#someone is trying to take that away from him while hes doing his best for mikey to have the best birthday ever?

[rafeandonlyrafe]

in his corner

words: 2.7k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, boxer!rafe, established relationship, p in v sex, semi public sex, violence but not in great detail, unprotected sex, mentions of rafes anger issues

rafes head is down as you step into the locker room. it's dark and gloomy, no need for bright lights that just illuminate the blood and grime more.

the fleeting sunlight peeking in through the windows only casts light upon the dust floating in the room as you close the door behind you, causing rafe to finally look up.

his eyes shift from pure focus to something softer. “hey.” his voice is still low, slightly hoarse from not speaking most of the day.

“hey.” you move the rest of the way into the room, your footsteps sounding thunderous in the silence that always cloaks the gym before a fight, especially one like this.

“ill be safe.” you see a hint of humor in his eyes now as you roll yours. you always tell rafe to stay safe before a fight, it's become such an expectation that he beats you to it.

“do you have your gloves?” you ask, looking towards his gym bag, wanting to rifle through it to make sure rafe has everything he needs, even though you packed it for him.

“of course.” rafe smiles, wrapping his hands around the back of your thighs and pulling you closer into him, his forehead pressing against your stomach.

“you're nervous for this one.” rafe states. he doesn't need to ask, he can tell just by your energy, the way your breathing is more frantic, your eyes opened ever so slightly wider than normal.

“im not the one in the ring.” you hum, hand coming to the back of his neck, stroking over his hairline, taming it despite knowing it's only a few minutes before it's going to get messed up again, either by rafe rubbing at it or the opponent.

“i know.” rafe looks up at you, a soft smile on his face. “but ya love me.”

“mmm, unfortunately.” you joke, a smile flashing across your lips before you drop your head to press your mouths against rafe, the kiss hungry and desperate, knowing it may be your last for a while if rafe gets his lip busted open.

“okay-” rafe sighs, pulling away, restraint in his voice as his insides call to continue kissing you. “it's almost time. love you.”

“love you too.” you back away but keep your eyes locked with rafe until your back is pressed up against the door. “win for me.”

you step out, eyes flickering around his team, waiting in the hallway for you, knowing better than to interrupt your moment with rafe.

“he's ready.” you nod to rafes coach before ducking out of the way as they file into the locker room.

you can hear the noise of the crowd grow as you walk into the arena, rows of seats all facing towards the central octagon. none of the security stops you to ask for a ticket as you walk to the front, rafe has become a headliner at the boxing gym, and you a vip along with it.

you take your seat, a coveted one, right in rafes corner. you know he has supporters, and while you appreciate most of them, the female ones who fawn over him anger you every time they shout his name or try to give him their number, but his quick shut down of advances always washes away the brief resentment.

“hey y/n.” rafes coaches brother, lewis, sits next to you, your de facto personal bodyguard. you insisted you didn't need someone looking over you, but rafe was always worried about a fight starting in the crowd. it certainly wouldn't be the first one that has broken out at a boxing gym.

“hi lewis.” you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and lean back in your seat as the prematch comes out, beginner fighters to keep all the early attendees from getting impatient while the crowd grows and seats fill.

overall, it's a professional arena. not on a pro level by any standards, but the best you can get in the area without making boxing full time. it certainly puts the smaller gyms rafe started out in to shame.

you were the one who originally suggested it. any sort of contact sport to work through some of his anger. you saw it bubbling under the surface, and you knew rafe would never do anything in your presence, even if he wanted to scream and punch a wall, he'd bottle it all in just to not scare you.

you clap as the first round comes to an end, ever the good supporter and attendee. it's part of the reason the gym likes rafe so much, he's no fuss, no personal drama, just pure fighting.

there's more rounds as you wait to see rafe, the rest of the seats being filled along with standing room in the back for anyone getting in late. 

a new referee steps into the ring, a professional with years of experience who doesn't bother with the lower level fights, saving himself for the main event. 

you sit up a little straighter in your seat as your eyes move to the door, a smile stretching over your cheeks as rafe steps out to applause and the thumbing base of a rap song. you applaud as well, keeping your eyes on rafe despite knowing he won't look at you, not until he gets in the ring, some sort of superstition that he's developed as he keeps his head down.

the other fighter comes out to the booming announcement of their name, a silly nickname you immediately disregard. clearly someone trying to rise the ranks and become a well known name, but you can tell just by his stature that rafe will take him down.

you breathe a little sigh of relief as rafe climbs into the ring and looks over to you, a slight smirk you're sure only you can see. he knows just as well as you do that this will be an easy day.

the official facilitates the handshake between the opponents before they're back to their corners to tape wrists and put on gloves, getting everything prepared. you keep your eyes on rafe, of course, taking in his every movement.

you feel a stirring in your stomach as he stands, tank top stretched tight across his body while his shorts are looser, allowing him to move easily around the ring.

you hear a woop coming from the back but know better than to divert your attention, rafe surging forward right when the official starts the round. he wastes no time throwing quick punches before defending, stepping to the side to miss the opponents swipes.

rafe lands a few more blows, but you don't cheer yet. you've made the mistake before of thinking he's in the clear too early.

the movement of rafes body is almost a dance, one driven by passion. his biceps bulge with every punch, swear gathering on his chest, making your mouth water as you watch.

the officials whistle to end the round makes you jump, too wrapped up in rafes looks to pay attention to the fight like you know you should.

you really do try to shift your attention back, but as the next round starts, you're quickly drawn back to watching rafes body and smooth movements. 

every punch he throws makes your legs tighten further, hoping the pressing of your thighs offers you some sort of relief, but any comfort is fleeting.

your body responds for you when the fight comes to end, rising to your feet and clapping as you snap back to attention. rafe of course wins, the opponent not even getting a punch to his face other than a brief touch on his jaw that didn't even knock his mouthguard.

“i knew you'd win.” you smile and step forward as rafe comes to the ropes, leaning over to press his lips against yours.

“let me talk to the team and shower then we'll get out of here, yeah?” rafe kisses you again before leaning in to whisper into your ear. “i can tell you're turned on.”

--

“how'd you know?” you question as rafe shifts the car into drive, his free hand immediately coming to your thigh as he pulls out of the parking spot and onto the road.

“that you were- are turned on?” rafe smirks, keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead. “you get a look in your eyes, baby. and i can tell you want me.”

“and i have that look right now?” you hum out, turning the volume up on the radio slightly as the kid cudi song comes on.

“mhm. and it'll only intensify when i do this-” rafes hand slides upwards between your thighs. you quickly part them for him, letting out a soft moan as his fingers rub right where he knows you like it best.

“shit.” you lean back into the seat, trying to keep yourself from jumping over the center console and pouncing on rafe instantly. you pray you don't hit traffic as he presses harder on the gas pedal, ready to get home as well.

“you looked so pretty tonight cheering me on baby.” rafe pushes his fingers harder against your pants, creating tight circles. “even if you were spaced out the entire time.”

“mhm.” you hum, not even truly listening to what rafe is saying, just enjoying the tambor of his voice and the feeling growing in your stomach.

you know when rafe laughs that it's at you and your current state, but you've done far too much and been with him far too long to be embarrassed or ashamed by your lust as you let out another moan.

your eyes are glossy as you turn to look at rafe, hand gripping the wheel tightly with a clear tent in his sweatpants. you blink a few times to clear your vision as you take in his hard set jaw, tension building as he is forced to wait to get inside you.

you reach over to place your hand on rafes crotch, hoping the pressure of your hand sustains him a little longer.

“it's taking everything in me not to pull over and fuck you here in the car.” rafe says through gritted teeth.

you look out the windshield as rafe moves his hand to grip the steering wheel with both hands, needing it now that you're touching him to keep the vehicle steady. “we're almost home.” you hum out, petting your fingertips over his length, contemplating pushing his pants down and bending over the center console, but your clenching pussy needs him.

rafe pulls into the driveway at speeds he shouldn't be going inside a residential neighborhood, the car calming to a halting stop, and not even a second passes before you're out of your seats and out of the car.

rafe beats you to the front door, throwing it open for you to rush inside, locking it tight after you've entered.

you know you won't make it to the bed. you never do on nights like this. both on a high from rafe winning his fight, an easy opponent with not even a scratch to his knuckles.

rafe presses you against the wall of the hallway, his body molding against yours as his lips smash forward into a passionate kiss. you reach between your bodies immediately, knowing you're already soaking wet and ready from rafe playing with you in the car.

you push down on the hem of rafes sweatpants until rafe moves his hips and allows you to shove them down along with his underwear. 

rafe lets out a sigh as your hand wraps around his length, holding his cock in your grasp as you quickly begin to stroke.

“fuck, baby.” rafe places his fist around your hand. “as much as i love you touching me like this i need to be inside you now.”

there's a desperation in his voice that makes something in your chest tighten.

you nod and release him, undoing your button and zipper to shove your pants to the ground and kick them away. rafe grabs the hem of your tshirt before you can take it off yourself, pulling it up over your head before it also joins the clothes scattered around the foyer.

rafe connects your lips back together, his hands sneaking behind your back to undo your bra before pulling the cups off, large palms quickly replacing them as he holds your breasts, giving them a gentle squeeze that has your mouth falling open in a satisfied sigh.

“bedroom, counter or right here?” rafe asks, pulling on your lip before you can answer and giving it a tug.

“right here.” you reach down and take rafes cock in your hand, giving it a stroke. “right here, right now.”

“mmm, don't have to tell me again.” rafes arms circle around you and pull you up, pinning you against the wall. your body moves so naturally like it's done a hundred times before, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

rafe lines up his cock with your entrance and sinks forward. your arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him in tight, mouth dropping open and eyes squeezing closed as he slowly enters you.

“oh god.” rafe groans, mouth opening as well, but to press his teeth against your skin, biting down gently so as to not actually hurt you, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

“fuck me rafe.” your fingertips are digging into his shoulders, trying not to pierce him with your nails as you grip onto his muscles, muscles he just used to pummel his opponent.

“fuck me hard.” you don't often ask for it hard or really give him any direction. rafe knows how to please you, but it's different today. you need his full force, everything he has left in him.

and he doesn't make you wait.

rafe pulls his cock out slowly before slamming in, forcing your ass back into the wall with a thud, your whole body shuddering as he thrusts.

you tighten your arms even more, needing your bodies to become one as he pumps his hips forward, the sound of skin meeting together spreading through the empty house.

tomorrow, you'll clean up the clothes off the floor. tomorrow, you'll make a large breakfast to replenish rafe from his fight and open every window in the house to let in light and air, but tonight, you're going to remain in the dark hallway with your legs wrapped around rafes waist.

“harder.” you beg again, even though you're not sure you can take it.

rafe complies, swinging faster as one of his hands manages to find a way between your bodies, tips of his fingers pressing against your clit. he knows he should fuck you longer, but he can build you up again for the second time in the bedroom, you've teased each other too much and he needs to feel you fall apart in his arms.

“you're so tight and warm.” rafe mumbles, burying his face in your neck as he huffs, absorbing your heart after being apart physically for too long, the cold air of the gym and locker room now being replaced with you.

“i love you.” rafe mumbles, lips against your neck as he presses a few kisses to your throat. “thank you.”

he doesn't need to say what for. you understand. for being with him, for encouraging him to try boxing, for standing by his side and knowing what's best for him even when he didn't know himself.

“i love you.” you moan out, pussy clenching around rafes cock as your high suddenly hits, back arching off the wall in pleasure only to be slammed back against it as rafe pushes as deep as he can go inside of you, the squeezing of your cunt triggering his own high as his cum spurts inside of you.

“f-fuck.” you whine, nails fully leaving marks now as you breathe deeply, chest rising and falling, pressing against rafes with every breath.

“let's go take a bath.” rafe says, his voice suddenly softer, almost like the sex was the last bit of excursion he needed to calm himself after the fight.

“okay.” you can't help but giggle.

despite your agreement, rafe doesn't pull out, his softening cock still inside of you and bodies connected.

“okay.” you repeat, pressing your lips against rafes cheek before resting your head against his, realizing what he needs in that moment. “i love you.”

you stay there, still, for minutes that stretch into what feels like hours, but you wouldn't trade it for the world.

“okay.” rafe finally responds, eyes blinking with a new clarity, any sort of anger or frustration he had before the fight now freed from inside him. “bath time, yeah?”

[pedriscroquettes]

𝐋𝐀𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐒 ꕥ MAX VERSTAPPEN

summary. celebrating max’s 4th title was not in your plans.

warnings. piastri!reader, max is kinda obsessed with reader, public s3x (?), unprotected pinv, fingering, just straight up dirty.

gabri speaks! i’ve been thinking about mexico gp max and las vegas sealed the deal for me.

THERE’S A BRIEF moment of silence, of anticipation, and of complete confusion. The DJ had paused the setlist less than an hour in announcing there was a special guest appearance. Then as if on cue tonight’s race is plastered on the giant screen behind him and the words, “Max Verstappen,” echo throughout the nightclub. You resist the urge to roll your eyes knowing someone might be recording you, or your brother at least.

“I thought he was flying back?” You cover your mouth with your hand as you talk with your brother.

“I thought so too.” Your brother hums in your ear trying to hide his annoyed tone. Your brother got along with Max just fine but all he wanted was one night without F1 getting mentioned.

You on the other hand…

You’d only been in the paddock a handful of times but every race weekend you had managed to have the worst encounter with the dutch man. The first time had been incidentally, you faintly recall the energy drink splashing all over your new dress. You knew from the get go that it had been an accident but when Max didn’t as so much as a muster a quick sorry and instead went on his way you had no choice but to hate him.

“He’s such a dick.” You murmur to yourself unaware your brother catches your words.

“Be nice.” Oscar motions towards the countless people recording him.

“I’m gonna get another drink.” You sigh.

The music resumes and you find yourself into a crowd of dancing couples. Your short orange dress sticks to you as you walk towards the bar. It’d been a long night with your brother not getting the result he hoped for. The post race recap inside the garage had been brutal as well. You had watched as the championship slipped from Lando’s hands and Max claimed victory once again. It had been the worst two hours of your life to say the least. You’re way too frustrated to even notice the man approaching you. In a split second you’re covered in something that smelled similar to…

“Asshole.” You mumble.

“Mini Piastri?” He gasps dramatically. “Why are you here? I wouldn’t think you’d be celebrating after tonight.”

“Well, the world doesn’t revolve around you.” You scoff. “Does it Max?”

“I’d argue that it does actually. Considering your mood, you’d be happier if your little boyfriend had actually managed to have a good race.” He taunts you.

“Look, can you get out of my way? I have to go clean up the mess you made.” You point towards the huge spots of alcohol on your dress.

You don’t even wait for him to respond before pushing past him, brushing shoulders in the process, to head straight to the bathroom. You do your best to dodge those who already have had a bit too much to drink, unaware that the dutchman is right behind you. It’s not until you’re opening the door and notice it takes a minute too long to close that you turn around and spot him. His white dress shirt is already half unbuttoned while his hair is a mess. You stare at him incredulously as he leaned against the sink.

“Max, you can’t be in here.” You state bluntly.

“I don’t recall you telling Lando to piss off when he followed you into the bathroom in Austin.” He counters.

“How do- What?” You’re taken aback by his words. How did he know?

He ignores your question choosing to walk towards you instead. You’re now face to face with the man that had taken away your team’s championship. His eye bags are dark and you can tell it’s been a while since he’s gotten a good needed break. His tousled hair falls perfectly on his head and by the way his arms flex you can tell he’s been putting extra effort into them at the gym. All of a sudden you’re nervous to be under his glare.

“Does your brother know what you and Lando do in secret?” He questions.

“You should leave.” You try to sound confident but your faltering voice exposes you.

Max just smirks at your words knowing he was getting under your skin. He still recalls the first time he ran into you, when he spilled half a can of red bull on you. He doesn’t know why he didn’t apologize but when he saw the anger in your face he realized why. You had looked so beautiful that day with the short orange sundress that did nothing to hide your cleavage. He still remembers the disappointment he felt when he saw you and Lando walk out of the restroom all disheveled. So, when he beat Lando tonight he felt absolutely no remorse.

His lips ghost yours for what feels like an eternity. You’re frozen in place wondering how his lips would taste against yours. Maybe it was the alcohol or the way his arms flex around you but suddenly you needed to know what he felt like. His arm tentatively grazes yours as it sneaks down to your knees. A gasp finds itself leaving your lips as your legs spread open instinctively. He wants to make fun of you, of the way you melt under him so easily, but he knows better. He can’t risk ruining the moment. It’s when Max inches his fingers closer to your thighs that you suddenly realize what’s happening. In a matter of seconds you push him off you and head out the door.

You’re barely four steps out when Max yanks you back and you hit his built chest. This time he doesn’t hesitate and grabs your jaw pulling your face towards his. Your lips meet in a heated kiss as his arms find their way around your waist. This time you’re the one that moves his hands from your wait to your ass. The confidence was beginning to build up and soon enough you’re tugging on his hair as his tongue enters your mouth.

“Max…” You moan and somehow it becomes the indicator that you want this. That you want him.

He pushes you flat against the cold brick of the hallway, the dimmed lights helping hide your bodies from the crowd. You’re lucky he holds you up because your legs feel like jello and if he lets go you might lose your balance. His hands roam your waist, back, and neck before he moves your hair out of the way. His lips leave a trail of wet kisses around your neck as his hands work their way down to your legs. They slowly glide up until he’s playing with the hem of your short dress. You can already feel his growing erection press against your ass.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He groans against your ear.

You really want to tell him to fuck off but your body reacts differently. You’re shocked when instead of telling him to call it a night all you murmur is keep going. In a matter of seconds your dress is being pulled up towards your waist. You can’t help the whine that escapes your lips as he rubs your aching core through your panties.

“So wet already.” He groans. “For me or Lando?”

“Shut up.” You still find it in you to annoy him.

To your surprise he doesn’t hit you with another remark. Max had been an asshole to you long enough. Now, that you were in front of him practically falling apart he didn’t want to ruin the moment. There’s a brief moment of silence before his hand carefully moves your panties to the side exposing your core to the cool breeze. Your legs spread instinctively as his fingers tempt your folds. His fingers collect your slick as he explores you, the wet sound making him groan against you. Slowly, he brings one of his fingers to your hole entering it carefully.

“Fuck.” He moans against your ear as your cunt wraps tightly around his finger.

“Ma- Max. So close.” You’re barely able to say.

You let out a loud whine as he curls his finger inside of you leading to your climax. You come around his fingers as you coat them with your wetness. His fingers slowly move toward your mouth and you don’t hesitate as you take them into your mouth, tasting yourself. He almost comes undone as you lick his fingers seductively. Aggressively he grabs your jaw and kisses you. He groans as he tastes you.

You feel the tip of him first as he runs it up and down your folds teasing you. Your hands are weak against the wall as his tip approaches your aching hole. He enters you slowly, holding you tightly in the process. He stops halfway through not wanting to hurt you but when he hears your dirty moans he continues. Your nails dig tightly into his arms as he fills you up completely. He’s quite big and the new sensation has you spiraling trying your best to not fall against him. He takes advantage of your weakness and attacks your neck again making sure to leave love bites around your collarbone.

“Fuck, Max. You’re so big.” You whine without thinking.

You feel his dick twitch inside you at that. Your voice has him in a trance as he tries his best to not just start thrusting inside of you. It’s not until you start pushing your ass against him that he almost pulls out fully before thrusting back into you. His hands grip your ass tightly—surely leaving marks for tomorrow—as your cunt squeezes him. He’s never felt such a thrill, at least since Abu Dhabi, you were your own feeling. He couldn’t believe you had finally opened up to him in many ways you were way better than winning another trophy. Many curses escape your lips as he finds the perfect pace inside of you.

