn’t worth fighting over. You couldn’t expect her to remember everything about you. But the longer you looked at her, the more it seemed like she might not know anything about you at all. She knew you as her daughter, of course. She knew you as a good student: quiet, reserved, always well-behaved. She knew you as someone smart enough to do taxes, handy enough to fix the broken things around the house, resourceful enough to make dinner even with an empty cupboard. But none of those things were really you, they were all things you did for her.

Did she even know that there was you outside of her?

You had given her the opportunity to. You’d given her many opportunities to. In a lot of ways, that made it worse. You had opened your heart to her only to be told she didn’t want to see it. And here she was, looking at you like she didn’t even know you had a heart to open.

You started to feel dizzy, nauseated by the woman standing in front of you. At first, you couldn’t possibly comprehend that you had come out of her. You seemed so separated that it was impossible that the two of you had ever been connected in any way. Then, it seemed the opposite, that you were never really separated at all. It was now as it had been before you even came into the world: you were a part of her on every level.

And the worst part was, you couldn’t even bring yourself to be angry with her.

Just as you were an extension of her, she was an extension of everything that had happened to her. You could see it swirling inside of her: a maelstrom of trauma, pain, and mental illness. She was just as much a victim as she was a perpetrator. She wasn’t a monster, she was just a sick woman who never got the help she needed.

“It doesn’t matter,” you finally answered.

She shrugged and walked away. You calmly set the cereal back in the cabinet, swallowing your hurt and trying to make it dinner. You leaned forward to rest your head on the cupboard. What were you doing here?

Clearly she didn’t care that you were here. So what was holding you in this house? Why were you choosing this life where nothing was ever clean, there was never any food, and only other person around was a woman who couldn’t even remember your nut allergy.

The room felt like it was shrinking in on you making it hard to breathe. You felt incredibly tiny, yet like you were still taking up too much space. You had to get out of here.

You didn’t even put shoes on before running out of the house, grabbing your keys and throwing yourself into the driver’s seat. You could hardly see the road through your tears. You were in no state to be driving at all, really, but, miraculously, you made it safely across town to the home your dad lived in with your stepmother, Wanda.

Your father, as usual, was away on a business trip. You didn’t know your stepmother that well, but she was a kind woman that you figured would be welcoming. It was your house as much as it was hers, after all. Anything was better than what you were running from.

Going to your father’s house on a week he wasn’t home wouldn’t have been your first choice. Then again, you weren’t exactly in a place to be picky. It was nearly midnight by this point and it was pouring rain. Your father’s guest room would at least have a warm, dry bed for you to sleep in, which was more than you would get anywhere else. You doubted you could even find a vacant hotel room at this hour, not that you had the money for that anyway.

Wanda opened the thin curtain in the dining room when she saw the bright headlights. The driveway was long and far from the road, so headlights were rare, especially this late at night. Her heart jumped to her throat when she saw it was your car. The front door was open before you were even on the porch. You stumbled inside, soaked in cold rain and tears.

“Honey, what happened?” she gasped, running to grab a towel to dry you off. She grabbed a nice fluffy towel, scrubbing your hair dry. She wrapped it around your shoulders, trying to get your frail body to stop shaking. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing but a small squeak came out. You were crying so hard you had to hold onto the banister to stay upright. She wrapped an arm around your waist, bracing you against her own body.

She slung your arm around her shoulder, trying to help you up the stairs. “Shshsh, baby,” she cooed, cradling your head and kissing your temple. “Let’s get you wrapped up and warm. You're gonna be okay. I’ve got you.” She eventually got you up to the guest room, the room she had long considered to be yours anyway. She sat you down on the edge of the bed before turning to grab some spare clothes from the wardrobe. She placed them in a folded pile next to you and knelt down in front of you, placing herself on your level.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re safe here. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you,” she soothed, rubbing your knee gently. “Just take a few deep breaths for me. Do you think you can tell me what happened?”

“M-mom…” was the only word you could choke out.

She nodded in understanding. “Something happened with your mom?”

You nodded and blabbered, but she could see you were just getting frustrated with your inability to speak.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Take your time, baby. I’m not going anywhere,” Wanda reassured, trying to quell your rising frustration. “Did she hurt you?”

You shook your head. “N-no. It was… well it was stupid, really. She… well, I was hungry… and she gave me… al-almonds.”

“Almonds?” Wanda’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. She rolled up your sleeve and pushed two fingers into the skin of your wrist, as if she was checking whether or not you were alive in front of her. Her other hand went up to cradle the side of your head, pressing her thumb to your cheekbone. “You didn’t eat any, did you? Do you have your EpiPen with you? I have an extra in the closet. I can…”

“No,” you interrupted. “I didn’t eat any. I’m okay. I just… I can’t believe she forgot. I mean I guess I can’t expect her to remember everything about me, but… I don’t know… this felt important.”

“Honey,” she started, tone growing a bit harsher. She wasn’t upset with you, but you could feel the anger radiating off of her. “She could’ve killed you. That isn’t just something that slips your mind. That’s carelessness. A carelessness that could have cost you dearly. God she shouldn’t even be eating almonds in the same room as you! Agh!”

You jumped a little bit. She felt a twinge of guilt. The last thing you needed right now was someone to scare you even more. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not mad at you. I could never be mad at you.”

“I know,” you sniffled. “I just… I know she didn’t mean to hurt me. She just forgot…”

“My love,” she started, cradling your face again, “do you know what these sheets are made of?”

You shook your head.

“Cotton. And it’s washed with hypoallergenic laundry detergent. Because I know my baby has sensitive skin, and polyester and scented detergents make you itchy. And you don’t stay here very often, but when you do, you deserve a nice soft bed that doesn’t break you out,” she explained. “I know you may not think of me as your mama, and that’s okay. You don’t have to. But know that I’d sooner forget my own name than forget you take your coffee with two creams and a sugar. It comes to me as natural as breathing. Because that’s what mama’s do. They love. They care. And they never forget.”

“But… she’s… she’s sick,” you stammered. “Her head… she’s… she’s in so much pain Wanda.”

She squeezed your hand. “Her pain is not a crucifix, sweetheart. You don’t not need to martyr yourself on it. She’s hurting you.” She lifted your head, forcing you to look at her. Her voice was quiet, regretful, even. As if it pained her to admit she’d let you live with her for so long. The more you spoke the clearer it became that this problem ran much deeper than almonds. Bile rose in her throat as she imagined what you had been through, even just in the year she’d known you. She should’ve seen it sooner, but she would not let you suffer any longer. “Baby. Please.”

You wanted to argue back: tell her that it wasn’t that your mother was bad, she just had a harder time being gentle and loving. Her head didn’t always work right. That’s why she treated you the way she did: not because she didn’t love or care about you, but because she was sick and broken.

You wanted to tell her that you weren’t weary or afraid of your mother, just that sick part of her. It wasn’t her; it was different. But then you took a long look into Wanda’s eyes. You felt her hand, soft and warm against your face. And you weren’t weary. And you weren’t afraid. There was no monster rippling under the surface, no eggshells under your feet. There was just Wanda. Your mama.

You fell forward, off the bed and into her arms. She caught you, pulling you against her chest and cradling your head into her shoulder while you cried. She gently pet your wet hair, soothing you and rocking you in her arms. “I know, baby. I know,” she whispered, kissing right next to your ear. “You deserve so much better, my love. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything she ever did and didn’t do. I’m so sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I would’ve come, if I had known. I will always come for you, I swear. But you don’t have to live like that anymore. I’m gonna take care of you, angel. Mama’s got you.”

You grabbed her shirt, balling it up in your fists like you were afraid she’d fly away. She rocked you, adjusting to sit on the floor with you in her lap. She cried too, remorseful and guilty for every second she let you rot in that house. She cried for the evenings you had gone hungry, the nights she hadn’t cradled you in her arms, and every biting action that had made you believe you were anything less than a miracle. It would never happen again. She would never let it happen.

You felt so small and frail in her arms. What kind of person could hurt a little angel like you? She wanted to burn down the other half of the city just thinking about it. She would drain every ounce of blood from your mother’s miserable veins if I could replace even a drop she took from you.

She rubbed your back and kissed your head, cooing words of reassurance and praise until your sobs turned to sniffles.

“Mama…” you cried softly into her neck. Her heart nearly lept from her chest. That was her. She was your mama.

She smiled, looking down at you. She lifted your head to rub your nose against her’s. “That’s right, baby. I’m your mama, and I’m never gonna let you go.”

[xanofmercia]

Not a huge fan of some of the later notes roasting this. Of course what you choose to do with your own body is valid, and people trying to shame you into a different choice, however well-intentioned, are not doing a good thing. You’re expressing concerns or stating your choice for yourself and you don’t deserve to be made fun of just for that.

That said, draconym is right that you can still be yourself, The Real You, on pills! I can’t speak for all meds, but I’ve never had a problem with the “regressing because meds ran out” with ADHD meds. I’ve ran out for reasons mentioned in the previous reblogs. With ADHD meds, I did actually worry a lot about losing myself or my chaos while on them, or not being able to be as creative, or becoming some kind of more boring version of myself. Luckily that didn’t happen! I’m literally me with the only difference being that I feel like I have more energy and I can actually just decide to do things sometimes instead of spending hours psyching myself up to do them. There’s not really any other difference. The ‘versions’ of me are the same. And the ones I take aren’t actually supposed to be taken every day; you’re supposed to avoid doing them too often so you don’t build up a tolerance. I only take them when I feel like I could use the boost. Running out sucks because I can’t get a focus/executive energy boost when I need it, but I don’t “regress” back into a previous version of myself. It’s not a huge comedown or massive drop between my normal state when I have them versus when I’ve run out.

Depression’s a bit different because withdrawal can give you brain-zaps which scared me when they first happened, and stopping too quickly can cause some bad side effects, which has happened to me a fair amount because pharmacies and medication in my country are terrible. If that’s a serious concern for you, depending on the medication it could actually make sense to decide you don’t want to have to deal with things like withdrawal symptoms if you forget and miss a few days, or having to always remember to get to the pharmacy on time. I did also get concerned about taking this one because I heard it could level out your moods a lot so you couldn’t feel as happy as you did before. But I didn’t really feel like it made a significant enough impact on that front for me to stop taking it.

I know people who dislike the idea of manufactured chemicals altering things in their brains. It doesn’t matter if that’s rational or logical or not; it is what it is. You don’t *have* to take meds. You don’t *have* to do anything you don’t want to.

But it’s always good to have more information about important decisions like this, regardless of your ideas or reasons. You’re welcome to talk to me, or you can check out some forum testimonials or do some research on specific disorders and their treatments and the effects people experience with each. This isn’t intended as pressure to change your mind or anything; you’re absolutely free to do whatever you want with the information. It’s just better the more information you have, no matter how much you already know. And if not going on meds is definitely the best decision for you, then that’s also valid! Either way, it won’t hurt to have more information about them.

