#on something that hopefully never will happen

[sharksbitee]

Soulmates. A concept where in a world of magic, talking direbeasts and overblots, were believable enough, with families passing down tales of romance and tragedies generation to generation. Some describe meeting their soulmate like a love-at-first-sight encounter, others say it feels like finding a missing puzzle piece, an instant click.

So… what do the Savannaclaw boys think of meeting you, their soulmate, for the first time?

Jack Howl! Had been fed all the fantastical stories of soulmates ever since he was a child - constantly begging his parents to tell him the tales over and over again, before repeating the tales as bedtime stories to his younger siblings, to the point that they had long gotten sick of it, asking him to read them something else for once, please? So, of course, Jack had expected - no, waited - for his soulmate to come, eventually. Hopefully, by the time he’d graduated Night Raven, opened up maybe a gym, with a nicely furnished apartment of his own, with a small balcony to put his cacti… but fate had other plans. You. Just another student walking the vast halls of Night Raven. And yet. Just the sight of you made his face burn hotter than the many days of running track under the sun ever could, the blood roaring louder than waterfalls in his ears, the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart beating against his chest… oh, and his tail thumping on the floor. Wait, what? Thanks to you, he simply can’t focus on any of his classes and club activities anymore… what a bad influence! >:( As his soulmate, you ought to take responsibility… By following his principles, of course! Which means he’ll have to be around you to make sure you follow them! Whatever shall you do… ;)

Ruggie Bucchi! Who never really thought much of it. Sure, sure - he’d meet his destined soulmate, and then what? Partners were costly, and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be worth it. Besides, what kind of idiot would want to date, much less marry, some poor street rat? No one, he supposed - and he really couldn’t blame this mysterious soulmate either. Sure, granny would nag him constantly for this belief, telling him to ‘Have a little whimsy!’ But he couldn’t. Because whimsy took up time, and time was something he couldn’t afford. Until he met you, that is. It was a complete accident - you were simply yet another unassuming person who had just bought a sandwich from the school’s canteen, the same sandwich that everyone wanted. Which meant Leona had to get it and sent Ruggie to steal it for him. So, Ruggie did what he always did. He sneaked up to you, snickered, and was about to use his unique magic when - oh. You heard him. Well, that didn’t happen often. Your eyes locked into his, and he felt his knees weaken, his tail twitch, and his hands tremble. “Y-You - Laugh With Me!” Who then proceeded to run away with non of the limbless agility he usually possessed, face burning pink. Ohnonononono - absolutely not. Unless? But you - agh, he forgot Leona’s stupid sandwich! Hey, soulmate - help him out here, pleaaaaaaaaase? ;)

Leona Kingscholar! Who wasn’t really fond of all that soulmate crap. After all, his parents weren’t soulmates, and the only soulmated pair in his family were Falena and his wife, and that was just a lucky fluke. Besides, even if he did meet his soulmate, if they weren’t royalty? End of that relationship. Who was he to say that he’d even meet his soulmate? Hundreds and hundreds of people lived in Sunset Savanna, much less the entire world of Twisted Wonderland, so the chances of finding them realistically were slim. The thought had never really bothered him much - after all, he couldn’t miss someone he don’t know. And then, you happened. Just another fool who’d stumbled upon him napping in the botanical gardens, with the luck of accidentally waking the prince up. He had lazily cracked his eye open, tail twitching in annoyance when - huh. His heartbeat raced, eyes boring into yours with an intensity. Great Seven. His ears twitched for any sounds from you, tail unconsciously curling around your ankle. Soulmate. He’d actually managed to meet his soulmate. What kind of cruel prank was this? (Do expect to get trailed and used as a human pillow now. Sorry not sorry. ;) )

[zarathelonewolf]

I can remember only one person from the top of my head which did not mind using this slur for themselves. It is definitely not something that should be used by people outside of Romani communities ESPECIALLY because you never know which people in them do not mind the term and which of them DO.

And even then I suppose it's tricky. I am not sure I would use the g-slur even if someone preferred it as designation. But it is evident from the comments that there are some Romani people who prefer the term I guess, so idk how to feel ab this. I mean I technically agree with them but I am experiencing doubts. Because I am supposed to listen to Romani voices, do I just exclude some of them and only listen to others?

My perspective has usually been something like this: I call people who are Romani, Romani, always, and change tune only if THEY want me to. But I am kind of having doubts about it. It's still the way I think I should do things for now but could it be wrong? Or is it a situation similar to the use of the "queer" word in the LGBTQIA+ community, which I am part of?

Though perhaps it's different. The history of the term queer in, well, queer spaces is peculiar, many do not think it a slur at all. Idk idk. Can anyone correct me if I am wrong on my go to strategy for the eventual (and I hope it does not happen) use of the g-slur?

I am here to get educated and hopefully boost the signal of this post.

In the tags, my train of thought is more streamlined. I said the same things but in a way that felt less rambly.

I only mean to receive more information because what I have may be limited.

Anyway, daily reminder from a culturally isolated Romani person.

Gypsy does not mean wanderer.

It literally means ‘people from egypt’ or similar, as europeans believed Romani people were from Egypt. It has become known similar to nomad due to how our ancestors have been forced to be nomadic due to racism and ostracization, but it is a SLUR.

Romani people are STILL being forcibly sterilized.

Romani people are STILL being forced into ghettos.

Romani people are still facing violence and danger in countless European countries- and recently, I’ve seen the beginnings of the extremes in the United States.

Have a little fucking respect and DON’T USE A SLUR THAT’S BEEN USED FOR CENTURIES AGAINST US.

And for the love of whatever’s up there, ESPECIALLY do not use it to describe your witchcraft. It is playing on the ‘magic gypsy’ trope, and is EXTREMELY insulting.

non romani people, please reblog this.

[96z]

i know many of you do not give a damn and that is a problem in its own regard but i am posting this in hopes that those who are unaware and who value their morals and their integrity over music will hopefully take something from it.

this seventeen album should be boycotted at all costs. i have been a carat for seven years now and i have a lot of love (as well as frustration) for these guys. i am endlessly proud of them for making it ten years in an industry designed to tear them down and wear them out, to take everything from human beings that it can— and then some. however i cannot allow this to overshadow the negative things surrounding this album, nor should you.

i will preface by saying that seventeen will not see a huge impact from a boycott. they make pennies on the dime per stream, $0.003 cents. seventeen are also far past comfortable financially, they are by all means rich, particularly woozi. they will be a-ok. this will not cause any damage to them outside of potential bruised egos, which is an unfortunate impact however not more important than the overall issues.

i also want to say that we know that boycotting is an effective tool to put pressure on companies to change their ways, but it needs to be an organized effort. it's not something you do for a few months and give up. it's also not something you pick and choose with — you don't avoid streaming songs and then buy a lightstick from the weverse shop because it was pretty, or attend a concert.

that said, you all should be boycotting hybe anyway. this is for multiple reasons. first is their employment and collaboration with people such as scooter braun, a staunch zionist who was outright thanked by the official israel twitter account. when scooter braun found out he was on the zionists in music twitter account, he said it was an honor and he never could've dreamed of such a thing happening to him. scooter braun has a long, problematic history i would encourage all of you to thoroughly research.

hybe has also recruited artists like johnny goldstein to work on their tracks. he is credited on enhypen, illit and txt tracks, and he has also worked closely with j-hope of bts. johnny goldstein is both a ccfp member as well as a former iof soldier. he is quite literally a child murderer and he is sitting in rooms with your favorite artists. that should infuriate you.

if that is not enough, consider the level of overwork that these artists have faced. seventeen is on their sixth album in approxiately 365 calendar days between whole group projects and individual unit projects. these all have one common factor: jihoon. he has produced six albums, short or otherwise, in one year. in one year, seventeen has also done one world tour, a japan tour, caratland, and headlined three festivals. does any of this sound sustainable for human beings? they are treated like products by their company, not human beings.

for these reasons there has been a boycott in place for over a year. many carats have chosen to break it out of 'love', but in reality, they are complicit in the mistreatment of their idols.

if none of this concerns you, there are also massive red flags with this current album.

first, bad influence, which makes up a third of the group songs on the album, is produced by pharrell who is a known zionist. in april 2024, in spite of the current social climate and despite readily available information, pharrell chose to accept an invitation to sing 'happy' to iof soldiers at a fundraising event. this is while carats in gaza are packing their photocards up while they flee their homes. pharrell made the conscious choice to be on the wrong side of history.

next, wonwoo's track credits el capitxn, who in march, took to instagram to brag that his company, vendors, produced a song for kanye's album which kanye himself said was based on 'antisemitic sounds'. they worked on the track ww3, which includes verses about epstein island, voting for djt, and 'rockin swastikas'. all he had to say regarding it was that he was 'proud of his boys' and 'they make it happen'.

you either stand in one of three places.

one, you believe seventeen does not have much autonomy. in that event, you should be angry and embarrassed that such individuals have their hands in their music, muddying everything seventeen is meant to stand for. you should not stand for it and the way to make a stand against it is by boycotting.

two, you believe seventeen does have autonomy and they have the ability to deny or to okay these things. if that is the case, you should feel frustration towards them for not doing their due diligence in these matters, when they are thirteen grown men with full, unrestricted access to the internet, when they have been called out for similar behavior before, when at least one of them has to know better. you can make that frustration known by boycotting.

or you don't really care, and at the end of the day you'll always be spineless, a so called 'real fan' who will buy into everything they do and reserve all your anger for those who want them to do better, who consistently call them out, instead of wishing they would make fewer mistakes. you will always buy the albums and the photocards and the concert tickets because you don't have the strength to be anything more than another cog in the capitalist machine. just know that you are not a fan, you are a consumer, and that your blind support and willingness to throw your money at every endeavor ultimately harms your artists before it helps them.

if you do care... take a stand. take a stand against mistreatment and overwork, against seventeen being pushed towards being another mass produced, western pandering act. take a stand towards seventeen's music having filthy hands involved in it everytime you look up. you should be embarrassed, you should be frustrated and you need to do something about it or nothing will ever change.

there should never be a time in modern history where we are proud for our favorite artists to work with zionists and people who shake hands with nazis. there is no excuse.

seventeen will survive losing streams and chart positions. they will live. and maybe their company will learn a valuable lesson for it. we have the power to do something and it's high time we wake up and do it, all of us.

nobody is saying you can’t listen. but instead of opening spotify up, download the tracks from a third party instead. they will be ok, i promise. boycotting takes no effort, it is literally an act of not doing something. if seventeen means something to you, this is how you should express it right now. please, i want better for them and you should as well.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Untitled Remmick x Wife!Reader Fic: Preview

A/N: Guys, I think I'm finally cooking. Here's a little preview of a Remmick x Wife!Reader fic set right after he was turned.

I will also take this opportunity to give my two cents on when exactly I think Remmick was turned. While Saint Patrick reportedly came to Ireland some time in the 400s, personally, I think it more likely happened during the English invasion during the late 1100s by Henry II with the support of the then Pope Alexander III.

Either way, hopefully I'll have the time to finish this soon. Let me know what you think!

---------------------

He could smell you. 

It was an odd feeling. Something that had always stirred the ache of home and devotion in his heart to all at once be so alien. 

The others could smell you too. They could feel every memory attached to that smell; the warmth of your body as he held you in his arms, the taste of your lips and your skin. Your most intimate moments shared and shared alike.

There was someplace within him, buried beneath the noise and sensations of the mass that wanted to scream, to tear those memories back and keep them clutched in his own chest where they belonged. 

But they weren’t his. Not anymore. You were theirs. Your salvation would be found in them. 

So he stood at the entrance to a home that was at once his own and never was, staring up at you through a hundred eyes. 

“Remmick?”

Yes. That voice. It echoed through every mind, his name on your lips stirring love and longing and horror. 

Don’t. I’m dead, a chroí. Bury me. Live. Run. 

But somebody else spoke with his voice. 

“Everything’s alright. They’re gone, but not for long.” He extended a hand to you. “We need to go.”

[vunblr]

A Hand in the Dark (#3)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Suicidal thoughts (neither Bucky nor Reader). Canon-Typical Violence.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 5.1.k.

notes: More tags will be added in the future.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The pills went down with a scratch in his throat, caught for a second like they didn’t want to be there. The Gatorade was warm now, too sweet, but his body wanted it. Needed it. He could feel the burn of the heat in his skin, the pulsing ache where she’d stitched.

He stared at the blister pack again. Paracetamol. 1g. A simple anti-inflammatory. Fever reducer. She wasn’t trying to burn out his thoughts or dull his mind.

She wasn’t trying to sedate him.

Not yet.

He glanced down at his hands. No restraints. Just trembling fingers and the heat of the infection deep in his muscles. She had stitched him. She had approached without force. No gloves, no commands with venom behind them.

Maybe she was trained.

Maybe she’d been embedded, meant to recover him in the chaos of what happened. HYDRA didn’t always pull from within. When she spoke, her voice had slipped into something just firm enough to obey without thinking.

No shouting. No touch. Just… an order dressed like a request.

Just a quiet line in the air: I need you to take it. So you can get better.

He hadn’t understood that part.

Why did she need him to feel better? Was he meant to protect her? Perform for her? Was there a mission coming she hadn’t yet named?

Some of the handlers had never set foot inside a base. He remembered bits: Waking up in unfamiliar kitchens, basements, and laundry rooms, watching as faces changed, voices changed, but the orders remained.

No one helped the Soldat just to help it.

Maybe this was one of those occasions. Where other services would be required.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

He'd passed through hands that hadn’t precisely needed his combat skills. A different kind of usage. They’d stripped him like an object, and then used him like one.  

After all, he only knew how to comply.

And yet-

I won’t touch you. Not unless you ask me to.

If this were another mission, she played it unlike anyone else he remembered. And if it wasn’t… he didn’t know the rules.

He coughed once, shallowly, catching it behind his teeth. He was soaked in sweat. Still feverish. But the pressure behind his head had shifted. Not much. But enough.

----

Once the door to his room had clicked gently shut behind her, she let herself sag against the wall.

Ok. He was in the spare room now. Installed there like a volatile machine, wounded, half-operational, with uncertain wiring. And hopefully, hopefully, medicated.

But he couldn’t stay in those boxers. Not in this weather. Not with how filthy they were, grime soaked into the seams, blood crusted along the waistband. And she wasn’t about to toss that shredded tac suit into the washer for him to use it again.

No. He needed clothes.

So she grabbed her coat and keys and changed her slippers to a pair of sneakers. She hesitated with her hand on the doorframe.

“I’m going out,” she said, loud enough to carry down the hall, soft enough to sound like she wasn’t afraid of startling him. “Just to a store. I’ll be back in a bit.”

No answer. Not even the creak of floorboards, a cough, a footstep. Just silence.

Still, she waited a beat longer. Just in case. Just in case his silence meant no, or wait, or I’m not okay. Even if he didn’t know how to say it.

Nothing.

So she left, locking the door behind her with soft fingers.

----

The store was dimly lit and half-stocked, exactly the kind of place that sold underwear in zippered plastic and plain black sweaters for five dollars. She grabbed what she could fast, two pairs of sweatpants, two long-sleeved shirts, a hoodie with a stupid logo, and a pack of boxers and socks that proudly proclaimed value size on the label.

Cheap. Soft. No tags. Nothing he could read as a uniform. Nothing too tight, stiff, or binding. Just warm fabric. Just comfort.

She added a small bottle of shampoo, a travel toothbrush, and a stick of unscented deodorant, because, well, because it felt right. Because if he stayed another night, he might need something to remind himself he was allowed to exist as a person. A real one. A clean one.

She paid in cash and walked back quickly.

When she opened the front door again, the apartment was -unsurprisingly- quiet.

She called out gently, “I’m back.”

No reply.

Still. She didn’t push. Just walked to the threshold and gently set down the plastic shopping bag beside the door to his room. Close enough to be seen, far enough not to breach the invisible line he’d drawn. She hesitated, then cleared her throat.

“There are clothes in the bag,” she said, trying for casual. “For you. New. Clean. They might be a little big, but better too big than too tight, right?”

No answer. She didn’t expect one.

She shifted her weight, rubbing her palm against her thigh, in the way she always did when she had more to say and didn’t quite know how to say it.

“I don’t usually work on Saturdays,” she added, speaking a little louder now. “But I’ve gotta cover the afternoon shift. My coworker’s out sick for a few days.”

Still nothing. Just the quiet beyond the door, heavy but listening.

“You’ll be alone,” she continued, softer again. “Use the time to take a hot shower. Put on the clothes. It’s too cold to be in, well, what you’ve got on. You’ll feel better. I mean… not just from the fever.”

Her fingers curled against the hem of her sweater, gripping it tight for a moment. Then she made herself let go.

“I’ll leave the front door unlocked. Just in case you… want to leave.” She swallowed. “If you do, please, use the spare key. It’s in the flower pot outside the door. Lock it behind you so no one comes in if the apartment’s empty.”

She stood there another breath longer, like she wanted to say something else. Then thought better of it. Her hand hovered once more near the doorknob, then dropped away.