He manages to bend you over leading to the perfect position and somehow he’s even deeper inside of you. He grips your hair into a makeshift ponytail as he speeds up inside of you. His hand trails back to your cunt and slowly he starts playing with your folds. The feeling of his cock inside of you and fingers rubbing your folds is intense and you find a camisole feeling in your stomach approach you. You squeeze him tightly as his dick hits the right spot and you find yourself coming undone. You’ve never had an orgasm so intense in your life you don’t even notice how you coat his dick with your wetness.

Max isn’t far behind and speeds up at the feeling of your cunt squeezing him tightly. Your nails dig behind you at the overstimulation and stretch of his cock. Max hisses at the sensation finding it the tipping point. It’s not long before you feel his dick twitch inside of you and in a matter of seconds you feel him spill his seed inside of you. He grunts as he empties himself and as he pulls out. He pulls you up adjusting your dress in the process.

You bite your lip as he zips up his pants. The aftermath of your little rendezvous is different. Usually with others you don’t stay long enough to watch them dress themselves. But then you notice Max struggling with the buttons on his dress shirt and you find your hands on his chest again. You only button half of the shirt before stepping back. Neither of you say a word but the silence manages to speak for you both. You decide it’s time to go back but before you can take a step Max pulls you in for a final kiss before he leaves.

You’re barely able to walk back towards the VIP lounge and stumble multiple times in the process. You try your best to brush your hair down and fix your dress as you come closer to your brother’s booth. You sit down carefully unaware your brother is staring at you wide eyed and wondering why it took you almost an hour to get a drink. You shift awkwardly in your seat as Lily begins telling you both about her mixup at the airport. You turn around briefly as she goes into detail when you notice Max walking past your table. You keep your composure not wanting to expose your actions of the night but you should’ve known better. Oscar almost bursts out laughing at Max’s completely unbuttoned shirt.

“Lando’s gonna be pissed.” Your brother smirks.

“How do-” Did everyone know? “Oh, fuck off.”

The night progresses with your brother ordering countless bottles of Dom Pérignon. It’s almost five in the morning when Max takes the stage again with the DJ playing a remix of Super Max. As if on cue someone hands him a bottle of champagne and it doesn’t take long for him to start spraying it amongst those on the dance floor. You watch attentively as his chest shows the marks you left completely unaware of how your phone buzzes for the hundredth time that night.

9 missed calls from Lan

Lan: Tonight was shit.

Lan: Come over?

[lizardho]

I think the worst day I had as a missionary is hard to pin down – for comedy bad day stories, I like to talk about my cute companion who ripped three pairs of pants in one day because his ass was so fat. Literally, two in the morning, we missed 3 appointments in the afternoon because people kept cancelling on us, and we ended up far away from home visiting “Less Actives” in the downtown area. We find a family who says we can come in once their dad get home, and we sit down to wait for the dad to get in and RIIIPPP goes the third pair of slacks this man wore that day. I hand him my suit jacket and he wraps it around his waist like a bashful adolescent who just started his period at an inconvenient time. We catch a ride home on a bus and ended up home an hour early. He cried for like 30 minutes while stitching up his pants, and I got to rest a lot more than expected that day. We ordered a 4-cheese pizza and went to bed early that night, having walked probably 5-6 miles that day knocking doors and getting turned away.

Another bad day was the day the Mexico City Temple was re-opening. It was a funny experience for me because the evening before I was contacted by the Mission President and told that an elder in our district had confessed some serious sins to him and that those sins precluded him from going to the temple. The MP told me that nobody in this elder’s ward could get time off to babysit him so he was begging one of us – I didn’t want to go to the temple, it was a crappy way to spend a P-Day in my opinion, so I told the MP I’d do it. I spent the day eating popsicles and napping with an elder who, in between Bolis and naps, would shakily and tearfully confess that no fewer than half of his companions had secret phones they used to watch porn, hire prostitutes, and buy drugs. This was bewildering to me since I had been Trying So Hard my whole mission and had always felt inadequate, and these elders who were doing better than me and more respected than me were somehow out here fucking, doing drugs, and jorkin’ it.

I was actually in a “Punishment Area” at the time because in my last area one of my life-threateningly attractive companions had gone into the homes of widows to repair their electrical wirings (he was a trained electrician prior to going on a mission.) Being alone in the home of an 80-year-old widow with failing lights was “against the rules” to the extent that me mandaron a la goma, and some handful of guys I’d been told to view as role models were out here breaking actual laws and shit. Of course, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was in this area because of the Deep Evil that Lay Within My Heart (wanting to kiss Elder Electrician on his stupid himbo lips) but my MP could not have known that, just like he didn’t know that the guys he was making Zone Leaders were getting their dicks sucked and snorting cocaine. That honestly felt outrageous to me.

I feel like the stereotypical “worst day” of a mission is the last day – they take you to the airport in a big van, all melancholy and nostalgic. We sang on our drive to the airport – elders and sisters tearfully sang or hummed hymns together. I was deadpan the whole time, it was such a relief to be going home. For me the worst part of the day was the relief – the release of pressure. The pressure to perform, to be “on,” to be at your best, is omnipresent for elders. I was the only person flying to Phoenix, so for the first time in two years I felt a release from that pressure. Nobody was scrutinizing me, I no longer felt that every thought, action, and feeling was being evaluated and judged as a sign of my true character. It was hard to realize, a the pressure let up, that I had been holding all that weight for two years without knowing when it had started. I remember getting confused in Customs and needing someone who spoke Spanish to talk to me because I kept forgetting words in English. I remember getting home and my family waiting for me and feeling like it was all finally done, finally over, I could finally breath. It didn’t feel bad, but it did feel heavy. And it definitely was not the worst day of my mission.

The actual worst day of my mission, though, was about 5 months in. At the 6-month mark I was expected to make a long trip down to an area of town near La Basilica de Guadalupe to submit my visa paperwork, and the mission office had sent me an extra $500 MX to use for transportation costs. When I withdrew the money they had sent for the month, I noticed it was higher than expected. My companion, a senior companion and district leader, had the cell phone. He was talking to another elder while he waited for me to withdraw my monthly deposit. I approached and asked if I could use the cell phone to call the mission office, as I had questions. He said “no,” and ignored me. I waited until the conversation ended and asked again, and again, angrily, he said, “No.” I said “Elder, relax, I just need to call the mission office to see why they sent me more this month than usual.” His face turned red as he realized other elders were watching the exchange occur. He handed me the phone, I called and was told the money was for transportation costs, and laughingly returned the phone to my companion. He took it, told the other elders he needed to tie his shoe but they could head on over to the District Meeting, and waited until they were out of eyesight. Once that was done, he grabbed me hard by the wrist, dragged me into a hidden corner out of earshot from others, and said, “If you ever disrespect me or my authority again I swear to God I will kill you.”

I was actually shocked. This guy had spent the last month and a half being SUPER nice to me, so I thought he was kidding and I was just confused. I laughed and said “Haha, yeah, your authority over the cell phone is sacred,” and tried to walk away but he didn’t let go of my wrist. He pulled me back and said “I will literally slit your throat if you ever talk to me like that again. As senior companion my authority over YOU is sacred, and I will not let God be mocked by you.”

I realized that he was serious. Like, actually threatening-my-life serious. I could see it in his eyes, I could feel it in the way he squeezed tighter on my wrist. In actuality, the idea seems laughable now. The guy was absolutely chickenshit. He cried if his shits were too hard, he couldn’t end a human life, but I still didn’t let myself fall asleep first for the rest of our time together. And I still hid the two knives we had in a different area while he was showering the next morning.

If I’m being honest though, even that wasn’t the worst day of my mission. That was bad, and each subsequent time he told me he was going to cut my throat for minor infractions against his God-Given Authority Over Me (like not wearing a belt for morning scripture study, or not taking the path he thought was best to get to a lesson) was a bad day. Every P-Day where he read my emails over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t telling my parents about how he was treating me, every day he told me that the ward members would never believe me over him, every day he put me down in front of other elders and they laughed in agreement, every day he was in a bad mood and took it out on me was a bad day. But the worst day was the day I told the mission president about it. I told him about the threats to my life, his temper, his physical abuse, hiss manipulation and rule-breaking, and the mission president told me “The time to tell me this was 6 months ago. The time to forgive him and focus on your own failings is now.”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt as confused or betrayed as I did then. Like, man oh man, that was a rough thing to hear, but as the day went on I kept feeling more and more confused and scared – had I misinterpreted everything? Had I miscommunicated something in telling the story? Had I not been objective enough in recounting the threats against my life? Was it true that a senior companion actually had the authority to hurt me if I went against his authority? Was I wrong the whole time? I had no idea, to be honest, but it was bewildering.

Knowing now what I wish I had known then, I would have done things differently. But in the moment, on a mission, knowing that my biggest reason for going on a mission was the hope that the Spirit of God, which hymns told me burns like fire, would burn the faggot out of my heart. I think I felt like I deserved it. Like somehow that elder knew the evil I was hiding and felt compelled by God’s power to hurt me. I think that’s what made it so hard to defend myself in the moment – I did not have that problem with other elders. The companion who told me we were gonna wrestle to settle an argument lost three consecutive matches and pouted about it for like a week. The elder who threatened to punch me for making a joke at his expense got knocked on his ass just for raising his fist. But this elder got into my head first, and that made it hard to fight against it. Instead of fighting against it, I just silently lived with actual, verifiable, diagnosed, by-the-book, DSM-5-TR Posttraumatic Stress Disorder because I thought I deserved it. It took consistent supervision of my clinical work revealing countertransference with Male LDS clients (I consistently discussed addressing shame in a client’s presentation where no shame or discomfort had been reported), an awkward conversation with @inbabylontheywept after an even more awkward dinner with a cousin who vaguely reminds me of that companion, and a bad acid trip where I had visceral flashbacks to my mission, before I was able to realize that I was living with a pain that was as abnormal as it was unnecessary.

Even once I realized it, even once I got help, it was hard. I remember telling jokes about what happened to my therapist and seeing her jaw just…drop. She said she didn’t know it had been that dangerous for me. The session ended and he sent me the PCL-5 (a good, evidence-based, highly face-valid measure for PTSD) and some other measure for dissociative symptoms and I was like “Girl, I just took this class, I know what you’re trying to measure and this ain’t it.” I reported my symptoms accurately and was fully prepped to confront her the next session. She showed me my scores and the norms used, and I was like “Oh fuck, this looks really bad on paper,” and she was like “Yeah, I can’t imagine living like this” and I just sobbed for most of that session. We ended up doing 9 months of TF-CBT and ACT (largely because I am a terrible and uncooperative patient, realistically I think I could have been done in like 5-6 months if I wasn’t so stubborn) before I was discharged from treatment successfully.

The thing that was so weird about starting therapy for PTSD was that it made things feel worse for a while. I started taking edibles a lot more. I started behaving differently around family members and Mormons. I started being outright hostile to elders I could see. It took about 3 months before I could see the missionaries and not have an actual fight-or-flight response to their presence. I think the way I had made it a far as I did without getting treatment was by repressing the thoughts, feelings, and memories that made it all hurt, and a soon as I let them just be there it was like all the confusing aching hurt came back. The first few months of therapy were just spent expanding the amount of time I could feel that hurt before turning to other means (like dissociation, cannabis, repression, etc.) so I could actually address the experiences without crashing the rest of the day. It was hard. I know I ended several sessions sweating a LOT from the exertion it took to just let the feelings happen. By 6 months, however, I could go into a church building without blacking out from panic. By 9 months I could sit in the same room as elders without sweating and shaking like a chihuahua on Adderall. 3 months after therapy and me and my supervisors noticed that my work with Mormon men had improved substantially. 6 months after therapy and I was able to begin writing anonymous stories online. Now, about two years after completing therapy, I feel like I can talk about it without needing the cloak of anonymity, and that is empowering.

Again, I am not sure why I’m typing these stories out – they’re not fun to write, I don’t love that my family can find these posts, but I guess I just like to remind myself and others that it can always get better. That mind numbing platitude, the old thought-terminating cliché that “it gets better, just power through it” doesn’t give enough credit to how much it hurts to get through it, but it does get better. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. The triggers can go away with time, great effort, significant expense, and a lot of discomfort. The world can feel safe again, the hurt can feel bearable, that nagging worry that I might have deserved this, or that I did something wrong, can eventually go away too. It’s not easy to do it, and I have an incredible respect for the patients of mine who can pull it off, but it is undeniably as doable a it is difficult. If this story resonates with anyone, if it feels close-to-home, if these experiences feel shared, just know that the relief I talked about can feel shared too. Know that it’s worth it to get the help, that you deserve the help, that you deserve to live a life that doesn’t hurt you, that you deserve to be a full person and not a living prison for the pain and memories. Know that healing yourself does not involve extending forgiveness to Them, whoever They are. That the pain you felt will not be made less important by making the pain less potent. Know that taking care of yourself now is, in a way, taking care of yourself then. And Please, with a capital P, take care of yourselves.

Thank you to my family, especially my immediate family (special shout outs to @flowerologists and @inbabylontheywept) for the support and patience with me as I dealt with this.

Thank you to my therapist, Jordin Borques, who I recommend highly to anyone seeking trauma therapy in Arizona.

Thank you to my wife, @cintailed, for being the push that got me into therapy, and for taking care of me at my worst and still being here with me.

Thanks to my mission president for being such a colossal disappointment to Christianity that my departure from the church was inevitable.

And a general thanks to the queers for being so cute and making life worth living, even on bad days.

[lis-likes-fics]

spencer reid drabble

cw: mute!reader, american sign language usage, // means things said in sign

You look up as Emily comes in for the day. She’s a little late—only by a couple minutes—but it’s no big deal. She waves as she walks in. “Hey, everyone.” You all give her your greetings as she sets her purse on the desk (across from yours) with a hefty sigh. “How’s everyone doing?”

“Let’s see,” JJ says, twirling around in her chair and raising her cup. “Coffee, check. No case, double check. Doing great so far.”

You smile, leaning back in your own chair. You start to sign, your hands moving quickly as you go through a short recap. /Spencer got me this pastry from the bakery this morning, and it was so good./ Spencer’s voice easily narrates your movements.

“Sounds delicious,” Emily sighs, the sound so longing that you think she may be imagining a pastry of her own to munch on.

You’re selectively mute. As soon as you joined the team a few years ago, everyone loved you from the beginning. While they did their best in learning sign for you, Spencer was already a pro and did most of your translating.

He sits next to you—right now, at least. Hotch has gotten into the habit of separating the both of you when work gets slow. You indulge him and his distractions, even though you’re so quiet. You can’t be blamed! You like to listen to him speak. Who cares how much work is piling up?

It’s nice. You could go as fast as you wanted, and Spencer could always keep up with you. Sometimes when you were in the comfort of your own home, curled up on the couch with Spencer, neither of you would even say words. It would be a silent exchange where you would sit and “talk” for hours.

“Oh, damn it,” Emily mutters, sitting back in her chair and staring down at her lap. Her voice is laced with exasperation. “Not again.”

JJ hums. “Someone sounds cranky.” She peers over to get a better look at what’s going on.

A sharp breath passes through her. She starts toying with her belt, shaking her head briefly. “No, I just got this new belt a while ago, but it’s super crappy. This is my first time wearing it, and it keeps coming undone.” She fixes said belt, holding onto it like she’ll do it for the rest of the day if she has to. “If these pants weren’t so loose, I’d just take it off,”

You nod. Spencer speaks as you sign. “You should try Spencer.”

Everyone’s confused, including Spencer.

“‘Spencer’?” JJ wonders, eyeing you curiously, though amusement is shining in her gaze.

You have to hide your smile as you turn to Spencer, shaking your head gently. You go slow. /The clothes./

Spencer’s eyes immediately light up. “Oh!” he exclaims, turning back to everyone. He starts to sign as he speaks, and you’re not sure if he realizes he’s even doing it. “Sorry, suspenders. She’s saying you should try suspenders.”

Your laugh is silent, and you shake your head in your amusement. /Yeah. I used to wear them as a kid. I went through a phase./

They nod in understanding, but then Emily’s brow furrows and she chuckles. “Wait, do you call Spencer ‘Suspenders’?”

You shrug, glancing away. /They sound really similar…/ Spencer’s voice doesn’t match the quiet of your movements, but that’s okay.

He nods anyway. “Yeah. Emily, she calls you ‘Mystery’.”

Her face shines in surprise, a smile creeping on her lips. “Oh, cool,” she mutters.

JJ smiles big, leaning toward you and crossing her arms over her chest. Her interest is piqued now. “What about me?”

You purse your lips in the same way Spencer does, that awkward tight smile that you adore so much as you glance over at him. He mirrors your expression, clearing his throat and shrugging lightly. “She just signs J-2.”

Her shoulders drop a bit, her smile shrinking. “Oh,” she mumbles. A tiny sigh slips past her lips.

You rub your fist clockwise over your heart in apology. /It’s simple./

She shakes her head dismissively. “I get it.” She’s not really upset, but she had hoped for something more exciting. She turns back around to her desk to finish the work shining over her screen.

Emily looks at you past her computer, one brow raised with a curious grin. You forget how pretty she is sometimes. “Suspenders, huh?” she says quietly.

You shrug, your signs just between you and her. /He holds me up./ She laughs, muttering something about you being corny before she’s placing her attention back on her screen.

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[twistedwonderlandshenanigans]

Burn Out

I would. Absolutely do the cast but. Consider. The casts parents instead.

Also as you can probably guess, I'm feeling burnt out so my writing may not be as good as it usually is but fuck it we ball. Yes I will be using headcanon names for the Cast Parents because. um. I can.

Family Headcanons here if you want to read.

Also there's no Diasomnia except for Sebek. Sorry. Don't attack me please I beg OTL NO SPOILERS PLEASE OTL ----------------------------------------

Dr. Carlotta Rosehearts is not the type of woman to be easily impressed. Burn out is something only the weak experience, though if you weren't raised by her, she can hardly blame YOU for your poor constitution. While she's not all that sympathetic, she can find a small, easy task for you to complete to feel like you've been productive, useful, and otherwise intelligent.

Dr. Lawson Hatter, Riddle's estranged (engineer) father couldn't be any MORE experienced with burn out. He's awkward, he's odd, but his antics are sure to put a smile on your face. He can spot someone trying to work through burn out easily - not in his house baby, he's spinning that chair around and away from the desk, you're coming to get snuggled up and watch a movie with him and his kid(s). He'll make you tea (or coffee if you want it), a bunch of snacks, and promises to help you with your work later. Right now is time to let that all go and let your brain be mush for a bit. It's okay.

Amelia and Tarrant Clover - they're a little burnt out constantly themselves, but there's always room at the table for one more. Their home is only a good option if you like little kids though, because they WILL treat you like you're their big sibling almost immediately. They don't mean to come off as a little uncanny, but they genuinely do love having guests so much. Be prepared for So. Much. Food. If you can't really handle the hubbub of the family, that's okay too. Amelia will invite you to join her for her evening prep. She has a way of making you let all those feelings come out when it's just the two of you, and by the time you're done crying, she's got fresh banana bread and hot chocolate in front of you, with a pat on the back. She'll hug you if you want it too.

The Diamond couple have way too much tension between them to be of much help to you. Cater's older, but not eldest, sister, Catrina, is rather reserved and quiet when she's allowed to be. She'd be the one to take you into her room, do your hair, maybe some aromatherapy and tai chi. She's learned a lot of ways to relax over the years, she's just happy to share it with someone who is too exhausted to be fake with her. willing to let her help.