90s movies: Psychopharmacology is as good as a lobotomy. If you take pills to treat your mental illness it will literally murder your imaginary friends and you will become a boring, lotus-eating conformist drone.

Me after taking my meds: drives the scenic route home to see if there are any geese on the pond and does a little dance in line at the grocery store and comes home to throw everything​ in my fridge into a stew pot because I can finally taste food again while singing songs at my birds in which I replace all the instances of "she" with "Cheese" and doing a Dolly Parton impression on the phone to my sister

[jenosonlywife23]

Recharge Mode: Jeno Activated

an; Jeno expert in handling his tired gf and also a very efficient charger. 🔋 I hope this is exactly what you were looking for! 🥹🔥

The party is in full swing, and Jeno is glowing. His laughter carries over the music, easy and carefree, and you can’t help but smile at the sight.

He rarely gets nights like this—SM keeps him on such a tight schedule that hanging out with his friends has become a luxury. You don’t want to be the reason he cuts it short.

So, you keep it together. Keep nodding, smiling, pretending you’re still fully engaged in the conversation happening around you. But the weight in your limbs, the way your mind feels foggy from overstimulation—it’s getting harder to fake.

And Jeno knows.

He sees the subtle signs: the way your fingers toy with the hem of your sleeve, the way your responses get shorter, the way your eyes dart toward the exit a little too often.

His smile never drops, but his focus shifts.

From across the pool table, he locks eyes with you. No words. Just a small tilt of his head and a knowing glance that makes your stomach flip.

Then, without hesitation, he moves—walking around the table with quiet determination. His hand finds yours, warm and firm, and he doesn’t even ask if you’ll follow. He already knows you will.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, squeezing your fingers.

You don’t protest. Just let him guide you through the party, weaving past groups of people until you’re away from the noise, now on a mission for a quiet place to breathe.

Jeno’s hand tightens around yours when he reaches for a door, pushing it open—

Only to immediately slam it shut.

Your eyes widen, and you both burst into laughter as muffled curses come from the very occupied room.

“Holy—okay, not that one,” Jeno snickers, gripping your wrist as he pulls you away.

“Did you see—” You can barely get the words out between wheezes.

“Nope, didn’t see a damn thing.” He shakes his head, grinning. “And I plan to keep it that way.”

Still laughing, you both keep searching until finally, an empty room. Jeno ushers you in, locking the door behind you before you can even fully catch your breath.

Then, without warning, he tugs you toward the couch, pulling you right onto his lap—settling you comfortably between his legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Take a break,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down to rest on your ass, fingers spreading just enough to make you aware of his touch.

Your heart stutters. “Jeno—”

“I mean it.” He tilts his head, studying your face. “You’re running on fumes.”

You sigh, letting yourself lean into him, your forehead resting against his shoulder. “I just didn’t want to ruin your night.”

Jeno huffs. “Ruin?” His voice drops, quieter now, his lips brushing against your temple. “Babe, me having fun doesn’t matter if you’re miserable.”

Your fingers curl against his shirt. “You barely get time with your friends, though…”

“I get you even less.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. “And I don’t want you pushing yourself for me, okay?”

Warmth floods through your chest. He’s so damn sweet, you could cry.

Jeno hums, his hands squeezing your thighs lightly. “So, what’s it gonna be? You wanna go home?”

You hesitate. “I mean… maybe in a bit.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Want me to recharge your battery first?”

You blink. “What?”

Jeno tilts his head, the playful glint in his eyes undeniable. “I could boost your energy. Y’know… with a little motivation.”

His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer until your noses brush.

“You’re so—” You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your body instinctively leans into his warmth.

Jeno just grins. “Is that a yes?”

You bite your lip, pretending to think it over. “Well… it depends.”

He quirks a brow. “On?”

You smirk. “How good of a charger you are.”

Jeno groans dramatically. “Babe, don’t even start—”

But his teasing is cut off as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his in the softest, sweetest way. And just like that, Jeno flips the switch—tilting his head, deepening the kiss, hands slipping under the fabric of your top just to feel your skin.

And suddenly, your social battery doesn’t feel so drained anymore.

[cringywhitedragon]

”They said it would destroy us all if it got loose. And they were right.”

A once thriving colony.

“98% of Otania has been infested by an alien lifeform we call the Dredge. Anything it infects is converted into one of its drones.”

“The Federation has set up a blockade around the planet. Nothing can get in or out.”

Fighting for survival.

“It’s only a matter of time before one of those creatures finds a way to breach the wall. And when they do, the fleet above us have orders to bombard the planet until nothing remains alive. Including any survivors.”

Their only hope lies in

”My father was always a busy man. But on those rare days off, he would do all he could to spend as much time as he could with mom and I.”

“He never spoke much about his work offworld. Not until now.”

“What are these?”

“Notes. Notes that might be our only chance at saving this place.”

One just like the enemy

“Salutations, I am the Artificial Replicating Unit. You may call me ARU.”

“A self replicating artificial intelligence? I thought the Federation outlawed those years ago after that incident on the Cyclon?”

“I can promise you that I have no intention of going rogue. If anything, the thought of seeing myself as a God terrifies me…”

“O Connell, I think you’re scaring them.”

A scientist and a reluctant smuggler must journey offworld.

“You’re looking to get off this planet then, you’re looking right at him. Captain Daniel O Connell at your service.”

“Ranolnt? The 4th planet in this system!? There’s no way in hell. The federation patrols that place more than a swarm of Hydralian Sandshulkers do their nest.”

“Just trust me on this.”

A twist on the old tales of rogue AIs and a love letter to the genre of sci fi

“Just like you, I am capable of expressing what humans call emotions. Like now! SECURITY DRONE AHEAD!”

“ARU!”

“I am ok. The rover might be damaged beyond usability but this drones works even better.”

“I never thought I would be saying this but ARU acts so… Human. I don’t know what your father did when designing them but he sure did a damn good job at it.”

A tale of hope, love, and secrets.

“I don’t know what you two found that was so important but it better be worth it!”

“This has to be one of the craziest journeys of my life. And I just want to say thank you.”

“Thank you for being here.”

Activating self destruct sequence in t minus 5 minutes

“No! You can do this to him!”

And just what it means for something to truly be considered “Human”

“He never treated it like a machine. He treated them like one of his own children.”

“I may be made of metal but that doesn’t mean I cannot show love.”

Man of Machine

”Why…. You are a Myraid like us. Why would you defend them?”

“Because they created me- and that’s enough for my gratitude.”

Coming Summer 2026

"Why? You are myriad like us... Why would you defend them?" the powerful hive mind asks the united army it's fighting, speaking through a million bodies, but still understood. "Because they created me—and that's enough for my gratitude," the machines respond in unison.

[keeryhours]

obey your (dungeon) master - eddie munson

Eddie Munson x female! reader

Main Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

1k Celebration Masterlist

Summary:

Eddie teaches you a lesson for being impatient.

1k celebration prompts: “Keep talking back, I dare you.” & “I’ll give that mouth something to do.”

Warnings:

Smut (18+), dom!eddie, oral (m receiving), face fucking, degradation

Word Count: 857

A/N:

Thank you so much for celebrating with me! I hope you like this little blurb! Divider by strangergraphics

“Eddie, I’m bored,” you whined as hour 4 of Hellfire planning ticked by. Eddie was planning their next campaign, and you were…sitting off to the side, waiting. “You said this would only take a couple of hours and then we could hang out.”

“I’m busy, sweetheart,” Eddie said for about the millionth time. He was starting to get irritated.

“But Eddie…” You ran your hand down his arm. “Please? Why don’t you take a break. You’ve been working hard…and I want to hang out with you.”

“No,” Eddie answered firmly. “Not right now. Believe me, we’ll spend time together when I’m done.”

You were frustrated. This had gone on way longer than Eddie said. You were about ready to just go home, but you didn’t want to give up that easily.

“Come on, Eds. You’ve done enough today.”

Eddie looked at you, something dark behind his eyes. “Keep talking back. I dare you.”

You froze. There was a threat behind those words - maybe more of a promise. A promise of something you wanted, badly.

You walked in front of him, swaying your hips as you walked. You were dressed in some tiny shorts and a tank top, an outfit Eddie really liked. You bent over, your cleavage right in front of his face. “Just a break. Please?”

Eddie sighed, slamming his D&D book closed. “Really? You couldn’t just let me finish this?”

You pouted as you stood up straight. “Eddie, you promised-“

“You want attention that bad?” Eddie stood, looming over you. He ran his thumb down over your bottom lip, parting your lips slightly. “Wanna run your mouth until you get what you want?” He leaned in close, his face inches from yours. “I’ll give that mouth something to do.”

You swallowed, nervous yet excited as Eddie pushed you down to your knees. His hands immediately went for his belt, undoing it and his pants as he pushed them down to his thighs. His cock was already half hard, twitching to life from the way you were looking at it.

“Open that pretty little mouth, princess,” he said, parting your lips with his thumb, resting it on your tongue. “Such a good girl. Look at you.”

You wrapped your lips around his thumb and sucked on it, swirling your tongue around it. Eddie closed his eyes with a groan, his cock throbbing and desperate to be touched.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he hissed, removing his thumb from your mouth and wrapping his fist around his cock. He squeezed it at the base, his tip flushed red as precum leaked from his slit. “You gonna take me down your throat, princess?”

You nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir.”

Eddie smirked, pleased. “Open wide.”

You did as you were told, opening your mouth wide and sticking your tongue out. Eddie slapped his cock against your tongue a couple times, rubbing the underside against it. You always felt so impossibly good.

You wrapped your lips around him as he began sinking further into your mouth. No matter how many times you sucked him off, you never got used to how huge he was. And he wasn’t being gentle about it this time, either.

You gagged as his tip reached the back of your throat, and Eddie groaned. “Yes, that’s it. That’s it, pretty girl, you’re taking me so good.” He stroked your cheek affectionately, but his movements were aggressive as he grabbed you by the hair and started to fuck your face.

“Is that hard enough for you? Deep enough?” he asked, his voice condescending, mocking. “Fuckin’ needy slut. I know you like when I use you. Nothing but a toy for me to cum in.”

You whimpered, tears streaming from your eyes as Eddie thrusted in to the hilt with every movement of his hips. You loved it when he fucked you like this. It was filthy, obscene, mean, rough- none of the things Eddie was in normal life.

Eddie was panting, losing his composure the closer he got to his release. His fingers tightened in your hair, his hips snapping into you harder and harder. You could barely breathe, it was nearly too much.

Finally he pulled out with a strangled gasp, his cock twitching as he held back his orgasm. His trembling hand shook as he still held your hair, trying to calm himself. He couldn’t cum yet - had to be inside of you.

He caressed your cheek again, this time softly. “Good girl. You did so good for me.”