----

He didn't move until he heard the sound of the front door closing. That was when he finally uncurled from the corner of the room. His legs complained, not used to that position. The blankets were still pooled on the old rug, where he’d dropped them when the heat started to break. Sweat chilled on his skin. The boxers stuck damply to his thighs. His hair clung to his neck in curls gone too long without care.

He stood up carefully and angled his head toward the hallway, testing. Still no sounds. She was gone.

He made it near the door -slowly, soundlessly on the wood floor- and stared at the bolt. It was… open. Just like she said it will. And in the flowerpot, a flash of metal half-buried in dry soil: the key.

A choice.

If you leave…

The rest of her words blurred. He didn’t know what she meant by that. Didn’t know if she meant freedom or a trap. Extraction or abandonment. No one ever gave him a choice like that, not without a leash hidden somewhere. If you disobeyed, you were punished. If you walked away, they found you. If you stayed, you were used.

He didn’t touch the key, instead, he went to the bathroom.

The light in there was too warm. Too yellow. It made his reflection strange, sunken eyes, dull with fever, patchy bruises across his ribs. Hair too long, unkept scruff, dirty with old blood.

The steam built quickly, rising in clouds, curling like fingers toward the ceiling. He waited too long to step in. Even now, the luxury of the action felt… dangerous.

But he did.

And when he did, the water scalded.

Not a hose. Not a punishment. Not a command. It stung down his spine, hissed over healing wounds, and softened the blood-caked threads on his stitches. He didn’t scrub right away. Just stood there, staring down at his hands, at how the water was dripping from the tip of his fingers. Flesh hand. Scarred. Left hand: dulled, but his now. Not a weapon someone else activated.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t know how to anymore.

But his chest hurt.

Years. He didn’t know how many. No soap. No heat. No kindness. Just missions and freeze, freeze and missions, the stink of old sweat layered like armor on his skin.

The water kept running.

And when he finally reached for the soap, he used it like it might disappear if he hesitated. He then reached for the shampoo with unsure fingers, not knowing how much to use. The bottle sloshed too fast when he squeezed, too much at once, dripping down his wrist before he could tame it.

He blinked it out of his eyes, working his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair. It felt wrong, doing this without urgency. Without someone barking a command or watching him from behind a screen.

He dried off with a thick cotton towel that scraped over bruises and caught on the stitches she’d sewn. Each sting connected him to the present. This was real.

The sweatpants were soft. Dark blue, unbranded. Interchangeable. Like uniforms, but meant to comfort, not control. The shirts were equally plain, one black, one grey. He picked the grey. It clung a little at the shoulders, but didn’t feel wrong. The socks were new, too, and warm.

And then came the boots.

Still by the door, caked with dried mud from wherever he’d crawled out of. He carried them to the sink, braced them under the faucet, and scrubbed with his thumb until the worst disappeared. The water turned brown in the basin, swirling into the drain.

He didn’t know why he needed to do that. Only that it felt… necessary.

He put them on last.

When he stepped into the kitchen, the floorboards creaked. The apartment still smelled like whatever she had cooked, something savory, spiced. Not chemically balanced for nutrition. Not portioned for macros. Just food.

A container sat on the counter, sealed tightly. Steam fogged the inside. And a note, short, scribbled.

Eat <3

His body obeyed.

He pried open the lid, and the scent hit him like a punch. Meat. Rice. He didn’t even look for utensils at first, just took a bite with his fingers, too quick, too hot. His jaw stung where a bruise was forming. He didn’t stop. By the time he found a fork in the drawer and sat down properly, the container was already half empty.

The last bite stuck a little in his throat. The animal part of him had quieted. Full stomach, warm limbs, boots on, body clean.

He glanced toward the door.

Still unlocked.

“Just in case you… want to leave.”

He stared. Like it might open on its own, like he might be tested. That someone would be watching for his choice.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t know what to choose.

----

The water steamed again, this time from the kitchen sink. He stood over it, with sleeves shoved up to his elbows, slightly hunched, like his body was still braced for a hit. The container clinked dully in the basin, plastic against porcelain. He scrubbed it with the sponge until the sponge began to fray. Not fast. Not sloppy. Just… thorough. Precise. No trace of food. No film of oil. No mistake left behind to be found later.

Mess meant punishment. Always had. Not scolding, not disappointment. His hair twisted in a handler’s fist until his knees hit the tile. A baton snapped across the cheekbone, the lip, the ribs. A mouthful of copper while someone barked that dogs don’t deserve kitchens.

He rinsed it twice. Dried it with the cleanest towel. Folded that too.

Then he froze. Palms pressed flat on the counter. Breath low, chest tight.

The flowerpot still had the key.

She had said it, If you decide you want to leave.

His jaw clicked as it clenched. That couldn’t be right. That line wasn’t meant for him. Not really. Because there were only two outcomes to that kind of offer.

Either it was a test.

If he touched the key -if he dared to leave- the punishment would be swift, savage, and absolute. And worse, it would be deserved. That’s what they’d taught him: disobedience was betrayal. And betrayal meant reconditioning.

Or.

She meant it. Meant the words just as she’d said them. That she had pulled him out of the street like a broken thing, stitched him back together, handed him a meal and clean clothes and an unlocked door, and expected nothing in return.

He didn’t know which was worse.

Because if it were the first, he could brace for it. He could ready himself for the pain, for the correction. He knew that script. He knew how to survive it.

But if it was the second…

Where would he even go?

There was no next mission. No extraction point. No coordinates in his head. No handler waiting for a report. Just silence. Just fever and stitches and a woman’s voice telling him to eat, to rest, to heal.

He hardened his grip on the counter.

Stay. Stay and watch. Stay and wait. Just a little longer. Just enough to see if the leash ever tightens. If the door stays open.

----

She dropped a stack of paperbacks, and the spines thudded dully on the counter. Her manager didn’t notice, too busy chatting up a regular at the register. Good. She needed the moment.

All the shift her mind had spun like a scratched record, the same thoughts, over and over.

Was he still there, or had he vanished like a ghost?

Was it wise to leave the note as she did?

Eat. Just that one word and a crooked little heart at the end. It did sound like an order. What if he’d forced it down out of compliance, and his body rejected it? He’d looked so pale. Hollowed out. Running on fever and instinct and not much else.

She pressed a palm to her forehead, forcing a breath through her nose as she restocked the romance display. New arrivals, bright covers with women in windswept gowns and men whose shirts had clearly lost a battle. Usually, unpacking shipments was one of her favorite parts of the job. Touching the smooth covers, flipping through pages no one else had yet. But now the titles blurred together -swirling pastel, muscles, corsets, and distant eyes, none of it remotely appealing.

----

The thoughts accompanied her during her bus trip home. The vehicle jolted over a pothole, making her sway in the plastic seat. She clutched the metal pole, blinking past the reflection of herself in the scratched window.

If he’s still there, she told herself again, I’ll talk to him this time. Really talk.

She’d tell him about Granny. About that night at the beach, when he’d thrown himself off a cliff to break the fall, saving her life. About the metal plate of his arm in the little pouch.

Maybe he wouldn’t remember, most likely he wouldn’t, considering what Seth had told her about the memory wipes, but maybe it would still mean something.

Maybe it would help him see she wasn’t a threat.

----

The doorknob turned easily beneath her hand.

Unlocked.

Her stomach flipped. He was either still inside… or he’d gone, and left it open behind him. No trace but the ghost of fever, sweat, and disinfectant.

She shrugged off her coat and hung it, followed by her purse. The apartment was still.

She moved to the kitchen first, needed a snack a while ago. She noticed the sink was empty, and the food container sat clean and drying on the rack.

He’d eaten.

She gripped the counter, just for a second. Okay. Good. Good sign.

She grabbed some yogurt and sprinkled some cereal on it, twirling the spoon idly as she considered what to do. After a while, she thought she heard the barest sound coming from his room. Ok, she thought as she munched the last of the yogurt. Time to talk.

She clicked on the hallway light, and its yellow glow pooled out toward the room. The door creaked under her hand as she pushed it open wider. It was dark inside, quiet. For a breath, she thought she had misheard, and he was gone.

Then she saw it, his silhouette, sitting on the cot, still as a photograph. Clean clothes, more or less combed hair. Staring at her.

“Hi,” she managed, “I… see you decided to stay.”

No response. But he didn’t flinch when she stepped in. That was something.

“I want to tell you something,” she said, slowly. “And then I’ll leave you alone. I should’ve said it this morning, but everything felt like a bit much.”

Still nothing. He just watched her with unreadable eyes, tilting his head the barest inch.

“I know who you are,” she said, quieter now. “What you do… or did. Sort of.”

His shoulders drew higher, tighter. Like a trap snapping shut.

“I found you yesterday behind the building. You must’ve wandered after falling into the river. You collapsed.”

Now his gaze sharpened, narrow and assessing, suspicious.

She raised a hand in a loose, nervous gesture. “It was on the news. You and Captain America. The helicarrier going down, the explosion… all of it.”

His jaw clenched.

“So yeah, that’s how I know. And- also.” She glanced at the floor, then back at him. “I’m not stupid. I didn’t just bring a spy and assassin into my house because he looked hurt and handsome in an alley.”

His expression twisted, something like confusion, maybe insult.

“Well, you are handsome,” she muttered, heat prickling her cheeks, “but that’s not the point.”

His brows furrowed like her words made no sense in his internal lexicon.

“I don’t have a second agenda,” she continued. “I didn’t bring you here to use you, or because I wanted something from you.”

Still no response.

“I brought you here because I owe you.”

That got something. A flicker of reaction across his face, subtle but sharp. Confusion again, but laced now with something else. Disbelief.

“You probably don’t remember. It’s not your fault. I know what… what they did to your mind.”

His metal hand twitched on his knee.

“A long time ago,” she said, softer now, “my grandmother tried to kill herself. She was going to jump off the cliffs near the shore. She slipped. Fell.”

His head tilted forward slightly, as if squinting into the dark of a memory.

“You were there. You jumped after her. Took the fall. You weren’t there when she woke up, but she remembers. She remembers your body breaking the impact. The blood. The way you disappeared.”

He was utterly still.

“She found a piece of your arm, part of the plate, broken off in the fall. She kept it. Hid it in a pouch she crocheted herself.”

His eyes dropped to the arm in question. His brows pulled tight, like he was trying to reach back into a void.

“She never told anyone,” she added. “But she told me. And I knew. When I saw you yesterday. I knew.”

The silence thickened around them, almost unbearable. She didn’t know what he was thinking. What part of him was reacting, the soldat, the wounded man, a mix in the void where memory should have been.

He had no memory of the cliff, or the woman, or her scream as she fell. No image, no sound. But his body knew. Somewhere deeper than thought, beneath even reflex.

He must’ve done it.

He’d let her live. Been seen. Intervened. That wasn’t his mission. That wasn’t his role. And that meant punishment. He didn’t know what form it had taken. Couldn’t picture the cell or the screaming or the blade or the ice. But he knew it had come.

They always made sure it came.

His jaw tensed, and the faint tremble that moved through his flesh hand disgusted him.

The woman wasn’t lying. He’d watched her eyes, her mannerisms. The scent of fear and sweat and courage on her skin. She wasn’t playing. Not like the handlers did. Not like the men who smiled before they put the bit in your mouth and the volts in your head.

He'd hurt himself. For a stranger. Damaged the arm. Let evidence be taken. Metal missing. That was never permitted. That was reportable, punishable, correctable.

He felt it now, just below the skin, the way they trained him to feel it. Every time he broke code. Every time the mission slipped. Guilt and revulsion and a choked, animal panic that curled like smoke in his lungs.

Why?

Why had he done it?

But because it was in him. Somewhere… before them. Some wrong wiring that hadn't been ripped out completely. The remnants of a man who wasn’t allowed to exist.

She said she owed him. That she brought him here because of that. Not because she was an agent. Not because she wanted to barter or use him or send him back.

But it didn’t make sense.

No one did things for nothing. Not in his world. Not in any world he could remember. She was speaking like he was a person. Like he deserved to be repaid for… mercy. But that couldn’t be right. He wasn’t built for mercy.

He didn’t know how to process the words she’d said. Didn’t know what she wanted from him now. But she hadn’t called anyone. She hadn’t screamed at him. She hadn’t ordered.

She wasn’t a threat.

Not yet.

But his chest ached with something worse than threat. Worse than fear. The burning, stupid question he didn’t want to ask himself:

If I saved her grandmother, what else have I done they made me forget?

And -quietest of all-

Who was I supposed to be?

She rose from the floor in one slow, fluid motion, unhurried, deliberately slowly, like someone approaching a wild animal, not out of fear, but with respect for its teeth.

“Wait a sec,” she murmured, mostly to herself, not expecting a reply.

She vanished into her bedroom, rummaged through the dresser with trembling hands. It was in the back corner, where she always kept it. Wrapped in tissue paper, then tucked into the crocheted pouch like a secret.

When she stepped back into the doorway, she made sure the little pouch was visible in her palm, hanging loose for him to see. Her voice was soft. Calm enough, even if her insides weren’t.

“Um- this is the proof of what I told you.”

He didn’t move, not right away, but his gaze found the pouch instantly. Locked onto it. Widened in a way that unsettled her. Not surprise. Something sharper. Like recognition was trying to claw its way up through a thousand layers of programming and pain.

She stopped a few feet from him. No closer than necessary.

“Honey, no offense,” she said gently, “but you know now that I have no power over you. You could kill me the second I step into your reach and I can’t do a damn thing about it.” Her voice cracked on the last word. Not out of fear, just the strain of honesty. “I should be the one scared here.”

He didn’t flinch, but there was something brittle in the air now, something held so tightly it might shatter.

She took another small step and extended her hand, with the pouch dangling between her fingers like a peace offering. Not a weapon. Not a bait. Just history. One he’d made, even if he couldn’t remember it.

He took it.

Slowly, silently, his metal hand rose until his fingers, unnaturally smooth, made a soft sound against the yarn as he pinched the pouch from her hand. She didn’t move. Not even to breathe.

He opened it like someone disarming a mine.

The scrap of metal inside it caught the hallway light, uneven edges where the plate had torn free. Titanium alloy, Hydra-issued, old make. His thumb brushed the surface once, then again. This wasn’t a replica. It wasn’t even just familiar. It was his.

Unmistakably his.

No one could fake it. Not the texture, not the weight. Not the fractured edge where it had been wrenched from him, where something had broken hard enough to do damage even to that.

He clenched it in his hand like it might vanish if he let go. Like someone might rip it away, call him a fool for believing any of this.

Then he looked at her.

Still at a safe distance, with no pressure, no smugness on her features.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to match the piece of himself in his hand to the story she’d told. Didn’t know how to believe her. But more than that, didn’t know how not to.

His throat worked around nothing. His brows pressed together, not quite frowning. Searching.

There were no protocols for this. No Hydra script to follow.

He just stared at her. A breath ghosted out through his nose. Quiet. Almost confused.

Still didn’t speak. But didn’t let go of the metal.

“I’ll let you be now,” she said softly, her voice was gentle, careful, like she was backing away from a wounded animal and not a man holding the sharpest piece of his own past in one trembling hand.

“I know what I told you... what you’re going through is too much. A lot.” She glanced at him again, uncertain if he even heard her, but needing to say it anyway. “I’ll go do some things and then, I’ll make dinner. I’ll bring it here.”

She paused in the doorway, resting her fingers against the frame, not looking back this time.

“Is not necessary for me to say, but you can... you can join me whenever you want. Outside.”

And then she was gone, her footsteps a soft sound down the hallway, leaving him alone with the silence, the pouch, and the past clutched in his palm, a memory he hadn’t known he’d lost.

----

A week passed by, and he stayed. That alone felt like a miracle, she was careful not to startle him.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t roam. She left meals by the door on a tray and they always vanished eventually, reappearing rinsed in the sink. He took the medicine, too. Not in front of her -never that- but the blister’s contents shrank, day by day.

He trusted her, in a way. Not with words. Not with eye contact. But as a caretaker, maybe. A non-threat. A fixture of the space he now cautiously shared.

He didn’t come out often. Just the soft click of the bathroom door now and then. No footsteps in the kitchen. No wandering. Until the day the chair tipped.

She hadn’t meant to stand on it, not really, but the lightbulb had gone out again, and it was just one quick reach, and then she slipped. A short yelp, the clatter of wood on tile, the thud of her hip hitting the floor.

She barely had time to curse when he was there. Silent and swift, like smoke, crouching at her side with sharp eyes and purpose.

His hands were careful. He touched her ankles, rotated them in his palm, brows pinched in faint concentration, as if her joints might tell him something her words couldn't.

"I’m okay," she said, managing a weak laugh. “Really. Just startled myself.”

But he didn’t stop. Not until he was sure. His thumb brushed just below her knees, pressing once, twice until he seemed satisfied. Then, he stood and slipped away without a sound. Just a brush of clothes, the creak of the hallway floorboard, and the soft hush of his door closing behind him.