Dylla Spade hi, hello, did you want to make a top three guardians list? Dylla is there, promise. There is no overworking in her house. She can appreciate the dedication, but 1. you are actively harming yourself, 2. you should never work that hard in a workplace, why are you doing it for free /hj. She'll try to interrupt once or twice with the bribe of a small snack, or with going out somewhere, but if you're stubborn she's got to pull out the big guns. Big guns being she puts a photo of baby Deuce on the desk next to you and tells you if you want to know the story you're going to stop, go take a shower to give your brain a transition period out of work and go meet her in the kitchen. She's not the best cook but by god you know everything she gave you she gave with love.

Jack Trappola-Hearts is not Ace's dad, (ew, says Ace in the back of my mind), but his big brother. He's got a humble, somewhat dated one-bedroom apartment. He'll sleep on the couch though, so you can have the bed. (If Ace is there, Jack will sleep on the floor). He likes keeping you entertained and smiling, so he'll take you around town to (free) but fun areas. He doesn't expect you to verbally respond if you don't want to, and if you need to, he'll happily create a way for you to communicate when you're ready to go home. He'll keep you distracted from your responsibilities and burdens until he knows you can tackle them full force again.

Falena Kingscholar has a BIG and BRIGHT personality. He means the best, but he can sometimes be a little insensitive to your efforts, (as he was to his brother). He's also very busy and repressing his own burn out and Other Emotions, but don't fret. Kifaji will look after you. He's careful to not hover, but he always pops in with exactly what you need. He can't be as attentive as he would like, but he does know where the younger prince used to sneak off for naps. He may or may not drop a hint or two as to where those places are, and he may or may not have made sure to set the area up with soft lighting, music, blankets and curtains to give you some elevated sense of privacy without being overwhelmed by your surroundings (hopefully).

Vovó Bucchi (yes I borrowed a headcanon name provided by @kamiraaah (sorry for the tag, if you want it removed lmk!! ^^) can't help but make fun of you a tiny bit, but it's all just to remind you that hard work is meant to be rewarded. Hard work is meant to be balanced out with something else. While you're clearly bright, you're apparently not bright enough to realize when you need a break on your own /lh. She'll ask you to tell her about the things you HAVE accomplished over the past month while cooking food for the family, (and yes, having you be her taste tester all through out it), and wait til you're done to ask what you've done to motivate yourself to keep going. If you've got nothing, she's going to tell you to come home with Ruggie at the end of every other week. Yes, home. You're hers now. Good luck escaping custody.

Citlali and Ande Howl couldn't be more opposite in how they try to help you through burn out. Citlali is just a 4'2 ball of energy and affection, you best believe she's got hugs for days, homemade quilts to pile on you, a hot chocolate she meant to give you about 40 minutes ago but forgot while she was rambling, (she'll heat it back up), a child to hand you - wait, no that's going to her husband, that's not your responsibility. She'll talk your EARS off, but you come to love it. Ande is much more stoic, a little intimidating to some, and very awkward. Mans does not know how to come off as friendly. He offers a hug if you need it. Best hug of your life. He will also show you where you can go to brood get a breath of fresh air and relax.

Clara and Ginerva "Nonna" Ashengrotto (you MAY NOT call Nonna anything but Nonna. Only Nonna's friends can call her Ginny, and 'Ms. Ashengrotto' is her daughter.) Clara and her mom are both all too familiar with the dangers of burn out. You get burnt out, you make bad decisions, bad decisions lead to trouble down the road and honey you do not need to make your life any more complicated than it already is. Sit down, stuff your face, listen to jazz, be happy. Basic rules. Your plate will not be allowed to be empty, be prepared to probably eat so much you pass out, which will be the one and only bad decision you make that day, but it's better than Nonna asking why you ain't eatin' her cooking. If you do get too full, don't worry, they'll tease but they'll pack up what's left and the other 27 meals they prepared for you to take home. (Nonna is partially deaf so you will have to raise your voice a bit so she can hear you clearly).

guysguysguysguysguysguysguysguys it's my favourite next do you know who's my favourite I know who's my favourite I literally wrote this just so I could write for her do you know who's my favourite fuck YEAH YOU DO

Valeria Leech (and her husband I guess but I'm pretending Constantine Leech is not there because I want to focus on the queen that is Mama Fucking Leech)(He would be kind of detached anyways he doesn't know you and he doesn't owe you nothin', his wife just said he wasn't allowed to eat you). ANYWAYS. Mama Leech has a lot of energy, Floyd had to get it from somewhere and it is absolutely from his mama. While she can be a little all over the place, clearly her boys appreciate you if they went through the effort to bring you to her, and that means um. You're her kid now too. She will treat you like she treats her sons. This means an overwhelming amount of physical touch (she will tone down if asked or if her husband reminds her that not everyone is comfortable with that), a lot of food being offered to you, you get the (second) best bed in the house, she has already bought you new clothes- ordering on land clothes, but also things tourists to the Coral Sea would wear. Because how can you expect to overcome burn out when you're stuck in a rut and nothing has changed. You need a good sleep schedule, a good meal, and a way to feel fabulous about yourself. And probably a hug and a good cry session. And maybe a hobby to let out all that steam, do you want to learn to fight hand to hand or do you want to collect tiny glass figurines, she'll buy the same subscription as she has if you want she LOVES little glass figurines they're cute and delicate just like elvers are. She will cry when you have to go back to land, promise her you'll call her if you need her for anything. Whether it's a hug or hiding a body. She's got your back. Also in the top 3 mama's tbh but I'm very very very biased but I also still think I'm right.

Akram al Asim is a little lost on what to do, but Kalim cares about you, so so does he. He doesn't really know what to do on an emotional basis, so he gives you money and tells you that if staying in the palace is too much, you're welcome to go stay in one of their private mansions instead. And if you need more money to just ask. So staying at "home" and having someone cook and clean for you while you get to do nothing is a 10/10 way to help burn out. He does not know how to help people that are stubborn or reject his gift unfortunately, he just kinda stands there like a deer in the headlights, then just welcomes you to stay in his home as long as you like. (This is a bad idea, you're a friend of Kalim's and given the family dynamics we know about you may very well be used as leverage, um. yeah. That's not very cash money.)

Nasir and Amani Viper can offer their home and to share dinner with you, but they are kept busy all day. They can recognize burn out - they've seen it in their son, and experienced it themselves, but they've never gotten a break to work through it. They'll tell you to rest, to eat, to make yourself at home, but it's a little awkward to relax when everyone around you is working.

Eric Venue oh dear. oh dear, oh dear oh dear. Burn out is a killer of creativity darling, and we simply cannot have that. Again, not someone who can help all that much directly, he'll toss a little money at you and get you into a luxurious spa to get you to relax again, to rejuvenate your skin and your mind. Also concerned for your mental health and MAY have paid off a therapist to become your friend so you'll never know you're receiving therapy throughout the entire thing, you'll cry, you'll let that out, and you'll never see that friend again. But you don't know that yet and for now you feel better!

The Hunts fall into the bottom category of parents. Ibis Hunt, Rook's next eldest sister (bc I think the Hunt's named their kids after birds), will try her best. She practically raised Rook, so she knows what a good night out by the campfire can do, campfire dinner, marshmallows, a couple goofy songs on the guitar, and a horror story if you think you can handle it. She'll keep your mind off of things.

Meemaw (Marja) Felmier can and will bop you over the head with her cane if she sees you trying to work when you clearly can't anymore. "You're so worn slap out y'ain't got 'nother ounc'a thinkin' in there. Y'got a hankerin' for somethin'? I'll fix it up right quick. Come on now, carryin' on on an empty stomach ain't gonna fix y'problems." She purposely has you sit on the comfiest chair on the house, layers you up in blankets, gives you a stuffy and warm apple cider because she KNOWS you're gonna pass right out. And when you wake up, there will be Marja's famous apple crumble with homemade vanilla ice cream waiting for you, trust.

Dr. Isla and Rodian Shroud are HUGE advocates for self care, but know sometimes it takes another person to pull you away from what's frustrating you. Isla will GLADLY take you on in a gaming competition - and she might even take it easy on you. And you'll hear her full Aussie accent come out any time you over take her in the equivalent of Mario Kart. Rodian is much more likely to be subtle in the way he helps, asking you to come assist on a project. Idle prattle turns into a deeper conversation that lets you open up to him, and the simple tasks he gives you to make you feel like you're being useful help a lot too. If you do end up crying, he'll offer a hug, and then a place to sleep off the rest of the emotions. You'll wake up to a 3D printed figurine of your favourite animal, cookies, and a thermos that kept the milk cold. The last of the Mom top 3 imo. (Mom's do not include grandma's btw thus the exclusion of Vovo and Marja /lh)

Baul Zigvolt okay listen. Modern day? I can't help imagine him with a big beer belly and a laugh to match. He's lost all the intensity he had in chapter 7 (thus far, no spoilers please lol). If you're feeling burnt out, he's giving you food the way he would have given it to baby Sebek - he's still adjusting to humans, so forgive him for cutting everything up so small, but hey, hopefully you won't choke? And some water. He's got a lovely voice, so with your permission, he'll read to you or tell you stories from when he and Lilia were younger - or if you really want it, he'll sing you to sleep...that's his goal anyways. He will not let you sleep in though LMAO, you went to bed early, get ready to be up at the crack of dawn lol.

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Anyways, thanks for reading my Partially Coherent Ramblings. Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist

@my-cursed-brain @fluffle-writes @distant-velleity @starry-night-rose @theleechyskrunkly @elenauaurs @lumdays @nemisisnemi

[apricot-blossomss]

Hi, I love your writings a lot. I have another Apollo idea don’t know if you like it but I wanna share it: So, Reader is a deeply devoted follower of Apollo; loyal, loving, kind and compassionate but very insecure, has many self-deprecating thoughts, still, very determined to learn something in his honour. So, she tries to learn the lyre but she is bad in it not talented at all. She is determined though and willing to sacrifice time and effort into practice.

I imagine this plays out in Ancient Greece, the reader is very poor but determined to learn it and then to try her best on the Pythian Games. Apollo is already so smitten with her; he follows her journey from far but doesn’t wanna bless her bc he wants her to success on her own. One night he shows up to her while she’s praying. First, she is afraid he is here to take away her lyre as she is not worthy of it but instead, he is super kind and supportive tells her this effort and hard work is far greater and more meaningful sacrifice than any of the treasures the kings offer to him.

So, he offers her to be her teacher from now on as she can’t afford a good teacher like the others. They have romantic moments, kisses as he continues to teach her. Of course she wins the Games, he has taught her things no human knows about the lyre. At the end of the Games, he shows up to the people and in front of everyone he offers her to go with him and play with the Muses.

This is long I know, so, please do with it whatever you want. Use parts of it if it is too long, I just wanted to share it with someone.

☛ apollo teaching mortal! fem! reader to play the lyre

☛ sfw; fluff; cw: self-doubt, stage fright; not proofread oops

"Just stop already!"

"Why do you keep trying?"

"You have no talent."

It wasn't like you didn't know they were right. A lack of self-awareness is wasn't the problem for you. It was, however, the unexplainable love you felt for the instrument in your hands. It washed out of the gentle wood of the olive tree- you heard that the high lords and ladies sometimes owned gilded or golden lyres, which you could hardly imagine. And it was your most prized possession.

You had given a lot to be able to afford it, since your family wasn't ready to pay for a endeavor as fruitless as your attempts to learn to play it. At night, you dreamt of being able to elicit beautiful tunes out of the instrument, but during the day, reality hit you like a hammer in the head as you awkwardly plucked the strings, sounding more like a dying cat than the musician you dreamed of becoming.

It wasn't fair, you thought, in moments were your frustration overwhelmed you. It wasn't fair that some people had such talent that they could effortlessly handle the instrument while someone as in love with the art of it as you struggled without seeing any results. Many times, you had prayed to Apollo, but the god had never blessed your attempts and by now, you figured it might be some sort of subliminal messaging.

But you didn't care. Well, you did, but none of it could deter you. No matter how many people shook their heads or laughed or told you to stop, you sat down for hours on end, trying to figure out the beautiful instrument. When you walked on the market or the town square, you would stop at street musicians demonstrating their craft, watching their fingers, trying to learn, but you never managed to replicate it.

Your family wanted you to learn some other craft to attract suitors and impress them, but you would not relent. You would practice, you would watch, you would pray. All in the hopes of getting the hang of the lyre someday. And no matter how many times you failed or screamed at your fingers to just do it right, resting them on top of the strings and running them along them always calmed you.

Carefully, you let your hands run up and down, simply tugging one string after the other. And somehow, you still managed to mess it up. It sounded stale and squeaky, no matter how much you tried to soften your movements. Not willing to let that deter you, you tried to play a melody you had heard one off the street musicians play yesterday on the market.

Unbeknownst to you, you had an audience you couldn't have dreamed of. Way above, golden eyes followed the movement of your fingers, listening intently, intrigued. Forearms leaned on the railing of his balcony, he had been watching you practice frequently over the course of the last months. In the beginning , it had been for his amusement. Now, it had become a part of his routine to see how you were doing.

"Brother!"

Apollo looked up from the sight of you practicing in your room to find Hermes sitting on the railing. After a short, distracted greeting, his eyes wandered down once more, as if they were attracted by a magnetic force. And, truly, you were magnetizing. Your unrelenting determination, your love for his holy instrument, the fact that you had set yourself a goal and were working so hard towards it: competing in his Pythian games.

"So, what's got you this distracted lately?" Hermes asked, letting his legs dangle. When he was denied an answer, his attentive eyes followed Apollo's gaze and found you. "Oh, so that's-"

Apollo hushed him to listen to your best efforts, a small smile gracing his lips when he realized with what care you had listened to the mysterious lyre player on the street yesterday that had conveniently played a song more fit for beginners to pick up on.

"Wow, that sounds bad," Hermes exclaimed, whistling under his breath. Curling over in laughter, he missed the pointed stare by his brother. "Planning on punishing her or why are you enduring this?"

"Shut your mouth, brother," Apollo shot back and the sharpness of his tone surprised Hermes. As he looked down once more, he watched Apollos face soften visibly as you stubbornly plucked at your strings. A small smile graced his lips and he propped his head up on his arms as he watched you intently. "She can do it, she just needs a little bit of help."

☀️

Taking a deep breath, your knees met the hard stone floor and you kneeled before Apollo's altar, bowing your head until your hair formed a curtain around your face. After all the unanswered prayers and fruitless attempts, you were still filled with admiration and wonder looking at his statue. Closing your eyes, your lips formed a hushed prayer, as every afternoon in his temple. One that always went unanswered, but if you were one thing, it was persistent.

But today, something was different. Your mind couldn't help but wonder to the humiliating exchange you had had with your mother this morning. Scoffing over your clumsy playing, she had laughed at you, telling you to the face to no longer make her and the world suffer the sound of your lyre play, that you were dishonoring Apollo himself by eliciting such horrid sounds from his holy instrument.

You couldn't help the tremble of your lip, nor the traitorous stinging of your eyes and took a long breath to calm yourself. "Great lord Apollo," you whispered into the ground, your voice laced with shame and doubt, "Please, if you wish for me to stop my attempts, if I am dishonoring you, if I am angering you, give me a sign!"

"Well, hello there."

You shot around, finding yourself face to face with a blond man in a simple but fine tunic and piercing eyes. Eyes that you knew, because you knew this man, and you had spent a full hour watching his fingers handle the lyre so gracefully. It was one of the street artists you had seen on the market, more specifically, the one you had spent your forenoon studying. Was this a divine sign or a simple coincidence?

Realizing that you still hadn't answered the greeting, you scrambled to your feet clumsily and bowed lightly, since you saw first-glance he was of higher social rank than you. Granted, the majority of people was of higher rank than you, but your eyes had picked up on the gold laced into his tunic, his jewelry and most importantly, the intricate craftsmanship of his lyre. Hidden give-aways of a wealthy pocket. "Excuse me," you said softly, smiling while bowing once more, "I'll be leaving." A musician as skilled as him was far more deserving of this temple's glory.

Hurrying past him, the sound of his voice had you stop dead in your tracks. "Do you know what talent is, m'lady?"

Several things in that sentence made you pause and turn around once more, finding the man already looking at you with those magnetic eyes. "I'm not a lady, m'lord," you said abashedly, but his smile only widened. "Sure you are. And you know the answer to my question, don't you?"

"Yes," you answered, wondering what he could possibly want out of this conversation. "It's a gift by the gods that they give to the deserving." The young man hummed with a smile on his lips. "I couldn't help but notice you look a little troubled. What did you entrust your god with, sweet lady?"

If it had been any other man, you would have retreated, excused yourself, exited the temple as fast as possible. But he radiated a feeling of safety and grace that you couldn't help but feel attracted to him, and not just in the physical sense. Even though you had no idea why a man like that would spare a girl like you just a glance. Maybe he was one of those men who took advantage of poor girls like you, but somehow, your gut told you that you could trust him.

"I-," you hesitated, but then, the words broke out of you like a waterfall as you told him about your troubles. Maybe it was because no one listened to you, ever, but you trusted this man with everything. "It sounds horrible," you ended your ramblings, trying to conceal your damp eyes. "Everyone keeps telling me to stop trying, but I want to learn. But, what if I'm disgracing god Apollo himself with how horrible I am?"

"You aren't," the man said with an enigmatic smile and you wrung your hands. "You haven't heard me play, I'm atrocious!"

"Hey," he answered soothingly, taking a step towards you. "You aren't. You just need a teacher. I could teach you," he offered kindly, but you shook your head in protest. "No, m'lord, I have no means to afford it. See, I am a poor woman, I don't have any money of my own and my family would never come up for it. I don't have the financial means to compensate you."

His smile only widened and looking up at him, it left you quite breathless. You couldn't explain it, but there was something about it that made you feel as if warmed up by the sun itself. This man had to be blessed by Apollo. "I don't ask for compensation. I'd give you lessons for free."

Now, that was really suspicious. You weren't stupid, there was a good chance this was a ploy to take advantage of you in some way, because the offer sounded too good to be true. Such a talented artist simply stumbling over you in a temple and offering free lessons? At the same time, you were also desperate. And this man was really talented. If he was being genuine, were you throwing out the opportunity of your life? After a short silence, you looked back up at him. "Why would you do that? Offer to teach me for free, I mean."

A sudden breeze disheveled the man's golden locks, his charming smile unwavering. "Ah, you see... It's because I'm Apollo." Because you had any chance to register the words, the light seemed to explode before your eyes and a reflex brought your hand up to shield them. When you removed it, the man had changed. His robes were of pure gold, as were his shoes, equally golden marks extended over his body like tattoos and his hair was crowned by a shining halo. You were looking at divinity, and it was nearly scorching your eyes.

Shit.

Thankfully, your body showed an above average response time as you dropped to your knees so fast they met the stone floor in a way that had a sharp pain shoot up your legs. The thrumming of your racing heart was louder than any thought you might have had. Bowing down so far you were covering before the god, you pressed your forehead into the marble and raised your hands in a pleading fashion. "Forgive me, great lord Apollo, for dishonoring you by attempting so many times to learn your holy instrument when you had clearly not blessed my endeavors. Please, punish me to any extent you see fit but have mercy on-"

The god interrupted your terrified rambling by placing a hand on your shoulder, rendering you speechless just as effectively as a slap in the face might have. When he spoke your name, you looked up at him tentatively. Looking at Apollo was like looking at the sun itself, and if the man had been handsome before, in this form, he was the most beautiful thing you had ever laid your mortal eyes on.