He pulled you up onto the bed, pulling off your shorts and panties, pushing your shirt up to expose your tits. He wrapped his lips around your nipple, sucking on it hard and making you gasp before he moved to the other. He kissed you, tongue slipping into your mouth. His kisses trailed all over.

You could feel his cock pressed against you, like it was begging for you. His grip tightened on your hips - you both needed each other, badly.

“You know I love you, right?” Eddie asked, his lips grazing your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Because I’m about to fuck you like I don’t.”

[thewulf]

Return to You || Aragorn

Summary: Request - he reader and aragorn are in an established relationship before he leaves with the fellowship, and shortly after he's gone she finds out that she's pregnant. obviously she can't tell aragorn since she doesn't know where he is to send a letter or otherwise a message of some kind... Read Rest Here

A/N: Wow, I really love this one. It took me a while but I think it turned out really well. Let me know what you think :)

Pairing: Aragorn x Female Reader

Word Count: 6.1k +

TW: War, talks of war, pregnancy, general LOTR

The fire crackled low in the hearth casting long, flickering shadows across the small space you and Strider had called home. It wasn’t much. Just a small cottage nestled in the rolling hills not too far from the village of Bree. The warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill creeping into your bones. It wasn’t from the cold, no, but instead from the unspoken truth that lingers between you.

He’s leaving.

You knew the time was coming. You felt it in your bones. The way Middle Earth got darker through every day. And Strider was important in warding off whatever the hell was taking over your home. You knew that much by how often Gandalf had visited. You never asked how bad. He never told you the details other than you knew he’d be called to the front lines soon enough. And apparently that day was today.

Strider sat beside you. His rough, calloused fingers trailing along the back of your hand as if memorizing every ridge and line. He does that often, touching you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go. Tonight, though there’s something different in his touch. A quiet desperation, a silent plea. Neither of you had spoken in a while. There’s nothing left to say that hasn’t already been whispered in the dark, murmured against skin, carved into the sacred spaces between your heartbeats.

Gandalf’s call had finally come. The war is no longer a distant shadow on the horizon. It’s here, looming over the world, threatening to tear everything apart. And Strider, the man you love, the man whose name is laced with destiny, cannot turn away.

“I would stay if I could,” he murmured at last breaking the heavy silence. His thumb brushes against your knuckles, lingering, like he’s afraid to let go. Because he is. “You know that, don’t you?” His eyes were pleading.

You swallow the ache rising in your throat and nod. “Of course, I know.”

His breath shuddered as he shifted closer, resting his forehead against yours. “Gandalf needs me.” His voice is low, rough with regret. “The world needs me.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “I know. Trust me… I know. But what of me? What am I to do?” The words slip out before you can stop them, raw and aching. You hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to let the fear show.

Strider exhales sharply, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. There’s something in his expression that steals the air from your lungs, something tender and fierce all at once. “You must stay hidden. You are my world,” he says softly. “And I will return to you no matter what it takes.”

Tears prick at your eyes, but you force yourself to smile. “You’re lucky I’m good at hiding. And that I’m patient.”

A low, breathless chuckle escapes him before he cups your face in his hands. His thumb brushing along your cheek as if to chase away the sorrow settling there. His lips find yours in a kiss that is both a promise and a plea, slow and lingering, desperate, and aching. You pour every unspoken word into it, every prayer, every ounce of love you have for him. When he finally pulled away his forehead rests against yours once more. “I will come back to you,” he vows. “I will always come back to you. No matter how long it takes.”

And in the morning as you stand at the edge of the village watching him disappear into the rising sun you clung to those words like a lifeline. Because no matter how far he goes, no matter how long you have to wait, you know one thing with absolute certainty. He will always find his way back to you.

The days stretch long and quiet in his absence. The mornings are the hardest, waking to an empty bed and reaching for the warmth of him only to find cold sheets and silence. You find yourself lingering in doorways staring out toward the horizon as if you might catch a glimpse of him in the distance riding home to you. But he is gone so far beyond your reach swallowed by the road that calls him ever forward.

At first you distract yourself with routine. Chores, errands, tending to the home you built together. You keep busy because you must. Because if you stop the ache in your chest becomes unbearable. But not long after he leaves something feels different. At first it was subtle. A wave of dizziness when you stood too quickly. A lingering nausea in the mornings that you chalk up to restless sleep. You tried brushing it off but not long after the fatigue creeps in. An exhaustion that weighs heavier than heartache alone. You press on though, pushing through until the realization becomes impossible to ignore.

The healer didn’t t need long to confirm what you already suspected. Her hands are gentle as they press against your abdomen with a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You are with child.” She said softly with a saddened smile. She knew, the whole village knew, that the baby’s father was long off fighting for the preservation of Middle Earth. The words crash over you like a wave, sweeping your breath away. For a long moment you can only stare trying to process what she’s just said. A child. Strider’s child.

Your hands tremble as they settle over your stomach as if expecting to feel something different beneath your fingertips. A life, small and fragile, growing within you. A piece of him left behind. Joy, fear, and uncertainty twist together in your chest, tangling into something impossible to untangle. You should be happy, shouldn’t you? And you are, in some quiet, awestruck way. But beneath that joy, fear lingers. A fear of what the future holds. Of what may come. Because Strider is not here. And there is no way to tell him.

You think of sending a letter, of finding a messenger, but you have no idea where he is. He could be anywhere beyond the mountains, lost in the wilds, deep in the heart of danger. You could write a thousand letters and never know if one would reach him. So, you had to wait.

The weeks pass and the weight of your secret grows heavier. Your body begins to change. The once loose fabric of your dresses stretching tighter over your stomach. You stand before the mirror some mornings pressing your hands against your belly whispering words only the child can hear. Your love. Your father will return to us. He will.

But as time drags on the world darkens. Rumors trickle in from travelers, whispers of war and death and an enemy who grows stronger by the day. Villages burned, men slaughtered, hope slipping through the cracks like sand in an hourglass. And with every passing day, your fear deepens. What if he does not return? What if he never knows? What if this child, his baby, enters the world without ever knowing the sound of his father’s voice?

You press your hands against your stomach, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill. “I will wait for you,” you whisper into the quiet. Even if the waiting breaks you.

The world feels too quiet without him. Without the steady warmth of his presence. Without the way he would murmur soft words in the dark when he thought you were asleep. Without the way his fingers would brush over yours in quiet moment promising things he never said aloud.

Now, there is only the crackle of the dying fire and the steady whisper of wind against the wooden walls. You lay awake most nights staring at the ceiling one hand resting over the growing curve of your stomach. The weight of the secret you carry grows heavier with each passing day. With each reminder that you are alone.

Fear lurks in the corners of your mind. Not just for yourself, but for him. Where is he? Is he safe? Does he think of you as often as you think of him? You don’t know. And it’s the not knowing that threatens to break you.

Then, one morning, the nausea hits harder than before. You barely make it outside in time, bracing yourself against the railing as your body trembles with the force of it. When the sickness passes you lean back against the post, breathless and exhausted. The sun is barely cresting over the horizon casting a golden glow across the fields and for a moment you let yourself pretend that Strider is still here. That he will step through the doorway and press a hand to your back, murmuring reassurances in that steady, quiet voice of his.

But he is not here. And he will not be, not for a long time. You press a hand to your stomach, feeling the faintest flutter beneath your palm. A life. His life. A part of him, still here, still with you. The thought steels your resolve. You cannot continue waiting in silence hoping for answers that may never come. Strider once spoke of Rivendell, of Lord Elrond’s wisdom, of the sanctuary it provided. If anyone knew where he was it would be him. If anyone could offer guidance it would be him.

And so, before doubt can creep in you pull yourself upright and move inside settling at the worn wooden desk in the corner of the room. The parchment feels fragile beneath your fingertips as you dip the quill into ink, hesitating only for a breath before pressing the tip to the page. You do not know how to begin. But you begin anyway.

To Lord Elrond of Rivendell,

My name is Y/N, and I write to you not as a stranger, but as the one Strider left behind. Or as you know him, Aragorn.

I do not send this letter lightly, nor do I wish to burden you with matters that may seem small in the face of the darkness that looms over Middle Earth. But I have nowhere else to turn.

Aragorn spoke of you often, with the deepest respect. He once told me that if I were ever in need I might look to Rivendell for guidance. Now, I find myself in need of both guidance and news of him.

I do not know where he is. I do not know if he is safe, or if he will return. And I do not know if this letter will reach you in time. But I pray that it does because I am carrying his child.

I had no way of telling him before he left. I do not even know if I will ever have the chance. But I had to try. If there is any way to get word to him. If there is any hope that you might know where he is… please, I beg of you, let me know.

If nothing else, I ask for your wisdom. The world is changing, growing darker with each passing day and I fear for the safety of this child.

I will wait for your word.

You let the ink dry then fold the letter carefully sealing it before pressing it into the hands of a trusted traveler. “Take this to Rivendell,” you whisper. “Please.”

The waiting is unbearable. Days turn into weeks. Each one stretching longer than the last. Your body changes with the passing time. A growing reminder of the life that will arrive whether Strider returns or not. You knew of his true lineage as Aragorn. He told you a long time ago but insisted on Strider. So, you’d always called him by what he wished.

Then, at last, a rider arrives at your doorstep, clad in elven robes. He does not speak at first but only presses a letter into your trembling hands. His expression solemn. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you break the seal, fingers tightening around the parchment as your eyes scan the elegant script.

Your letter reached me, but alas, not in time.

Aragorn has already departed from Rivendell. He travels now with the Fellowship, and I cannot say when or if he will return. He walks a path of great peril. His fate, like that of all free peoples, hangs in the balance.

I grieve that you must bear this burden alone. No lady should have to face such uncertainty without the comfort of her beloved by her side. And so, I offer you this: Come to Rivendell. You and the child will find sanctuary here. You will not be alone.

If you wish it come to Rivendell with the messenger who handed you this letter.

Elrond of Rivendell

Your vision blurred as you lower the letter, emotions warring within you. Relief that your words had not gone unheard, sorrow that your Strider is still lost to you, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the kindness offered in Elrond’s reply.

You press a hand to your stomach, exhaling a slow, steady breath. Strider may be gone. He may never know of the child you carry. But you will do whatever it takes to protect this life. To ensure that your child is safe even if it means leaving everything behind.

When the messenger asks what you will do, you lift your chin, heart heavy but resolute. “I will travel to Rivendell with you.”

The journey to Rivendell is long, stretching over days or weeks that bleed together in exhaustion and quiet reflection. You leave behind the familiar comforts of home. The place where Strider last stood before you and trade them for the uncertainty of the road ahead. The elves who guide you are patient, their presence a steady reassurance, but the solitude you carry remains unshaken. The nights now had become the hardest when the world is still and there is nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company. You wonder where he is, if he is safe, if he is looking at the same stars you are.