“Thank you!!” she said earnestly, hoping he had listened.

The lightbulb still dangled dead above her head. But she didn’t move. Her skin was sensitive where he had touched her, and her heart thudded a little too loudly in her ears.

----

He stood with his back against the door for a long moment, tense, with his gaze fixed on nothing. The silence inside the room wasn’t peace. It pulsed. Swirled inside the hollow thing his mind had become.

He’d touched her.

Not under orders. Not to silence or subdue her. He’d touched her because she’d fallen. Because she’d looked up at him from the floor with surprise, not fear, and his instincts had dragged his body forward before he could bury it back down.

He sat heavily on the edge of the cot, with his metal hand open on his knee, like it didn’t belong to him. Not a tool. Not a weapon. Just metal and wire and sins.

He couldn’t shake the feeling.

The weight of her legs. The heat of her skin. The throb of her pulse under his palm, her soft voice saying she was alright. That he didn’t have to keep checking. But he had. He couldn’t stop. Not until he’d been sure. Until his fingers traced her shape and found no breaks, no blood.

She hadn’t pulled away.

Even now, that made no sense.

He leaned forward, threading fingers through his hair. The inside of his mind was a bag full of bad wiring: crackling electric thoughts, slippery half-memories, orders screamed into silence. The protocol would’ve punished him for hesitation, for contact outside the objective, disobedience, and softness.

They would’ve punished him for her.

A beat of nausea rolled through his stomach. He clenched his jaw. He remembered the rooms, filthy-white, always white. The bite of restraints, the shock when he misstepped, when he showed weakness. The dark between cryo sleeps, cold so deep it cracked thoughts apart like ice on a lake.

He’d touched her.

He’d helped.

And she’d looked at him like he was a human being.

He stood too quickly and paced. Four steps to the corner. Turn. Four steps back. His titanium hand flexing open, shut, open. Like he could scrub away the warmth of her skin.

She wasn’t afraid.

She should be.

He pressed his back to the wall and sank slowly, drawing up his knees and lowering his head. He didn’t trust himself. The part of him that moved to catch her. What was that? Soldat didn’t know kindness. But some part of him had.

Was that the man? The ghost left behind Hydra’s probing?

He didn’t know. But her voice was still in his head.

It’s alright. I’m okay. Thank you.

Like he wasn’t a thing.

Like he could be something else.

----

She’d sat on the couch long after he disappeared into the room again. Her ankle throbbed faintly, but she barely noticed it. All she could feel was the ghost of his hands on her. One warm and rough, the other cool and smooth, gentler than it had any right to be.

He’d helped her. He had listened to her fall and come out of that room with a purpose. Like something in him had recognized her pain and answered without stopping to ask why.

This time, he had come to her.

And he’d touched her.

It was the first contact he’d initiated.

A signal that he didn’t see her as a threat. That he felt safe enough -no, not safe, not yet- but compelled to leave that room for her.

She kept thinking about his eyes.

She’d seen them every day, in glimpses. Watching her without looking, flitting away if she stared too long. But when he crouched in front of her, inspecting her ankles and knees, the afternoon sun had caught his face just right, and his irises… they weren’t just blue. They were luminous. Like riverglass. Polished by time and weather. No less sharp, but still beautiful.

Even if he didn’t look her in the eye, not yet, she saw it. That flicker. The part of him that wasn’t just survival or training.

She leaned back against the cushions, breathing slowly. He didn’t say a word. He never did. But that action told her something, and she was relieved.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @escapefromrealitylol @bodhisattva11 @kittieboo @iyskgd @stell404

[got-the-cheese-touch]

More Than a Name - chapter one

Harry Potter x Sirius Black's Daughter!Reader

slowburn harry potter x reader

summary: The father you never knew but always feel makes his presence known. (indirectly)

a/n: chapter one. AAAAH i'm nervous. it's not as long as i would've liked but i didn't wanna drag it out for too long. (please reblog and like and leave a little comment! they make my day) no use of y/n

trigger warnings: nothing really except maybe poor grammar. lmk if there is something I missed. (reader does use she/her pronouns)

ty to @thecutestgrotto for the dividers <3

The Hogwarts Express rolled down the tracks with a satisfying chug, a low hum filling the silence of the train compartment. Next to you lay Remus, sleeping under his trenchcoat. His peaceful form was in stark contrast to your own. You buzzed with excitement. Your third year at Hogwarts. Hopefully, it would be less eventful than the other years (mostly for Remus’s sake. You were sure that if he received another owl telling him that you fought the Dark Lord once more he’d get a heart attack). 

When you learned that Remus was going to be teaching Defense against the Dark Arts you were relieved. Nothing could hurt you when Moony was around, of that you were sure. If Voldemort even tried to touch you or Harry, Remus could stop him. Your Remus could do anything. 

“Seriously, how is he still asleep?” you thought as you watched his chest rise and fall peacefully. Although, you supposed it was good that he was getting some rest. Recently, he was on edge. He’d pace around, reading the newspaper and shaking his head. He closed the papers and tossed it into the fireplace before you could see what exactly was on the headline; only catching a glimpse of a crazed smile as the page burned down. You had asked what it was and he simply gave you a kiss on the forehead.

“Oh, it’s nothing, mate.” He’d say, giving you a smile that’s too tense to be real. He picked up other odd habits too- cracking his knuckles, smoking a bit more than usual. One morning, you came out of your room to find him asleep on a chair outside of your door. He slept there all night, keeping watch. 

What he was protecting you from- you had no idea. 

But the strangest behavior of all happened one morning when you two were out for a walk. Remus needed to pick up his Wolfsbane and was hesitant to leave you alone at home. He also insisted on holding your hand the entire walk there which you didn’t mind, of course, but his grip would tighten at any startling noise. As you walked past a cafe you smiled and pointed.

“Look, it’s a dog!” You smiled and laughed at the sight- the dog looked out of place in the cute cafe. Remus’s head immediately turned and he stepped in front of you, protective. Remus’s eyes searched frantically for the animal like it was about to pounce on the two of you. 

His shoulders visibly relaxed when he realized that you were pointing to a small fluffy dog resting inside its owner’s purse. He exhaled shakily and tugged you along, walking a bit quicker than before and muttering something under his breath.

You figured that Remus’s new job would be good for him. He’d be closer to you, he’d be closer to help for his lycanthropy, and he’d be away from whatever news headlines were troubling him so much. 

In your daydreams you almost missed the three familiar figures walking past your train compartment: Hermione, Harry, and Ron. You slide open the door, creeping out quietly so as to not wake Remus. A whole summer without seeing your friends was torture. Harry was your first friend at Hogwarts- you liked that he was just as new to everything as you; he liked that you had tons of stories about his parents. Hermione had intimidated you at first. With her quick wit and effortless smarts. Those feelings quickly dissipated after she stood up for you when a group of Ravenclaws stole one of your letters to home. Your cheeks burned when they mocked your letter to Remus but seeing their hair immediately grow down to their feet thanks to a hex from the young witch cheered you up. 

 Once you stepped into the train’s hall you called out to your friends with a smile.

“Hey guys,” You call out to them “I’ve got a compartment. Be quiet, though. My dad’s sleeping.” You smiled at the sight of their surprised faces. Hermione ran to you with an excited call of your name, crashing into you with a tight hug.

“Oh, I missed you this summer! I would’ve written so much more but I was just so busy reading. I’ve been trying to get ahead. I mean, with the schedule I have for this year I’m gonna be in two places at once.” You shook your head with a smile. Of course she was studying over the summer. She was the biggest overachiever you knew. 

You were pulled from your embrace with her when Ron bumped her out of the way.

“You’d think she’s been gone from war, Hermione. Can you not strangle her before we get the chance to say hello?” You smile and let out a laugh, amused at the bickering. You brought him in for a friendly hug and you patted his back. Ron was a good guy. You wouldn’t say he’s your best friend but the shared trauma of exploding monster chess pieces has a way of bringing people together. “I see you haven’t taken off this jacket of yours.” He says, tugging on the sleeve of your- well, Sirius’s- leather jacket.

“And I see you’ve gotten some more freckles.” You tease back with a smirk. He pushes you off with a groan and a poorly concealed smile. 

“Merlin, not even two minutes into the year and I’m sick of you.” He snickers and steps into the compartment, training behind Hermione. You finally turn your gaze to Harry and two things quickly come to mind. The first is that he’s gotten tall. The second is that you hadn’t even noticed how much you really missed him until this moment. 

He wore a simple t-shirt and jeans, his wand tucked into his pocket. He wore the same wire framed glasses over the same pretty green eyes. 

“Okay, easy. It’s just Harry for Merlin’s sake. Not Gilderoy Lockhart.” You thought as you stepped up to him with a grin. He quickly pulled you into a hug and took a deep breath. 

Harry’s summer sucked (naturally). Staying with the Dursleys was torture. Not only did it mean that he was away from school. The months spent in that cupboard was a prison sentence. His warden? Vernon Dursley. 

That meant that he couldn’t take visits to see his friends, he couldn’t study for the upcoming year. He couldn’t even write letters either. 

But whatever troubles he had developed over the summer, he had quickly forgotten after seeing your smirk. 

“Missed you loads.” He says, his shoulders relaxing. You smiled. You didn’t need to say you missed him; you were sure he could tell. He had a weird way of reading your mind. You wondered if it was the same way with James and Sirius.

Harry was a friend that you could tell anything to. He’d been with you through thick and thin and you could say that he was, without a doubt, your best friend. He’s a partner in crime, a confidant, someone to lean on. 

It would be natural to wonder how you two could get along so well. It may seem shocking that the fact that your father is accused of brutally murdering his parents isn’t a setback in your relationship. Perhaps it would be an issue if Harry knew that unfortunate detail about your life’s history.

To save you from ridicule, Dumbledore and Remus both decided it would be best to enroll you in Hogwarts under Remus’s name. As far as anyone was concerned, you were a Lupin. You didn’t mind. It’s not like you knew your real dad. Remus was your father in every sense of the word other than blood. 

But Harry would probably mind. Did it make you a bad person not to tell him? Maybe.

But have you felt guilty about this every time he asks you to tell him some of Remus’s stories about The Marauders? Absolutely. 

You shove these thoughts to the back of your mind as you release him from the hug with a smile.

“Sap.” You say before climbing into the compartment. 

You slide in next to Remus who is still, somehow, sleeping over the noise of Hermionie and Ron’s arguing. You quiet them with a look and a nod towards Remus’s figure, covered in his coat. Hermione turns to you, her expression suddenly serious. 

“Have you been reading the papers?” She asks, her tone anxious. You shake your head. 

Remus had been hoarding the Daily Prophet for some reason. He hadn’t let you read the papers in ages. Another one of his odd habits recently. 

“I get them sent by owls. You ought to start staying up to date on this kind of thing. Especially considering the relevance it has.” Hermione huffs. She quickly pulls a folded up newspaper from her bag and holds it out to you. “We need to be concerned for Harry.”

You’re about to quip “When do we not?” until you flip over the pages to see the headline and your blood runs cold. 

His name. Your father’s name printed clearly on the front page. 

You stared down at his photo, the image moving as he snarled and thrashed at the camera. He looked angry and tired and sick and evil. His eyes were filled with intensity that made the hair on your arms stick up. 

It was like looking in a mirror. A sick and twisted mirror, sure, but still. The resemblance was uncanny. His eyes, his smile, his nose. Down to the sharpness of his canines. Thank Merlin that your friends were too occupied in the situation that they didn’t notice your state or your resemblance to the man. 

In your shock, you only catch the tail end of their conversation. 

“...The man’s a murderous, raving lunatic.” Ron deadpans. His sarcasm isn’t able to hide the pure worry he has for Harry. A strange part of you feels protective. He is your dad. You don’t feel the need to cut in with his defense: the fact that he hadn’t had a motivation or even a trial. Remus didn’t hate Sirius and neither did you. None of this would be helpful to point out. You look up from the photo at Harry. 

“It’ll be okay. Dumbledore won’t let anyone get to you, yeah?” You say, trying to be reassuring. You’re not sure if it’s for Harry or for yourself. Before anyone can cut in with their worries, the train screeches to a sudden halt. 

Rain pelts against the window as the Hogwarts Express jostles. You look at Remus who is miraculously still sleeping. 

“Why are we stopping?” You hear Hermione question. You shake your head, about to express your confusion before the lights of the train shut off. The newspaper in your lap is forgotten as you stand up to investigate. Before you can get to the door though, a lurch of the train sends you back to your seat. “Bloody hell” Ron gasps and you turn your head. The window has frosted up and you watch in confusion as the bottle of water on the floor freezes up. Your grip tightens on Sirius’s leather jacket, hugging the warm leather closer against you. 

A shadowy figure approaches from outside the compartment. It was ghostly and its presence filled you with dread. Suddenly you were four years old back in evil foster homes. You could only stare in fear and silence as it opened the door to your compartment. 

“Get Remus, Wake him up.” Your mind shouted as the creature stared at all of you. You felt like it saw right into your soul. You sat frozen.

The ghost looked towards Harry and you gasped as it drew close to him and inhaled deeply. Like he was sucking out Harry’s soul. 

When you finally found your voice, you turned to Remus’s sleeping figure helplessly and you shook him awake. 

“Dad, please wake up! Moony help!” You said to him as Harry slipped out of consciousness, his weight slipping onto you as the shadowy figure continued its assault. 

Remus quickly jolted awake at the sound of you and stood up with his wand. A burst of light filled the compartment, driving away the creature. Once it had fled, Harry slumped down. Remus sees the copy of the newspaper on the floor and he picks it up quickly, folding up Sirius’s angry stare and tucking it into his back pocket. Remus looked at you before he even noticed Harry’s state.

He starts rambling. His hands fly to the sides of your face, holding you worriedly. “Oh, mate, I’m sorry, are you okay. Merlin- Fuck, I’ll explain it all later. I should’ve told you. I had no clue the dementors would even be here. Dumbledore assured me that they’d be far away. Oh, Lovely- if it got its hands on you it would’ve-” 

“Dad.” You cut him off, “Harry.” You nod towards the boy who’s passed out. Hermionie and Ron simply stare helplessly.

“Oh! Yes, yes.” Remus mutters, moving to check on Harry now that he’s realized that you are okay.

“Not even at school yet and we’ve already gotten into some kind of trouble.” Ron mutters. He is quickly silenced by a swift kick to the shins, given by Hermionie. 

Minutes feel like hours as you wait for Harry to wake up. When he does stir, he sits up and looks around, confused. Remus pulls a bar of chocolate from his cloak pocket. 

“Here. Eat.” Remus murmurs comfortingly. Harry takes it, his expression unsure. He looks at me and I give him a reassuring nod. “It’s alright. It’s chocolate.” Remus says, encouraging Harry to eat. 

“What- what was that?” Harry asks shakily, adjusting his glasses. 

“A dementor. One of the guards of Azkaban.” Remus sits back in his chair. His gaze is heavy as he stares at Harry. “He’s gone now. He’s looking for the traitor Sirius Black.” Your friends don’t catch the way Remus’s jaw ticks and his shoulders tense at the name. They don’t notice how Remus’s eyes flick to yours for a moment or how you avert your gaze. They don’t notice the sadness in Remus’s eyes remembering his companion as though he was a murderer. You do. You notice everything about Remus. 

He stands and sets the rest of the chocolate bar in Harry’s lap before kissing you on top of your head. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he starts as he opens the compartment door “I need to have a word with the driver.” He takes one more glance at all of you, his gaze landing on Harry. “Eat. You’ll feel better.” With that, he slips out and the door shuts with a click, leaving the four of you in silence. 

So much for an uneventful school year.

After the dust had settled and everyone had gone to bed, you found yourself in Dumbledore’s office, standing stuck to the floor next to Professor McGonagall. Her arms are crossed and her eyes are filled with concern as she talks with Dumbledore. Across the room, Remus is pacing back and forth, dragging his hands through his hair. The whole display didn't feel real. Maybe it wasn’t.

You were dreaming. A nightmare. Soon you’d wake up at home, tucked safely in your bed. Harry wasn’t attacked by a dementor. Your dad hadn’t escaped jail. 

You shivered at the thought. 

You knew he wouldn't hurt you. You were sure of that. But all those years locked away for wrongful imprisonment would probably make a guy want to settle some grudges. 

You were numb. Remus was livid. 

“What happens if they realize that she’s his daughter? Huh? Those dementors won’t think twice about killing her. They’ll sense his blood and give her the kiss before she can even pull out her wand.” Remus said angrily. He was smoking a cigarette. In fact, he was almost through a pack. 

Severus Snape stares at him coldly from across the room. Logically, you knew that Snape was trustworthy. Dumbledore wouldn’t be so loyal to him if he was truly evil. But there was something deep within you that told you Snape was no good. The way he walks, the tone of his voice, the condescending way he stares at you sends your blood boiling. Apparently he had a big feud with The Marauders when they were young. Even if it wasn’t in your DNA to hate Snape, you still would loathe the man for how he treated others. He looked away when muggle-borns were being bullied. He praised Draco malfoy, the prince prick of all pricks. Snape never passed up the chance to take points from houses other than Slytherin and he’s rumoured to be a death eater. 