"Loving the lyre as much as you do is not dishonoring me," the god said and his voice was so smooth and beautiful it wiped your head clean of thought. "Quite the opposite, actually. Your dedication to my instrument is admirable. Hence the reason my offer is still awaiting an answer."

"But-" you squeaked in response and tried suppress the trembling of your nervously wringing hands. "Why would you do that? Why would you teach me?"

You wouldn't get an answer to that question for some time, but it didn't need a lot of convincing for you to agree to let him be your tutor. To avoid your parent's suspicion, you let him in a grove just outside the city gates where he first taught you the basics, gave you theoretical lessons on the functioning of the lyre and showed you the best way to handle it, which you continuously had problems with. But Apollo was incredibly patient, and your nervousness around him subsided quickly.

Over the course of the next weeks and months, he would show you how to approach the instrument, give you practice and help you improve your lyre play. And after some time, you found yourself looking forward to the lessons not only because of the lessons themselves but for the pleasure of his company. You couldn't deny that Apollo's charming wits had done a number on you, and the way you were ogling his hands as he so masterfully demonstrated it in his instrument would have been shameless if it hadn't been for educational purposes (along others).

There were moments when you yourself wondered if the god may reciprocate your romantic interest, as silly as that thought was. The way he lightened up seeing you approach him, the way he was always waiting for you and the way you caught him glancing at you instead of your lyre from time to time. But you stocked it up to your silly mortal delusions. Why would a god be interested in you?

At the same time, said god found himself falling head over heels for you. He had been smitten with you before meeting you, but being around you, seeing you come out of your shell and starting to feel comfortable around him, showing him your true colors- he was so done for. If he hadn't been his fathers favorite son (he was still working on that favorite child title but Athena was hard to beat) he would have earned a few stern talks by now for slaking off, as he procrastinated or full on ignored divine duties in favor of your lessons.

Your humor and laugh pulled him in, your dedication was unmatched and seeing your eyes light up when you succeeded in something did something to him. A blooming feeling in his chest that consumed his thoughts, sending him into the sweetest daydreams. And it was only fueled every time he got to be with you, be around you, enjoy your company. He tended to get caught up in it, and sometimes you caught him staring at you and he always wondered wether you knew what you did to him with those little glances and witty comments of yours.

Nothing excited you more than the progress you were starting to make. The strings were no longer squeaky and you had even managed to play some easy melodies that got more complex as time went on. You were astonished by your own progress, which was of course thanks to the fact that you had the best teacher anyone could dream of, but also hours upon hours of sleepless nights, practicing diligently.

When Apollo found out about those, he was surprisingly worried and you couldn't help but be giddy that he cared. But you listened and got your sleep that he insisted on, if only fleckig praise, seeing the showdowns under your eyes disappear. Also, you were convinced his presence in your life was some sort of good-luck-charm, because there had been no fourth year old suitors asking for your hand in marriage ever since you were a few weeks into your lessons.

But your strumming technique still wasn't as smooth as could be. "You need to feel the music flow through your fingers," Apollo told you, making it look criminally easy as he demonstrated it. "They need to move with the music, as smooth as the music. You are tugging, but you need to caress." His eyes met yours in a silent request to try it for yourselves.

Touched stuck in between your teeth, you tried to imagine the music flowing into your body down to your fingertips, trying to move them naturally along the strings. But still, it didn't sound quite right. To your surprise, Apollo smiled empathetically and leaned over, covering your small hand with his larger one and mimicking the correct movement.

You tried to concentrate, you really did, but it was hard when Apollo sat closer to you on the grass, settling behind you so that his arms almost caged you in, his breath fanning over your neck. Luckily, he couldn't see the redness on your cheeks like this. "Relax," he told you and a light chuckle left his lips. "Are you still scared of me, sunshine?"

Sunshine. It was his nickname for you, and the way he said it made it sound like a melody in itself. "I'm not," you answered truthfully, letting him gently guide your movements. "But I don't think you realize what divine proximity does to a mortal."

Because of your proximity, you felt his head shift as his gaze wandered to you. You didn't return it, because you knew you would get lost in it if you did. "What does it do to you?" the god asked in a hushed voice, and the teasing undertone had your lips twitch. "It feels weird when you touch me," you explained, your fingers taking a little more initiative in running over the strings. "Like you're too real and not at all at the same time. I can't really explain it, but it's like touching raw might. That would feel weird, right?"

"You always manage to surprise me, sunshine," Apollo said and you could hear the smile in his voice. "It looks like there is a poet in you." He let go of you, letting your fingers act on their own and it sounded much better than before. Nothing the difference, you smiled triumphantly. "Don't flatter me, I might get too much of the hubris, m'lord."

"It isn't hubris when it's true," his voice spoke softly as you started to play the tune from before. It sounded much more graceful now and Apollo's adoring gaze, hidden from your view, traced the movement of your fingers, up your arms to your face. When your fingers had become more sure, you turned to him, no doubt with a smart reply on the tip of your tongue, but you fell silent when you found yourself mere breaths away from the god, who seemed just as taken aback by the sudden proximity.

But he didn't pull away, and neither did you. Fingers slowing down, you couldn't rip your eyes away from the mesmerizing gold of his eyes. Apollo smelled of honey and flowers, a smell so sweet it made sense paired with his smile. Though he wasn't smiling now. His lips were parted lightly as he stared at you just as intensely as you watched him.

Slowly but steadily, the tension in the tight little space between you two got too much for you. Your breathing picked up and you had to avert your eyes when his fell down onto your heaving chest and snapped back up at yours with a new hunger. Coughing under your breath, you moved away from him by a few inches, trying to hide how flustered you were. But if you had turned around, you would have caught a rare sight: the god of music looking at you with heart eyes, his cheeks painted by a pink hue.

Little moments like these only pulled you in deeper. Embarrassingly, you had begun dreaming of Apollo, about his smile, his lyre-play, his voice. It was the most prevalent in your dreams, as if he was singing you a lullaby every night. You found yourself thinking about him every time of the day, getting caught up in vivid daydreams as you completed your chores, feeling as though he was with you every time you practiced.

Though that may have not been an entirely unfounded feeling. Sometimes, Apollo would say things during your lessons that had you suspect he was listening in on you practicing- at least sometimes. Why he occupied himself with something he could have so often, you didn't know. But you did feel honored.

Progress was coming, you were getting better, though there were also setbacks. As before, you didn't have natural talent, and sometimes you struggled to a point of frustration that had your movements grow sloppy and disjointed, gnawing on your bottom lip in dissatisfaction. "Hey." You looked up at Apollo who had picked up on your growing annoyance and sighed. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," he answered, gently prying the instrument from your hands. "I think you could use a break." And before you could protest, he added: "How about I play something just for you for a change?" Now, that shut you up real quick and you let him put your lyre aside. Apollo would demonstrate bits of songs or movements for you, but never whole songs, and the prospect of witnessing the god perform one made you giddy with excitement.

Under your curious gaze, Apollo propped up his instrument with great flair and began playing. The melody was unlike anything you had heard before. It was so interacted and beautiful, so masterfully crafted it brought tears to your eyes as you sat there and listened. But none of it could have prepared you for when Apollo started to sing. You had to close your eyes, because looking at him and listening to his singing at the same time was simply too much. You were pretty sure you could get addicted to the sound of his singing.

Apollo sing of pine trees, of secret meetings, of soft lyre tunes, the sounds of two instruments mingling. It was that last part that had you perk up. Could it be? Your grove who dusted of pine trees, you met him in secret- was he singing a sound about your lessons? Or were you just being delusional, thinking the god apollo would write a song- about you. Because now, he was singing about a girl under the pine trees with a lyre. Your heart was thrumming loudly in your chest, and it was the only sound resonating in your ears when Apollo ended the song.

You had to work up the strength to open your eyes, and when you did, he was watching you already, his eyes boring themselves into yours. With the melody still filling your head, you reached for your lyre, but Apollo didn't even register your movement. All he could see was you, as he desperately tried to gauge your reaction. Did you like the song? You had to, he had poured his heart into it. But he would write more. His heart was overflowing with memories as he watched the concentrated furrow of your brows.

And then, you started playing the song.

At once, Apollo snapped out of his trance as his insides roared with another form of adoration. You were playing his song, your song, the song he had written just for you. As if you were answering him. Sure, it sounded a little hesitant, but he was surprised about how masterful it sounded. You had become an expert player, in spite of your setbacks. And it looked like you had the same realization, because you looked up from the instrument and up at him with a glowing expression that said 'I did it!' and he could only nod in astonishment.

As the date of the Pythian games grew closer, so did Apollo and you, developing your inside jokes and becoming more comfortable with physical affection. It was safe to say you were friends with a god, which was something you could have never dreamed about. But as the date approached, your nerves were a little- tense, so to speak.

You cursed when suddenly, something snapped and a string of the lyre broke off, flinging your hand and marking it with a long red line. "Ow," you exclaimed and immediately, Apollo was all over you, taking your hurting hand into his. "Can you fix the string?" you asked nervously and earned a raised eyebrow from Apollo. "What do you think? And your hand is the priority here, sunshine."

"Right," you nodded, nibbling on your lip. "I need it to perform well." A long sigh left the gods lips as they ghosted over the palm of your hand. You jumped when they pressed down on your sore skin and an unfamiliar sensation, a warm prickling, emerged from the spot where he had bestowed a kiss upon you, rushing to your tummy where it exploded into a million golden butterflies, rummaging against your ribcage.

"Sunshine?"

"Huh?" you said, startled, and he showed you your hand, completely untouched, not a trace of the injury. You turned it around as if you were to find the mark, but it had vanished completely. "Thank you!" you smiled, picking up the lyre and holding it to his chest. "Now the string!"

Apollo sighed once more. Youn knew he could have easily fixed it, but for some reason, he opted to do it manually, pulling a spare string out of his tunic and getting to work removing the broken one. "Why are you doing it like this?" you found yourself asking, watching his graceful fingers as the expertly worked on the lyre.

"If you don't struggle from time to time, what's the point to life?" Apollo asked in a light-hearted tone, though you detected something heavier in the statement.

You hummed, thinking about that. "If you don't struggle, you can't succeed." Apollo looked up at you and nodded before returning his attention to the lyre. "That makes sense," you lamented, watching him intently. "But you don't seem like that kind of god to me." When he raised his brows, you attempted to explain yourself. "Of course, I don't know many gods, I only know you, but you don't seem very... human. You seem very content with being larger than life and divine."

The god hummed, inserting the new string. "You made me realize some things, sunshine. You have struggled so much, and have still persistent. Believe it or not, I think you're much stronger than I am. If I were you, I'd have given up a long time ago, because of what you said precisely: I don't need to struggle as much as you do."

Laughing to yourself, you shook your head in disbelief. "You're right, I don't believe you, but still, thank you. And I didn't know being untouchable could get to you like that."

"Oh, I'm far from untouchable," Apollo reassured you as he handed you back your lyre. "I have been touched and I am touched right now. Do you know why I take so many mortal lovers?" You shook your head and Apollo flopped down on his back, resting his head on his arm as he looked up at the sky above. "I love being touched by you mortals. It's an unimaginable thrill. To be a part of a life that is so fragile and so hardened at the same time is a privilege. Humanity is not a weakness but an unimaginable strength."

When he closed his eyes, yours were free to roam his resting body undetected, running over his golden marks and getting caught up on his face, as always. "I always thought... the fact that I had to struggle so much was because I was weak."

Apollo opened his eyes to look at you, and they were so heavy with emotion you had to avert yours. "Weak? Sunshine, you are so strong."

☀️

Delphi was an unsurprisingly beautiful city. As your travel companion, Apollo had disguised himself as a mortal once more and escorted you safely there, even arranging for your stay. During the religious ceremonies in his honor, he had been giggling in your ear in a way that had some priests give him pointed stares for interrupting the process and you jabbing your elbow into his side, making him whine at you being mean.

Then came the actual contest. The other performances flew by you as you had a hard time concealing your nerves, but Apollos calling presence helped. His hand squeezed you every once in a while, and when it was nearly your turn, he guided you to a spot next to the arena from which the performers entered the stage. His bigger hands engulfed your shaking once as he pressed them to his chest. You were surprised to find his heart drumming in a high frequency and widened your eyes at him.

"I can't help it, I'm nervous, too," he smiled cheekily and you bit down on your bottom lip. "Well, it's not you who is about to perform in front of hundreds of people. What if I mess up? What if I'm bad? I don't even have any real talent."

"Do you remember our first conversation?" the god interrupted your ramblings, pulling you closer to him. When you shook your head, he smiled softly and stuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You said that you mortals get your talents from us gods. Well, it's true. I didn't bless you with talent. Do you know why?" You shook your head and he continued.

"Because you tried anyway, and you would not give up. Because of the devotion and love you hold for the lyre. You fought and you struggled, and you made great progress, without any advantages. I never answered your prayers I didn't want you to lose that. You are greater than any of the other artists assembled because of it. I have rarely seen such determination. And I knew you could do it." The god took a long breath. "And it was what made me start to fall in love with you."

Your head snapped up once you processed the words. "You... what?" Apollo delayed the answer by bringing your hands up to his lips and kissing each of your fingertips, making a warmth flood through them that ended their shaking. "I love you. So much. If that song wasn't enough to tell you."

"So it was for me?" you asked, mesmerized, deaf to the announcement of your name. Apollo smiled down at you, leaning in to kiss your temple, your cheek, and finally, his lips met yours. As if they had been waiting for it all along, your arms flew up to wrap themselves around his neck, pulling him closer as his hands dug into your sides.

Suddenly, you felt something on the top of your head and broke from the kiss to feel it. It was a laurel wreath. It was Apollo's laurel wreath. Your eyes were as wide as plates, you were sure, and Apollo chuckled, pointing to it with his chin. "You have my favor, sunshine. Now go and show them what real prowess is."

When you stepped onto the stage, you were overwhelmed by the cheers of the audience. As it was tradition, you recounted a prayer to Apollo, who you spotted in the front row, holding onto your lyre like your lifeline. Then, the crowd fell silence and it was your turn to play.

☀️

In retrospect, you could have anticipated it, as you knew things about the lyre no other mortal could know, thanks to Apollo. But it still blew you away when the pronounced winner of the Pythian games was you. As if in a trance, your ears drowned out the cheers of the audience as you kneeled before the priest who placed the winner's laurel wreath- you had taken off Apollo's, of course - on your head, congratulating you on your outstanding performance.

But even as you barely registered the noise of the crowd, it did catch your attention when it suddenly subsided at once, giving away to a deadly silence. The priest gasped, he was the first one to fall to his knees. Because at the top of the arena's stairs stood Apollo in all his glory, emitting pure power and might. When he met your eye, he winked at you.

As Apollo walked down the stairs, all of the spectators covered, falling to their knees and throwing themselves at his feet. But Apollo didn't take notice of them, his eyes were locked on you as he approached you. A tugging at your skirt made you look down, where the priest made a motion, urging you to kneel as well. When Apollo spoke, his voice filled the whole arena.

"This woman will kneel for no one." His smile was so radiant it took your breath away. So magnetizing you almost missed the hand he was stretching out, waiting for you to take it. Apollo called your name. "I shall invite you to put your skill to good use. Take my hand and play with me and the muses, sunshine."

Gasped echoed all around you, but all you could see and hear and feel was him. Without hesitation, you placed your hand in his and it closed firmly around your hand. Urging you closer softly, the god put his free arm around your waist. "Ready to go home, sunshine?"

Your nod was all he needed before he raised you up into the clouds, leaving all bystanders speechless- but not for long. Soon, your story would spread through all of Greece, your name immortalized next to the muses, and held in prayers because it was realized how much more benevolent Apollo was to those who praised your name alongside his.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

[kissmenkillmen]

⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， wordcount. 3,531 . . . ⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， genre. angst, hurt/comfort. ⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， summary. yuta JJK 0 but he went to Geto's side. ⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐔𝐒 note. I'm fucking broken. I don't want to write anymore. ⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， f!reader x yuta okkotsu. conflicted emotions, loyalty vs. love, heartbreak, mutual yearning, bittersweet longing, unresolved feelings.

Watching the person you loved most become someone unrecognizable was agonizing. It was a pain you couldn't put into words-sharp, relentless, and unbearable.

You had to watch him cross the line. Watch him turn his back on your side to join theirs. Watch him descend into the role of a killer, his hands stained with blood. Watch him fall under the enemy's manipulation.

Months passed in torment-missing him, loving him, yearning for him. Always from a distance. Always in vain.

"Do it. Kill me." Your voice trembled as you lay on the cold, unforgiving ground. Blood seeped into the dirt around you, your body battered and broken. But the ache in your chest was far worse. His katana hovered dangerously close to your throat.

The boy you had once known, the one who had held you so tenderly, was gone. In his place stood a man who had chosen to fight alongside Geto, declaring war on the Jujutsu Sorcerers.

And now, here he was, poised to take your life.

This this moment was the most excruciating of all.

Yuta felt his hands trembling. It all felt so surreal, having to kill his former ally—the one he had spent so much time protecting and cherishing. One of his best friends. He couldn't believe the same person would become this.

Hearing your voice, he froze, feeling his heart break again as he looked down at you. He felt his resolve waver, his hand shaking. You were the love of his life, after all. He wanted to go with you. He wanted to return to those days of normalcy, where he could hold you without a care in the world. But he couldn't.

Yuta stared down at you. He still remembered how it felt to hold your hands in his. Your hands were so soft and small, while his were rough and large. But they fit perfectly together.

When your hands intertwined, he felt like he was where he was supposed to be. Safe, secure, happy. It felt so right. So warm, so comforting. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he remembered it all—how your hands felt, how your body felt, how your lips felt against his.

"I'm sorry. I-I have to do this."

Yuta stared down at you, his mind screaming at him. This is wrong. Go to her. Don't kill her. Don't continue hurting her. Let go of your katana and hold her in your arms again. Let go of the damn katana.

His heart ached at the thought of having to hurt you. He clenched his teeth, trying to will away the pain that spread in his chest.

His eyes were glossy as he stared down at the girl he used to hold so close.

He remembered the nights you spent together—laughing, whispering, loving. He remembered your smile, your laugh, the way you would cling to him. He could still hear your soft voice in his head, your words still vivid in memory. He could still feel your small hands holding his. Your head leaning against his shoulder, your arms wrapped around his waist. His hands running through your soft hair.

He tried to imagine the future the two of you could have had if he ran away with you, away from all of this.

You would be together, in a house somewhere. Just him and you. Every night would be spent holding you close, every morning he would wake to your sleeping figure beside him. Every moment would be spent loving you. He would get to see your smile every day. You would be his.

But it was only a daydream. A wish in the back of his mind. He could never have that future again, no matter how badly he wanted it. You would never look his way again, and you could never be together.

He would never hold you again, never kiss you again, never feel the touch of your hands against his skin. You would never look up at him again with adoring eyes, you would never again hold his hand and kiss his cheek.

Never. Again.

He tried to keep his expression stoic, but it was difficult. He felt his eyes begin to sting. His chest felt like it was being ripped apart. He wasn't sure if it was his own resolve wavering or if it was his heart cracking from the inside out.

A tear welled up in his eye, but he did nothing to wipe it away. He remained silent, frozen. His mind was all over the place, confused and conflicted. He wanted to run to you, hold you, beg for your forgiveness, and run away to be with you. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't run again.