By the time you reach Rivendell you are nearly at the end of this pregnancy. But you did have time to admire the elven lands. Rivendell is as beautiful as Strider had described. Untouched by war and time. A sanctuary wrapped in cascading waterfalls and golden trees. The very air feels different here, lighter, ancient, like a whisper of something beyond mortal comprehension. But for all its beauty it is not home. The ache in your chest does not fade nor does the silence in the space beside you. The absence of the man you love stretching wider with each passing day. The elves welcome you graciously, offering kindness without expectation, but their presence only reminds you that you are alone in a place meant for those with elven blood. You do not belong here.

At first you keep to yourself uncertain of what role you hold in this sanctuary. You spend the days walking through the stone corridors, the terraces that overlook the valley, your hands always finding their place over the growing curve of your stomach. The life inside you is the only tether you have to Strider now. The last piece of him you can hold onto when everything else is uncertain. You whisper to your baby, pressing soft words against your skin, hoping that somehow they can feel the love you already bear for them.

Elrond watches over you though you do not understand why at first. You know of his history with Strider. Of the weight he placed upon him for years, the expectations of a lineage long denied but never forgotten. There is an unspoken wariness when you first meet him. A quiet hesitation as you wonder if he sees you as a complication in Striders grand destiny. But Elrond never speaks of such things, nor does he treat you with anything less than patience and wisdom. He does not pry, does not press when he sees the lingering sorrow in your eyes. Instead, he offers quiet companionship. A presence steady enough to remind you that you do not have to bear this alone.

He is there on the mornings when the sickness leaves you pale and shaking, offering herbal remedies to ease the discomfort. He places books in your hands when the nights stretch too long knowing that distraction is sometimes the only way to keep the mind from spiraling. When you struggle beneath the weight of uncertainty he does not speak empty reassurances but instead reminds you of your own strength, of the resilience that has carried you this far.

"You are strong," he tells you one evening. His voice calm but firm. "Even when you do not feel it you are strong. And you will endure." You nod though you do not entirely believe it. Strength feels fleeting these days. A thing that wavers beneath the weight of the unknown. Some nights, you dream of Strider. Of his hands on yours, of the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth fighting for. You wake with tears on your cheeks more often than not, and though Elrond never mentions it you know he sees. He does not press but his presence lingers just long enough to remind you that you are not truly alone.

Time moves forward even as you feel frozen in place. Your body changes wholly. Your baby growing stronger with each passing day. You begin to feel the child’s movements, soft at first, then stronger. Small kicks, reminders that you are not just waiting for Strider but for the baby who will need you no matter what happens in the world beyond Rivendell. You let yourself imagine what it would be like if Strider were here. If his hand could rest over your stomach the way yours does. If he could see the life you created together. The thought brings equal parts joy and sorrow because you do not know if he will ever return to see it.

And then, on a night bathed in silver moonlight, the first sharp pain lances through you.

It begins slowly. A dull ache that you try to dismiss as exhaustion but as the hours stretch on the pain intensifies. You clutch the edge of the bed, breathing through it, but when the next wave comes, you know. It is time.

The next hours pass in a blur of whispered voices and steady hands. Of soft reassurances in Elvish and the warmth of a hand pressed against yours when the pain becomes unbearable. The room swims in and out of focus, exhaustion threatening to pull you under, but you fight against it, gripping onto the knowledge that soon, so soon, you will meet you baby.

And then after what feels like an eternity, the weight of it all breaks. A sharp cry fills the room, piercing through the exhaustion, the haze of pain and uncertainty. The sound crashes over you, and everything else fades into nothing. “A boy.” You hear in your haze.

Your son.

Elrond lifts him carefully. His expression unreadable for a moment before he steps closer, placing the small, wriggling body into your waiting arms. The moment his weight settles against you, the world stills.

He is perfect.

Your breath hitches as you take him in. Your hands shaking as you press your fingers against his impossibly soft skin. Dark hair, still damp from birth, clings to his forehead. And when his eyes flutter open, they are deep and grey, piercing in a way that makes your heart stop.

Strider.

It’s almost too much, the ache in your chest swelling until it feels unbearable. He is not here. He should be here. He should be the one holding his son. The one whispering reassurances. The one tracing the tiny fingers curled against your chest.

Tears spill over before you can stop them, dropping onto your son’s forehead as you press a trembling kiss there, inhaling the scent of him, of new life, of something so fragile yet so incredibly strong. You hold him closer, whispering words against his skin, words meant for him but also for Strider. For the man who does not yet know the love waiting for him here.

"You are loved," you whisper. Your voice thick with emotion. "You are so, so loved."

Even if Strider never returns. Even if the world takes him from you before he can ever know, this child will never have to doubt the depth of the love he was born into. Because Strider is here. Not in body, not yet, but in this life, in this perfect, tiny boy who carries his strength.

And so, you hold your son close, rocking him gently as his cries soften into small breaths against your chest. You do not know what the future holds but in this moment you do not need to.

Because no matter what happens next you will keep your promise. You will wait for Strider. And when he returns, if he returns, you will place his son in his arms, and he will know. He will know that even through all the darkness something bright and beautiful was waiting for him to come home.

The days in Rivendell are quiet, your son growing stronger with each passing week. He is your anchor. The only thing tethering you to the present when your thoughts so often drift to the past. To Strider, to the uncertainty of his fate. You wake in the night sometimes clutching your child close wondering if somewhere across the world Strider is still fighting if he is still alive. You have no idea how long it had been since he left your home. A year maybe? Elrond confirms it had been nearly that amount of time.

Then, one morning, the world shifts. The halls of Rivendell buzz with murmurs. Excitement threading through voices that have remained steady and somber for so long. The news arrives that Sauron was defeated. The war is over.

You clutch your son tighter as the words sink in. Middle Earth is free. The darkness that once threatened to consume everything has been vanquished. Hope fills the valley, but you are afraid to let it settle in your heart. You do not ask the one question burning inside you, not yet, not until you hear Elrond’s voice, quiet but certain, as he delivers the final truth.

Aragorn lives. Your Strider is alive. Alive.

The breath left your lungs in a sharp, shuddering gasp, your knees nearly giving out beneath you. Relief washed over you so violently that it leaves you dizzy. The weight of months of fear, of not knowing, crashing down all at once. He is alive. He is alive. He is coming back. Coming home!

But Elrond’s next words halt your thoughts in their tracks.

“He is to be crowned King of Gondor.”

The statement rings in your ears, sending a different kind of tremor through you. The war is over. Strider is not just alive. He is victorious. He is stepping into the destiny he was always meant for, the one that has lingered over him like a shadow for as long as you have known him. He is no longer just the man who held you close and promised to return. He is to be king. King of Gondor.

Your heart clenches with a different fear taking root in your chest. What if everything has changed? What if he has changed? You had always known that this day would come. That Strider was never meant to remain in the wilds forever. But now, standing here with your son in your arms, the reality of it is suffocating.

Would he still want you? Would he still want this life that was built in his absence, a child he did not know existed? Or would his new station, his new responsibilities, demand something else entirely?

You press a trembling kiss to your son’s forehead, inhaling the scent of him, grounding yourself. You should be celebrating, rejoicing in the knowledge that the man you love is alive. And yet, all you can do is stare down at the small boy in your arms, the one who carries Striders features so clearly, and wonder. Will he still choose us?

The journey to Minas Tirith stretches endlessly before you. Every step closer filling you with both anticipation and fear. You clutch your son tightly pressing a soft kiss to his dark hair, inhaling the sweet, warm scent of him as if it will steady the rapid beating of your heart. You had spent so many nights fearing this moment would never come. That Strider would never return. Now, the truth is almost too much to bear. He is alive, he has won, and he is waiting for you. Or so you hope. But what if he is no longer your Strider? What if he is now Aragorn alone?

The towering gates of Minas Tirith rise ahead after a month of travel. The banners of Gondor snapping in the wind. The city is alive with the hum of celebration. The people reveling in their freedom, in their new king. But you are blind to it all. Your world has shrunk to the only thing that matters. The man waiting at the top of those white stone steps.

And then you see him.

Strider stands at the entrance of the citadel clothed in the robes of a king, a silver circlet resting upon his brow. But none of it matters. Not the title. Not the crown. He could be standing in rags, and he would still be him. His grey eyes find yours and everything stops.

For a moment he does not move. Does not breathe as if the sight of you has struck him so deeply he cannot comprehend it. His gaze flickers from your face to the child in your arms and then back to you, something breaking, something raw and unguarded slipping through the carefully placed armor he has worn for so long.

And then he moves. Not with the controlled grace of a king. Not with the measured composure of a man who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. No, he runs. He runs to you. To your son. To his home.

His legs nearly buckle as he reaches you. His breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as if he has forgotten how to breathe altogether. He stops just short. His entire body trembling. His hands reaching out but not quite touching as if he is afraid that if he does you might vanish like a cruel dream.

His voice when it comes is hoarse, cracked with emotion. “You…” His breath shudders. “You’re real?”

Tears blur your vision as you nod, your arms tightening around your son. “I’m here.”

Strider, Aragorn, exhales sharply and before you can take another breath he drops to his knees before you. A strangled sound escapes him as he presses his hands to your skirts. His forehead resting against your legs in a gesture so utterly broken that it sends a fresh wave of tears spilling down your cheeks. His fingers grip the fabric of your cloak as if anchoring himself to you, his shoulders shaking under the weight of emotions too strong to contain.

“You waited for me,” he whispers, the words a prayer, a reverence, a confession. His lips press against the fabric covering your knee, then your thigh, then lower, worshiping the very ground you stand on. “I thought—I feared—” His breath is ragged as he shakes his head, pressing another kiss against your legs before tilting his head back to look up at you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Then, his gaze drops widens as he sees him. The baby in your arms. Not so much a newborn anymore but not a toddler yet. The small, sleeping boy nestled in your arms, so peaceful, so unaware of the storm his father is weathering before him. Striders entire body goes still. His hands slowly releasing their grip on your skirts. His breath catches, his fingers trembling as he hesitantly reaches forward, stopping just short of touching the child.

He looks up at you. His expression unraveling into something utterly undone. “Is he…” His voice fails him, cracking beneath the weight of the question.

You nod, your own voice barely a whisper. “He is yours, Strider.”

Something inside him broke. A choked, breathless sob escapes him as he lifts shaking hands. His fingers barely grazing the soft blanket wrapped around his son before he pulls back afraid that he is unworthy of touching something so pure. “I didn’t know…” His voice fractures again and he looks back up at you with desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” you whisper before shifting closer, pressing the bundle into his waiting arms. “But you do now.” The moment his son was in his arms Strider let out a sound so raw, so full of everything that he has held back for so long that it steals the air right from your lungs.

His hands, scarred and calloused from war, cradle the small boy with infinite tenderness. His thumb brushes along his son’s cheek memorizing every inch of him. The curve of his tiny nose, the soft wisps of dark hair, the way his fingers twitch in sleep.