Nothing is worse, though, than how he treats Moony. 

Your Moony. The one who makes you toast and dries your tears. The one who saved you, who took you in. Somehow Snape is able to bully your kind hearted, gentle, loving Remus. In the time that they’ve been in the same room, Snape has already mocked Remus’s lycanthropy, made snide comments about your upbringing (as if the fact that Remus wasn’t rich made your life with him any less happy), and he went so far as to insinuate that Remus was a traitor due to his loyalty to Sirius. 

Severus Snape was a dick. 

 “The dementors are instructed to stay far away, in the unlikely case that it becomes an issue-” Says Snape, his voice nasally and irritating. 

“Unlikely? A dementor has already attacked a student. Harry could’ve been seriously injured. Or worse!” Remus takes a deep inhale of the cigarette. He moves to stand at your side. “Call them off, Professor. Call them off or we’re leaving.” He looks to Dumbledore, his brow set in a determined stare, stubbornly making a point. Dumbledore sighs and shakes his head patiently.

“Remus, we just can’t do that. It’s standard protocol.” You hear Remus huff next to you, agitated. Dumbledore continues “I will speak to Harry about the encounter and I’ll talk to the ministry about the ordeal but we won’t call off the dementors. I’m truly sorry but there is nothing I can do.” He looks genuine. You give him a small smile and he gives you one back, a glint in his eye as he leaves. Snape trails after him next, giving Remus a snide look. 

Professor McGonagall remains with the two of you, turning towards the still fuming Remus. 

“Minnie, I mean what I said. I will leave and she’s coming with me. I promised that I’d keep her safe and I will not let her stay so close to those fucking things.” Remus starts pacing again, muttering angrily as Professor McGonagall tries to calm him down.

“Remus, listen to me, leaving will do nothing but harm. What happens if people think you are in cahoots with Black? Here, Albus will protect you both. Who will protect you if you are at home?” Her voice is sharp but not unkind. She looks at him with a motherly sort of fierceness. 

“If anyone tries anything, I’ll be the one in Azkaban.” Remus says, lighting another cigarette. 

As the two of them bicker back and forth, your gaze drifts to the window. The moon is bright and clear, almost full. That was probably another reason for Remus’s mood. He always got territorial and antsy when the full moon was closer. When you first moved in with him, the full moon nearing meant he would get distant. He was so scared that he would hurt you somehow. Once he became more sure of his place in your life, his pre-moon behavior changed. He would become fiercely protective. You supposed it was the natural instinct to protect enhanced by the wolf. 

Once McGonagall is able to calm Remus down (and confiscate his cigarettes) she sends the two of you out, ordering you back to the dorms and Remus to the professor’s quarters. It was funny seeing her scold him, it was like he was a teen again. He might be much taller than the old woman, but she still put him in his place quickly. 

“She should know better than that. I obviously have more packs than that.” Remus says, trying to lighten the mood as he walks you back to the Gryffindor common room. You simply stare ahead angrily. He looks at you and taps you on the head. “Lovely, don’t be mad. C’mon I don’t smoke that much.” No response. Remus sighs. “I want to keep you safe, kid. I can’t let anything happen to you. Seriously.” You stop and look up at him, upset.

“Sirius Black is out of Azkaban and you didn’t think to tell me? You didn’t think I needed to know?” You spit out. Remus recoils at the anger in your voice. “I’m not six anymore. You should have told me.”

“I should have.” Remus nods, stopping in his tracks. “You’re right about that. But when I found out, the only thing I could think to do is protect you, mate. I will always defend Sirius. You know that.” His voice is unsteady as she stares at you. “But Azkaban changes people. Who knows what he’s like now.” You look down, unable to hold his gaze any longer. He pulls you into him, hugging you. “And I didn’t even think. I just needed you safe, mate.”

When you arrived at the common room safely, Remus took a glance around before giving you a kiss goodnight. Harry, Hermionie, and Ron were sitting on the couch by the fire, talking quietly. Their conversation stops when they notice you. Remus gives them all a smile and a nod.

“Goodnight Ron, Hermione. Goodnight Harry.” He says before turning and leaving. When you face the group again, they’re all pulling you down to sit.

“What was that about? Where were you?” Asks Hermione, her head tilted curiously. What were you supposed to say?

“Me? Oh, just preparing for the oncoming dementor attack I’ll get because of the fact that my dad escaped from prison. Yeah, my dad is Sirius Black, sorry I’ve been lying to you all about that. And sorry about your mum and dad Harry.” 

You figured that that wouldn’t go over well so instead you give Hermionie the most convincing smile you can muster. 

“Just helping my dad settle in, no need to worry.” That seemed to have calmed her and she continues talking to Ron about the classes she’s enrolled in this year. You feel Harry’s unwavering gaze on your profile. You turn to look at him. “What?” You ask, hoping he doesn’t see right through you.

“That’s your dad, huh?” He says nodding towards the portrait hole Remus had just left. You swallow thickly and nod. “You look nothing alike.” You blink, unsure of what to say to that so you simply shrug. 

Leaning back against the couch, something catches your eye. It’s small enough to be overlooked but you caught the little carving written into the side of the side table: 

“Sirius was here” 

As your friends chatted away about the upcoming year, you stared at the little carving. A small act of teenage rebellion, nothing meaningful. It stuck with you though. Sirius was here. 

Sirius was everywhere.

He’s Remus’s sigh after a laugh, he’s the frustration in professors’ voices when they correct you, he’s the stubborn furrow in your brow that forms when you’re being defiant. He is there when you’re upset at the world. He’s there when you look at photos, or listen to music. He was there when you snuck one of Remus’s cigarettes one night over the summer. He’s in the common room- his name written on random surfaces or Prophet headlines. 

He’s inescapable. He follows you around wherever you go, whether you like it or not. 

 He’s the mangy black dog with shaggy fur and wild eyes that’s found a hiding place in the shrieking shack. 

notes: IF IT'S BAD IM SORRY. i'm not exaggerating when i say that i get so nervous posting this. please give me validation y'all i live for it. (some of your comments have me giggling and kicking my feet) also im so sorry that it took so long to post this chapter. i was going through it.

THANK YOU FOR READING THIS FAR ILYSM!!!!

taglist, comment to be added <3 : @mmmunson @reesespeesees @starmaniii @deathmybride

(if you reblog, i'll give you my firstborn rumplestiltskin style)

[bie-tch]

Inspired by this post lmao

🐜: srksrkkksrksrrk.

Kai, crouching: What?!?! She said that?!??! No, you're joking.

🐜: srrkskrsrkkrksssrk, sksrkskkskrkkk!!!!!

Kai: Wait, she might've been a bitch but you can't say that. You're a bug. And I don't think the f word is something bugs can say–

Nya steps on the ant: Kai, why are you crouching?

Kai, horrified: NOOOOO DIANAA!!!!!

Nya: Uh, Kai???

Kai, dialing back: Y-you stepped on the ant! What did she ever do to you?!?! She even made sure to stay out of your food whenever you dont finish it!!!

Nya, half asleep: ...I'm gonna go now and check on Jay. You, uh, continue whatever it is you're doing.

Kai: She was the queen bee!! Or, queen ant? But no, there's already a queen ant... anyway, you've incurred the wrath of her clique. I can't save you this time, sis. Just know I warned you.

Nya: Kai, eat some breakfast. Now.

(For the next few days, Nya would get 3x as many ant bites as normal)

🪱: ghlhgllhllgghlglhlghh...

Kai, holding 🪱 in fear of the diane situation happening again: Yeah, I know. Hopefully, she's learned her lesson by now. Ants never let things go.

🪱: ghslhshshghlhgghlglhlg.

Kai: Oh right, how's your furniture decorating coming along? The housing crisis in the monastery garden is hell right now. Heard it from Fuschia.

[swtnjk]

helloooo can u pls do kuroo x reader where both of them decided to try again for a baby after years mayb 2 of failed pregs? thank uuu (mayb it worked this time)

i loved LOVED! writing this. i lowkey blended this with bf things kuroo… sooo lmk if you want dad kuroo things

the soft hum of your dryer was the only sound in you and kuroo’s quiet apartment. warm laundry in your lap and the hard ache in your chest.

two whole years of trying. two years of a heartbreak. every negative test felt like a punch in the gut. was it karma? maybe it’s the universe telling you that you’re gonna be a bad mom.

but kuroo never stopped holding your hand. he came in the living room with a lazy grin and his silly bed head. “hey,” he said, sitting beside you. “foldin’ clothes without me? bold.”

you smiled softly, not really looking up. “you were napping.”

he snorted, nudging your shoulder. “so… i was thinking—“

“careful.”

“rude,” he laughed. then his voice quiets down, “i wanna try again… if you’re okay with it. i know it’s been hard, baby. but i don’t wanna give up on this.”

you finally look up at him. his tired but hopefully glint in his eyes, the way his hand is already reaching for you like muscle memory.

your throat tightened, “… yeah. we-we can try again.”

kuroo runs into the room after your loud scream. you stared at the test in your shaking hands. positive.

two lines. two!

“did you just scream or was that imagination?” he says. you looked at him, holding up the test. he holds your wrist to keep the shaking still.

he blinked, “what— that’s— holy! you’re—?!” he was speechless. you nodded, tears falling down.

kuroo dropped to his knees in front of you, hands on your belly like it was made of glass. “are you real? is this happening?”

you laughed and cried at the same time. “i think it is.”

he kissed your stomach, then your lips, then hugged you so tight you could barely breathe. “we’re really doing it. finally.”

you couldn’t stop staring at the ultrasound photo. a tiny blur, a heartbeat barely the size of a nut but it was real. after all the tears, the whispered reassurances that felt more like prayers, it was finally happening.

kuroo had printed six copies of the scan, just in case. one for the fridge, one for his wallet, one for his office, and the rest “emergency backups,” he said with a proud grin.

“you’re going to wear that smile into the ground,” you teased one morning, catching him staring at you while brushing his teeth.

he turned, toothbrush dangling from his mouth. “can’t help it. you’ve never looked more glowy.” you gave him a look. “i’m in your old volleyball hoodie and socks that don’t match.”

“exactly,” he spit into the sink. “volleyball hoodie? that’s peak fertility fashion, babe.” you snorted so hard you nearly choked on your orange juice.

kuroo threw himself into building the nursery like it was a final project and you were the judge. he measured everything twice, made spreadsheets for crib safety ratings, and debated paint swatches.

“i think we should go with the pastel yellow,” he said one night, holding up two nearly identical samples. “it’s cheerful. gender-neutral. and doesn’t look like a banana threw up.”

you rolled your eyes, “you know i trust you, right?”

kuroo paused. his gaze softened, “yeah. but i want you to love it. i want everything to be perfect for you. for them.”

you kiss his cheek, “it already is.”

kuroo held your baby girl like he was holding the universe. he was.

you watched through exhausted, teary eyes as he rocked them slowly, whispering something only they could hear.

then he looked at you, eyes glistening. “you did it,” he said hoarsely. “we did it. she’s here.”

he leaned down, kissed your forehead, then kissed the baby’s. and in that moment, with thunder rumbling in the distance and your family finally whole, you knew..

it was all worth it.

[jessiso]

Hotch x Reader (bau preferred but if not that’s okay too). Angst to fluff if possible please! Maybe Hotch and reader avoiding each other (and their feelings) after having a late night kiss after a really hard case. Hope this sparks ⚡️ something for you to write! Thank you 🙏🏽

"The Morning After"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader

After a grief-fueled kiss, you and Hotch struggle with the aftermath. Back in D.C., he admits he wants you despite the risks—and you stop pretending it didn’t matter.

cw: angst, grief, trauma, workplace dynamics, emotional vulnerability

w/c 1,081

(Hopefully this is along the lines of what you wanted!! these are my favourite vibes to write hehe x)

...

You weren’t sure what woke you first—the turbulence of the jet or the sinking feeling in your chest.

For a moment, still half-asleep, you forgot. You forgot about the case.

The bodies.

The weight.

And the kiss.

God, the kiss.

Reality settled in with the force of a punch.

You opened your eyes slowly, pretending to still be asleep, but you could feel the heat of his presence across from you.

Aaron Hotchner. Your boss.

The man you’d kissed like your life depended on it less than twelve hours ago.

Correction: the man you’d let kiss you, after you’d all but fallen apart in the hallway of a dingy hotel.

After the worst case you’d worked in months.

After watching a mother cradle her son’s body like she could will him back to life.

You hadn’t cried until you left the scene.

Not until your hotel door shut behind you and the silence pressed in. And then—then you couldn’t breathe.

You had stepped out into the hallway, unable to stay in that room alone with your grief, and you’d walked straight into him.

He’d looked exhausted. Hollowed out. His tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and when he saw you—really saw you—his face cracked.

Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.

You didn’t remember who moved first, just that your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and then his lips were on yours.

It had been desperate. Unspoken. A collision of grief and longing and loneliness.

You remembered the press of his hands at your waist. The way he’d kissed you like he needed it to survive. The quiet sound he made when you kissed him back, pulling him closer, ignoring every voice in your head screaming this is wrong, this is dangerous, this is everything you can’t have.

But it had felt like the first thing in days that made you feel human again.

And then you'd pulled away.

You remembered the look in his eyes.

Open. Bare. Vulnerable in a way Hotch never allowed himself to be.

And you remembered being too scared to speak. You’d just walked away.

And now here you were.

Sitting across from him on the BAU jet, coffee growing cold in your hands.

Neither of you speaking.

Neither acknowledging what had happened. It was as if the kiss never occurred.

Except your lips still burned with the memory.

You risked a glance up. He was reading—pretending to read—a file, but you could see the tension in his posture.

Shoulders rigid. Jaw tight. Avoiding your eyes like it was an act of self-preservation.

It made something ache in your chest.

Did he regret it? Did he think it was a mistake?

Or worse—did he think you were?

“Here,” Emily said, offering a granola bar. “You should eat something.”

You blinked, pulled out of the spiral.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, though you barely touched it.

The plane landed in D.C. and the team dispersed with tired goodbyes.

You tried to slip away quietly, grabbing your go-bag and heading toward the exit ramp, desperate for the solace of your car, your apartment, your own private misery.

But then—

“Can we talk?”

His voice stopped you cold.

You froze, one foot on the jet stairs. Your heart stuttered. Slowly, cautiously, you turned.

Hotch stood at the base of the ramp, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his expression unreadable—but his eyes were locked on you.

He looked as uncertain as you felt.

You nodded.

He didn’t say another word until you were in his SUV.

You noticed he didn’t take the turn toward Quantico.

He drove in silence, the weight between you growing heavier with each passing streetlamp.

Your mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.

Was this where he told you it was a mistake?

That it crossed a line? That it couldn’t happen again?

When he pulled into a quiet park and turned off the engine, you braced for it.

But instead, he just stared at the steering wheel.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he said finally.

Your stomach dropped.

You turned your head toward the window, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “Okay.”

“I shouldn’t have let it happen like that,” he continued, quieter this time. “You deserved better than that moment. You deserved better than me losing control.”

That hurt. Because for all the complications, it hadn’t felt like him losing control.

It had felt like a choice.

“I didn’t regret it,” you said, your voice thin. “But I regret walking away.”

That got his attention.

He looked over at you, eyes softening with something like hope.

“I thought you regretted it,” you admitted. “You didn’t say anything this morning. You couldn’t even look at me.”

“I was scared,” he said simply. “I am scared.”

You turned fully toward him, hands clenched in your lap. “Why?”

“Because I’ve spent so long building walls to survive this job. To survive… everything. Haley. Foyet. Jack. The darkness we see every single day. I don’t let myself want things anymore. Not really.”

He swallowed hard.

“But I want you,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“And I don’t know what that means,” he added. “I don’t know how to have this and still do this job the way I need to. But not telling you how I feel—it’s worse. It’s so much worse.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your eyes stung.

“Last night,” he continued, “it wasn’t just grief or adrenaline. It was something I’ve been trying to push down for months. Something I thought I could ignore, because it was safer that way. But I can’t anymore.”

The silence stretched between you, fragile and tentative. You reached out, placing your hand over his where it gripped the gearshift.

“I’m scared, too,” you said. “But maybe we don’t have to figure everything out at once.”

He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through yours.

“I don’t know what this looks like,” he said. “But I know I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You gave a small, watery laugh. “Neither do I."

He brought your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles, and for the first time since the case ended, since the kiss, since the spiraling aftermath—you felt like you could finally breathe again.

Maybe there were rules. Risks. Realities to face.

But in this moment, in the quiet of an empty park at sunrise, none of that mattered.

You weren’t running anymore.

[flutterylust]

“SUGURU GETO, THE OLDER MAN...”