He stared down at you longer, feeling his heart ache more the longer he looked at you. You looked worse off than when you first met. You were wounded, your clothes stained with blood. It killed him even more.

It pained him to see you like this. How badly he wanted to go to you, to help you, to pull you into his arms and hold onto you. For you to be safe, away from all the chaos around him.

He felt a tear roll down his cheek, trying to fight back the lump in his throat. His knuckles were white from how tightly he was gripping his katana. His eyes were glossy, his mind filled with memories.

Every second he didn't kill you was a second the two of you could be together. But he couldn't. He had to stay focused. He had to stay loyal to his mentor. He could not waver.

He had to remind himself that his loyalty to Geto was his priority now. His mentor always took care of him. Now he had to return the favor. His mind was trying to convince him, to convince his heart that Geto would take care of him now. Geto took him in when he had no one. Now it was his turn to help him.

No matter how much it hurt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice trembling. He wanted to reach out to you. To gently touch you. To hold your face in his hands one last time. To run his fingers through your hair. He wanted to, so badly. His chest felt unbearably tight, the ache in his chest growing more painful the longer he held back.

His heart was telling him to go to you, to apologize, to hold you in his arms again and tell you everything would be alright. But he couldn't. He had other responsibilities to tend to first. He couldn't be selfish. He had to follow the path Geto set for him.

His resolve weakened even more, the sight of you so vulnerable in front of him. You were the only person in his life that he truly cherished, and he had to sacrifice all of it.

He couldn't let his selfish desires consume him. He needed to stay focused. He had to ignore his emotions.

He didn't want to continue hurting you. It was the last thing he wanted. But he had no choice. He had been given this assignment. He had to follow the path laid out before him. His mentor knew what was best.

His trembling hands tightened even more against his katana. He could feel his body wavering, his legs shaking. He wanted to fall to his knees as he looked down at you. His mind screamed for him to go to you, to apologize, to hold you. Even if for the last time.

But he had to ignore it. His mentor knew best.

He could feel his heart breaking, knowing this would be the last time the two of you would see each other like this. This would be the last memory you had of him. You wouldn't see him again.

He wouldn't get to see you again. He wouldn't hold you again. He wouldn't kiss you again. He wouldn't hear your voice call his name.

This needed to be done. Even if it broke his heart. Even if he knew he would never recover from it. It had to be done. He couldn't waver. Not now.

His hands were trembling, the katana almost threatening to slip from his grasp. He tried to calm his breathing, trying to regain control of his body.

His head was screaming at him to stop. His heart was telling him to hug you. But his mind was convincing him that this had to be done. Geto always knew what was best.

He couldn't look away from you. He could see the pain in your eyes, the sadness. It hurt him even more. You were always so sweet. You always seemed so happy. You didn't deserve to feel like this. You never had anything but light in your soul.

And there you were, lying at his feet, hurting because of him. It made his heart ache so badly with guilt.

He clenched his teeth, trying to fight back the pain he felt in his chest. His heart was aching. This felt so wrong. This wasn't what he wanted. He just wanted to hold you in his arms one last time. He wanted you safe in his arms. He wanted it to be okay. For you to be okay.

His heart was screaming in pain again. Looking down at you, his lover, now hurt and bloodied. He was the one responsible. His mind kept reminding him what was at stake. He couldn't stop the tears that were building up in his eyes.

"S... Sorry," he whispered. But his words were barely audible.

He couldn't even bring himself to say it loud enough for you to hear. You wouldn't be hearing anything from him again. He wouldn't speak to you again. He wasn't even worthy of calling you by the pet name he used for you ever again. He didn't deserve to say it again.

"I... I'm sorry," Yuta whispered, loud enough for you to hear him this time.

He couldn't stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks. He felt his chest ache. He felt his heart break. How badly he wanted to drop his katana and pull you into his arms. For you to hold onto his shirt tightly again. To feel your soft hands against him.

He wanted to apologize to you for all the hurt he caused. Even though he knew an apology wasn't enough.

He let out a shaky breath, feeling the tears fall down his cheeks. His chest felt heavy, his heart in so much pain. He couldn't even look at you anymore, so he clenched his eyes shut.

His grip on the katana faltered for a moment as his mind battled with itself. He could hear the faint sound of your breathing, shallow and strained. Each breath you took felt like a dagger to his chest.

What was he doing? How could he be the one to bring you to this state?

He opened his eyes reluctantly, his vision blurred by the tears he couldn't stop. You were still there, broken, bleeding, and looking up at him with an expression that tore him apart. You weren't pleading, you weren't even angry. You just looked... resigned.

That was the worst part. The acceptance in your eyes, as if you had already forgiven him for what he was about to do.

"Why aren't you fighting back?" His voice cracked, trembling as he tried to sound stronger than he felt. He wanted to hear you yell at him, curse him, anything but this painful silence.

But you didn't answer. Maybe you were too weak, too hurt. Or maybe you knew the truth—that nothing you could say would change his course.

Yuta's legs finally gave out beneath him, and he sank to his knees beside you, his katana clattering to the ground. He couldn't do it. He couldn't go through with this.

"I'm so sorry," he choked out, his hands trembling as he reached toward you but stopped short of touching your face. He didn't deserve to hold you, to comfort you. Not after what he'd done.

His tears fell freely now, dripping onto the blood-stained ground between you. He hated himself. He hated what he'd become. He hated the person he'd turned into under Geto's guidance.

"You... you deserved so much better than this," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

For a moment, he thought about taking you away from all of this. Throwing everything aside—Geto, the sorcerers, the war—and disappearing with you. Living a life where none of this pain existed, where the only thing that mattered was the love you shared.

But even that dream felt selfish. He knew there was no escaping the choices he'd already made.

"I don't know how to fix this," he admitted, his voice breaking. "I don't even know if I can."

Yuta clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought against the sobs threatening to overtake him. He hated how weak he felt in this moment, how powerless he was to undo the damage he'd caused.

All he could do was sit there, helpless, as the weight of his decisions crushed him.

You stirred slightly, your voice faint but steady. "Yuta..."

He froze, his eyes locking onto yours as he waited for you to continue.

"Just... end it," you whispered, your words cutting through him like a blade.

His chest tightened, and his breath hitched. How could you say that? How could you ask him to do the very thing he feared most?

"No," he said firmly, shaking his head as if the motion alone could banish the thought. "I won't. I can't."

You managed a faint, broken smile, the kind that held no happiness, only pain. "Then what will you do?"

Yuta had no answer. For the first time in his life, he truly had no idea what to do. The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn't hurt you any more than he already had.

So, he did the only thing he could. He lowered his head, pressing his forehead to the ground beside you, his tears soaking into the dirt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice barely audible. "I'm so, so sorry."

Your breathing was ragged, each shallow inhale punctuating the silence between you. Yuta didn't dare move, his forehead still pressed to the ground, his body trembling with the weight of everything he'd done.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to protect you, to love you, to shield you from pain—not become the source of it.

"Yuta..." Your voice came again, faint and unsteady, but he heard it clearly, as if it were the only sound in the world. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his head to look at you.

Tears streaked his face, his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. All he could do was stare, memorizing every detail of your face, even in its pain and exhaustion.

You gave him a look he couldn't decipher—soft, but heavy with meaning. "It's okay," you said weakly, your voice almost drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears.

He shook his head violently. "No, it's not," he whispered, his voice hoarse and raw. "Nothing about this is okay. I... I can't..."

You blinked slowly, your eyelids heavy, but your gaze never wavered from him. "You have to make a choice," you murmured. "This can't go on forever, Yuta. It hurts too much..."

The lump in his throat grew unbearable. He wanted to scream, to tear apart the universe that had brought him to this moment. The world demanded a choice from him, but every option was soaked in agony.

"I can’t lose you," he said, his voice cracking. "Not like this."

A bitter smile crossed your lips. "You already have."

The words shattered him. His hands dug into the dirt beneath him, trembling as the full weight of reality bore down on him. You were right. He'd lost you the moment he picked up his katana, the moment he chose his path.

But still, he couldn't bring himself to finish what he'd started. His katana lay forgotten on the ground, inches from his grasp, and yet it felt like an unbreachable chasm separated him from it.

"I don’t care what happens to me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I walk away from all of this, if Geto finds out—none of it matters if you’re alive. If you’re safe."

You stared at him, the pain in your eyes momentarily replaced by something softer. Hope? Pity? He couldn't tell.

"Yuta..."

He leaned forward, finally closing the distance between you. His hands hovered over you, unsure if he had the right to touch you after everything he'd done. But in that moment, he didn't care. Gently, he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing against your cold, clammy skin.

"You’re all I have left," he said, his tears falling freely now. "I don’t care what it takes. I’ll protect you, even if it costs me everything. Even if..."

He trailed off, his words catching in his throat. Even if you never forgave him. Even if he couldn’t undo the damage. Even if he had to fight the entire world to keep you safe.

You didn’t respond. Maybe you didn’t have the strength. Maybe you didn’t believe him. But you didn’t pull away from his touch, and for Yuta, that was enough.

"I’ll make this right," he promised, his voice steady despite the tears. "I swear to you, I’ll make this right."

The storm in his heart hadn’t subsided—it raged on, wild and relentless. But for the first time, Yuta felt a glimmer of clarity. A purpose. A path forward.

One that didn’t involve losing you. One where he fought not for Geto, not for himself, but for you.

Whatever it took, whatever the cost, Yuta would find a way. Even if it meant defying everything he once believed in. Even if it meant becoming someone he no longer recognized.

Because the thought of a world without you in it was a fate worse than death.

Yuta's breathing grew shallow as he held you, his trembling hands supporting your weight. Your skin felt colder than it should, a grim reminder of how close he had brought you to the edge. His resolve, so deeply rooted in loyalty and obligation, was now splintered into fragments, replaced by a desperate, singular need—to save you.

He looked at you, his heart breaking at the sight of your pale face and the weakness in your gaze. You weren’t supposed to look like this. You were supposed to shine, to smile. The light he adored so much, the warmth you carried with you, was slipping through his fingers like sand.

"I’ll get you help," he said, his voice breaking, though he didn’t know how much of that promise was for you and how much was to convince himself. "I swear—I’ll fix this. I’ll find a way."

You blinked slowly, each motion labored, but your eyes remained locked on his. “Yuta...” you whispered, voice faint and fragile. It wasn’t the anger he expected. It wasn’t even disappointment. It was sorrow, deeper than anything he could understand.

“You’re hurting yourself,” you murmured, your words a soft tremor against the silence. “You’re breaking yourself for something... you don’t even believe in anymore.”

His breath hitched, your words hitting him like a blade to the chest. You were right. You always had been. But what could he say? How could he admit that he'd betrayed everything he once believed in, that he had been too weak to stand against Geto’s will?

He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “That doesn’t matter now,” he said, though his voice shook with uncertainty. “You’re all that matters. I’ll leave it all behind—I’ll leave him behind. I’ll find a way to make this right.”

Your lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was bittersweet. “It’s not that easy,” you said, your voice barely audible. “They’ll come for you, Yuta. They’ll come for both of us.”

“Let them.” The words came out fierce, sharper than he intended. His eyes burned with unshed tears, but there was steel in his voice now, a determination that hadn’t been there before. “I don’t care what happens to me. As long as you’re alive, as long as you’re safe—I’ll fight them all. I’ll fight anyone who tries to hurt you again.”

Your expression softened, but the pain in your eyes remained. You raised a trembling hand to his face, your fingers brushing against his damp cheek. “You can’t save me,” you whispered, a tear slipping down your own cheek. “Not if you’re broken too.”

Yuta froze, the weight of your words crashing down on him. You were right, but the truth was unbearable. He didn’t know how to save you without losing himself in the process. He didn’t even know if he could save you at all.

But as he held you in his arms, as he felt the fragile rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest, he made a vow.

Even if it cost him everything, even if it meant facing Geto’s wrath, even if it meant tearing himself apart—he would fight.

For you.

For the future you deserved.

For the chance to see you smile again, even if it was the last thing he ever saw.

“I’m not losing you,” he said, his voice steady now, his grip on you tightening as if to anchor himself. “Not today. Not ever.”

And as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Yuta stood, his katana forgotten on the ground, his heart set on the impossible.

Because for you, the impossible was worth it.

© kissmenkillmen 2024. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarize any of my works.

[venusbyline]

Overwhelmed ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 31, oct.

(late post)

— pairing: Spencer Reid x girlfriend!reader

— type: smut, dark, Kinktober (Criminal Minds Edition)

— kink: knife play + CNC

— summary: Spencer's mockery caused a sudden agony in your brain, your insides churning as your body writhed against the knife again. All of that seemed too much. Maybe it was because of the exhaustion of lying motionless in the chair, maybe it was because the ropes were too tight, maybe it was also because Spencer was starting to rub the knife too hard.

— tags/warnings: kinktober 31st day, female!reader, boyfriend!Reid, post-prison!Reid, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, knife play, consensual non-consent (CNC), kidnapping roleplay, rape roleplay, safeword use, dry humping, dry sex, aftercare, rope bondage, dumbification, curse words, crying, subspace, bittersweet ending, rough sex, spit, choking, asphyxiation, sadism, slight dark content, mild angst, mild fluff, soft!Reid, dom!Reid, sub!reader. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @thatredlipped-classic @purplehaze206 @ehedrick012110 @hotchsmutrecs @slutcakes00 @emma-e-a @helo1281917

"Oh, what a naughty girl you are. Did you really think you could get away from me so easily?"

Spencer's words echoed through the room and you whimpered immediately, your panties stuffed into your mouth as a way to muffle the sounds you had been making since Spencer caught you over hours ago, your body cold from the loneliness inside the empty room, the only other thing there being the chair beneath you, your hands and legs tied by a rope whose material was good enough to keep you still even after you tried to squirm when he approached.

"Don't be so hard on me, princess." Spencer teased, chuckling as he walked over until he knelt in front of you, his large hand caressing your cheek. "It could have been worse, couldn't it? When I kidnapped you, I could have been more... Rough." His voice sounded so sweet it turned your stomach and you closed your eyes. Oh, you perfectly remembered about the kidnapping. You were leaving work and all you least expected while you were walking in the parking lot was that you would feel someone grabbing and immobilizing you from behind, the alcohol rag in your nostrils making it difficult for you to escape, until you finally passed out.

Spencer played with your cheek, caressing the skin like you were a doll. A living doll. God, you could even picture him turning you into something like that if you could not escape. "You're so beautiful. Your boyfriend must be such a lucky guy to have you all to himself... A little doll for him to have fun with every night." You opened your eyes when you heard the sentence, your pupils dilating after assimilating what he meant, and it took you a few seconds to react, returning to scream against the fabric of your panties. Spencer ignored the muffled sounds and let his hand trail down your neck, his fingertips brushing your jugular. "I'd like to have you as my doll. What do you think about that, princess?"

You stared at him with the best look of disgust you could muster, hearing Spencer's soft chuckle before he scoffed. "Poor little thing, I almost forget that you can't talk like that." He continued stroking your neck, but his free hand went to your mouth, removing your panties and smirking at the sight of you choking on the sudden intake of air through your mouth, your lungs burning more with each cough. "Better now?" Despite the mean voice, you noticed how Spencer was checking you out, waiting for a verbal response.

After continuing to cough for a while, you managed to mumble. "F-fuck you. You fucking and sick psycho."

Spencer's facial expression was almost comical, his brown eyes wide and his lips parted, trying to think of something clever to say. However, even the genius man with his extremely high and above average IQ was not prepared for your very angry tone and your swearing.

You take advantage of his momentary distraction to spit in his face, and that was what makes him snap out of his trance. Spencer growled, wiping the trail of saliva on his face with the cotton fabric of your panties and looked at you with fire in his eyes. The hand that was playing with your neck closed around it, your eyes widening as you feel the air being denied to you for the second time.

"Fucking slut. I was really trying to be nice to you." Spencer growled again. "Is this how you treat your little boyfriend? Spitting in his face like a wild badass? I don't think so..." Spencer's jaw clenched and he released your throat then. He considered shoving the panties in your face again, until he found a better use for the fabric, stuffing it inside his pocket.

You barely had time to register what was happening. One moment, you were coughing, your throat sore from the asphyxiation, and the next, you were a mess of moans and low screams, rubbing yourself against something hard that you were not sure what it was until you looked down.

Your pussy was simply rubbing against the tip of the handle of Spencer's knife, something he was keeping in his pants pocket along with the leather glove he nimbly put on when you were still struggling to breathe. He took advantage of the strength of the glove's fabric to hold the blade and stimulate your swollen clit with the wooden handle, your legs tied to the chair making your thighs press together, also making the friction more intense for you and more fun for Spencer to watch. "Poor little thing..."

Spencer's mockery caused a sudden agony in your brain, your insides churning as your body writhed against the knife again. All of that seemed too much. Maybe it was because of the exhaustion of lying motionless in the chair, maybe it was because the ropes were too tight, maybe it was also because Spencer was starting to rub the knife too hard.

You could not tell what was happening to your body and inside your mind, but you suddenly snapped. "STOP IT, PLEASE!" You cried out, trying in vain to stop your clit from continuing to pulse against the knife held by Spencer.

Spencer froze when he heard your voice, so fragile and painful. These words normally would not be enough to completely stop the roleplay. They were words always said during the roles. However, Spencer was not an idiot. He knew his girlfriend like the back of his own hand and knew something was wrong. Your scream sounded much more broken than most other times.

"Color?" Spencer asked, moving the knife away from your field of vision, still keeping it in his hand. "Baby, what's the color right now?"

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath when your clit stopped being so abused, tears flowing as you tried to think about your color system. Did you just want a brief break so the two of you could continue after you breathing for a few more moments? Did you want to stop the roles completely? Could you hold on a little longer? Were you too exhausted? Was Spencer mad at you? "Red. Or yellow. Or red... I don't know, Spencie. Please... I just wanna stop it." Your sob broke Spencer's heart, your tears being like salt in the wound. He did not take long to throw the knife on the floor, whispering an apology when you were startled by the sound of the blade hitting the floor.

"It's okay, baby. You're fine. We're fine. It's over. Now it's just me. Your Spencie, your boyfriend." Spencer muttered as he undid the tight knots he had made to immobilize your arms and legs. "You were so good to me, baby. You're always good. I'm so proud of you..."

You shook your head, tears still streaming down your face. You did not feel good enough for Spencer at that moment. Even though it was just your brain playing tricks on you, you could not help but feel useless. Why could not you hold on just a little longer? Both of you always played like that when Spencer was feeling bad about the prison memories. It was a way to help him fight the traumas he had acquired and his slightly dark side that had awakened. You did not know if it was actually a healthy sexual thing to do, but Spencer refused to talk about that part with the therapist.

Anyway, Spencer had your consent. It was something the two of you had already talked about and debated about his boundaries and yours. Sometimes the roleplay had a brief script to be followed and everything varied depending on the needs of both of you. In that week, you and Spencer had decided to go again for something more like an obsessive stalker and a taken girl. Spencer really had a thing for that kink, and you mentally wondered if he pictured your fake boyfriend in the roleplay as the past version of himself.

It was not anything you had not already done. It was always the controversial "consensual non-consent" roleplay. Spencer always gave his all to act perfectly, warning you in advance the day before that something like this would happen that night. You could blame it on tiredness from work, because you had actually forgotten about it when Spencer "kidnapped" you, even though you had followed his commands throughout the afternoon about parking your car away from the security cameras so no one would think he was really kidnapping you. He definitely did not need more time in prison for another mistake by the authorities.

"I-I'm so sorry..." You managed to mumble a few minutes later, the only words in your mind since Spencer untied you, picked you up and ran a warm bath for you.