Strider swallowed hard, tears slipping down his face as he presses his forehead against his son’s. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers. His voice trembling. “You are…” His breath shudders. “You are mine. The Prince of Gondor”

The boy stirs then, blinking up at him with eyes that mirror his own. Grey and stormy, deep as the rivers that run through the land. The first glimpse of recognition dawns in those tiny features, and Strider let out a soft, broken laugh. His grip tightening ever so slightly knowing will never let go. Your heart feels like it might truly shatter as you witness your son and his father meeting for the first time.

He looks back up at you then with the tears now spilling freely down his face. “What is his name?”

You hesitate. “I never truly named him,” you admit. Your voice thick with emotion. “I only ever called him Aragorn.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face. Then, suddenly, he laughs. A soft, breathless sound, full of wonder, full of disbelief. He looks down at his son with a teary smile tugging at his lips. “Then he has a name worthy of him.” He presses a reverent kiss to his son’s forehead before shifting his gaze back to you. And then before you can say anything else he reached for you, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace.

“I love you,” he murmurs as his lips pressed against your temple, your cheek, your lips. “I have always loved you.” His grip tightens as if he cannot bear to let go. “No war, no kingdom, nothing could ever change that.”

Tears rolled down your face as you clutch at him, pressing your forehead against his. “I was so afraid,” you whisper. “That you wouldn’t want us. That…”

Strider silences you with another kiss, deep and lingering, full of every promise he has ever made, full of everything he cannot put into words. When he pulls away his voice is fierce, unshaken. “Never,” he vows. “Never doubt that you are my heart. That he is my greatest joy.” He looks down at his son again, his fingers tracing gentle patterns over the boy’s tiny hands. “You waited for me,” he murmurs before pressing another kiss to his son’s head. “And now, I swear to you both, I will never leave again.” A quiet sob escapes you and you lean into him. Letting him hold both of you as if he can shield you from every sorrow you have ever known. You had waited. And now, finally you were home.

The White City gleams beneath the golden afternoon sun. Its towers stretching high into the heavens, banners of Gondor rippling in the wind. The throne room, once a place of war councils and endless worries, now holds something far greater. It holds peace, love, and a king who rules not just with wisdom but with a heart full of devotion.

And at the center of it all, Aragorn sits upon his throne, not just as the ruler of Gondor, but as a father, a husband, a man who has found his way back to the life he never dared to dream for himself.

His son sits in his lap with tiny fingers clutching at the silver detailing of his robes, wide grey eyes staring up at his father in open adoration. The boy is a mirror of him, with dark curls and a regal air that already hints at the leader he will one day become. Though for now he is simply his father’s son, wrapped in the safety of arms that would never let him go.

The court watches with quiet amusement as the toddler shifts in Aragorn’s hold whispering something in that sweet, curious voice of his. Without hesitation, the King of Gondor leans down, his expression softening completely as he murmurs a response, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead before turning back to the matters of the realm.

And standing at his side, watching the scene unfold, is you. You rest a hand over the gentle swell of your stomach, your heart full with the life growing inside you. Your second child, a symbol of everything that had once felt so uncertain, now made real in the warmth of your husband’s love. Your fingers trace over the fabric of your gown feeling the faintest flutter of movement beneath your touch. A quiet reminder that soon, your family would grow even more.

Aragorn’s eyes find yours, his gaze lingering, full of a love that still leaves you breathless, even now. His lips curve into a soft, knowing smile, and without a word, he shifts, adjusting his son in his arms before extending a hand toward you. You step forward, placing your hand in his, feeling the familiar warmth of his touch, the strength in his fingers as he intertwines them with yours. He lifts your joined hands pressing a kiss to the back of yours, reverence in every movement.

“My Queen,” he murmurs. His voice thick with affection. The title spoken not as a formality, but as something sacred.

Your breath falters for a moment, and though you have been by his side for months now, the weight of it still fills you with awe. He does not say it as if it is an obligation. He does not say it as if it is a role you were forced to accept. He says it like a man who has chosen you in every lifetime, in every battle, in every moment since the first time he laid eyes on you.

The small boy in his arms reaches for you then, his chubby fingers patting against your growing belly, a bright, innocent giggle spilling from his lips as if he already knows that soon he will have a sibling to protect. Aragorn chuckles, shifting the child slightly so you can press a kiss to his soft curls. Your fingers brushing against Aragorn’s in the process. His hand tightens over yours, his thumb sweeping gently across your knuckles, grounding you in the warmth of him.

There had been so much fear once. So much uncertainty. But now, there is only this. Him, your son, your growing family, the home you have built together within the walls of a kingdom that now thrives under his reign.

“You are happy?” he asks softly. His voice a quiet caress against your skin.

You smile, leaning in until your lips brush against his ear. Your voice warm with all the love you have ever held for him. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Aragorn exhales. His forehead pressing lightly against yours, the soft weight of your son nestled between you both. “Then I have fulfilled my greatest duty,” he murmurs, a quiet promise only for you to hear.

You close your eyes, letting the moment settle around you, letting yourself breathe in the scent of him, the warmth of your son, the peace that now fills your life. You had waited. You had hoped. You had loved him even when the world tried to tear you apart. And now, standing at his side, with his hand in yours and his child in your arms, you know.

He had always, always, been coming home to you. He would always return to you.

Permanent Taglist (Message me or comment below if you want to be added!) : @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891

[dollwhite]

Face of another

FOA fic. Made by dolling

Aunt reader chapter 4

Also this does not look like 1k words but it is I promise😭

“So auntie what is it that you’ve been doing around the world?” Damian asked his gaze fixated on you. “You know, the usual. Modeling, rich party’s, and more modeling.” You muttered. Your eyes focused on the road.

“How come you never bothered to call, or text, or send a letter?” He hissed. If you were just doing the same things you did, when you were living with his mother. How come you didn’t make time for him?

Your only nephew? What since did that make? Oh well he can answer that!

Simple, it didn’t. No matter how hard Damian tried to look at it. From different perspectives, and angles. He just couldn’t see what could possibly make you so busy?

So busy you couldn’t send one ‘good Morning’ text?

“Hun.. I just needed a well deserved break.” You confessed, pulling over the car into your apartment driveway.

“Away from your family? Grandfather also said family should never abandon family.” He uttered, his voice flat, trying to get straight to the point.

“Me and your…Mother, didn’t exactly get along.” You whispered, even just thinking about the memories with Talia were painful. “Even as we got older, she always felt… superior towards me.”

“But from my perspective, you and mother got along just fine.” From as far as Damian could remember you and Talia, always had a Solid relationship.

Even if you both had a disgment about something. At the end of the day you both put it behind eachother to get to the bigger picture.

You and Talia once had a sibling relationship, but that was when you were 12 and younger, at least that’s what Damian believes.

From the rare occasions when you told him stories about your childhood.

“Yes, from your perspective. Me and your mother knew better than to be around you, when we were arguing, our relationship only started getting better when you were born.”

With any other person, they would have just left the conversation there. But Damian? Oh he wasn’t just any other person. If he wanted to know about something, he would find out. One way or another.

“Tt, blood sisters not getting along?” Damian questioned, he’s never heard of such a ridiculous thing. Sibling argued and had sibling rivalry.

But just plan not liking each other, at all?

And by his mother and her twin. His mother, the same woman who constantly reminded him when he was growing up. That family is everything?

“Maybe we should continue this conversation later” you said, not giving him the opportunity to speak.

“What wait-you, you can’t just walk away!” He said opening his door to follow you to your apartment.

“Child, do not try and tell me what I can and cannot do” you peep him trying to get the trunk door open, so he can get his bookbag out of the trunk . he really does look exactly like Bruce and Talia, such a beautiful but sad combination.

“Tim, what did you find about her.” Bruce said, it had been only a few hours since you and Damian left. But they had wasted no time, in trying to find anything about that they could.

“Nothing other than the fact, that she models” Tim said. His voice hiding his uneasiness. Finding any information on someone from the league was hard enough. Finding info about Ra’s second ‘daughter’?

Now that was tough, even for the greatest detectives in the world.

That’s why Bruce was so quick to send Damian with you. He was Bruce’s son, sooner or later. Damian would ‘try’ and put mini car in your house.

Dick had left a little while after you, and Jason went back to his apartment to get ready for patrol.Duke is sleeping, Stephanie is doing whatever shit she does before partrol.

And Cass is already out there fighting the crimes, so really it’s just Tim and Bruce.

And Alfred with the occasional pop up with refreshments.

Maybe Bruce should’ve asked you where you lived, just so he could check up on Damian. Or…to check up on you.

And here you go again, flooding Bruce’s thoughts. It’s like he couldn’t get you off his mind no matter how hard he tried. Maybe it’s the way you look at him.

The way you look at him like he’s not Batman the greatest crime solver, like he’s not Bruce Wayne the billionaire playboy. Like he’s just him.

Like he’s human.

“Understand, you should grab something to eat before patrol.”

Tim sighed in disbelief, Bruce telling him to go to sleep? the same man who Alfred has to continually remind him to go sleep?

“Maybe you should take your own advice.” Tim hissed, he didn’t mean for his words to come out that way. It’s just this random woman, walks into the batcave.

Like she’s some close old friend of Bruce’s? And than clams to be Damian’s aunt! And Damian doesn’t even deny it.

When Tim was with the league, he hadn’t heard of Ra‘s having another daughter.

And the worst of all was, that Bruce let Damian go with this random woman. Even if Tim and demon spawn had a confusing relationship Tim still didn’t want his bother in danger.

Tim didn’t trust her. Not one bit.

“I’m sorry, da-Bruce I didn’t mean it to come out like that.” Tim said, turning around his chair to take a look a Bruce. Lightly stroking his hair.

It was a habit, he had since he was younger. It was something his old nanny did to him when he use to cry because his parents wouldn’t make it to his birthday celebrations.

Aka them parting like their lives depend on it. Sometimes even forgetting they had a child at home, most of the time they would remember when it was time to pay the nanny’s.

“It’s fine Tim, I get your just worrying about Damian. But I can reassure you, he will be fine.” Bruce said, his voice not reaching his eyes.

It was clear he was slightly paranoid about Damian too.

“How can you be so sure about that? We know nothing of her. Nothing…”

“Your brother knows how to take care of himself.”

Hopefully you guys liked thissss! 1k words but special! Because myyy bday is coming up! March 24444444

Taglist: @lazyemmy @ninihrtss @tsuniio

[videokilled]

Vox snickered under his breath. Satisfied with his own look enough to be enraptured in watching the other now. Watching him fuss with his own appearance but only for another moment before he pushed the curtains open.

Not what he would have done- but his area were illuminated mostly by deep water diffused natural light. If that even.

“I can’t imagine you would look out of place in a library of any kind.” He said under his breath, his voice sounding maybe a bit softer than he intended. And he didn’t elaborate. Fuck this trip was breaking him.