🎈PAIRING 🎈 : older!suguru x fem!reader

🚨 WARNINGS 🚨 : age gap relationship (all legal but not explicitly stated how much of a gap), angsty, slightly ocish, a little lewd but not TOO much now. Big dick suguru implied lol.

NOTES 🍎: Hey... how y'all doing? Happy 2025! No Yuta bcs I haven't been able to decide on a plot. BUTTTTT I got smthin better than headcanons, actual writing! Hurray! I'm writing actual smut but stay tuned bcs Idk when I'll finish it. Hopefully soon! I ain't gonna lie, this was written on a whim at like 3:00 am. It is currently 4:42 am as I prepare everything 😔. I randomly got the urge to write, and so I wrote. Hope some of y'all see this 💔💔💔 love you guys please like and reblog if you like it!

🖍 WORD COUNT 🖍 : 1.2k

You're somebody's daughter. Somebody's beautiful, amazing, talented daughter with such a bright future ahead of you. Yet instead of enjoying your youth and taking downtime to study, here you are getting your back blown out by the older man who only calls you late at night.

What started as something you'd do for the plot turned into something more. Something you craved. A connection. Not with just any man, but with Suguru Geto. He didn't love you, of course he didn't. He had his own life, his own job, his own worries. You just happened to be a pretty university girl who is just always miraculously available. No strings attached. Just sex.

The mattress wasn't even remotely comfortable. It was hard, stiff. The duvet was cheap, but it reeked of him. And to you? That was perfect.

Typically, you weren't like this. If anyone had told you that you were gonna get your back blown out by a guy who wouldn't even give you a second glance as he told you to clean up, you'd look at them crazy. You thought women who slept with guys who didn't deserve them were pathetic until you became that woman. The one who craves more but never receives it because it wasn't a part of the deal.

Isn't it degrading to moan into the cheap fabric of the comforter, your ass up while he pressed your face down, his strong hips rolling into your dripping cunt with mind-numbing precision. Every languid thrust making your gleaming folds cling onto his cock greedily, clearly never wanting to let go. You couldn't see the obscene sheen of your juices coating his cock but you could hear just how wet you were. This was pathetic. It was pathetic how you crawled back every time he called despite convincing yourself you wouldn't. Although, was it really convincing yourself if you knew that you wouldn't keep your word? Were you delusional instead?

It didn't matter to you. It never did. Not when his cock felt this good, not when he pressed you down and fucked you until your mind was blank and your cunt was dripping with his cum. How could you deny him such a pleasure when he draped his sticky strong body over yours, whispering into your ear asking if you'd let him cum inside.

Suguru never pressured you, he never even tried to persuade you to change your mind if you wanted him to pull out. In fact, if anyone begged to cum inside, it was you. Always you begging Suguru to cum deep inside you only to regret it once you were waiting outside for your friend to pick you up with his cum leaking out your pussy.

Every hook up always ended with Suguru cumming deep inside you, sheathed balls-deep inside your syrupy cunt, moaning lowly as he pumped you full before pulling out. He wasn't completely heartless, he let you come down from your high and let you use the bathroom before asking you to get dressed and leave. Except this time was different only because one thing slipped out.

Three insignificant words slipped out of your lips as he fucked the rationality out of your head, ‘I love you’. What did you love? Did you love being ignored? Did you love being left on delivered for hours at a time? Did you love only being used for your body? What happened to all your intelligence? How could you have fallen in love with a man you barely even fucking knew?

When did your occasional thoughts about him turn into manifesting a text back? When did you actually start to consider buying some kind of service from a witch?

Was it that night when he comforted you when you failed your exams? Or the day he didn't just call you up for sex but actually took you to a warm diner that you now frequented? Was it when you saw how handsome he looked when he smiled? When he rolled up his sleeves before eating?

All of that was irrelevant. All of it was irrelevant when Suguru didn't finish inside you like you begged, pulling out mid-stroke, making you whine at the loss of friction. The loss of pleasure immediately makes you crash into hazy clarity.

“What did you just say?”

Your heart dropped. It was like your heart stopped beating for a second as you hastily sat up, ignoring the ache in your lower back from your previous position. Sure you were naked, your tits out and your cunt still puffy and soaked. But none of that mattered when Suguru's voice was full of disbelief.

You had never seen Suguru so bewildered before, looking almost…insulted. You tried to explain yourself in a haste, stumbling over your words, “No–No it's–It's not what you think! I just said it in the heat of the moment!”

Of course it wasn't. You knew what you said, you knew you meant it. But from Suguru's expression, he didn't like your confession one bit. He was still hard, your juices still slowly sliding down his hard cock, every thick inch covered in your syrupy essence but it didn't matter. Not when Suguru sighed, sitting his ass on the bed and running a hand through his hair in exasperation, “Don't lie to me. You know very well we can't be together. I made it clear that this—” Suguru gestured between you two before continuing, “This isn't anything serious.”

“Why not? Why can't we have something serious?” The words sounded like a whisper the moment you spat them out. The feeling of something getting stuck in your throat intensified as you swallowed thickly, tears already beginning to blur your vision. Your heart was sinking down to your stomach with every exasperated sigh and word coming from Suguru's mouth.

Suguru groaned before speaking, “Don't start, I don't want to be that guy. I don't want to hurt you.”

“You already are! So just tell me!” Suguru sighed at your response before responding begrudgingly, “Because you're not the one I want. You're young, you don't understand life. You're just beginning to navigate it on your own and I don't want to help you navigate it when I've got my own shit going on.”

The words hit you like a ton of bricks. He didn't want you because you were too young? Because you were going through new experiences? What made him think that you were going to complicate things? That you hadn't already gone through shit he went through later?

Sensing your shock and hurt, he simply sighed and stood up, grabbing his boxers and sliding them on as he spoke, ignoring his still raging hard-on, “I think you should go. And uh, don't text me again for a while. At least not until you really think shit through. You're just confused.”

All you could think about as you hurriedly got dressed past all your tears was, ‘yeah right.’ How could you be confused when you could feel the anger and heartbreak itching to claw itself out of your throat? You wanted to scream, to fight, to argue. But he was right about one thing, you should go.

So that's what you did. You left his apartment, but not with his cum seeping out of your cunt this time, but with your heart crumbling a trail behind you.

THANKS!!

shy.

please do not steal or copy my work!!

[solifloris]

≡;-꒰ 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I  𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒋𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 - 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | 18+ only

tags : long fic, porn with plot, prince!xavier x knight!reader, separate from the lightseeker era we know and more of a different royal au, slight angst, hurt/comfort, slowburn ish, mutual yearning, slight miscommunication (well it's xavier…), still has soft fluffy moments though, use of "my prince" "my liege" "your highness" from reader, kisses, first time, oral (f. receiving), heavy petting, vaginal sex, overall soft sex and very vanilla moments, slight use of pet names "angel" and "my queen" towards the end from xavier.

IMPORTANT - this is part 2 because apparently tumblr has a 1000-block limit that won't let me post the entire fic in one whole post...... so please see this link for part 1, or the full fic on AO3 !!

wc : 19.8k total / part 1 - 12.3k / part 2 - 7.5k

an : a tumblr continuation; this is still for @xavmc-week days 1 (knight x royalty), 2 (firsts), and 3 (moon/stars)! note that this is not really a standalone, and does work better with the context from part 1 <3

taglist to be reblogged : SIGN UP HERE

ko-fi jar / commissions

With a single word and a gentle touch, you turned a moment into forever.

Like many things between the two of you, it became routine.

One kiss, and then the second—it happened just the next night. Just as quiet, just as soft, just as gentle.

You hadn’t expected it, not really. You'd wished for it, sure, but you fully believed it to be a one-time-thing—

It wasn't.

Because that next night, he'd invited you in again. Another cup of tea, more idle chatter, something normal—

And then he walked you to the door.

Again.

He stood a moment long, and then you knew, and when his lips brushed yours in another sweet, sweet kiss, you could feel your heart soaring.

Again.

That night, there were still no words exchanged. Just a small, shy, mutual smile, and then the door closing softly behind you.

And after that, it became a rhythm. A routine. He would find you in quiet hallways with an unspoken glance; you would fall into step beside him without hesitation. Sometimes your hands brushed as you walked—accidental at first, then not so accidental. A ghost of a touch. A curl of fingers, before either of you would still remember to pull away.

And some nights, you'd wait by the door, unsure if you'll be invited in again But every time, the door still opened before you could knock.

Some nights, he would still be dressed in formal attire, a little disheveled, a little distracted, a little tired. Other nights, he was comfortable to be in less—a simple linen shirt, maybe even sleep clothes. His sleeves were always rolled to the forearm; gaze was always more relaxed.

Still, always handsome.

And you never really quite talked about the kisses. About the affection, the comfort, the—whatever this was.

They just happened. Folded into the end of each evening, like clockwork—like punctuation.

A kiss by the door. A hand brushing your wrist. A touch on the small of your back as you passed him a folded report.

It took 21 days to form a habit, but sometimes you'd think that this even took less—that was how natural it was. You could breathe, and you would breathe him in. Enough so for you to dream lighter, now. You'd to sleep with the tingle of his lips; wake up with the memory of it.

Naturally, of course, the court remained unaware. In whatever had pulled you close like this, you were still able to keep a straight face around the others. The guards still spoke of it as nothing, and if anyone noticed the way your gazes lingered longer than they should, then they didn't seem to dare touch on the matter in the first place.

It was enough, at least. For you. For him, hopefully.

And then night after night, as the castle settled into quiet and the corridors dimmed to a warm glow, you returned to him.

Always to him.

And you wished, deep in your heart, that it would always last forever.

&—

Of course it didn't.

A bond built in secret—how long, truly, could that last?

You kept your head down when you first heard it.

The palace walls were thin—decidedly so. You'd never cared for it, not before, but now it meant something. Words seeped through the cracks; like vines on a wall, winding, and winding, and—

Choking.

Two noblemen lingered in the corridor. Their voices were low, but not low enough. You could make out, still, what they were saying.

“A match with the House would secure the borderlands for a generation.”

“Well, I believe he’ll fall in line. He has no choice, if it's for the Kingdom.”

“But they say he’s taken to spending time with his knight, that woman. I'd heard she was his personal guard."

"Goodness! Then what would that look like, come delegation day?”

It stung.

You felt the bile build up in your chest, in your throat—

You could throw up.

You almost did.

And you turned, left—your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your limbs tense as you walked. You couldn't bear to hear any more.

It had been weeks.

One, or two—but more than enough for you to live in that pretty little illusion, and now it was time to stop it.

Xavier hadn't told you.

Just last night, you'd shared another soft little kiss—that one was longer than most, you almost stayed.

Almost.

Almost.

But he hadn't told you.

And how long had there been talks of this? How long had he been betrothed to a noble girl? How long had he known? Could he kiss you, still, despite all of this being said? Could he be with you, nightly, despite the arrangements being made for his hand?

When you entered your room, you went straight for your bed. Sat in it in silence, hung your head down in disdain.

Tears pricked at your eyes. Even in its absence, your armor weighed heavy. Right on your heart.

It was the weight of what you were.

You didn't go to him, that night. Not this, not the next, not the nights even after. And each evening that you'd steeled yourself not to knock on his door, a part of you ached like you'd gone too long holding your breath.

Because you'd never even spoken of what you were.

Never defined those soft, goodnight kisses, the brushing of fingers when no one looked, the stolen moments of laughter, of shared glances—things that warmed you, comforted you, made you feel… safe.

For you, it had been enough.

Just spending time with him like that, it had been enough.

Until it wasn't.

And still, you couldn't quite pretend that you hadn't seen it coming.

Xavier moved differently, now. His shoulders were tense in court, his eyes flicking towards you from across the room more often, as though checking to see if you'd still be there. You noticed it. It was hurting him as much as you, you could see it. You knew him well enough. Still, despite the secrets, you knew him well enough.

But this distance was necessary.

If 15 centimeters had shortened into 5, had dissolved into nothingness—

It had grown, since even longer.

15 centimeters to 20, to 30. To one foot, then two—a meter, then more.

The space between you had grown, even when physically, you were only just a few paces apart at all.

And it just had to be that way.

It had to be that way.

So why were you crying?

Why, then, where you turning down this corridor—were you heading to his chambers—

Why, then, was it so difficult to leave?

It was the fourth night, like this. Habitual movements. Heart thrumming with an ache that pulsed at your throat.

You were there before you could think; in front of the door, closed, that you were so familiar with.

Your hand lifted—

You didn't knock.

"This is stupid," you murmured, a pained whisper beneath your breath.

And then—

"…Is that what you think?"

Your heart stopped.

You didn't need to turn to see who had spoken, but—

You did, anyway.

Slowly, guiltily. You turned, let your eyes fall onto his figure, immediately falling into those blue, blue eyes…

Immediately finding that they weren't, now, as bright as you had known them to be.

"I… I wasn't…"

You tried to speak, but your words fell short. You'd forgotten how, almost. 21 days to form a habit, and it had been even less for it to break.

He stepped forward. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

"I didn't mean to…"

"But you’ve barely looked at me.”

Because I can't.

Taking a deep breath, you glanced away, let out a bitter exhale.

“Because… Because if I do, then I’ll forget what I’m supposed to be. A-and I can't do that."

A knight shouldn't…

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as his brow knit, as something flickered in his eyes like a candlelight caught in the wind.

You knew that look.

Pain.

“So, what are you supposed to be?” he muttered.

Like he didn't know, or— like he couldn't admit it.

You hung your head, then. Refused to answer.

Because what were we, then?

"They said something, didn't they."

His tone was softer this time when he tried again, but it was not a question, not this time.

It was a statement.

Yet, still you couldn't raise your head.

“You think I care what the court says? About what they expect of me?”

"That's not it, I just…"

You shut your eyes tightly.

Well, you had to speak, didn't you?

"I think," you whispered then, slowly, "that you were born with a crown on your head, and I… was born to guard it. And it makes all the difference, Your Highness. Because roles like that… really just don't overlap."

When you say things out loud, it feels a little more real.

Unfortunately for you, that was exactly the case with even this. And maybe, then, it was why things had to fall apart so quickly.

You'd never spoken what you had out loud.

Xavier stepped closer.

Tentative.

The smell of him, then—clean sheets, warm parchment, something grounding—it hit you like a memory.

“You’ve kissed me every night for a week,” he murmured. “You’ve sat beside me in silence, you’ve laughed at my terrible impressions of the court’s musicians, you’ve been more than just duty—more than any of it, long before either of us dared say it.”

You held your breath.

“And now you look at me like you’re afraid to hope.”

"…Because, Your Highness. I am."

In that moment, your voice broke.

“Because this—whatever we are, I— i-it won’t survive a noble’s daughter, with silk hems and land attached to her name, and… and peace."

You still couldn't look at him. You closed your eyes, again, tried not to think about throwing up, tried not to think about how tense you were.

“I'm just a knight, Your Highness, and I serve you. You’ll have to marry. You’ll be expected to bed someone else, kiss someone else, share everything with someone else and pretend like I was nothing but a childish indulgence—”

"Is that… Is that what you think I see you as?"

You shook your head, but you couldn't trust your words to be of any use.

Your throat closed. Your vision blurred; a stray tear fell away.

You could feel yourself trembling.

And then he reached for you, slowly. His hand brushed against your glove, not taking, but—offering.

Hoping.

Without another word, another beat, you felt him lift up your chin, felt him lean in—

He didn't kiss you, not quite. But he pressed your foreheads together, searched your gaze, pleaded you, if only through actions alone.

"I want to choose you," he said quietly. Barely a whisper, barely a breath.

And somehow, you knew that he did.

But wanting something did not always mean that you could.

Now, at least, you knew that.

"But you can't," you whispered.

And you pulled away, took a step back, and bowed.

"Goodnight, my prince."

&—

Another week.

The corridors of the castle always sounded different at night.

Quieter, yes. But emptier, too. Like something had been there, and left, and taken all the warmth with it.

By now, you'd been avoiding his hall entirely. Formed a new habit—walked the longer path to your quarters, kept your head bowed more respectfully during meetings, left before he could catch your eye.

It simply had to be this way.

And, sure— you missed him.

You missed him in ways you didn't have the language for, in ways you wished you could described if only losing a piece of your soul was easy to describe. Because it wasn't just the shared looks, wasn't just the touches, the kisses goodnight—

You missed his voice. His smile. When they weren't meant for anyone else; when he said your name when no one was listening. These things—all of them—that soon, you knew, would belong to someone else.

That he would belong to someone else.

That he would marry someone else, and— and what could a knight do?

What could you do?

You'd heard it now through whispers, then through the official talks. A name had been floated; a political match that made sense.

And you told yourself that it was always going to end like this. That your role in his life was temporary. Just a secret, soft, guarded secret he'd kept while you both waited for the inevitable… soft around the edges, to be kept and folded away without too much pain.

But it did hurt.

Gods, it hurt.

Everytime you laid to sleep, you pressed your fingers to your lips like an idiot, and wondered if he remembered the last kiss like you did.

If he regretted it.

If he thought that things had stepped too far.