"There's nothing to worry about, baby." Spencer said, running the sponge gently over your skin, taking extra care with your wrists, which were quite red and bruised due the ropes. "I overdid it this time. I left you waiting too long alone in the room and—"

You interrupted him when you realized he was blaming himself. "Stop it, Spencer. You did everything like we always do. I could have taken more... I just... I felt overwhelmed this time. It all felt like too much. I had too much stress at work and I even forgot a little about what would happen today." Your eyes opened to look at him, noticing that he also had a few tears in those beautiful and big sad eyes.

"I'm so, so sorry. I should have noticed." You shook your head again and Spencer sighed at your stubbornness, taking your wrist gently and placing a few soft kisses on your raw skin. "I'll make it up to you, I promise, baby."

You wanted to say that he did not need to make up anything. That he had not done anything wrong. You had used the color system as you should. You had said your safeword like you were supposed to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him and that he did not need to feel guilty about that situation. There were so many things to be said, clarified and reflected on, but both of you knew that was not the time yet. Spencer could deal with your silence for a while longer. He would bathe you carefully as you relaxed in the bathtub. He would apply ointment to your bruises, and apply body oil to the rest of your skin. He would dry your hair and lay you down on your large and soft bed, only leaving the room for a few quick minutes to get you some tea. Then, Spencer would let you rest and sleep, until your body and mind returned to stability and the two of you could talk about everything that had happened.

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[mixupmycota]

I think also though like most things with this fucking guy it's got a flipside to it because he's never just one thing as much as he wants too be

I think he's genuinely lonely. I think, while it's still more about him than Cole, he does have genuine concern that if Cole stays in the state he is when it gets to the breaking point, he will be exploited, bound, and similarly achingly lonely - outcast to both spirit and mortal. Something something metaphor for neurodivergence in a writing team that has a lot of neurodiverse voices and in a franchise that is obsessed with masks and masking, literal and otherwise, and that keeps building in lore around the exploitation and abuse of neurodiverse populations, including and especially in institutionalized settings.

Thinking about how the original mortal Cole, in one banter, is revealed to have been made Tranquil and the hell he went through while in one such setting. I think Solas genuinely worries about that being Cole's fate! There is compassion in Solas, there is tenderness in him, but he is very selective where he allows it to show and he does like fifteen cognitive backflips to avoid extending it to himself, which further entrenches his patterns of self-isolation and reinforces that he IS alone, that he WILL die alone, that nobody can truly relate to him.

Which I think is a reason he wipes Cole's memories. Per the wiki:

"(Solas speaking through Cole) I'm sorry, Cole, but with your gift, I fear you might see the path that I must now walk in solitude forever. This fate is mine alone. Indeed, I would not wish it on an enemy, much less someone that I once cared for. Though you reach out in compassion, I must now insist that you forget. (Cole now speaks) I'm... what were we talking about? I'm ready to help people when you are."

Triggered when approaching Cole at Skyhold after the end of the game."

I think this also is not about Cole, not really, not totally. I believe he believes what he is saying here, his own justification for taking Cole's memory away. But he can't imagine another path that Cole might take. He can only operate on the assumption that Cole will follow in his footsteps.

"that i once cared for"

This guy is doing his best to sever his earthly and otherwise attachments as much as possible so he can remain in his state of cultivated solitude, which he hates, that makes him miserable, that he is TERRIFIED of because if anyone walks with him it might happen again. He might falter, and consider changing his mind. The allure of setting down the burden he has taken on, of just living as himself, is overwhelming and horrifyingly terrible to him, I think.

His gift for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory on this is truly impressive. I am shaking him back and forth while he's all limp at maximum speed, because unlike many people in Thedas, Solas has people actively reaching for him. Actively trying to help him.

He is alone because he decides to be. He decides to be because he feels like it's dangerous if he isn't. It's dangerous if he isn't, because it would mean he isn't alone. If he isn't alone, that means he can stop. If he stops, it was all for nothing.

Which, on that. God sorry for the massive off the cuff post added on here I'm very self-conscious and feel free to ignore me but.

The emotional journey Solas goes through in the like 0.5 seconds after he turns around and sees Varric there before he shuts the fuck down is really compelling to me to think about in the context of all of this, and also in the context of the mythic, cyclic narrative of his own life and trauma and atrocities that the confrontation is re-enacting.

Varric is there. Who calls him Chuckles. Varric, who no matter how Cole's quest goes ultimately, had a major impact on that spirit of Compassion, challenged Cole to consider new ways of thinking.

I think a lot at the moment about how Solas read Varric's books - seemingly repeatedly and somewhat obsessively considering he takes at least one with him in Trespasser.

Cole talks about Varric's writing gathering the attention of spirits, about it making things real. I think about Solas telling Varric that "this story does not end with my downfall."

In saying that it's like he's asserting his own reality again in the same way he seems too in the conversations in Inquisition about Cole. He shuts down the possibility of this being anything other than a confrontation, a threat, when he speaks the words "my downfall".

Referring back to another banter with Cole:

"Cole: How do you make them calm?

Varric: Who, Kid?

Cole: Everyone. You talk and the fear fades, slipping to sleep. Not always happy, but not angry.

Varric: Most people are like cats. They either puff up to look dangerous or they crouch down and hope you don't see them. You show them you're not a victim or threat, and they're in your lap and purring before you know it.

Cole: Cats swat my feet even when no one can see me.

Varric: That explains a lot."

Solas has to do this, because otherwise he knows full well that Varric could have an effect on him, because he's done it before. But he can't permit that, because of all of the above. He literally twists the narrative when he says that, and brings it into alignment with his own belief of how the world should be.

Which is making me think things about the Fade but I won't add that onto this post which is already too much as it is.

SORRY I TALKED SO MUCH I DONT EVEN KNOW IF THIS IS COHERENT but i've been turning all of this over a lot today. Solas is consistently inconsistent in a way I find extremely compelling to chew on.

Does anyone ever think how in Inquisition Solas was probably, to some extent, envious of Cole’s journey from a spirit to a person? Of how that would explain why he was holding so viciously to his approach against Varric’s?

Because Cole wants to be a person. By contrast to Solas, no one begged Cole to leave his spirit nature behind against his own wishes;

Cole didn’t kill/mutilate anyone to gain a corporeal form either. More like he took on and continued a life that had already ended.

Does anyone ever think that Solas is unable to accept that Cole can become a person because that would mean he’d also have to confront the fact that his own actions (him and ‘his people’ gaining a body at the expense of Titans) were unjustifiable anymore?

Because... there could be another way, that’s not his, and because he could be wrong. I bet that would terrify any ancient being who’s been struggling with doing the right thing for centuries.

Or who knows, maybe I’m just rambling. Something, something I think we need to talk more about the implications of Cole becoming a person and Varric’s role in it. That quest certainly lands so differently after Veilguard.

[lemon-russ]

Took a break for thanksgiving but the Morty fleas persist.

May god have mercy on our souls.

Mortarion x F!Reader (Pt. 5/ 4th prequel )

Previous

CW: dehumanization

TAGS (you thought you were getting away from it?): @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk @moodymisty

You stand in front of Mortarion, face a grimace as he gestures towards your newest “gift”.

“You have been saying you don’t have your own space-” he explains, opening the wire frame door. “And you don’t like sleeping on the floor, right? This solves both.”

You open your mouth to speak, then close it with a snap. You have been being discouraged from arguing and back talk, but this was pushing you ability to just take things as they come as you have been. ”Th-that… that is a cage.” You squeak out, as if it is a revelation he might not have had.

“Yes.” He replies, matter of factly. “A very nice one. I even got it in purple.” He pats the cage top, rattling the wire bars. The wire squares were a lilac purple, a color you have come to enjoy since being introduced to. That hardly covers up the fact that this is a cage. For animals.

You frown deeper. You did want your own space. And the cage was elevated from the floor, with your bed and soft things neatly arranged in it. It even has lights. But to call it your own space…?

You had meant a bedroom. Serf’s quarters. Even a closet, or a real bed. Cage had never crossed your mind.

Mortarion watches your conflicted face a moment before sighing and rolling his eyes, rasping out a short cough. “You are treading very close to arguing, pet.” He huffs. He opens the door again and gestures inside. “At least try it.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. Pet. He’s been calling you that. You don’t know what it means exactly, but from what you’ve gleaned it seems to be usually used for animals. You think it is a gothic word for some sort of non-working animal, something you never had in your farmer life.

He rattles the door and quirks a pale eyebrow at you. Reluctantly, you get on your hands and knees and crawl inside the pretty prison. You settle into the cushions and fluff, shifting around with your stuffed animals. It’s large, not large enough to stand in, but wide enough that you have room to lay and stretch and crawl around on your knees at least.

The sound of metal on metal makes you whirl around to see mortarion latching the cage door closed. A sharp panic runs through you. For the first time in months your stomach drops with anxiety as you watch him turn a key in a lock. While being hand fed, made to be quiet and compliant, and being ordered around have been odd, nothing has until now felt scary.

You shuffle to the door on your knees and wrap your hands around the bars, shaking slightly and looking up at your master pleadingly. He chuckles a raspy cough and kneels on the other side of the thin door.

“Oh don’t fret, pet. I just have something to do today and I worry about you getting out.” He says calmly as he reaches through the bars to stroke your hair. ”I won’t leave-” you plead, “I have never tried to leave, I promise-”

He sighs. “Of course you think you won’t. But what if something tricks you? What if you hear someone outside and want to go see? No, this is best. Plus, it will give you time to be aquatinted with your new room.” He says in a placating tone.

“Room? It’s a cage-” you start, but a hard tap on your forehead quiets your protests.

“Hush, pet.” He grumbles, “I have been patient with you today, but you push your boundries.” He stands with a huff and fetches your food and water bowls from a cabinet.

“I'll leave food out for you, and all your toys and things are in there. I won't be gone long, so behave and be quiet.” He says as he opens a small hatch door and pushes the bowls through. “Will you be a good pet?”

Resigned, knowing fighting will get you nothing with Mortarion, you pout and nod.

He smiles, his cloudy eyes softening, and reaches in to pat you again. “Good girl. I'll return soon. I left a puzzle in there for you as well, one with the creatures you enjoy on it.” He gestures to a box adorned with images of kittens on the front. Well, you do like kittens and puzzels…

He goes to his armory stand and starts strapping the gas canisters to his crackling face again. It bellows thick gases, the smell that once gagged you now mildly unpleasant as long as he doesn't breath it directly at you. He pulls his hood up, turning pale green eyes back to you.

You smile and tilt your head, knowing it's what he likes, and his eyes curve in a smile behind his mask.

“Behave.” He rasps with thick smokey breaths through the gas. He turns to the door and you hear it lock on his way out.

You huff, flopping on your back on the plush bed. At least it’s comfy. And the small twinkling lights that hang strung above you are nice. Mortarion placed a blanket on top of the cage, giving it a faux ceiling to act as backdrop for the little lights, mimicking the stars you sometimes saw on clear nights back home.

The sight is bittersweet, reminding you of the harsh familiarity of a life so long gone now. Even if you went home, what waited for you? Toiling in the dirt? Scraping by year to year? You can’t unlearn what you have about strange people from other worlds. Plus, as far as you knew, your home was being changed by these Imperials that your master brought to it. Your little farm may not even exist anymore.

What would your sister think? The thought turns your stomach, and you roll over and pull a plush kitten adorned blanket over yourself. Her strong big sister, always the provider, always her mentor, being fed from a mans hand, kept in a cage…

No, you can’t think like that now. It is pointless, since you’ll never speak to anyone you once knew again. You have to think of the benefits of your new… employment? Position? You haven’t known an empty belly since the day Mortarion found you. You’ve even grown plusher yourself from the regular food and treats he feeds you, mirroring your new environment.

You roll on your back and hold the stuffed kitten plush he bought you months ago above your face. You slept with it every night, a constant companion. Your only sort of friend now, in a way. Sure it was fabric and fluff and not real, but since you’ve started talking to it you’ve felt some of your stress at being alone ease.

What exactly is wrong with being fed, happy, and well rested? Mortarion likes to brush your hair, and you sometimes get to sleep on the foot of his bed. Now you even have a nest of comforts and entertainment, and all he demands of you is to exist and behave. You don’t even have to clean or till fields.

You wrap a hand around one of the cage bars, snuggling into your bed.

Maybe it only hurts to ask these questions in the first place, like your master says.

You eventually fall asleep, taking a surprisingly nice nap. Feeling like you have walls, plus all of your bedding and plushes being made into a sort of nest, you feel secure, warm, and oddly, cared for.

You stretch as much as you can and shuffle over to start putting together your new puzzle. When was the last time someone cared for you like your master has? When your parents had as a child? No, they did not have the means for such pampering, and you’d started working the land as soon as you could hold a rake.

Never. No one had ever treated you to such luxury, and he didn’t ask for anything in return really. You have always been the provider. After your parents passed, you’d raised your sister, and life became even further a monotony of work, work, work.

You put a piece of the puzzle down, showing the face of a creature Mortarion had explained as a baby form of a friendly creature called a cat. You asked what cats do.

“Nothing really. Sometimes they kill vermin, but mostly they are just pets.” He had said.

Pets. They don’t work, they are pets.

When you hear the door rattle hours later, you pop up from your pile of blankets, rushing to the bars of your cage and pressing yourself to the wires. Mortarion looks weary, pulling off his mask as he pushes the door closed. Through his rasping coughs and wheezes, he looks over at you warily.

You answer with a genuine grin. “Welcome back, master.” You say sweetly.

Mortarion rasps out a wheeze, but his ghostly face cracks a smile at you.

“Hello, pet. Were you a good girl?”

[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

Hi!

I have a request for FellSwap Gold bros, UnderSwap bros, and Underfell Bros x SUPER shy reader!!

Reader having really bad social anxiety, has a hard time speaking up and is just super quiet, and just generally nervous all the time due to past trauma.

How do you think the skeletons would act towards an S/O being so shy??

Featuring: Sky, Honey, Red, Edge, Wine and Coffee.

Masterlist

Sky

You remind him of his brother a bit.. not completely since you two have a lot of differences yet it's probably the shy personality.

He has no problem with you being shy! He just wished you'd talk more when you two go out.. oh wait yeah you're socially anxious.

Sky does his best to keep you relaxed, he hates seeing people he loves nervous or anxious, he just hopes the methods he uses with his brother work with you too..

If you ever want to talk about your traumas with him, he'll feel honored, people only do this kind of thing when they trust each other, and to know you trust him enough to talk about traumatic things that have affected you in the past.. it makes him feel like he's one of the most important persons to you.

Please tell him if anything is bothering you, he doesn't want to see you uncomfortable nor panicked.

Honey

"Welcome to the club sweetheart.."

Honey also has a hard type speaking up, more with strangers than with people he's friends with, and his anxiety doesn't help much.

So, why not help each other out?

He's not the best, yet he's always there to listen to you if you'd like, and he'd be very happy if you'd hear him too.

At the end of the day, the books he writes are a distraction- an escape from reality he found to both make money and to do something he enjoys, so maybe you can find something to distract you too?

Your shyness doesn't bother him, if anything it's something he knows is a part of you, and he's always by your side when he can.

Red

Oh well, guess you two aren't really leaving the house..

Red doesn't really like leaving his house, so if he isn't working he's most definitely chilling on the couch.

He's not the best at giving advice, damn, the last time he gave someone advice that person tried to poison him, yet he'll be happy to listen to you if you're ever comfortable enough to do it.

Your shyness and quietness doesn't bother him in the least, it feels kinda good to just.. rant to you about work while cuddling y'know?

"Ya may not even realize, yet cha' make me the happiest skeleton in all earth sweetheart."

Edge

He's the literal opposite of you.

Edge has a talk with you, asking if you would like to have some therapy sessions, and if you agree he's already paying for it.

Tries to convince you to leave the house when he's not working and the weather is good, he doesn't force you but he'd be happy when you successfully socialize with someone, even just a little bit.

Stands up for you, no matter the situation. He's pretty famous because of his cooking you know? Who's gonna turn him down huh? One word and a security guard will take that person away.

He isn't someone to give advice about trauma, if anything he'd much rather hear you trauma-dump, that way he can find the best way to try and help.

Wine

His brother's just like you. He already knows what to do.

Won't force you to leave the house if you don't want to, yet he'll "reward" you with small things when you do, buying ice cream, plushies you want, books or video games if you like them.. you get the deal.

Something he noticed was wherever you go, his brother follows, guess Coffee finally found someone like him huh?

If someone even dares to be slightly rude towards you, Wine makes sure that person won't ever bother you again.

Anything you tell him, he'll give advice, no matter what it is.

Coffee

He's EXACTLY like you.

Coffee has a really bad social anxiety and has a hard time feeling comfortable to talk, so he mostly communicates by notes!

May influence you to do the same as him...

Doesn't bother him that you're quiet, quite the opposite actually, after hearing Rus and Cash ramble for HOURS on the swap papyruses reunion, he couldn't beg more for some silent cuddles with his loved one.

If you ever want to talk about your traumas with him, he's going to listen, even if he doesn't give the best advice.

[quordleona03]

#this one goes out to the Beejdunking Brigade #i want bj to get better but i know he's just going to keep fighting it forever. if a warzone can't kill his ego idk what possibly could #peg takes the house and kid and dog and bj goes to maine as his backup plan and is greeted by mulcahy looking happier than ever #maybe then-- MAYYYYBE-- he can finally realize that there are consequences to shitting where you eat

I wrote Peg Hunnicutt in All We Know (will be posting the first chapter from her POV in December) as a woman who decided to stay married to BJ and made it work (and they had more children) (and BJ is a good dad). But I also wrote her - deliberately,consciously - as the kind of housewife for whom The Feminine Mystique was written when Betty Friedan was considering "The Problem That Has No Name." (Yes, I know she has a realtor's licence in "The Party" - for various reasons I decided that didn't turn into a career.) And while thinking about Peg Hunnicutt reading Betty Friedan's book when it was hot off the presses in 1963, I started to think about Peg Hunnicutt, home in Mill Valley, waiting for her husband to come home from the war - and I thought about the beejhawk narrative: BJ and Hawkeye fell in love during the war, and -

What About Peg?

So I wrote the story of BJ and Hawkeye coming home from the war, and the stranger in the house, from Peg Hunnicutt's POV: The Hunnicutt Mystique.

I don't intend to ever write a sequel to The Hunnicutt Mystique, not because I can't think of one but because I can easily think of half a dozen: and how do you pin someone as complex as BJ down to one ending? To me, BJ Hunnicutt's tragedy is that, all of his life, he has been top of the heap, king of the hill: tall and handsome and good at sports, good in his classes: he works hard for what he's got but he's starting from a privileged position which he does not in the least recognize. While an instinctively cruel person (he enjoys practical jokes) BJ recognises that being kind is better than being cruel, and he wants to be a good man, and he struggles to live up to his own ideals.

That BJ's ideals are very much that of a man who was born in the 1920s and came of age into the period where US media was pushing the narrative that a perfect family is one where the man leads and the woman follows, the man earns and has a career, and the woman stays home and is absorbed in housework and children, is of course not his fault; but I can't think that BJ ever examined this very hard. He wants to be Peg's perfect husband and Erin's perfect father, and the draft took him away from them and Peg spent two years learning to be just fine on her own.