Vox put his cigarette back in his mouth as he inhaled but only for a moment before moving it back out in a mild excited tone.

“I get to lead this one?? Fuck yes. Is your family religious?” He said immediately without hesitation. Actually come to think of it- he probably shouldn’t use that angle- given he only died just under a century ago and he was known nationally- especially in the ‘non-denominational’ crowd. Of course his name wasn’t Vox then- but—

“What was my name again..?” He said without a second thought. He asked Valentino often. The knowledge just wouldn’t root itself in his head- he would forget for years at a time- sometimes it felt like he had never been human to begin with. He tried not to dwell on that part.

Then he realized he might not have even told Alastor. He didn’t remember that either.

“…I did tell you my name didn’t I? I guess it doesn’t matter. I can’t use the same trick twice.”

He grinned when Alastor moved over to share in his nicotine vice. He liked seeing the radio smoke. It suited him. Classy and elegant like the smoke— or someone might say— whatever— shut up.

Vox caught Alastor’s jaw in his hand- in a familiar hold- fingers aligning to something permanent. Gently pulling their faces closer as he steered his cigarette to swing forward and meet Alastor’s until it started smoldering.

Then bounced his eyebrows and grinned as he let go.

Definitely in a good mood after his fix.

“Hmm… I could a show host- like one of those reality tv ones. Prescreening- scouting.” Of course that would depend if the target wanted fifteen minutes of fame from their dirty secret though.

He just had always thought that job looked fun..

Vox watched his companion closely after his own slip up. Near disastrous. And even now he could still feel his nerves buzzing with the manic energy the drug was seeping into his bloodstream. He had intended to go back to the kitchen for more- but after that- Vox was thinking about heading the other’s warning a bit closer.

Going easy on it. It had been several days. It wasn’t just a top off. It was more like ending a tolerance break.

He blinked several times and shook his head like he had hair in his face. Focus focus. Cool, calm, in control.

Vox smoothed his sweater down needlessly, and moved toward the bathroom to take his turn in getting ready. He didn’t have any products or pampering items but the hotel had a few staples.

He washed his face for the first time in a century or so which felt weird. Then used the water to try and smooth his hair back. Hoping it would dry how he wanted it too.

The one piece that was partially streaked red wouldn’t stay though. Insistent on leaning forward. The underside bright hibiscus red, and that made his blue brown hair look even more raven shaded by contrast.

Vox gave up after a few more tries grumbling about it and moved back out into the room with his posture much more alike how it was in hell. It felt weird getting ready without wearing a suit. He kept wanting to reach up and fix his bow tie or make sure his suit collar was sitting correctly since he couldn’t feel it.

He came back out to Alastor dropping the towel and starting to get dressed. A smarmy little smile snuck up despite himself, sparing an extra long glance before he finally continued his move into the kitchen. Taking a quick shot of the whiskey they had on the counter. (For the vitamins.) Then scrounged for his cigarettes and lighter before making his way back into the main room.

Just in time for the unexpected bomb that was going back— it jarred him how much it felt….. well jarring to think about.

Back to his routine. His head rejoiced. His safety. His control. His tools and influence and tower- and Val.

Why did it make his chest pinch like that. So much so that he stammered again.

“Ah.. ahyes.”

Or his company would be in shambles. Or it wouldn’t be a return to the comfort of his routine at all.

Vox seemed to visibly fight a panicked thought off. Unaware of it showing so pristinely on his face- even now. His own hand moved up to bracket against his temple. His pupils moving around like they were trying to avoid making eye contact with his thoughts.

“Yesyes..” he said again after he realized he didn’t even have any information to find out when would be the best time to plan their return anyway. What if now was the best time. Well they couldn’t go now. They could- he could- their contract was done. He had said three to five days. It had been three. And yet- he was drawn to this… isolated little cycle they had. It felt surreal. Untouchable.

But it would end. It also dawned on him he wished he would have appreciated it more. But that was much too sappy for Vox the media demon.

“Uh— excuse me.” He muttered like he had sneezed instead of verbally and physically zoned out.

“Whenever your business is complete. I won’t have you blaming me for cutting it short.” He added but it sounded dry and edgeless.

Then Vox lit his cigarette and seemed to once again bounce right back into his smooth recovery after the nicotine hit his lungs.

That one rogue hair leaning forward over his eyebrow like a red banner.

“So these that we’re visiting now- they live in an apartment..? Who are we hoping to find?” He exhaled his cloud

“Or is it the building…”

[sweetdispatch]

https://www.tumblr.com/sweetdispatch/776300941286703104/v-bakery-500-celly

hi can I pls request a 7 piece warm apple pie with passionfruit ice cream and crushed almonds? thank you!

Bad mother - N. Hischier

v' bakery pairing: Nico Hischier x fem!reader summary: After having a baby, you and Nico started trying for another one until your mind was covered in worry warning: NSFW, graphic sex (+18), oral (f receiving)

Two years ago, you and Nico welcomed your first child. It has been the best two years of your and Nico’ life. Your daughter brought a lot of happiness to your life and made you fall in love again with Nico. You two always had been talking about having a big family but when you and Nico started trying for another kid, you became scared. 

You played along, acting like you still want it but deep down, the kid made you change your mind. You felt like a bad mother and started overthinking every little mistake you’ve made. All the worries were pointless because you were the best mother for your daughter but you were scared that with a new kid, you might abandon the older one. 

One day, Nico returned home and placed a loving kiss on your lips. Your daughter was already asleep so you two had a night for each other. He started roaming his big hands on your body and you pulled from him. This move alarmed him that something’s off with you. 

“What happened?” Nico asked you to look at your face and read every emotion from it. 

“I’m scared Nico” There was no turn back. You took a deep breath and continued. “I’m scared to get pregnant again. I’m scared that with the new kid, I’ll forget about our daughter and won’t be a good mother for her. I was thinking about this lately since you brought up the conversation and I already feel not good enough for her” 

Nico looked at you with worry written on his face. He felt like he failed you in showing that you’re the best mother for your kid. His mind couldn’t understand why you are thinking this way about yourself. For him, you were a wonderful mother and wanted to have more kids with you. 

“Where is this coming from? You're a great mother so what’s with the worries?” Nico asked you and placed his hands on your waist. 

“I don’t want to be responsible for ruining our kid because we have another…” Before you could continue, Nico put a finger on your lips to make you stop talking. When you closed your mouth, he spoke.

“You’re prettier with your mouth shut, especially when you’re saying nonsense like you just did. You’re wonderful mother to our daughter and another kid won’t change it. Yes, your focus will be on the newborn but you’ll never abandon our daughter. Let me show you how much I adore you for everything you’re doing” Nico pulled you into a kiss and carried you into a bedroom. 

Nico sat down on the bed and you sat down on his knees. Gently, he took off your shirt and started admiring your breast in a bra. He went lower with his kisses, placing them on your jawline and neck. You threw your head so he could have a better access. Your hands went into his hair and slightly you pulled them. 

Softly, Nico placed you on a bed so you could lay on your back. He started going lower with kisses, whispering cute and meaningful things to you. With every word, you were blushing like crazy. Nico always made sure you felt good but today, he was worshipping you. He took off your sweatpants and panties in one, motion move. He placed one last kiss on your belly and gently spread your legs apart. 

No matter how many times Nico saw you naked, it always amazed him how amazing a body you have especially after giving birth. For him, you were the prettiest and hottest woman alive. He stopped his moves and looked at you for a minute. 

“I could look at you whole day and whole night and never get bored of this view. I mean, wow. You look absolutely insane and only for my eyes” Nico said and kneeled in between your legs. 

Nico started placing kisses on your inner thighs before he kissed your pussy. He was delicate in his moves, and didn't want to rush things. Just wanted to show you how wonderful a woman you are and all your worries are pointless. He took the time with you. He didn’t want to just give an orgasm. He wanted you to feel appreciated. 

It was an act full of love. You felt his every touch on you. You became a mess under him and were moaning like crazy. Nico knew all your sweet spots and wanted to give you the most pleasure he could. He was eating you out and your hands went into his hair. You were slightly pulling them while enjoying this like never. All your worries were long forgotten. Now, it was all about you and him. 

Nico added a finger into you to bring you closer to the edge. He was well aware that you won’t last long and wanted to give you the most. His other hand was firmly laying on your thigh so you couldn’t close them. You arched your back from the pleasure. Not long after, you cum around his lips. You felt drained from the energy. 

You tried to catch your breath when Nico lied next to you and pulled you closer to hug you. You two laid like that for a couple of minutes until he spoke. 

“I don’t want you to feel forced to have another kid. If you’re not ready, I understand it but please, never say that you’re a bad mother. I couldn’t picture anyone better as a mother for our kid” Nico softly said. You smiled at his words. 

“I want another one but maybe not now. Can we wait a little longer until I settle down with my emotions?” You asked him, already knowing the answer. 

“Always” Nico kissed your cheek. “Now, go to sleep. It’s already after your bedtime” He joked and you cuddled him.

[gayerthebetter]

Ok I never really talk about stuff like this but I feel like I should because this is quickly getting out of hand.

First thing first....

You don't have to buy anything you don't want, I can understand if you don't want to miss out on watching the show with everyone but (and I'm sure some if not most don't know this) the show will 100% come to youtube and we as a fandom will all get together and watch it then as well just like we did with WAD. Any bits just for the live paid showing will 100% be on tiktok or youtube or something else because someone will repost it. All you will miss is just one showing just like not everyone could see every showing on the tour. That doesn't make you any less of a fan and a lot of people for one thing or another will be with you (Like me)

It's ok for there to be a paid showing, again there will be a free one soon enough so anyone who wants to pay to see it sooner or get some things as well is 100% in their right to do that, it won't hurt anyone that doesn't want to pay and well that's that really it's not something deep to hate dan and phil over, in fact it's just a way to take their shows and try and pay off the recording so they can make it free on youtube.

Tours like TATINOF and II recordings were done with the help of youtube and the BBC but that also meant that they will always have some kind of paywall around them, but shows like WAD and TIT go behind a paywall for a few weeks and then they become free forever.

I know the idea of that may seem like a dick move because they could make it free on youtube right away and we could just watch ads but blockers are a thing and things like what happened with WAD can happen again, also it's never a bad idea to try and make as much as you can with something no matter who you are. Artists will create one artwork and put it on tops posters or even cups, I have seen them post on redbubble as well as have their own shop because you should always try and make the most out of something that's just good business.

Now the hidden fees and the mess with the payments is something to be mad/upset about and phil did post on twitter about refunds and I seen a lot of people get full refunds by messaging/emailing about the hidden fees. Tbh I have no idea why this had happened because WAD didn't have any hidden fees but I really don't think that dan and phil are trying to get one over on us, most likely it's the site that did the hidden fees and they ducking suck for it.