And then one evening, you lingered longer in the armory under the guise of inventory.

The space was dim, your hands were idle. You sat in the corner—you had run the inventory, but that was over now. And in this quiet space, your thoughts were louder than they should have been.

Because fuck it all—it hurt, and you missed him.

You wondered—should you have fought for him?

Should you have dared, even?

So little you could do in your position; so much that you could dream.

You groaned, head in your hands as your knees drew to your chest, and you barely even noticed that the door had opened.

A quiet pad of footsteps.

You raised your head, half-expecting a squire or a steward, but—

It was him.

Xavier.

You swallowed thickly, eyes frozen—

Then, quietly:

"There you are. I've been looking all over for you."

You could see his shoulders slump in relief a little, as if the mere sight of you had calmed him, as if he'd waited—desperately—for another moment to share with you. While you could do nothing. You watched, stayed still when he moved to sit beside you, a few paces away, respecting the boundary that he knew you'd put up, letting his words hang in the air a little.

"You… stopped coming to say goodnight," he added after a while. Not looking at you, but looking straight ahead.

As if he could scare you with another glance.

"…I, um. Didn't want to be a burden."

"You aren't, though."

You swallowed. You could feel your heart thudding painfully against your ribs. "…Well, they… They said you were meeting her. Next week, right? The… the noblewoman. Your betrothed."

Out of the corner of your eye, his expression flickered.

"Mn, they've arranged a meeting. But she isn't my betrothed. None of this means that I've agreed to anything."

"But you will."

Silence.

You turned.

"You… will, won't you?"

And then your eyes met, again you held your breath, and he gave you a slow, strained smile.

No.

"Your Highness, please, I don't want you to—"

"Do you know?"

He whispered, but it was enough to cut you off.

Your mouth clamped shut.

"Do you know how many times I've looked at the throne room, full of all these people… and only wanted to find your face?"

Your breath caught.

"I never wanted to stop what we had," he mumbled. "I thought you just needed space, so I gave it to you, I didn't mean…"

"But that's not the point, Your Highness. You're to marry, I can't just—"

"I thought you regretted it."

You exhaled slowly. "…Never."

Never.

And this time he drew closer; reached for you, as if so desperate, now, not to have you leave his side again.

How could you ever have it in you to pull back?

"Please," he whispered, "I— I haven't been sleeping."

His voice felt raw; you heard it strain like the way he was trying to keep it together in front of you.

"You… You're my knight, and you've protected me all this time,but you don't have to protect me from heartbreak. Not like this. I don't want it like this. I need you to believe that I can choose it, even if it hurts, and that I'll…"

You closed your eyes. In that moment, listening, you resigned—allowed yourself a moment of selfishness, allowed yourself to lean in, bury your face into his chest.

You heard it, the way his breath hitched.

Slowly his arms wrapped around your figure, questioning, unsure, but so… hopeful.

"I never thought I could belong in your world," you murmured. Your voice was muffled by his clothing. "I still don't know if I do. You're meant to belong to someone else, and I—"

"I don't want someone else."

"…I don't want you to want someone else, either."

He leaned down to rest his chin on top of the crown of your head then, and then there was silence.

Neither of you moved, neither of you said another word.

Right now, you thought you could enjoy it—just another quiet moment for the two of you, another illusion that everything was fine.

&—

The castle had never been louder.

“Did you hear?” said one.

“He turned her down," said another.

“It's a royal scandal!” "What will the court think?!" "Does this mean something for our Kingdom?!"

Word spread fast, as usual.

You'd borne the brunt of it before, but now you were a spectator—curious, at that.

It was today; earlier. Xavier had journeyed to meet up with his betrothed, and you'd purposely kept away from him, but he'd returned with nothing but silence.

You hadn't seen him.

He hadn't sat through his duties, hadn't offered a word to anyone… Not the King, nor you, nor—anyone. Just ridden straight through the gates and disappeared into his chambers without even an escort.

And you had heard all of this in fragments. Snatches of gossip, pieces and bits, a part of the vine that crawled, and crawled, and crawled…

Even your captain had to look up from his reports to ask, "Did you know anything about this?"

You didn't.

You knew nothing.

You didn't know why he’d done it, or what it meant, but—but you had hope that you did. The kind of hope that had you freezing; foggy. Something lodged in your throat, something unspeakable and trembling, and—

You could tell yourself to leave it alone.

You could.

You could.

But you didn't.

And in all manners predictable, by nightfall, you'd found yourself standing right in front of his door again.

It had been so long.

Your fist hovered, uncertain, still—

He'd said no, to a future. A future set out for him, a future that would've made sense, a crown-sanctioned bride that should have been—

He said no to the wishes of his Kingdom.

It was a risk, one unimaginable, even for you.

And you needed to know why .

So you knocked, once.

The door opened almost instantly, as though he’d been waiting, and he looked…

Tired.

Rumpled.

He had no cloak, no gloves, and his shirt remained half-unbuttoned at the collar, like he hadn't even bothered changing since he'd gotten back hours ago. So when your eyes met, for a moment neither of you moved.

Then, quietly, he stepped aside.

“You heard,” he said.

You entered, keeping your gaze on the ground. “The whole castle's heard.”

"… Of course."

He exhaled. A small, tired laugh escaped his lips. And still you wouldn't look at him, but you grasped at his sleeve, and tugged.

"Why?" you whispered.

“Because I couldn’t lie anymore.”

You drew in a breath.

“I thought I could do it,” he muttered. You could hear a dry smile in the way that he spoke. “I thought I could be what they needed, marry who they wanted… But I sat across from her, and all I could think was—she isn’t you.”

He took a slow step towards you; broke that distance in an instant. 15 centimeters? No more.

And every word, every breath, they would still you in your own movements, render you frozen to the spot, but he—

This time, he wouldn't let you.

“I tried to forget. To be noble. To be dutiful.” Another step. “But I’ve been in love with you for so long, and now I know that I wouldn’t know how to stop. I don't know."

You looked up, this time. Slowly, as he drew you in. A hand at your waist, a touch you didn't refuse—a gaze you couldn't look away from.

And, god, you were weak.

"…I like it, when you name things," you whispered back finally. A line that was familiar; memories drawn to that balcony, late at night, but a line you would repeat for yourself to hear. "It makes them feel more real. It makes you feel more real. Not like… Like a star, up in the sky, far too high that I can't dream to reach."

Like, you... have always been too far from me. But, I...

It began with trembling lips.

His hands rose to cup your jaw, and yours fisted gently into the fabric of his shirt—clinging, like you didn’t trust the moment to stay if you let go.

"It is real," Xavier breathed. "It's very, very real. This moment, and us."

And he kissed you.

Your lips met with the soft, inevitable gravity of two people who had always been drifting toward each other; like he had waited for years; like you had only a single remaining language in your heart that existed in the shape of him.

So when his hands began to roam—slow, careful, unhurried—you didn't stop him. You basked in it. The finality of it. It sent a heat heat skimming beneath your skin, and immediately your body responded before you could think, pressing into him as he guided you backwards.

And your name.

God, your name.

You'd never heard it sound so sweet, so loving, not like the way he whispered it between your lips. Every kiss, every movement—your name fell still, like a sigh; a quiet chant, and it made you weak.

The backs of your legs hit his bed, and you let yourself fall.

Into him, and the mattress—into everything and anything that this moment was building up to.

And he kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you—barely spent a second away from you, even as he unfastened your tunic with slow fingers, each button undone like an unspoken confession.

Only when it was off did he pause, sitting back.

You watched his eyes. Saw the awe in them.

Devotion.

Reverence.

"So beautiful," he whispered.

And as you flushed at his response to you, he kissed your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your collarbone. Soft, fluttering kisses, down your body, almost enough to have you weeping from the way he did it—like every part of you was worth loving. You'd barely even choked back a sob when he pulled away to undress. Clearly every bit as eager as wanting as you.

And so you froze a moment, drank him in—every golden line of his chest, the way candlelight haloed over the silvery strands of his hair.

You watched, still, as he came down over you. He placed both forearms on either side of your head, and a small smile played at your lips;

He said it again.

"You're so beautiful," he sighed. "Like… an angel."

You didn't know if you wanted to hit him or burrow in embarrassment, but even as your face reddened, that lovesick look on his face rendered you silent.

And this time, he took his time.

He trailed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—feeling, this time, with the tips of his fingers, as if carefully wanting to leave on you a mark of his own touch.

He moved lower.

His gaze followed where his hands went, dipping down your sides, sliding over to brush beneath your breast. When he stroked over to your belly, you held you breath; when he held your hip and nudged your waistband down, you arched in permission.

And despite how the situation was—despite the way he'd leave you completely bare, despite the inevitable, then that this was leading to—you found that his touches were devoid of any ulterior motive.

His eyes, when he raised them back to yours, were so loving. As if, he wanted to say—even this, now, feels like coming home.

And maybe it was.

Maybe it was, in the way he seeked to explore every little inch of you. The way he traced your skin, meant to memorize every curve. The way every touch, now, built warmth right into you, slow, and steady, and tender, until he knew that you ached for him—possibly, then, in ways you'd never dared to explore before this.

So when he kissed you next, it was gentle.

Intentional, but gentle.

You could feel years of unspoken yearning behind the way his mouth moved against yours, the way he cupped your cheek and dipped the tip of his tongue into your parted lips.

Immediately, naturally—your legs parted, raising to cradle his hips.

Against your bare sex you could feel the friction of his bulge, and you tugged at his hair.

Off, you seemed to plead.

He only looked at you with a smile.

There was a sparkle in his eyes—love, still, and this time a little hint of teasing.

He nuzzled your cheek. "Do you need something?" he murmured.

He'd play the oblivious, innocent rabbit, even now.

"…Xavier," you whispered.

You closed your eyes, brought your lips close to his ear.

"Xavier."

And you had never said his name before. Not without titles, or formal address—

Never just his name.

You heard his breath hitch; felt his grip tighten around your arm.

"You…" He sounded like he was struggling to breathe. You could have sworn you felt him grow, against you.

And perhaps you felt daring, perhaps this was that unabashed, bolder side of you again—

You raised your hips and ground yourself against him, and you nearly trembled at the sound of his moan.

"Xavier," you repeated again, barely even a breath. "Please…"

There was a moment of parting, a moment where he stared, still, before he chuckled and complied. Slowly, articles of clothing bared him to you in turn, and you keened at the way he pressed himself against you once more. Firmer, this time. More sure.

"My angel…" he whispered, running a hand down your cheek before he kissed the place that he'd touched. "You're still here."

"I'll always be here. I don't want… to leave you ever again, Xavier, I…"

"Shhh. You're okay. I have you."

You gasped then, as you felt it.

The head of his cock rubbed deliciously at your entrance—not quite entering, but teasing, so, so, teasing.

Another roll of his hips drew a whimper from you this time, and his eyes glinted with mischief.

"You're enjoying this…" you whined.

He smiled. "Immensely."

And then he raised your hips, slot himself right at your hole, wrapped your legs at his waist—

"Breathe, angel."

The stretch was exquisite.

You felt yourself arching into him, trembling as he took you whole. Inch by inch he slid inside you, rubbing your hips in circles, bringing a hand up to his lips for him to kiss.

You were startled, almost. You could feel every vein, every ridge—every perfection as he filled you, and, all be damned—you wanted him. So, so, incredibly bad.

His hand moved, then, to stroke your side, a gentle, soothing motion as you pulsed and wrapped around him. He leaned in to kiss your temple, your cheek, your lips—as though trying to anchor you there with him.

"Are you okay?" he murmured against your skin. "Still with me?"

You could only nod, your voice too thick with emotion to answer.

His forehead rested against you, fingers threading with yours beside your head.

“You’re shaking,” he nuzzled you.

"I…"

Am I?

You marveled. You hadn't noticed, but you supposed that you were.

"I-I'm just—" You swallowed. “I'm really happy. I didn’t think I’d ever get this… you… us…"

He chuckled, kissed your cheek. "But it feels good, right?"

"Mhm. Real good."

"Can I move?"

You paused, then wrapped your arms around his neck— "Please."

And he did.

He fell against you, braced slightly on his arms, yet when his weight settled—it was grounding.

It was real.

So real, even if you felt you could float, because you felt him.

In, and out. In, and out.

He moved slowly, giving you time, watching your face with every shift of his hips. Every glide sent shivers through you. Every grind of his hips sent a heat sparking your skin.

"Xavier…" you whispered again; moaned. "Oh, god… y-you're so good…"

"Mh? Do you like it?"

He kissed you again, and you breathed him in.

And then you didn't realize you were crying, not until he pulled his lips away, brushed a thumb across your cheek.

"Am I hurting you? Is it too much?" He stilled, a moment, cupped your cheeks to get you to look at him. "You're crying…"

"No, I…"

You sniffled, a little, had to bite your lip a moment before you could continue.

You pulled him close, lifted your hips for him once more.

"D-don't stop, please," you breathed. "I'm just… so… in love with you…"

His eyes, already so tender, seemed to drown in your words, to overflow at the same time with a sense of love that only you could understand in turn.

His hips snapped—jerked, a little, as if spurred to action by the heat of the moment. Deeper, this time, so wonderfully deep. It drew a single, broken gasp from you—half sob, half moan, and he knew.

He did it again.

"…Like that?" he whispered.

Again.

You gripped his shoulders, drew your nails down to his back. "Yes. Yes, please, just like that, Xavier."

And then you had found your rhythm.

Steady, deep, and perfect.

His hands framed your face, kissed your cheeks where the tears had fallen… so much tenderness, and reverence, and devotion, and you believed—

This was how it was supposed to be.

This was how it was meant to be.

And your hands roamed his back, down to his hips, pulling him deeper. "More, please, my prince…"

"Mnnh, but you can't… s-say my title, like I'm not—"

"Xavier."

You moaned his name to placate him, but snuck in a cheeky smile.

"Xavier, my prince, my liege, my—"

You could have squealed at the way he kissed you then.

In a rush to shut you up, perhaps, his kiss had lost much of the gentleness with which he'd been treating you. Deeper, rougher, messier—his tongue found yours, and he wasn't breathing you in, he was drinking you in.

Dizzy.

When he pulled away, you forgot how to breathe, and still his hips continued to move at his rhythm.

"I dare you," he spoke through gritted teeth, panting, "to say that again." A challenge. "Do you wish so badly to be reminded of our differences when I'm inside you?"

And though his words made you flush, you only shook your head.

"It feels… ah… I-it feels more real when I s-say it out loud—" You gasped, trying to take the pleasure he was giving you. "Th-that despite everything— Even if you're the prince, and I'm the knight, we're — oh, god— w-we're both still here… In this moment… Together..."

He gripped your hips, rocked into you in a way that made you breathless.

"…You're right," he murmured. "That isn't going to change what we feel. Not anymore."

The pleasure built further, then. Gradually. Quiet moans became harder to keep in check, especially not when you could feel him pulse the way he did.

"I-I'm…" you choked out, trying to hold back a cry. "C-close… Xavier…"

"Mhm. I am, too. L-let's… cum together…"

He held your hands, gripped them tightly as he stilled.

He throbbed; you felt it. And a warm, sticky sensation filled you, enough for you to tremble, enough for you to still—frozen, captured—

He kissed you, again. Whispered your name onto your lips, a soft gasp, a prayer.

And even afterwards, he didn't dare leave you.

He gathered you into his arms, not minding the mess, not minding the way you'd tangled together in the passion you'd shared just then.

And he kissed you over, and over, and over again—

"Xavier, I love you," you sniffled.

"And I love you, my angel. For you… have always been mine."

And in the quiet that followed, as you drifted into sleep… You felt that you finally believed it.

&—

You woke slowly, the sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains in soft strips of gold. Yet, the warmth that cocooned you wasn’t just the sun—

It was him.

Still, always, him.

Xavier, half-asleep, lay with one arm lazily draped across your waist, his breath steady against the back of your neck.

For a moment you simply lay there, smiling quietly to yourself. The memories of last night came back in waves—his touch, his voice, the way he’d held you like you was everything...

You'd cleaned, before you slept, but you still felt every little sensation so vividly. Even now your body still hummed from it, a quiet, satisfied ache in all the right places. And you thought, foolishly, that you really might just lie here forever, suspended in the hush of a private morning.

Until you felt the press of his lips at your shoulder.

Soft.

Then, again—lower, this time.

You blinked sleepily, shifting under the sheets. “You're awake?” you murmured, a smile at the edge of your lips.

He hummed. "I wouldn't be, but you're distracting."

You huffed a laugh, turning your head slightly to peer at him over your shoulder. “I’m not even doing anything…”

“You exist.” His mouth trailed down the curve of your spine, slow, purposeful. “It’s more than enough.”

And before you could react, really, you felt the last shape of his smile against your back before he moved even lower, slipping under the covers.

“Xavier…” you warned gently, though your voice had little conviction. A thrill had already started curling in your belly—anticipation, excitement. “You’re insatiable.”