And BJ went to the 4077th, where he found that - try as he might - he would never, there, be the man whose attention everyone competes for: he would never be top of the heap, king of the hill, recognised as the best surgeon, the funniest man, the one whose attention and approval everyone competes for - because Hawkeye got there first and BJ cannot win in any contest except those that Hawkeye frankly doesn't care about, like physical strength or chess. To make matters worse: BJ adores Hawkeye. Hawkeye is wonderful and kind and funny and knows exactly what to do in the weirdest situation BJ has ever been in. Hawkeye says, frankly and openly, that BJ is his best friend. (Except there was Trapper, who was also Hawkeye's best friend.) But if BJ is Hawkeye's best friend, Hawkeye feels no need to compete for BJ's attention: he assumes he'll have BJ's attention if he wants it, and if BJ is busy or preoccupied and brushes Hawkeye off, Hawkeye goes off to spend time with other friends and really doesn't seem to mind, or try harder for BJ's attention next time. To make matters even worse: Hawkeye keeps winning all of the contests without even seeming to try, and Hawkeye thinks BJ's work is good and offers praise and tries to find ways for BJ to shine - Hawkeye is BJ's age and all but a year in Korea equivalent in experience: but Hawkeye behaves as if he had authority over BJ. I think BJ would love to be able to take Hawkeye home and look after him. BJ would love to be in a situation where - as BJ sees it - the natural order of things is back: BJ is everyone's main guy, and Hawkeye is his best friend because BJ chose him, not because BJ fetched up at the 4077th and fell into Hawkeye's best-friend position.

And what if - Hawkeye's and BJ's relationship is exactly what we see it is in the series, but Hawkeye is in a loving, romantic, sexual relationship with Mulcahy?

meme redraw ft captain hunnicuck

the thing about hawkahy is i think it presents a wonderful character development opportunity for beej once he accepts that his waifish wifeable roommate picked a shorter, sweeter, quieter, poorer partner over the big man on campus who took him for granted enough to punch him in the face and then act like nothing happened, because it turns out hawkeye values honesty and empathy over whatever the hell is going on with bj. maybe eating his own heart out is the first step to getting over himself

[annwrites]

⸻ tell me i'm your national anthem. part five. ⸻

· pairing: homelander x collegestudent!reader · type: part of a series · summary: tragedy strikes when a plane crashes. john insists upon your relationship taking the next step. · tags: mothering kink, lactation kink · tw: possessiveness, codependency, attachment issues · word count: 3,742

One hundred and eighteen people are dead. In an instant. Just…gone. Fallen from the sky. Innocent people just trying to get from one place to another. Including a mother and her little girl. Teachers, families, couples…

It’s been everywhere today: on the news, social media, and on the lips of every person you pass in the halls at your college.

And you feel sick every time you think of the terror they must’ve felt. How…helpless they were as they probably clung to each other in those final moments, praying for someone—something—to save them…

You try to push it out of your mind, to the best of your ability, so you might make it through the rest of the day without bursting into a puddle of tears.

That evening, you pick idly at your dinner as you watch John on your flat screen.

Three minutes. If he’d been three minutes sooner, there at least would’ve been a chance at saving them.

And then you watch as he actually gets choked up—as tears stream from his bloodshot eyes—and your own chin wobbles in response.

Please, God, don’t let him blame himself.

He got there as quickly as he could.

While part of you hates him—is terrified of him—for the way he’s been treating you since first meeting a handful of days ago, you're sure he would’ve practically carried that plane to safety if it’d still been in the air when he arrived. He has every right to be angry. To be upset. Because countless lives have now been destroyed, and over a hundred taken through an act of evil—of terrorism.

At least they’re dead now, too.

You hope that if there is a hell—from whatever religion is it that they prescribed to—that they’re suffering in it.

You glance down to your barely-touched dinner, then rise to put it away.

Once you’ve brushed your teeth and are ready to lie down for the night, you glance to your balcony doors, and, most unexpectedly, fill with disappointment when you find the space to be empty.

Then, you quickly fill with guilt immediately after. How could you expect him to show up here after the day he’s had? You are the furthest thing from his metaphorical plate—from his mind.

The real world is calling now, and your time of being a distraction to him is over.

He’s gone, and he’s not—

Just as you step toward the doors to close your curtains is when he lands outside them, causing you to jump from fright.

And then tears quickly gather in your eyes as you turn the handle.

John turns around slowly, and he gently rests his hands on his hips while shrugging slightly. “I—”

He shakes his head and glances to his feet. “I tried. I really—if I’d gotten there sooner—”

You throw yourself against his chest and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry,” you choke out between sobs.

You run your fingertips through his hair and bury your face in his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper. “There is nothing you could’ve done. This is not your fault.”

He slips an arm beneath your legs, and he carries you back inside.

John currently has one of your nipples in his mouth, and is gently sucking on it for comfort while you rub his head and keep blankets tucked tightly around him.

You turned quiet white noise on awhile ago to try and lull him to sleep, but every time you think he might be close to drifting off, he begins sucking again.

Such a strange arrangement this is tonight. And in general, really.

But you won’t tell him no in anything he needs to soothe himself. He’s been through utter hell today, and he came to you of all people to make it better. To hold and console him.

“Do you think they’ll do it?” You whisper.

He hums in curiosity.

“Let supes into the military,” you explain while resting a palm against the warm skin of his back.

He releases your breast from his mouth and swallows before replying, wishing you could lactate. He’d like that tonight. But he instead has to make do with what you have to offer.

At least he has the rest of you to do with as he pleases. Whether you like it or not.

And you’re even stupid enough to buy his sob story about being filled with immeasurable guilt over not being able to save the day. When, in reality, he doesn’t feel an ounce of it.

Because, really, it may just work out in the long-run for Vought, and get them exactly what Madelyn has been wanting for months on-end.

He smiles at the thought of her being pleased with him this time. She should’ve been for the last plane he brought down, but he set things right with those words he fed VNN just a handful of hours ago.

And now here he lies in your arms, while you coo over him like a loving mother.

He snuggles closer to you, feeling completely content for once.

He could get used to this. But only when he needs it—rather, wants it—of course. He can’t keep coming over here every night like he has been. Can’t come off as needy.

Even if he feels like he does need it: you, your attention, affection, and maternal comfort and love.

Finally, he replies. “It’d be ignorant as shit for them not to after what happened today, don’t you think? I mean, for the military to say that they’d rather have ordinary soldiers on the frontlines, as opposed to those who can survive a bullet or bombs…”

He shakes his head in indignation. “No different than today. Every day this country fails its people—people the government is supposed to be working for. Instead, they’re getting them killed needlessly. So, if us entering the military can save innocent lives, then I’m all for it.”

Your eyes flit between his while you gingerly cup his cheek, and he nuzzles into your touch. “I know that physically, you can’t be hurt.”

You trail your fingertips up to his temple. “But what about in here?”

You press a kiss to his forehead. “Sweetheart, you have already been through so much pain because of these people. Going to war…the things you’d see—”

“I can handle it,” he says, cutting you short.

You grow silent for a moment.

“Is this something you want, or something you’ve been told will happen to you if the people at Vought get their way? Meaning you have no true say.”

He’s not used to this: someone looking out for him. He’s not so stupid as to think that when Madelyn tells him that all she does is to protect him that she actually means it. She’s just…telling him what he wants to hear. But, because he’s so desperate for the attention…he’s willing to pathetically play along.

But with you, it isn’t a sick game. It’s honest. You are.

You ghost your fingertips over his lips, waiting for a response.

Until he decides that he doesn’t much feel up to trying at giving one.

So, instead, he takes your nipple into his mouth again, and he begins to suck.

You sigh quietly, but don’t push the subject. Instead, you gingerly cup the back of his head and begin to hum a nursery rhyme, so as to lull him, hopefully, to sleep.

When John wakes in the morning, it’s not in your arms, but he’s immediately comforted by the smell of eggs cooking and the sound of bacon sizzling on the stovetop across the room. And you hum along quietly to pop music, which plays softly on your little vintage countertop radio.

Sunlight streams through sheer gossamer curtains a few feet from the bed, and he’s practically swaddled in blankets, with plenty of soft pillows to keep him comfortable.

He really likes it here with you. It feels like…home. A home he’s never, in all his life—over forty years—had a chance to have. But this place is just that.

It’s well-decorated, cozy, clean, and warm. Charming. Idyllic, even. Honestly? You deserve an entire house, he thinks. He’d love to see what you’d come up with in turning it, gradually, into a home. Maybe into one for the both of you.

You playing the role of his perfect, dutiful little housewife…? He loves the idea. Fucking adores it. And it’s not like you could ever hope for better, anyway. What woman wouldn’t want such a life given to her by him of all men? Only an imbecile would refuse it.

Now, he has something to truly think about and consider. Given you continue behaving yourself for him—continue doing as he says, and being his well-behaved young lady…and playing mommy to him, which he needs most of all.

“This is nice,” John says after taking a bite of buttered toast, with a smile on his lips.

A smile that you return while gently brushing your foot against his beneath the table.

You’re still wary of him. You’re not so stupid not to be. To be wholly trusting and adoring toward him when you know what he’s capable of would just make you careless toward your own safety and well-being.

Maybe you are anyway.

But what choice do you have but to continue entertaining him like this? To continue…mothering him.

“I’m glad,” you say quietly before taking a drink of orange juice.

He leans back then, and you watch as he looks around your apartment, carefully taking in every feature and facet.

You shift nervously in your seat, wondering what he’s thinking—why he’s studying the space so intently all of a sudden.

And then his eyes meet yours again, and you merely look at him shyly from beneath your lashes while swallowing a forkful of cheesy scrambled eggs.

“I like it here,” he remarks. “It’s so…homey. You’re a good little homemaker.”

You flash him a toothy smile, and he genuinely returns it, enjoying the sight of you so happy.

You like being praised, he notes. You probably have no one to give you regular encouragement and approval. No one to give you attention.

He likes that you seemingly like having his. And certainly likes that his is the only that you have.

He doesn’t need to worry about someone else standing in his way—between the two of you. Between him and what now belongs to him. But, even if such a person existed…it wouldn’t be for much longer.

“Thank you,” you say while actually blushing. “I’ve worked really hard on it. It’s not much, but I’ve done my best with what little space and money that I have.”

He takes a sip of milk, then licks his lips. “I can tell. I do wonder, though…”

Your brows furrow when he begins to trail off. “What, baby?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. God, he really fucking loves when you call him that. He likes when you call him any pet name, in truth. Baby, sweetheart, sweetie… He wishes you’d call him more. Like, perhaps, your sweet baby boy—or your perfect little boy. Maybe, in time, you will.

He shrugs, then waves his hand, as if he’s trying to be nonchalant. When, in reality, he wants you to push him to tell you. Wants you to show interest in what is it that he has to say. Wants to know that what he thinks matters to you more than anything. Well, that he matters to you more than anything—not just what he thinks.

You gently set your fork down on your plate, then rest your hands in your lap. “You can tell me. It’s okay.”

He glances to his right, to where your balcony doors lie. “Just wondering what you might think about my place at Seven Tower.”

You blanch momentarily as he looks back to you.

He’s about to segue into asking you to come see it, isn’t he? His apartment, that is. You wouldn’t be surprised if he offers to give you a tour of the entire building, just as an opportunity to show off. Not just how he, most likely, knows the whole of the place like the back of his hand, but also so you can witness how everyone there probably bows and scrapes before him: the face of the Seven. The face of Vought. The face…of the entire country—of America.

You know he’s waiting for a specific response. An agreeable one. One that will please him.

“What’s it like?” You ask, feigning mild curiosity, even if you couldn’t care less.

It’s probably like every other corporate skyscraper: soulless and without character. Just a giant advertisement for their brand. A monument to their greed.

He takes a bite of his bacon and chews thoughtfully for a moment before answering. “Guess you’ll just have to come and see for yourself to find out.”

You proceed to stare at him in response to his, admittedly, predictable answer.

You refrain from shifting in your seat, so as to prevent him from bearing witness one of your ‘tells’ for when you feel uncomfortable.

“Oh. W-when?”

You grab your glass of orange juice and hold it between your hands to try and keep them steady—to prevent them from shaking from nerves.

“How about today?” He replies, taking another bite of his eggs.

You grip the glass more tightly. “How? I mean—”

“I can fly you up. We’ll just go in through the roof. No need to bother with metal detectors and what-not.”

You nod slowly.

At least you won’t have to worry, then, about crowds and people snapping pictures of you on their cellphones. That is the very last thing you desire: obnoxious notoriety, and to have yourself splashed across the cover of a supermarket tabloid with a question in bold print asking who Homelander’s new girl is.

And there’s still Emma.

Emma, who you’ve been…somewhat avoiding as of late, strictly from guilt. Guilt that you’re lying to her by omission. Omitting the fact that you’re carrying on with Homelander, for lack of a better term, that is.

If she ever finds out, her heart will break in two. You’re dealing with enough right now, such as the man who sits before you. Adding the loss of your best friend to the list of stressors upon you might just be more than you can handle.

“Okay,” you finally say in reply.

John watches and trails along behind you as you walk slowly around his apartment, looking it over.

He suddenly feels like all his nerve endings have been exposed. It’s a similar—if not near-identical feeling—to how he felt that first night he laid in your arms without a stitch of clothing on, minus his briefs.  But he’s gotten used to it; likes it even: the warmth of your body against his own in the middle of the night, when it feels like the two of you are all that’s left in the world.

“So, what do you think?” He asks, eager for your thoughts.

You turn around and ease your head back as you gaze up at him and into irises of blue.

“It…” You trail off.

You don’t want to anger him with your answer, but are also growing tired of lying to spare his overly-sensitive feelings. It’s exhausting walking this dangerous tightrope every time you’re together.

If he doesn’t want an unpleasant answer, then maybe he shouldn’t have brought you here in the first place, and furthermore shouldn’t be asking your opinion on his personal living space.

You nearly flinch when he reaches up and cups your cheek.

You truly detest his suit, including his gloves.

So, you reach up, take his hand in yours, and pull gently against the fingertips of the soft red material.

He stays quiet as you remove it, and then his other one, before tossing them both onto a nearby table.

You blink innocently up at him and he smiles.

You fill with relief that he didn’t take offense to the gesture.

God, he is truly exhausting.

He cups your cheek again and brushes his thumb along your soft, flushed skin. “You can be honest.”

You mentally raise a brow at that. “Did you decorate it, or—”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “No. Not something I’d ever waste my time with.”

He smirks. “That’s women’s work.”

You do raise a brow then and frown slightly as well, so he grins at your response.

He turns you around and pulls you back against his chest before wrapping his arms around your neck. “So?”

“Well, it’s very clean, which I like,” you say while resting your hands on his arms.

He snorts. Of course you’d reply with that.

“And?” He pushes, wanting for more.

You sigh. “I hate it. It’s very…empty. Impersonal. It feels like we’re in an American History museum instead of what’s supposed to be your home. There’s no…personal touches. It feels far more like Homelander’s living space, and less like my John’s.”

He stills, which you take immediate note of, and you grow cold all over.

You fucked up. Said too much. Stupid, stupid girl.

“Your John,” he whispers.

With your back against his chest, you can’t see the tears shimmering in his eyes at the sweet sentiment.

Your body loosens and relaxes, and you lean further back against him—your legs now a bit wobbly-feeling from the sudden onslaught of adrenaline.

“I mean, do you like the way it’s decorated and arranged?”

His mouth tugs into a frown and he shrugs. “I don’t spend much time here, to tell you the truth.”

You turn around and slide your hands up his chest and into his hair while standing on tiptoes. “You could always have it redone, sweetie. Hire a decorator, pick some things out and—”

He smiles widely and you shut your mouth while your brows furrow.

“What…?” You ask hesitantly while cocking your head slightly to the side.

He rests his hands against the small of your back, holding you close.

“I could just have you do it for me,” he states while sliding his hands higher, beneath the soft feminine top you have on.

Your eyes flit between his, waiting for explanation.

“You could come live here,” he explains. “We hire a decorator, like you said, or I just give you my credit card and let you do as you please to turn this place into a proper home. I foot the bill while you…y’know, go nuts.”

He…wants to live together?

Oh, no. No, no, no. That is way too big of a step to take, and far too soon.

His attachment issues know no bounds.

There’s a specific word for this level of it, isn’t there? Co…something. Codependency, yes! And now he’s made you the subject of his sick version of it. You wonder how many have come before you—have failed and disappointed him—then disappeared, per Vought, so he can inevitably find another to take their place.

Or, maybe you’re the first.

Who knows?

But if you are…why?

He never did answer that question, did he? Why you, that is.

You don’t think you should force that answer out of him right now, though.

“Baby, that is…a huge step. And I don’t think that…after only knowing each other for little over a week, for us to…take that leap—”

The light slowly drains from his eyes, and his smile disappears.

You swallow thickly while your heart jumps into your throat.

“What? You don’t want to be here? Don’t want me around?”

You jump into damage-control mode. “Of course I do, baby. But… I have less than two months left in school before I get my diploma. I’m about to be loaded down with finals. And there’s work, too. Just…to move in the middle of it all…”

You cup the back of his head and smile warmly, desperate to keep him from getting angry. Terrified of what will happen to you if you don’t succeed.

“How about this, sweetheart: we can compromise, maybe, if you like? You could pack a bag: clothes, toiletries, books and movies—I’ll even help you. Just…whatever you like. And you bring it all back to my apartment. I’ll clean out one of the drawers in my dresser for you, and some space in my closet, a spot in my bathroom—whatever you need—and you can continue staying there, just like you’ve been. But this way, it’ll feel more like your home, too. I mean, you like it better there, right? You said that you do.”

You press a soft kiss to his cheek, then gaze warmly into his eyes as you wait for—you desperately fucking hope—a positive response.

He considers for a moment—you note how he grinds his jaw while in thought—and then he exhales while nodding. “Alright. Fine. But only until you’ve graduated. Right?”

You ignore the feeling of fear that overtakes you at his insistence. “Of course. I’ll just have a lot less on my plate then, sweetie. And it’ll be good to wait. Because it’ll give us more time to get to know one another. And you to have an opportunity to make sure that that’s what you truly want: me living here. Because I’d hate to…to just move in, and you decide a week or two later that you’ve made a huge mistake, and I have no apartment to go back to because I gave it up, you know?”

He nods his head from side to side in understanding. “Okay. I’ll pack a bag or two, and I’ll just continue coming to you every night.”

He smirks while leaning down and cupping your face between his hands—the image of him crushing your head between them flits briefly through your mind—and he presses a kiss to your lips.

“Besides, I love seeing you comfortable and in your element, anyway. And it’s nice having home-cooked meals so often.”

He grabs one of your ass cheeks, and your eyes widen in surprise. “And we don’t have to worry about the lemmings here at Vought up both our asses when we’re being intimate and when you’re…y’know, looking after me.”

You nod. “That’s all I want: privacy. And for me to have you all to myself.”

You hope he likes that last bit… You only tacked it on for his benefit.

When you feel his erection suddenly pressing against your stomach—hard and firm—you have confirmation that he does.

And then he presses his lips to yours once more.

· tagging list: @emilynissangtr @highsummon @chaimshelii @sacha1slytherin

[freakymcnastys]

“we can't be friends” tenya iida x fem!reader

━━ . ˚₊ ꒱ “wait until you like me again”

note: lmk if y’all want a timeskip part 2 (which would be fluff…probably)

content: hope your excited for angst. no fluff...sorry!, academic rivals, reader is kinda like beth harmon, lowkey kinda short ://

EVER SINCE YOU came to U.A it's been a competition between you and Iida from class 1A. Although the school was built and made for turning out the next heroes you didn't want to be a hero. You knew with your quirk that you would only be able to work at a corporation which is why you were in the general studies course.