(also really quick but saying awful things about them because of this is just... a lot and something I think you should all think about more closely, there being mad about something like hidden fees and there saying that dan joking with a fan (who started the joke by saying they were going to miss work to watch) about missing work to watch makes him in some way evil or that he wants everyone to miss work just to pay him... he doesn't he was just joking, he made the same kind of joke when someone said they were with their boyfriend and couldn't watch a new gaming vid (something free) and dan told them to put it on anyway. It's just a joke and no one is really making you do anything and when you take something so clearly a joke to the point where you say it makes you sick to look at dan well I did a big post about that and how it goes into why I think one of the songs from the preshow playlist was picked.

[cherrysurf]

What. The. Fuck. s.hinata x reader

this is inspired by the tt trend “They say shooters shoot, Duke Dennis what’s up with you?” [im not sure if anyone did this before but if so lmk.]

Hinata Shoyo was your favorite MSBY player; you had been to a few games and were amazed by how cool and energetic he was. Recently, the "They say shooters shoot, Duke Dennis what’s up with you?" trend had been going around, and few people got noticed by their celebrity crushes or TikTok celebrities. You found the trend so interesting and comedic that you decided to make one of your own for Hinata Shoyo. It didn’t necessarily matter if he saw it or not; it was simply just for fun. In case he did see it, though, you made sure you looked your best because you never know, right? You finally posted the video after three tries. You added a few tags, but nothing crazy. After that, you put your phone to charge and went off to do your nightly ritual of showering and reading to detox your brain from your phone to sleep easier, which was a habit of yours that was hard to break at first.You fell asleep wondering about the possibilities of that video and perhaps fantasizing about a life with Shoyo Hinata because you’re just a girl, after all.You woke up at noon. It was Saturday midday when you picked up your phone and headed to the bathroom to brush your morning breath out of your mouth. As you opened TikTok to mindlessly scroll, you were reminded of the video you posted last night, which had a lot of likes and comments.You laughed at some people relating and some "toxic fans," and then as you went deeper, you found comments saying, "HE LIKED AND REPOSTED YOUR VIDEO." You were now internally freaking out as you stared at the many comments saying this. Then, you saw a familiar name with a blue mark next to it.

Hinata Shoyo: nothing much, what about you? 😉

Your toothbrush fell out of your mouth. Although the comment didn’t quite seem like his, it was cute to see him comment. You quickly ran to his repost, and sure enough, there was your video. Was this real? You thought it was too good to be true and way too easy to get his attention like that.You quickly exited TikTok to head to Instagram to get your mind from going haywire. That was until you checked your DMs to be met with that same name yet again.

"Hey! It’s me, Shoyo. Sorry about my TikTok comments. Atsumu said to put that, but I came to reach out because I'm not really like that 😅 I'd love to get to know you if you were serious about what you said on TikTok?"

"What the fuck!" you exclaimed as your phone fell onto the counter; you splashed yourself several times before you saw this was all real.

i genuinely don’t know how i feel abt this it’s mostly js so my brain can start writing again because i haven’t in awhile.

mostly for @dearru and me

gen hq list: @heartmaddie @livteracts @vertejay @massacremars @bakery-anon @na-i1 @nanasrkives @sexylexy12 @softpia

[gallifreyan85]

If I Had A Box Just For Wishes

pairing: Agatha x reader

summary: being agatha's only student has its sacrifices. you navigate around her tough exterior, but she's not the easiest to talk to.

Warnings: cutting your had for a spell? slight mentions of blood. agatha trying not to be soft

A/n: read warnings. I wanted to finish this for days but I'm not sure how I feel about it now. anyway. this is part 2 of I Want No More Than This but can be read as standalone. enjoy!! <3

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

You knew from the moment you agreed to listen to her, that having Agatha Harkness as something akin to a mentor would be no easy feat. It wasn’t that obvious at first, not much, just her being demanding as always and wanting you to be thorough in whatever magic you did. She was not soft, or reassuring, or a warm teacher. But still it all seemed normal enough. Well. As normal as learning magic could be for a witch. You found yourself enjoying it even. Rarely, yes, but as much as she was downright scary sometimes, Agatha was good with words. She’d tell you about things in the world of witchcraft that you’d never hear from other witches, and she made it all sound like some adventure-filled story, complete with a demonstration of said spell at the end, plus a few dramatic gestures, the constant addition of her snarky charm.

You listened. Went along with it. Of course you wished for more, more attention, not that you’d ever admit it, but she kept calling you sweet things- names like honey and darling and pet, allthewhile somehow making it all sound like an insult. And you took it anyway. You’d begged your way into this mess you called a mentorship, you would endure it no matter what. And you were safe. From what, you weren’t sure yet, but one of the perks of being in Agatha’s good circle, and it was a very small circle, was that no one would dare hurt you.

Well.

No one but her, of course.

And she always made a point of reiterating it, no onebut her. It worried you a little at first, swirling silently inside your head before you drifted off at night, trying to imagine the way her words would one day come true, you promised her your loyalty, begged her to take you in and teach you, so where was your fee? And then after a little while, slowly but surely that thought faded away into the backround with all your other worries about life, and you didn’t really give it much thought.

It wasn’t late exactly but you felt exhausted, just about making it down to the basement after she called your name, and you wished that whatever it was she wanted wouldn’t take long, because the four long hours you spent training and learning were starting to take their toll, starting with general exhaustion which had then slowly started to bleed into outright tiredness. You couldn’t wait to take a shower and go to bed. Her words were still echoing faintly in your head, progress is slow darling, you have to concentrate.

When you descended the stairs she was standing in the middle of the room, in a halo of pale light that always fell in odd circles in her basement, you weren’t even sure where from as there were no windows, but… When you approached her she gave you an odd smile, a sort of cold, almost self-satisfied smirk. As if she knew something you did not. That was of course true, she knew lots of things you didn’t, but as you came closer to her, your steps slow and a little unsure, you couldn’t help but feel a slight shiver wash over your back at the way her eyes were following you. When you stopped in front of her she met your eyes, her own blue ones willed with a sense of… what was that, amusement? Curiosity?

No, anticipation. She was waiting for something, but for what?

“You needed something?” you looked up at her, feeling oddly small in the chill of the room.

“Yes, dear.” she said, gaze falling back down onto the large book laid open in front of her, darkened pages filled with symbols you didn’t understand.

“I’m working on a spell of sorts. Very advanced, and certainly too much for your little head to turn over.”

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly. “So then why did you call me?”

“Oh, I need your help with something. Just a little, tiny thing really. And then you’ll be free to go.”

You tilted her head.

Something about her tone made you want to back away while you still could, but no. Whatever it was you could take it. You were going to prove to her that she made the right choice by letting you stay.

“What do you need me to do?”

She chuckled lowly.

Then, with one smooth and swift move, she slid something onto the table towards you. A small, pristine ceramic bowl, with a few scattered herbs and leaves inside. You looked at it for a moment, confused, then glanced back at her. She chuckled again.

“Come over here, darling.” she said, beckoning you closer.

You walked over to her side, feeling very much like a gazelle walking into a lion’s den.

When you stopped beside her, the table and bowl still in front of you, she reached for something else behind her back, saying casually,

“You see the spell I’m working on requires a few special items, some extra ingredients. And it seems you’re the perfect candidate for one of those.”

You frowned.

You were about to ask her to explain when she set something else on the table in front of you, and your mouth went a little dry.

It was a knife.

Small, silver, oriental and decorated with some sort of old-loooking swirly symbols, black handle pointing towards you.

“Bleed.” she said.

You blinked.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything else.

“What?” you looked up at her.

She nudged the bowl towards you, a smile now curling her lips.

“I said bleed. I don’t need much but it’s important. For the spell.”

You didn’t move.

“You need-- blood?”

She sighed, an edge of frustration seeping into her tone.

“Do I need to make everything crystal clear for you hun? The spell requires blood, and who better to offer some but you? Come on.”

She pushed the knife towards you.

“W-why can’t you do it?” you made out, feeling slightly shaky.

She laughed. A genuine laugh.

“Oh, I’d be happy to, if you weren’t such a scaredy cat, but what I need here is blood of the innocent. And trust me dear I’m not innocent. In any of the ways. Seriously.” she shot you a sly smile and winked as if that explained you needed to know.

You hesitated.

“Ugh, come on,” she sighed, huffing with a hint of annoyance. “this was part of our deal, or did you forget? You listen to me, and I’m asking you to help out.”

She didn’t sound like she was asking.

You swallowed. Picked up the knife.

She nodded, the barest hint of a nod. It made you feel a little better.

You raised the knife to your hand.

“That’s it. Come on dear.” she murmured, eyes watching you like a hawk.

“How much do you need?” you asked, stalling for just a moment.

She thought it through for a bit, then shook her head. “Not much. Just enough for it to work. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

You looked at her, then back down. The knife felt slippery in your grasp. You didn’t move. But she was watching you with those eyes, that icy blue scrutinizing stare that made you feel jittery and filled you with a need to please her. Everyone else had left you. You couldn’t be alone again, you wouldn’t. Agatha had just started towards you, seemingly ready to do it for you, when you slid the tip along your hand, feeling that smooth, warm trickle that slid down your palm and into the ceramic bowl.

You didn’t see her expression, but she stopped a few feet away, watching you. Her head tilted slightly, as if in consideration.

“Hm.” she murmured. “So you do have some guts in you after all.”

You tried to smile. All you did was wince. You kept your hand above the bowl, stayed still for a moment, waiting for her to say it’s enough, but she was watching you with a new kind of intensity in her gaze. You didn’t know what to make of it. Your hand was starting to hurt, a tingly burning feeling, and you tried to pull away but she gripped your wrist and forced it straight.

“Just a moment longer.”

You gave her a look.

She didn’t say anything else.

When she was finally satisfied she pulled the bowl away, back towards her, and did some sort of swirling gesture with her palm. You watched as the contents glowed bright purple, such a beautiful color that you came to associate with her and this dark basement. It glowed for a while more until the light died down, leaving a small shimmery residue that reminded you of tea leaves. You waited. She didn’t say anything, just picked up the bowl and put it away in some dark corner, then rolled up her sleeves a little better and went back to the big book. You tried to push down the growing feeling of frustration inside you. Your eyes felt tired, drooping on their own accord, and while you knew you didn’t exactly lose a lot of blood your head still felt slightly woozy, maybe from the training-packed day, maybe not. You looked down, pressing the sleeve of your shirt into your palm. It hurt a little, but the pain that was really bothering you wasn’t in hand but in your heart. Was this what it was going to be like? Just you going along with her whims, never complaining, never getting anything in return? You got knowledge, yes, but…

It didn’t feel right.

It didn’t feel like enough.

Maybe you were selfish. You felt a burning in your eyes and tried to blink it away. When Agatha turned next she paused, as if forgetting you were still there, and tilted her head a little to one side.

“Why are you still here?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

You were starting to feel more desperate, and for what you didn’t know.

Agatha raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

You shook your head, feeling your voice quiver just slightly.