“But I’ve shown restraint for years,” he murmured from somewhere near your hips. “I’m just making up for lost time. Besides…"

You squeaked as you felt him lick right above your mound, sending tingles all over your body.

"I didn't taste you last night. Don't I get a taste test of my beloved queen?"

Beloved queen.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Another kiss; inside your thigh, nuzzling into you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"X-Xavier—!"

His tongue was soft at first, teasing. Coaxing you awake in ways that had nothing to do with the sunlight. Your body arched of its own accord, slow and easy, thighs parting to grant him better access— You felt his hands hold you steady, and then he began to devour you with that same kind of reverence that made you feel drunk on him all over again.

You reached down blindly, fingers threading through his hair. “You really don’t have to—ah—Xavier—!"

“But I want to,” he said between kisses, between licks, with his breath still hot against you. “You taste really good, I wish I'd done this sooner.”

A moan spilled from your lips as his own closed right around your clit. It turned into a laugh, almost—you trembled, it was a little high pitched. “You—! Y-you're ridiculous,” you huffed, but still affection pooling in your chest as much as the heat searing between your legs.

This time, he didn't reply, not quite.

Just a groan—either from your words or the way you bucked slightly against his mouth, you couldn't really tell.

But oh, did it feel fucking good .

You felt him part your folds, add in a teasing lick at your entrance. He'd dip the tip of his tongue inside before gliding it achingly close to your clit—a few repetitions of the movement before it swirled over your bud, flicked it to the side.

"Oh, god—!"

Spurred on by your sounds, he only continued. Moaned against your skin, mixed in shamelessly with the lewd, slick sounds of your arousal. When his tongue slipped in, you cried—bucked, writhed, almost. Your fingers dug into his hair, and before you knew it, you were grinding into him, finding your rhythm.

"Xavier!" you whined. "Oh, god… oh, god, fffu—hnng—"

Your legs seized.

You felt him press you open, pushed onto the mattress, never daring to allow you any escape—

"C, c-cummin—ngh—!"

Your orgasm rushed to the surface as your back arched, curling into him with no more control over your movements.

But, greedily, he continued. Lapped you up, flicked at your clit. Enough so that by now you'd kicked at the covers, whined and tugged him up.

"Xavier… Xavier!" you huffed, panted.

When he stopped, finally, you sank weakly into the pillows, already drawing up one of them to cover your flushed face.

Not that he'd let you, of course.

He rose up to meet you with a smug, warm grin, crawling up to pull the pillow away and press a kiss to your cheek.

“Good morning,” he hummed.

Cheeky.

So, incredibly cheeky.

Donning a pout and feigning upset, you tilted your head to look at him, “Good morning, you menace.”

He only chuckled again and pulled you against his chest. “You like it, though.”

"You're lucky I do."

Your body was still warm, skin humming with the afterglow as you gave in and draped your arm across him. He was cozy, still. Despite the way you felt like you were already spent, you wouldn't turn away more cuddles from him. And in turn, he brushed his fingers up and down your bare back, slow and absent, as though touching you had become second nature.

You sighed contentedly.

"You know… most people start their mornings with tea."

"Mmm." A squeeze on your arm. "But this is better."

"You're going to spoil me."

"Good, I want to."

You felt him stir, then, and your breath caught—he ground against your thigh, just enough to earn you that delicious, delicious little groan.

"Your Highness…" you huffed.

"Mn, I know… But you're just so…"

Another grind, and you felt him tremble.

And it was so, so hard to resist, even for you.

"Please?" he murmured, nuzzling your neck.

"…Again? But you just…"

"I need you…"

And he rolled you gently onto your back, settled over you with a practiced ease.

A beat.

You looked at each other.

And now, like this, his eyes were so pleading, that you eventually broke out into a barely-contained smile of your own.

You were so weak.

He made you utterly, completely weak.

"Fine," you rolled your eyes, "last one, and then we get ready."

And it was so natural.

There was no urgency this time, only a warm familiarity as he slid into you. Still you felt the stretch, and still you felt yourself drawn in to take him all. And then you kissed, and gasped softly against his mouth, hands rising up to cradle the back of his neck.

“My prince,” you whispered, breath hitching as he began to move, “you’re impossible.”

He gave another peck to your lips, grinned as your hips lifted to meet his rhythm. This time it wasn't so deep, or hungry, or too much, it was just—

Right.

So right.

And kisses turned to giggles, and somewhere between slow thrusts and quiet moans, a conversation bubbled like the most natural thing in the world.

“I… still have meetings later,” he murmured against your neck. “Dull things. Reports, schedules. Nobles who love the sound of their own voices.”

Laughing softly, you arched into him again with a little hum. “And so I told you we mustn't take too long."

"But I want to spend the morning with you."

"You can't spend the whole morning…"

"Mn…" His hips moved with a slow roll then that made your eyes flutter, grinding against your sweet spot so perfect. “Still, it would be better if you were there.”

You grinned.

“As your knight or as your lover?” you teased, though something in your voice was soft. Wondering.

He looked at you then, his rhythm pausing just long enough for the weight of his gaze to settle. He brushed a strand of hair from your damp forehead.

“Both.”

You pulled him back into you, clung to him as you nuzzled into your neck.

"Ah, hearing you say that… feels almost as good as this…"

"This?"

He nudged your head, nipped at your cheek. You could feel him grin—another particularly angled thrust had the head of his cock kissing at your g-spot, and you shuddered.

"Mhm… just like that."

And he chuckled, timing every movement of his hips to hit that spot just right, just the way you liked it; only one time before and he'd already memorized every spot that made you cave so much.

He voiced it out. Poked his tongue out to make kitten licks at your neck, absolutely cherished the way that you groaned for him. "I already know what you like, angel. You like it here…"

His hand moved down, brushed against your nipple.

"And, here…"

With a grin, he dipped his head to nip at your collarbone.

"And, here…"

His hand moved lower down still, slid between your tangled limbs, and pressed against your clit.

You gasped, eyes wide, and he dared to grind against you, rubbing against your clit so perfectly that you nearly weeped again.

"X-Xavier!" you whimpered. "Y-you're so unfair, that's— ngh—"

Again he moved up your body to nuzzle your cheek affectionately, but his hand stayed at your nub and moved in slow, steady circles to match his hips.

“Today,” he said, breath warm and steady, “I’m going to tell them. The court. The council. Everyone.”

Your eyes widened, lips parted in pleasured puffs.

“I’m going to tell them I want to marry my knight,” he continued, fondly. “That I will.”

And you felt as if your heart could burst.

The world, around you, seemed to sway. Not from the motion of your bodies, even—but from this, this rush of emotion, the disbelief that settled into an overwhelming sense of love.

You didn't think you could love him any more than you did.

But he was very good at proving that notion wrong.

"You… you mean it?" you breathed.

"Mhm."

"You… I… I-I'm going to be your… queen?"

"Mhm."

He leaned in to kiss you again—that same gentle, soft kiss, followed by little fluttering ones all over your face until he reached the corners of your eyes.

Despite yourself, a little giggle fell from your lips, one that easily turned into a squeal as he flipped you over.

Now, with your face into the pillows, you felt his breath tickling your neck, as he gave you more kisses—down your back, along your spine, before he entered again.

Deeper this time. Much deeper than he had before.

"Oh, my god—Xavier, fuck— I—!"

He chuckled, raked his fingers through your hair. "Language," he murmured, "you're not being very classy today."

"Uh, it's your fault that I—!"

You barely got your words out before he slammed back into you, a motion causing your body to rock forward with a gasp. His weight pushed into you, laying like a weighted blanket, allowing you to feel just how deep he could take you.

"It's okay," he breathed, hot against the shell of your ear. "You're being such a good girl for me, my queen."

You could barely process his words, already dizzying at all these delicious sensations.

"You'll be the death of me, my liege."

When he moved again, it didn't take long for the both of you to reach your high. Similarly, still, to just the night before—his hips stilled, moans muffled into the nape of your neck, filling you wholly and completely and perfectly.

He'd turned you over then, pulling out slow, cradling your head in his hands.

"…I mean it," he whispered. "I want to marry you."

"…You're proposing to me after sex?" you laughed softly.

"Well… then do you accept?"

"Of course I do, Xavier."

He smiled. "I'm going to make you my queen. Just you wait."

"If… they don't accept?"

"We can always elope. You'd still be my queen."

You laughed again.

How odd it was, you found, that even in this situation you could still find humor, and comfort. But you supposed that was what it was like—when things felt right, when things felt settled enough.

In your heart, you knew that everything was going to be alright.

The promise lingered, settled in the quiet that followed. Here, in this room, you had everything you needed—you lay with tangled limbs, your hearts so open and tethered, and a world of hope waiting on the other side of the door, but you had each other.

That was the most important part.

You had each other.

© solifloris. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[evenmorefatallyobsessed]

okay, that's all I got for now... As for who will be changed in this AU, for now I came up with these.

First Daughter Ruby: The older Sister, next in line to be Duchess of Patch. Ruby was also arranged to marry House Arc's heir Jaune however the current Succession War among Valian Royalty may interfere with her and her mom's plans.

Second Daughter Yang: The daughter of a Slave (Taiyang) Concubine (Summer) she is next in line to inherit House Xiao-Long despite many people's protest.. Currently she is Rivals with Beryl and Amethyst Arc, sister and cousin of Patriarch Jaune Arc.

Crowned Princess Glynda: Favored for the crown Glynda is a strong candidate for the throne. She needs overwhelming support as to scare her competition who have aims for the throne off. After all she might be a force to be feared but that also comes with people fearing her enough to want to end her But if she has all of house Arc behind her then killing her becomes too dangerous a proposition

Trivia Vanille: Desperate to gain any use of his daughter Viscount Jimmy Vanille wouldn't dare try and court House Arc... Not with a ill born deformed child like his devil-eyed (Heterochromia) Trivia...

However his wife tells him of House Lie, once prisoners now loyal vassals to House Arc. Perhaps the newly appointed Baron House might take his useless child... If only he knew his traitorous wife intention, for she is still loyal to Mistral and aims to kill House Arc, and finally give Mistral it's dream of invading Vale...

Menagerie Princess Blake: young, naive and ignorant she was the perfect target for the Fennec's manipulation, for Adam's indoctrination and Sienna's goals... Naive and quick to follow their rhetoric of Faunus supremacy... She never even realized she was poisoning her own father... That it wasn't illness that took him but poison, given to him by her hands... Unaware of it.

And now she shall witness the true genius of her father... For as Arc lands on her shores she will witness the terror of what happens now that he is gone what the White Fang's Violence has brought to their shores...

Weiss & Bleiss: Solitas's Twin Stars. Alone either The White Comet of Atlas Weiss or her sister the Black Meteor of Mantle, could challenge their eldest sister Winter... But together the sisters are said to be a match for even Mistral's Own Goddess of Victory Pyrrha...

But now rumors of said champions defeat run rampant... And now the pair must wonder, could such a warrior capable of defeating, of conquering Pyrrha truly exist, and if so would they one day face his blade too.

Nora Valkyrie: Clan Valkyrie has long held a bond of brotherhood with House Arc, despite the kingdoms being different never would they waver... For Jaeger Arc was their savior and as long as House Arc wielded the Heirloom Mani'tonn they would be brothers in arms...

And so as was tradition they sent their strongest daughter to them, to fight beside their heir, and hopefully even marry him...

Nora, didn't care about that, nope! Not At All! For Nora wanted something more from Jaune-Jaune! She wanted battle, glorious life-ending battle! A Deathmatch Like No Other!

What? NO!? She Didn't Wanna Kill Jaune-Jaune! She Wanted Jaune-Jaune To Kill Her? Why does everybody look at her weird when she says that? He can bring her back to life after all... She just wanted to earn her place in Valhalla a bit early is all. And maybe take a peek at it before Jaune-Jaune would revive her. It was the perfect plan!

[8-rae-rae-8]

i am feeling angry for no reason. and someone has to suffer for this, so let it be my dearest phillip graves ❤️

make him suffer violently. physically, mentally, and emotionally. maybe on their own, but hopefully in pairs at least (maybe even all three if you're feeling really sadistic).

but wait! a moment! give him a crumb of comfort. he cherishes it but it simultaneously makes him feel guilty beyond belief because he quite honestly believes he doesn't deserve it for betraying the people he wanted to be friends with under means of just trying to keep himself and his shadows alive. the comfort makes him let down his shields a bit, but that just makes him vulnerable for others to attack.

i do not have specifics other than this. just graves whump in every single way you can possibly think of. (all of this is /nf by the way. i've never actually given requests so i don't really know how this works)

thank you for possibly considering me, o great one. 🙇‍♂️

Thank you anon thank you, I will take this opportunity briefly to say

[CW: manipulation, child abuse, abuse, implied brief noncon, conditioning(?), mentions of death]

Imagine if you will

Phillip Graves being trained so well, from a young age, to do as he was told. To be seen, not heard. The military was an escape until he got hooked by Shepherd and, damnit, he was too weak to resist the promises he made.

He listened. He behaved. He cared, way too fucking much. Graves practically signed away his life for a chance at something more. Shadow Company was supposed to be his more. His new thing, something he'd love—and he does—but the picture gets clearer and clearer to him every day.

Those promises were fake, the benefits he got were null, the pay was worse, the work was more strenuous. But Phillip Graves learned not to complain, hushed with a finger to his lips or snapped at and scolded until he understood. He sees a little better what he's been looking at from tinted glasses.

From where he sits at Shepherd's feet as a guard dog, he's nothing more than a tool. A measley mutt, something weak and waiting to be used because he was so desperate to prove himself.

He can't dig himself out of this hole. He knows it. There's nowhere to go. Who would he run to anyway?

When he steps a foot out of line, the barely healed wounds remind him of what happens when he does. The stern gaze sends terror through him, the all too similar way his father standing in the hall with a belt would; except this time, he'd be losing a lot more than just his ability to sit for a few hours.

He's a mutt chained to a post. He can lunge and bark and bite, but it'll get him nowhere. At this point, after everything, he's not sure he deserves that regardless. Here, at least, he's made a home. Someone will ask how he is, and he'll lie away every follow-up question with a smile on his face. The way they hug him is so much more gentle. Safe. Warm.

And yet, like a dog, he'll always crawl back here to lay at his owner's feet before Shepherd can catch a glimpse of what he's doing—he always knows anyway. Another punishment, another scolding, another bruise or cut.

Weary and tired, it's hard to keep up appearances, but he does it just well enough.

Shamefully, for just a second, he believed the 141 and Los Vaqueros could see him. The chuckles, the fist bumps, the banter... He thought he'd get a chance, just one. But he never deserved that, did he? Shepherd wasted no time with them, sending orders to Graves' desk, telling him to kill each and every remaining team member. Make them pay for daring to treat Phil with an ounce of kindness.

He couldn't even say he was sorry, just tried to aim where it wouldn't kill. It had to look real, after all. Even still, he had half the thought to think that maybe, just maybe, they'd see him. See all this. The Shadows' confusion, his tenseness, his fear... Why'd he ever think he'd get lucky like that?

If he ignored the order, it would break him. Literally. His shadows would be out of jobs, god knows Shepherd isn't above sending others to kill them for no reason. He'd lie about them "going rogue" or something. He'd lose everything he ever wanted and only ever got because he was stupid enough to think this could all happen and be okay.

The shadows noted it, a little bit. They saw his panicked eyes and restless stance. The only comfort he got out there were small smiles and brief touches. Brush of the shoulders, a gentle pat. For a minute, he could believe it was okay.

The one chance at getting out was that godforsaken court room, and even then he failed when his walls kept coming down until the stupid idea someone would see this terrifying situation. But no. No one will come for him when he drowns in the ship he dared to live on. No one will see the way his eyes dart around as Shepherd clasps a threatening hand over his shoulder like it's a kind gesture. No one will hear the way he sobs that night, knowing it'll always just be him, drowning here alone.

I got carried away and I think I missed some points but it's almost 6am so

[kagaintheskywithdiamonds]

Here's an idea: Ford shoots Stanley with the crossbow. Ford frantically calls 911, babbling incoherently between choked-out sobs, but he gets just enough information across to send responders to his location.

When the paramedics arrive, there's nothing they can do. Stan is dead.

Then the police arrive. Ford might have the right to remain silent but certainly not the ability as he breaks down in front of them. "I killed him, I killed him, oh God, I killed him..."

Ford is arrested. He makes no attempt to resist as he's cuffed and placed in the back of the patrol car. Besides, he deserves this, he thinks. I'm a killer. I'm a monster. After ten years Stan still came to help me and I killed him. Lock me away before I can hurt anyone else.

At the police station, Ford is allowed one phone call. But, who on earth would he even call? He can think of only two people in the world that he's even remotely on speaking terms with, Caryn and Shermie, the latter of whom he hasn't spoken to in years either—not because of some grudge, just because he's been busy and the two were never that close. He can't possibly call Sherman out of the blue to say "I'm in jail for killing our brother."

So all that leaves is Caryn. Ford almost dials the number for his childhood home, but he realizes that Filbrick might answer, so he dials the number for his mother's psychic business instead.