This is where you met one of your best friends Shinsou. Now this guy was someone you didn't think should be in this course, his quirk was more suited for hero work which is why you've been helping him draft a letter to Principal Nezu to let him transfer into the hero course. It was a longer process then you could've guessed but you felt like you should use your quirk for something. Your quirk was called 'brain' you were basically like a human Google. People found it useful but never good enough for hero work. But at this point in your life you gave up on the pipe dream of being a hero.

You remember the first time you met him like it was yesterday. You were walking with Shinsou. Actually, you were following him more or less to where the front of class 1A's door was and many other students were at. "Hey Shin what's going on?" You asked confused at the vast amount of people. That's where you saw him. The boy with midnight blue hair and square glasses. You had a feeling he didn't know how much of a looker he was.

"Bakugou! Please don't ruin our reputation!" He exclaimed, doing a weird arm chopping motion. Well guess the blonde guys name is Bakugou, yet that didn't seem to catch your interest. You wanted to know the blue haired boys name. You barely noticed your friend talking back to the class until he was walking away. You were going to follow him until you locked eyes with the boy, he even flashed a small smile at you. It was brief but it made your cheeks heat up slightly.

"Come on y/n!" Shinsou called, pulling you back to reality. "Hey what's that guys name?" You questioned him as he raised him brow looking back to the classroom doors. "Who? Four eyes? Why don't you just use your quirk to find out?" You roll your eyes at this suggestion. "You know I don't use my quirk on people or things like that!"

"Ugh his names Iida, I think.." He huffed, pushing his hands into his pockets while walking. "Now was that so hard Hitoshi!" You beamed at him while he jokingly pushed you.

Here you were a few days later at the school library preparing for the upcoming exam. A test everyone in every course needed to take. A test you wanted to place number one on. For tests like these you were required to test with the hero course and specifically 1A which had pro hero eraserhead so you wouldn't be able to cheat on the test. Just a formality but was still such a hassle to leave your class to be in another.

You could say this is where you officially became 'Iida's rival' or so some people in 1A dubbed this little feud between the two of you.

You heard from some of the others in your course that people you should be worried about should be Iida and Momo. The first name rang a bell in your head. Suddenly the little crush you had on this guy shriveled away into the determination of getting number one on this test. Suddenly this guy was now your rival, so when you spotted him at the library an idea hit you. This Iida dudes gotta be like any other guy and a little flirting could maybe break his spirt.

Except he isn't like any other guy and your fugal attempts at flirting completely flew over his head. Well what was plan B? Beat him with your wits of course.

"You know how this works right?" Mr. Aizawa questioned as he walked you from your classroom to his. "Mhm." You retuned not fully paying attention due to the nerves and you trying to remember what you studied before. Aizawa took the hint and let silence engulf the two of you until you got to the classroom. "Take that seat next to Iida--uh Iida raise your hand."

The look on your face must've been priceless since you heard a snort come from the boy with a lighting bolt in his hair. You being sat next to him might've been the worst thing that could've happened. Now you were gonna be distracted because of this--

"Hey sorry could I borrow a pencil?" The boy in front of me whispered to me. "Oh uh sure?" As you were looking around in your pencil case you felt a pair of eyes looking at you and it wasn't the red head in front of you. "Do you mind?" You said, not even looking at Iida, who choked saliva. "What?" He questioned, fixing his glasses.

"Don't play stupid glasses. If you like my face so much why don't ya take a picture." You said sarcastically, before turning back to Kirishima to hand him the pencil. Iida just muttered something before going back to looking at his desk.

Once the test was finished you weren't gonna lie you think you did well (for not using your quirk) and now you had to wait until the bell rung for lunch so you were stuck with class 1A until after lunch.

"Hey you're that girl Iida is always beefing with right?" A girl with pink hair said, walking up to the next you were at. "Oh um yeah! Kinda sucks that's what you guys know me as.." You laugh nervously. Is this seriously how the best hero class knows you as? Well your repuation is out the window now. "No! I'm sure you're super cool! I had heard that from someone in 1B!" She quickly defends herself.

"Oh! Well I'm y/n! It's nice to meet you then!" You push out your hand in front of you to have her gladly accept it. You then learned her name was Mina and then the boy who borrowed your pencil joined the conversation but you felt like the rest of the class was also somewhat listening since you were a stranger in their class. "Hi! I'm Kirishima! What's your quirk?"

There was something about the boys smile that made you feel safe which seemed like a weird thing to think at the time. "It's called brain--I'm basically google!" You joked, smiling, which made them laugh with you. "Then that makes sense why your here." You heard a boy with green hair say. You reconginze him. He's the kid from the entrance exam that comepletly wrecked his arms and legs.

"But hey that just shows how smart you are!" Lighting bolt boy said. Mina just rolled her eyes. "Stop glazing her Denki, she doesn't want you!" This made Denki get red in embarassment but in turn some others snorted and laughed at the two.

"Probably cheated on the others.." You heard from behind you but it was more of a whisper that was accidently louder then intended. "Excuse me..?" You turned around to see Iida was a sour look on his face. He just shrugged.

Although one good thing did come out of that foul confrontation with Iida. After that happened the girl from class 1A, Mina invited you to hangout with her in her dorm. Her instructions were simple yet sketchy. ‘come to room 2c but don’t let anyone see you.’

You had texted Shinsou before you left your dorm just in case someone needed to know where you were going.

Once you got to Mina’s dorm you were met with a whole group of people. Once we all got introduced you finally learned who everyone was. Jirou and Denki were near the tv. Bakugou and Kirishima were by the balcony and Sero was now sitting me and Mina. This had to be one of the most fun hangouts you had been to in a while.

“So if you’re playing poker you could totally win all the time right?” Sero said, sipping his caprison. “Yeah I guess but I don’t use my quirk on people.” Bakugou just scoffed. “Lame!”

“Listen I have good reason! People had like weird shit going on up there alright..” The rest of the night went how you would expect. We ate, played games and eventually had to say our goodbyes. But from then in you would always hangout with what we were dubed (by the rest of your classmates) the bakusquad. Which is a stupid name by the way.

Now that you were hanging out with the “bakusquad” more, you started to become friends either others in the class too. Everyone except Iida. Although something in you wanted to be friends with him, maybe even get closer to him but any attempt was met with resistance so eventually you gave up until one day.

You were sitting on the steps in front of 1A’s dorm since you started to feel a bit claustrophobic with everyone in the common area. You hadn’t realized Iida was standing next to you until he spoke up. “Can I sit here?” He said a lot more politely than he ever has in the past.

After clearing his throat like 100 times out of nervousness Iida started. “I’m sorry for how I acted before—It wasn’t very pleasant and I shouldn’t have said or done what I did.” You could tell how sincere he was so you allowed him to continue without interrupting.

“Can we start over and be friends?” He smiled. God that smile. You remember seeing that smile the first time you ever saw him. You’ve come to love and hate it so much. Which is what possessed you to say what you did.

“We can’t be friends.” You said quietly as your breath appeared in front of you due to the cold air. “what?” He breathed out with furrowed eyebrows.

“You… just cling to your stupid papers and pens because that’s all you seem to care about.” You felt a pit in your stomach start to grow. “I-what? What are you saying?” He asked confused for the upteenth time.

“This is all I have—hell it’s all I’ll need. You can graduate and become a hero but me I have to work hard and leave with good grades so I can work at a big corporation. I just…I can’t be friends with someone who can jeopardize that right now…” You finished, standing up from you spot to have your back face him.

“But I-“ You cut him off by turning around to face him briefly. “It’s okay. I’ll just be waiting for you to like me again…especially after this.”

[nostarfights]

Chapter One of Made Your Mark

Pairing: sugardaddy!rockstar!Eddie Munson X fem!reader

Summary: You and Eddie meet on the sugar daddy site recommended to you by Steve.

Word Count: 2.3K

Fic Masterlist

As of today, it had been six months since you graduated from your university. Six months since your graduation where you were spoken to about new opportunities and where life can take you. Six months of companies not moving forward with you for the job you applied for, for the job you spent four years of your life getting your degree for. You’d spent four years trying to become an author and still no one wanted to hire you. Six months of working at some fancy restaurant near your apartment that barely paid you enough to get by in life.

To say you were frustrated and wanting to give up was an understatement, you were furious. But you promised yourself that you would keep trying and trying until you got the job you worked so hard for. Which you hoped would happen soon seeing as you were getting pretty tired of the rich people who talked down to you at the restaurant where you worked as a waitress. 

You were underpaid and just tired of it all, working there and trying to get the job you wanted was more exhausting than the four years of work you put in to actually get your degree. But you were still determined nevertheless.

You’d expected a restaurant like this in such a busy area of your city to be well paying, but it turns out a little above minimum wage and very small tips is what you get working there. So, on the side you wrote articles for small magazines during your free time, which turned out to be somewhat successful. But the most you’d ever earned on one of your articles was $400, which would have to do for now until you got the job you actually wanted, not needed. 

At the current moment, the time was 10:30pm on a Saturday and you had gotten home not long ago from another busy shift at the restaurant. You were tired and your body was sore, as if you had just gone on a four hour long hike. Your hair becoming a little messy as you got settled on your couch, the belt that was once in the loops on your black dress pants now resting on the floor next to your coffee table and the first few buttons of your shirt undone. You were just about to fall asleep here, your eyelids growing more and more heavy with each passing moment, when someone knocked on your door, causing you to perk up right away. 

Not feeling the need to ask who it was on your doorstep at this hour, you simply got up then unlocked and opened the front door to your apartment. Revealing your best friend, Steve to be standing there on the other side of the door.

He softly greeted you with a hug, making you smile into his chest. “Hey, how’ve you been?” he gently asked as he rubbed your back. “Hi, Stevie.” you quietly said while you hugged him back, making a smile of his own appear on his face. “I’ve been alright, just tired and frustrated. The usual.” you answer with a shrug, quickly closing the door behind him after you leave his arms. Your answer made him frown as the two of you walked over to your couch.

You and Steve had known each other since middle school and had been very close since then. You had truly been through it all together. He hated to see that his best friend was struggling even after all you had done to get what you wanted. 

That frown is still on Steve’s face as he started to speak again, “I understand. But I have to admit, I’m tired of seeing you like this, y’know, struggling. You don’t deserve to.” he said from his spot next to you on your couch. You let a sigh escape your lips, your shoulders dropping into a more relaxed position, “I know,” you said, pausing to take a deep breath, “but there’s not much I can do except keep sending out my manuscript to more publishers. Although I will admit I don’t have much hope, it’s just been six months of rejections from every publisher I’ve send it to. I hate that it’s this hard to be successful at the job I literally got my degree for but I guess all I can do is keep trying and working.” you told him, fully conveying your frustration and exhaustion to Steve again.

He nodded in response and gently placed his hand over yours, “I get it and I agree, you should keep trying. But until you do get an acceptance from a publisher, I do have a suggestion that could get you out of working that tiring waitress gig I know you hate.” he replied, making you chuckle a little while a smirk appeared on his lips. 

You jokingly rolled your eyes at him and began to rest your head on the couch, “Oh no, what is it this time?” you jokingly said, waiting to hear what Steve had to say, no longer surprised by his antics. He nodded in response then spoke once more, “Now this is just a suggestion, so just hear me out okay?” he said, earning a nod from you in response before he speaks again, “I think that you should check out this sugar daddy site I’ve used a few times called Classy. There’s a lot of rich lonely guys on there who will literally pay you just to hang out with them. It’s not as bad as you’d think it would be.” he explained, moving his hands around while he talked.

You had to admit, it’s a decent and possible solution to your problem. But you still felt a bit suspicious about it anyway. 

You opened your mouth to speak but Steve quickly interrupted before you could even get a word out, “I know what you’re going to say but, please, just think about it.” he said, making you roll your eyes again. “Steve, I appreciate the advice I do. But you know I want to be independent, I don’t know how to feel about the idea of relying on someone else for money. But I promise to think about it and that’s all you’re getting out of me, Stevie.” you replied, ending your statement with a laugh while you point at Steve. He laughs with you, “Fine, but I still think you should do it.” he said, his hands up in the air in surrender, causing the two of you to laugh a little.

As for the rest of the night, you and Steve sat on your couch and talked a bit more about all of the things that have been going on in your lives since you last spoke to each other.

You told him about how stressful work has been and the recent articles you’ve written. How your dating life has been non-existent with how busy you’ve been. Steve told you about how stressful his own job has been. As well as how nicely past arrangements with sugar daddies have gone for him and to be picky when picking one. 

A few hours later at about 2am, after talking for a while you and Steve said your goodbyes and he headed home, promising to tell you that he made it home safe when he got there. 

Once he had left, you began to get ready for bed while you thought about Steve’s suggestion. If you’re being honest with yourself, this whole sugar daddy thing did sound a bit appealing.

But it is something you wanted to think about and talk to Steve about more before you made a decision. You just wanted to make sure that the site is safe and that you wouldn’t be putting yourself into a dangerous situation. You also wanted to really think about whether or not you are really okay with having someone, a rich man specifically, help you out financially. You almost fell asleep that night thinking about it too, but you decided to let your mind rest for now. You’d call Steve in the morning–the beginning of your day off– and talk about it more then. 

—Time Skip: Two Days Later—

Two days have passed now since Steve had brought up the idea of getting a sugar daddy to you and after a lot of talking and thinking about it, you decided to give the site a chance. But if it ended up going badly for you, you’d never use it again. And as a safety precaution, you promised to send Steve the name, phone number and photo of the guy you end up deciding to meet up with.

Your profile on the site consisted of the basic things about you one might want to know, a few of your interests and a few photos of you to go along with it. Afterward, you began to scroll through the site and the profiles of the sugar daddies on there.

Meanwhile, as you were deciding whether to go through with signing up for this site or not, Eddie was sitting on his own couch in his own home. 

At this point in his life, Eddie was one month into his band, Corroded Coffin’s one year long break from making music and touring. When the band was active, he had been completely fine with living alone, he was too busy to even have the chance to feel lonely. But now that he had absolutely nothing to do but work on his solo music, that lonely feeling had easily creeped into his life. Now his home felt empty and cold instead of comforting and warm like it usually did when he was busy. Because of touring and making music, he used to rarely be here and now he’s here all the time.

He wanted someone to spend his newfound free time with, he wanted companionship. But it’s a bit difficult for him to find love on dating apps, all of his accounts end up getting taken down not long after he makes them because people think they’re someone pretending to be him. He can’t meet anyone by just going out anymore without getting swarmed by paparazzi and fans because of his fame. So, he decided to check out a sugar daddy site called ‘Classy’ that he’s seen ads for a few times. “Maybe it could be promising?" he thought.

Nevertheless, he decided to give it a shot and created an account on the site. Like you, on his profile he included some basic information about himself, some of his interests and a few photos of himself. His bio, which he quickly typed out without really thinking about it, simply said, “37, Just looking for someone to spend time with.” Then like you he began to scroll through the site and the profiles of the sugar babies on there. 

Ten minutes into your own scrolling, you stopped on Eddie’s profile–his beauty having caught your eye–and you clicked on it right away. After looking through his profile a bit, it seems like he would be a good match for you. He’s definitely not as demanding as the other men on there. So you messaged him. You knew who he was of course and while you are shocked to see him on the site, you didn't bring either of those things up in your message, assuming that he probably just wants to be treated like any other person.

The message you ended up sending to him after deleting and retyping it a few times said, “Hey, if you’re up for it, I’d be open to discussing an arrangement that would work best for us. :)” You then, with your heart still beating a little fast, hit send and closed the website on your phone for now. 

—————————

After a bit of scrolling, Eddie really hadn’t found anyone who matched what he was looking for. But he didn’t want to give up on this yet, so he headed over to the inbox part of the site and saw that nearly a hundred messages had already appeared even though his account had only existed for less than an hour. Most of these people didn’t really interest him, mostly because they seemed to only be interested in him because of his fame, not because they want the same thing as him.

Seeing this made him want to give up for now and he’s about to close the site, mentally planning on looking at it again later when he sees your name in his inbox and the preview of what you had sent to him. But before he had properly looked at the message you sent, he was immediately drawn to look at your profile first. Your profile picture alone had him entranced, you were just so beautiful and the bits of your personality that you included on your profile only made him more entranced with you. If that was even possible. 

He then read your message, the message making him smile to know that this woman he was so drawn to was interested in the same sort of arrangement as him. He messaged you back as soon as he finished reading your message, his fingers gliding across the keyboard on his phone, “Hi. Sounds like a plan! Meet me at The Rouge for dinner on Friday at 6pm so we can properly talk about how we both want this to work. See you then. ;)” Not long after he had sent this, you checked the site and saw this message waiting for you in your inbox, your cheeks blushing at the thought of a man as handsome as him being interested in you. 

You agreed to meeting up with him for dinner right away and he responded again quite quickly like you had, this time with his number so that the two of you wouldn’t have to keep in touch through the site. You then sent him a quick message saying hi and letting him know that it was you texting him, getting a response from him moments later that simply said, “Hi :)” back, causing you to smile softly to yourself.

[quillkiller]

can we have some nsfw bartylus hcs

bad sex bartylus my beloveds…..

ive talked about this before, but they always regress to their adolescent teenage selves with each other. they’ll just forever need each other in that impatient desperate way, needy and a little pathetic, skin on skin and over befor it even began

they can count on one hand probably that they’ve managed to go ’all the way’ because they always get lost in their attempts to get closer, grinding on each other, panting into each others mouths and gasping and uncoordinated and better than anything they’ve ever done with anyone else

barty will tell regulus about everything he wants to do to him, how he wants to lay him down and open him up with his tongue and take his time, but when push comes to shove he loses his entire mind and his need for regulus and skin on skin overpowers any sort of swagger he was trying to muster up, and he’s rutting into him and coming in his pants before he can even get them off <- it makes regulus crazy every time, that he can turn barty into this pathetic impatient mess, feeling barty’s impatience against his own body, letting him use it to get off

regulus is pliant and so needy, grinding in bartys lap and coming within a minute being the best sex he’s ever had, barty whispering filth in his ear and hands on his hips, regulus whining and losing all of his self restraint, only wanting to get closer and closer, barty being the only one who’ll ever see him this way

it’s always a little bit gross and weird. they’re both sexually active and have quite a bit of experience, but it all goes out the window whenever they’re together. doesn’t matter if someone fucked regulus like the perfect gentleman the other week, it will never measure up to the overwhelming all-consuming need he feels when barty pins him to a wall grunting and uncoordinated thrusts against regs ass and comes almost immediately. regulus never comes harder than the pathetic ruined orgasms with barty embarrassing sounds spilling out of him and he cant stop them. doesnt matter that barty lets someone else suck his dick, he can’t come unless he’s thinking about how hard reg bit his lip last time so that he started bleeding while he was coming grinding in bartys lap

barty doesnt really do relationships, but regulus does. he has this idea that he has to be with the perfect person to make up for how awful he is, to make up for his own self hatred. <- cue james potter. barty lets regulus do his thing, and is always just one call away, so… reg can’t stay away from barty, no matter how hard he tries when he’s in a relationship. he texts barty at 3am when james is asleep next to him and sneaks out to let barty push him face down in the backseat grinding against him, reg grinding against the seats, until they both come in their pants. he lets barty fuck him in james’ bathroom when he throws an anniversary party for regulus. invites him over when james is still at work under the pretense of ’hanging out’ but like.. they both know what he means :/

anyway. they’re needy and pathetic and urgent and desperate and unable to take time with each other to ’make it good’ but it’s still better than anything either of them will ever have with anyone else.. 🤍