“Is this all you want from me?”

She frowned, genuinely confused. You would’ve laughed if you didn’t feel so close to crying.

“What are you talking about?” she asked flatly.

“This-- I mean-- is that why I’m here? To just-- bleed when you need it and- and do everything you say and never-”

She looked at you. Really looked at you.

“Never what?” she asked, and you were surprised to hear that she wasn’t angry, just slightly curious.

“Never do anything more?” you sniffled.

She gave you a deadpan look. “More? What more do you want, kid? I’m already teaching you magic. Are the endless everyday lessons not enough for you?”

“No-- no, I meant-”

“Yes?”

“Like-- outside of that.”

She paused. Looked at you like you just said something dreadfully nonsensical.

“You-- you could be- just- just a little… you could talk to me.”

“I do talk to you.”

“Not like that.” you murmured. “Just- normal things, y’know? Like, what you’re doing, or ask what I’m doing, or… or what we’re having for dinner.”

She straightened. For a moment you thought she was going to laugh in your face, but she just stared at you, scrutinizing your face as if she could read your thoughts from your expression or your teary eyes. Then she sighed.

“Fine. I’m not in the mood for this touchy nonsense, and I am not about to deal with you crying—”

“I’m not crying-”

“Ah, ah, ah. Zip it.” she shook her head, pointing a finger into your face, “I know you better than you think kid, and those teary eyes aren’t fooling anyone.”

You didn’t say anything.

She stared at you for a second more.

“Give me your hand.” she said.

You looked up, hesitant. “W-what?”

“You’re making a mess on my floor- if you get blood on the upholstery you’re cleaning it up yourself, this is eighteenth-century wood.”

She yanked your hand forward in an oddly gentle way that surprised you, and murmured something under her breath.

A wave of warmth shot through your hand, and your looked down hesitantly as seemingly nothing happened. You frowned.

“Was that-”

“Disinfectant spell.” she muttered. “I’m no potions witch but I’ve been in enough battles to know what to do when you’re—” she gestured vaguely as if you’d know what she meant. You watched quietly as she stepped away and then came back with a--

A bandaid?

Really?

She peeled the paper away and stuck one across your palm, right over the length of the cut, ignoring your slight wince.

“Don’t be such a crybaby.” she muttered, but her hands never faltered as she pressed everything over your palm, making sure it was secure.

You let her.

There wasn’t much you could read from her expression but there was a warmth in her blue eyes that you hadn’t noticed before. Never directed at you. Never until now. Maybe you were imagining it. Probably.

The feeling of her hands over your own felt welcomingly warm, and you let yourself relax for a moment. When was the last time someone had fussed over you? Helped you, like this? You just about closed your eyes and sighed softly, feeling the tension in your shoulders unwind when her hand left yours, and suddenly you felt cold at the loss.

You opened your eyes to see her studying you, eyes narrowed, an odd mix of emotions on her face.

“There.” she said, patting your hand once, “Now you won’t bleed to death.”

She waved a hand the rest of the mess on the table cleaned itself up in an instant.

Then she glanced towards the ceramic bowl she set aside and nodded to herself, seeing something you clearly could not.

“You did-- a decent job.” she said.

You were about to ask how it was possible to do an indecent job when all you had to do was bleed but her hands were back on your shoulders, and you relaxed again despite yourself, letting her steer you towards the stairs.

“Tomorrow after lessons if you stick around a bit longer I might show you what I’m working on.” she said, surprising you. You looked up but she kept walking, pushing you forwards until you were both out of the basement and back in the living room.

“You will?” you murmured quietly, hating the way your voice gave away more than your words.

She sighed, and nodded, albeit begrudgingly.

“You did help a little, I suppose it’s only fair you at least get to see what it is.”

You smiled faintly. She noticed, and paused a little, then shrugged it off like seeing you smile was something she was unprepared to deal with at the moment.

When you were both at the door of your room she stopped, letting her hands fall away from your back, and turned, meeting your eyes.

“There’s things I need to finish up downstairs.” she said, voice even and low. Then as you kept looking at her, waiting for more, she added, in a very questioningly sort of normal tone,

“And we’re having pizza for dinner.”

You nodded.

She looked you up and down, spared another quick glance at your hand, and turned.

She paused just slightly, and then, surprising even herself, set a hand on your arm, her touch barely there but unbating.

“Get some rest.” she said, a little awkwardly. “You… Well, I suppose you earned it.”

“You suppose?” You murmured, fighting a small smile. It only grew when she bristled, huffing and waving a hand around the air, seemingly embarrassed.

“Yes, I suppose,” she said quickly, already stepping away, “and that’s all you’re getting. Be thankful.”

She turned fully at that and left back down the hall, you watching her in silence and stifling a quiet chuckle when she almost tripped over Senor Scratchy, who was innocently hopping around the floor, not even pausing to look at her.

She grumbled about him some more, and you thought you caught her mumbling about him being ‘just as bad as she is’, which made you feel a little better. You watched her leave and then knelt down to pet the rabbit, its fluffy fur like a soft haven under your fingers.

You scratched behind his ears and over his back, then straightened up and went into your room, grateful to change into something more soft before dinner. Your hand still hurt a little, but you kept replaying the look on her face when she fixed up your hand, that gentle foreign something in her pale eyes that seemed to surprise even her. Maybe it was care. You knew she’d deny it until the end of time itself but the way her fingers hovered gently, careful not to hurt you, that quiet tender expression she held as she steered you away into your room…

It wasn’t exactly what you kept hoping for but it was something.

It was something. More than before. A step in the right direction.

Progress was slow.

You sat on your bed, trying to imagine what sort of thing she’d tell you about tomorrow. Maybe she would sit beside you and talk. Maybe she’d let you lean in close while her hands brought up violet strands of light from nothing, weaving it between her fingers like a delicate ribbon dancing in the wind.

Maybe.

You’d have to wait and see.

A/n: I have the next part of this planned out and it's a bit more sweet (we're finally getting to it) Also don't do this irl, don't bleed for Agatha, don't bleed for anyone. This is not proofread, sorry for any mistakes. Title is from Time in a Bottle by Jim Croce. Love y'all, thank you for reading <3

Taglist 💜 @milflovers4, @senhorita-girassol (you said before you'd like to read more of this series so i thought i'd tag you, if you don't want a tag just let me know <3)

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞-𝐭𝐨-𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 (𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏)

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors and inaccuracies.

Gilbert had been acting strangely lately.

Gilbert: "Little bunny, is there anything you want me to do for you?"

Emma: "Again?"

When I arrived at our usual spot with freshly brewed tea and pastries, he set his work aside, greeted me with a charming smile, and insisted.

Gilbert: "I want you to rely on me more."

Emma: "I've relied on you plenty already."

(Just yesterday, for example.)

------------Flashback-----------

Gilbert: "There, I finished drying your hair."

Emma: "Thanks. That felt really nice."

Gilbert: "I'm glad to hear that. So, what would you like me to do next?"

Emma: "N-Nothing, really—"

Gilbert: "What would you like me to do next?"

Emma: "T-Then maybe a shoulder massage?"

Gilbert: "Oh, good idea. You're probably the only person who could tell me to do that."

Emma: "Actually, never mind—"

Gilbert: "Nope. No need to hold back with me."

Gilbert: "If it's for you, I'd gladly do anything—no matter how selfish the request is."

---------Flashback Ends--------

(Lately, he's been overly sweet to me.)

(He's not usually like this, though.)

Gilbert: "Hey, won't you rely on me?"

Emma: "I feel completely content right now."

Gilbert: "Emma, did you forget?"

Gilbert: "You only have two choices: either listen to my request or be forced to."

(So I have to say something, no matter what?)

I set the tea and pastries down on the table and gazed into his crimson eyes, trying to read his true intentions.

Emma: "Did something happen?"

Gilbert: "Right now? Nothing at all."

('Right now'?)

Gilbert: "Hehe, come on, keep thinking. Until you ask me for something, I won't let you leave—cough!"

Emma: "Gil!?"

He suddenly started coughing, so I quickly placed a hand on his back and gently rubbed it.

Gilbert: "Hey now, aren't you overreacting?"

Emma: "Of course, I'm overreacting! I still haven't forgiven you for disappearing on me for days."

Not long ago, Gilbert had suddenly vanished from the castle.

I figured he must have caught a cold and hid so he wouldn't spread it to me, but I'd been beside myself with worry.

Whenever he was suffering, he always kept it to himself, refusing to share the burden with anyone.

That was the kind of cruel yet kind person he was.

(Maybe this whole situation is his way of making up for that.)

(I don't know the real reason behind all this, but I do have one thing I want to ask.)

Emma: "Gil."

Gilbert: "If you're about to ask me to stay by your side forever, that's a no."

Emma: "There's something I'd like to ask you."

Emma: "Is there a way to keep someone who occasionally disappears without a trace by my side?"

Gilbert: "Fufu, of course, there's a way. But before I tell you, how about you show me your method first?"

(That was… surprisingly easy.)

Gilbert ran his fingers through my hair, gently tugging—not enough to hurt, but enough to bring our faces closer.

His striking red eyes locked onto mine, silently urging me to act.

(My method, huh?)

Emma: "Please, don't go anywhere."

The moment I made my plea, looking straight into his eyes, he bit down lightly on my lip.

Gilbert: "That won't do at all. The moment you start begging, it means you're not really trying to make me listen."

Emma: "I just couldn't think of another way."

Gilbert: "That's because you're kind. But remember, the person you're dealing with is a villain."

Gilbert: "If you really want to tie down a villain, you don't beg—you control."

Gilbert: "If you and the villain want totally different things, why let him decide?"

(He has a point, but isn't forcing him to stay too selfish?)

(Asking him to rely on me is just my own selfishness in the end.)

At my silence, he let go of my hair.

Gilbert: "There are many ways to bend someone's will."

Gilbert: "But the methods preferred by a beast like me wouldn't suit someone as gentle as you."

Gilbert: "So, I'll teach you the simplest way—the one that won't weigh on your conscience."

Before I could react, he suddenly stood up, grabbed my wrist, and pinned me down against the table.

(Huh?)

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few papers covered in his handwriting flutter through the air.

But before I could pay them any mind, my vision was completely overtaken by his handsome face.

His lips captured mine, again and again, teasing, coaxing, drawing out a heat I hadn't intended to surrender.

(What the hell is happening?)

Dazed, I instinctively accepted his kiss, only for his tongue to invade, thoroughly claiming every inch of my mouth.

Gilbert: "Make sure you never do this with anyone else, okay?"

Gilbert: "I'd hate to stain you with someone else's blood."

His crimson eyes gleamed with something dark and possessive as he slowly ran his tongue over his wet lips.

Then, without warning, he hooked his hands under my legs and lifted them—leaving me utterly defenseless.

Part 1 ╎ Part 2 ╎ Part 3 ╎ Part 4