"Ma, it's me." he chokes out, cutting off her introductory spiel.

"Ford? Honey, are you okay?"

"I..." he hesitates. God, how on earth is he supposed to explain what happened? "Something, something terrible happened, and I'm in jail, and..." He can barely get the words out between sobs. "It's Stanley. I, he... Stanley's dead."

"...What?" her response is a heartbroken whisper.

"It's my fault, I—oh God, I didn't mean it! I was, I thought he, I wasn't expecting, oh God, I killed him! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry..."

After his phone call, Ford is processed and fingerprinted. There aren't enough spaces for all six of his digits, so his littlest finger on each hand goes undocumented. Ford isn't surprised by the comments that follow. He's been hearing them his whole life.

"What the hell?! This guy's got six fingers. Count 'em, six!" "Maybe his mom fucked her own brother or something. How else do ya get a freak a' nature like that?"

The comments aren't directed at him, but Ford's not deaf, and these pigs seem to be making no effort to keep their voices down. He would probably find their words to be quite upsetting if he wasn't already so emotionally drained and numb.

Ford decides to plead guilty. He has no defense, he murdered his brother in cold blood. Might as well save everyone the trouble of taking this to trial. In a way, Ford realizes, it might actually be advantageous for him to be in prison—or at least, advantageous to the rest of the world. Once he's locked up, Ford won't be able to open the portal even if he wants to. Of course, Bill won't be happy about that, and Ford fully expects the demon to throw a tantrum about it first chance he gets. But, so what? All of a sudden Ford is a lot less afraid of Bill's threats, less afraid to sleep. What can Bill do to him at this point? Bash his skull open on the prison bars? Good, he thinks. Let me rot in hell like I deserve.

The only person he can bring himself to feel any concern for at this point is his future cellmate. Hopefully that guy can hold his own in a fight. He can't stand the thought of another person getting hurt—possibly getting killed—because he was stupid enough to get duped by Bill. Maybe Ford should try to convince the prison staff to put him in solitary. Or maybe after witnessing some of Bill's antics they'll put him in a padded cell. Ford can't decide if spending a lifetime in the padded cell would be better or worse than getting his head bashed in.

[leethepiper]

Lower Iacon: Dock 12a

Cycle 6/20 

Solar Cycle 58 of the 72nd Stellar Cycle of the 48,196th vorn of the reign of the Lord 13th

[Roughly 7 AM, Friday, February 27, 2014]

The 5th company of the 3rd Battalion (or as they liked to call themselves: Ironhide’s Favorites) was helping load up the space transport for their next mission. They were heading to Dakar IV, a moon of the planet Jaqom, in the Marne system. During The Cybertronian Great War, Dakar IV had been an Autobot base meant to defend the energon harvesting operations on Jaqom. However, after the planet had been bombed to the pit, the moon base was left abandoned. Despite this, the place should be in good condition; the automatic defense and security systems were still active, and it would be useful in the war against the quintessons because of its strategic placement. 

The 5th company’s (and Ironhide’s) job would be to secure the base, then launch an offensive on the quintesson patrols in that area to draw them away from another planet in the Marne system: New Altihex. It was a neutral cybertronian settlement where the quintessons had attacked and enslaved hundreds. Hopefully, the 5th company would be enough of a distraction for Elita’s battalion to slip in and evacuate as many people as possible. 

Before any of that though, the transport they were using to get to Dakar IV had to be stocked and prepared for the ride.

Technically, the task could be left to the dock crew that worked there, but a little hard labor never hurt anybody, and it wasn’t like such a thing was unusual for Ironhide. Depending on the mission, he usually had either the company leaving or one (or both) of his other two companies help load up. 

Each company was a group of five squads of ten mechs each, all answering to a warrant officer, who answered to Ironhide. So, in each company, there were 51 mechs. So, that day, there should have been 51 mechs at the docks, not including the dock crew, or Ironhide himself.  

Of course, there weren’t 51 total because of a few mechs who couldn’t make it for various reasons. One was sick and had been for a while, but had asked Ironhide personally to allow her a chance to recover before she was honorably discharged; two were at pre-mission medical appointments because of health issues that shouldn’t be severe enough to be a problem, but should still get double checked; and two were skipping for a date that Ironhide was pretending not to know about since he was sick of them photovoltaic pussy-peding around each other.

Along with those five, there were two that had been late. 

Bluestreak was usually very punctual, but apparently Sunstreaker had gotten them lost on the way to the docks despite having been to them several times, having left early, and having a built-in navigation system. And Ironhide wasn’t just assuming that either. No, he knew that all of the human pilots all had nav systems, and although they weren’t as good as most cybertronian nav systems, they also weren’t nearly as bad as Sunstreaker made them seem either.

Ironhide was absolutely certain that Elita didn’t have to put up with this slag from Sideswipe.

Despite being late, Sunstreaker and Bluestreak had gotten to work right away, and had made good headway on the supply crates that needed to end up on the ship they’d be taking to the next deployment.

At some point while they were doing so, Sunstreaker had started humming. Ironhide had heard him humming before, but Sunstreaker had never struck him to be the musical type despite that. (Jazz on the other hand was more musical than even any musician that Ironhide had ever met.) 

Most Cybertronians weren’t very musical, and Ironhide was no exception to this, but even he could recognise that it was a catchy melody. 

Apparently Bluestreak had thought the same after having listened to it for a while, and asked Sunsteaker what song it was.

While normally when something like this happened, (and it had happened before, Sunstreaker tended to hum, and Bluestreak was a naturally curious mech,) Sunstreaker would answer with a song name and maybe a singer, but this time, Sunstreaker responded by singing out loud instead.

“And he don't know, Oh! 

That I dug my key into the side

Of his pretty little amped up four-wheel drive

Carved my designation into his animal-hide interior

I took a [Louisville] Slugger to both headlights

Slashed a hole in all four tires

Maybe next time, he'll think before he cheats.”

Maybe Ironhide was wrong about Sunstreaker being musically inclined, since he did have a nice voice. Despite that, not even his singing could change just how downright brutal the lyrics to the song were.

Digging a key into someone’s side, carving their designation into the interior of the victim’s altmode, taking a bat to both of their headlights, and slashing holes in someone’s tires were all horrific descriptions of what could at least be counted as assault, if not torture, and especially for the given reason. Cheating, while it was a bad thing to do to any datemate, inamorata, or even conjunx, wasn’t a reason to torture someone.

Among everyone at the docks who had heard the lyrics, most turned to look at Sunstreaker in abject horror, and those that didn’t, turned to Ironhide to make sure that he had heard. 

Bluestreak spoke first, and said what they were all thinking.

“What the frag Sunstreaker?” 

Sunstreaker hadn’t paused from what he was doing to sing, but he did now to turn to Bluestreak. He scanned the docks with his visor like he was trying to figure out what was going on. That’s probably what he was doing too, since pilots had a tendency to say concerning shit, then not realise why it was so messed up.

“What?”

Bluestreak took a vent before explaining.

“Sunny, you just sung a song about violently torturing and assaulting someone because they cheated on their partner.”

Sunstreaker didn’t move for a second, then he burst into laughter. 

“Oh, god, oh, sweet carrier [Mary], that [fucking] got me, holy [shit] Blue.” 

Sunstreaker, despite having calmed down, was still shaking slightly, and helplessly giggling too. 

“...I forgot that y’all do that transforming thing.” He chuckled, like he was explaining a real good joke. 

“WHat does that mean?” Poor Bluestreak still sounded downright alarmed about the whole situation, which just seemed to make it funnier for Sunstreaker, who burst into another fit of giggles. 

“The singer,” Sunstreaker had to pause to chuckle for a moment before continuing, “is referencing property damage, not assault.” 

Ironhide went through the lyrics again, and realized most were referencing things that humans didn’t have on themselves. They didn’t have wheels or tires, or interiors, and while they did have lights, they didn’t have headlights. So, it was likely that the song was referencing a non-sentient transport of some kind. 

Sunstreaker confirmed this a moment later.

“She’s referencing her ex’s not alive personal transport.” 

Bluestreak gave Sunstreaker a raised optical ridge in response. Sunstreaker was shaking from how hard he was laughing, and had long since set down the cargo he was carrying so as not to drop it.

Most of the others that were listening to the conversation chuckled along a bit, since it was rather ridiculous. 

Sunstreaker reset his vocalizer before responding to the look.

“Blue, I didn’t mean to skeeve you out…” 

Sunstreaker paused to pick back up his crate and then started walking into the transport again. Bluestreak followed with his own cargo. 

“…but, there are a lot of songs about murdering cheating exes,” Sunstreaker finished.

“Sunstreaker!”

Ironhide could hear Sunstreaker laughing all the way into the transport.

-----------------------------------

1300 words exactly (:

Hello! Welcome to the rambling section! I'm your host, LeeThePiper, and this is... 2006 Country Radio! (2006 was when before he cheats was released)

I'm kidding, but I will be rambling for a bit on this one, so skip if you want

First, "Solar Cycle 58 of the 72nd Stellar Cycle of the 48,196th vorn of the reign of the Lord 13th" Maths out to (roughly, really, really roughly) to the 58th day of the 4,000,340th year of Optimus' tenure as prime, which is based on the idea that their time system is based on the amount of time that the current religious leader has been in charge, and I got that idea from the fact that some nations used to do that with kings (it's been x years since __ became king) or bloodlines (the __ bloodline/dynasty has been ruling for x years)

Second, this is right before this -The monsters gone, he’s on the run, and your daddy’s here - one, so the moon base that they're on in that one is the one they're going to in this one (If you want to know literally anything about this section of the chapter, please ask me, because that was my most favorite part of this chapter despite it not being in the plans for this chapter literally at all)

Third, "photovoltaic pussy-peding" is just the Cybertronian way to say pussyfooting

Fourth, both Sunny and Sides are known for being unnaturally bad at directions (it's partially because they are bad at directions, and partially because their nav systems both got messed up in the crash onto cybertron/by the quint spacebridge)

Fifth, I personally headcanon that to Cybertronians, music isn't such a big deal as music is to humans, partially because they were in war for a long time (which destroyed a lot of instruments, killed a lot of musicians, occupied a lot of time, used a lot of control (kind of like how sedicious speech laws get tighter during war), and generally killed a lot of creativity and creatives, so less other forms of art too), and because I don't think that Cybertronians are as musical as humans regularly either

Sixth, the song is Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood, and the lyrics that I changed for the translator are "amped" instead of "souped"; "name" to "designation"; "leather" to "animal-hide"; "seats" to "interior"; and while I didn't change it, the brackets around Louisville mean that it didn't translate. Some of these are because I think that's how they'd translate, some are to make it make more sense narratively (which could also be counted as a translator error).

Seventh, "datemate, inamorata, or even conjunx" is translated to bf/gf, fiancé, and spouse

Eighth, “oh, sweet carrier [Mary]" is just "Oh, sweet Mother Mary" put through the translator.

Ninth, I did not mean to make Sunny so giggly, but I felt like it fit for this one, and I'm also still trying to figure out his characterization a bit, so

Tenth (and last but not least), @typewritingyip <3 for the Arcturus AU, and @keferon for the Mecha Pilot Jazz AU

Edit: I fixed the date (previously Jan 17)

[tarithenurse]

Bruises - 2

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen.

Pairing/starring: Sensei!Satoru Gojo x student!fem!reader.

Word count: 1223.

Content: Smut (fingering, somnophilia, doggy, p in v, unprotected), and some background!

A/N: Thought a bit more might be acceptable. Please reblog or comment if you liked it.

2.

--- Gojo’s PoV ---

He’d promised to ruin her for anyone else. And he had. Gojo always keeps his promises. But something had happened that first time that he hadn’t expected.

Gojo’d become addicted to her in exactly the same way as his plan for her had been.

She’s intoxicating. The way her scent lingers on his skin after sex, the sounds she makes when he ruts into her – both the squelching around his cock and the moans and whimpers. She feels so good around him, tightly sucking him in as the juices drips down to his balls. Oh and gods, her taste! Sweet and tangy at the same time. Sex has never been this good before and Gojo knows it never will be with anyone else again.

But that’s not all.

For fucks’ sake, he’s lying with her in his arms, listening to her breathe as she sleeps and he likes it! Adores the way her eyelashes flutter as she dreams – hopefully about him.

His fingertips wander from her soft tummy to her hips where bruises have formed and he wonders if there were any the last (or first) time too. He likes them there.

His hand drifts the other way, gently moving under her arm until he can hold her breast and feel her heartbeat through it. Even in her sleep, the nipple reacts by puckering and Gojo can’t help himself from rolling it between his fingers. A shiver runs through her and she nuzzles closer to him, ass pushing against his crotch and the reaction is predictable: a low pulse that turns into a throbbing as his cocks swells, pushing half-hard against her ass-cheek.

How had it even come to this?

Most of the time, Gojo let his students spar with each other, leaving him free to observe and give tips (heckle). He liked watching her move and that might have been the first warning but he admired how sure she was of her body. It’s abilities and limitations. She never lost a fight and while it might be good that she was so strong, Gojo needed to know how she handled defeat – if it broke her or if she learned from it.

One day, he kept her back after class, sending the others away while squaring up before her himself. When they clashed it was almost as if her skin seared him – he might be stronger and better than her, destined to win this match, but his own body was trying to betray him and by the time he’d gotten her wrestled underneath him on the mat and she tapped out, he had memorized the feeling of her curves against his hard lines. That was the second warning.

The third warning was the voice in his head screaming at him to turn back when he marched to her dorm that night. But as the idiot Gojo was, he ignored it and knocked on the door.

“Come to gloat?” she’d sneered.

“Come to teach you a lesson.”

He’d marched in, only then realizing that the reason she stood behind the door, peeking around it, was because she was only dressed in a towel after the shower. She crossed her arms, unintentionally pressing her breasts to swell over the edge of the towel but she didn’t stop him from closing the door.

“You suck it up when you lose,” he growled, gaze roaming her body. “And against me...you’ll always lose. I own your ass.”

She had stepped closer then, hands in her sides and uncaring that her chest was brushing his, already opening her mouth to fight back with some snarky comment.

“I’ll ruin you for anyone else,” Gojo said, no longer willing to play nice.

“You can try.”

His lips had been on hers the next second, large hand pulling her hair to angle her face up to meet him. Something inside him snapped when she kissed back, tongue sliding along his so he could taste the mint of toothpaste.

The memory is enough to get his cock fully erect and it’s so easy to gently lift her leg so he can slide it in along her slit, snuggled in the warmth between her thighs.

Gojo’s hands are so large on her when they slide along her curves before changing direction towards her mound. He’s holding his breath as he slips a single finger down at the tip of the crevasse to press against the hooded clit.

“Nghhh,” she whimpers in her sleep. But she doesn’t wake.

Spurred on, Gojo starts to circle the bud slowly, matching the rhythm with his and hers breath. She still smells of their sex earlier and faintly of sweat too...he hadn’t gone easy on her but the sight of the dew on her skin had been intoxicating.

Now he presses a soft kiss to the pulse point of her throat, feeling it flutter under his lips and he has to suppress the urge to bite down. To mark her. Later.

Sliding the finger further, he delves between her folds and finds that slickness is gathering. He has to taste it and he barely manages to stifle the groan as he licks it off the finger. His cock throbs, twitching in the V of her thighs.

She doesn’t wake as he works her, finger moving slowly but steadily around and on her tender clit only to sometimes press further to gather her juices to ensure the smooth glide that doesn’t disturb her sleep. Still, she’s breathing harder, hands clenching the sheets, brows wrinkled as she whimpers and moans and it’s all too tempting not to roll his hips just a little bit.

Even as his cock begins to get wet with her slick and his precum, soon it’s not quite enough.

Moving carefully, he lifts her leg again, cool air hitting them both. But it grants him access to slowly, ever so slowly, press into her cunt. Wet and warm. Fluttering already. It’s not the perfect angle but it’s miles better and as he fills her, they both sigh. As if to accommodate him, she pushes back against him with her back arching sinfully. Walls twitching.

It takes all the determination Gojo has to not just fuck into her hard and deep but he has a plan and he’s not one to give up on the sweet idea. So he keeps fingering her, sometimes rolling his hips slowly until her body seizes and she cries out, waking herself.

“Wh-” she looks confused.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he promises against her shoulder.

Finally able to move freely, Gojo rolls her over and pulls her ass up by the hips, never once unsheathing.

“Satoru!” she mewls.

Her walls are still twitching, her body sensitive but pliable as he starts to rut, chasing his own high and prolonging hers

“Feel so good,” he groans, “gonna bust soon.”

She just babbles something, too far gone to find the words and Gojo loves it. Loves the hold he has over her and how wrecked she sounds.

“Fuck,” is all he has time to say before he has to pull out, already cumming. It’s blinding but he blinks through it, watching the white ropes splatter against her hole and petals. Next time, he promises wordlessly as he steadies himself with a hand on her ass, next time it’ll stay in there.