#thank you for being here. for being in this space with me

[raevpng]

bags

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

masterlist

a/n: happy pride! this month is so special — my birth month and first pride as a bisexual 😝 what better way to celebrate than a clairo fic 🩷 i tried really hard to get this up to my standards but i fear i’ll have to edit it more tomorrow morning … anyways i hope you still enjoy the read <3

ALSO PAIGE W CAREER HIGH IKTR 🙂‍↕️

one.

every second counts, i don’t wanna talk to you anymore.

all these little games, you can call me by the name i gave you yesterday.

–

paige would say she was pretty good at this.

this being attracting people, turning heads.

though she would never admit it, she knew she was…somewhat attractive.

she knew how to style her blonde hair that toed the line between effortless and done with enough effort. she knew her blue eyes looked a little deeper and a little more irresistible under the sun.

she also knew that she was attractive in a way that drew people, boys and girls alike. that her undeniable athleticism contributed to her already attractive looks, and that her height definitely drew attention from girls the same way her soft giggles drew in guys.

so yeah, maybe she’d practiced a few pickup lines in her time. maybe she had a look. a signature smirk. a way of leaning in, just enough to catch people off guard — to blur the lines of friendly and flirty.

and yeah, she’d say she’s pretty confident that she’s got game.

but right now? she was seriously rethinking it. because there's only two options.

either she’s not as attractive or smooth as she thought she was.

or azzi’s just fucking clueless as hell.

–

gone were the facetime calls stretched thin over different time zones, the half-asleep whispers just to stay connected for another five minutes. no more quick weekend trips that ended too fast, or half-unpacked bags by the door.

azzi had finally committed. to uconn, to her team, to paige.

and now she was here. with her vanilla-scented shampoo that somehow lingered in every room she walked through. with her soft curls and oversized hoodies and the exact brand of laundry detergent that paige used but somehow smelled more fragrant. and god did it make paige’s heart hurt in a weird, intimate way. she’s everywhere, burrowed in every surface and corner of paige’s life and she didn’t know if it was a good thing or if it was genuinely gonna kill her.

and yeah, maybe paige has been subtly flirting since that plane ride back to minnesota, but that was all in the past. when she didn’t have the confidence she did now, before all the nights they spent getting to know each other, before she had confidence that azzi felt the same way.

now, they were older. they had their own space, their own schedule, their own life.

now, paige wants.

achingly, embarrassingly, and disgustingly desperate in the middle school crush kind of way.

and honestly, she thinks she deserves some kinda recognition cause she’s really been trying here.

she brought up azzi’s boxes the second her car pulled in. helped build her furniture, even when it gave her splinters and a mild breakdown. she complimented her every chance she got during practice—sweet, casual comments laced with a longing she hoped azzi might finally pick up on.

“you look pretty with your hair like that.” she had said after a team workout, paige pressed up azzi’s side. the younger had braided strands of her hair back into a soft crown. and despite being sweaty and flushed, still she looked like something straight out of a daydream. it was unfair really.

azzi barely blinked. “thanks, paigey,” she said, casual and light, chugging her water before patting paige’s knee like she was a dog who just did a trick.

what the fuck?

she tries to ignore the flare of annoyance at the nickname, remembering how she only called her that when they wanted to tease each other or piss each other off a little.

but she tried again, a little braver. a little more direct.

“no seriously, az. did i ever tell you how pretty you are?”

this time, azzi looked a bit startled.

paige thought, finally. she’s catching on. she sees it.

see me. please see me.

“i literally look like shit paige.” she rolled her eyes playfully as her attention drifted, pulled toward caroline laughing over a dumb tiktok.

paige blinked, trying to ignore the sting behind her eyelids and the pang of hurt that bubbled in her chest.

azzi: 1, paige: 0

—

two.

can you figure me out? just doin’ to waste more time on the couch.

the second time paige really tries was their second year together, and she thinks she actually might lose her mind. or kill someone. or both.

they’ve found their rhythm now. azzi wakes up first, padding into paige’s dorm with her hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands, whispering “wake up” like it’s a secret just for them. then it’s morning runs, team practice, and a stop at 7/11 for their excuse of a breakfast: beef jerky, chocolate milk, and whatever chip brand they were currently obsessed with that week. afterwards, they head back to paige’s dorm to shower and complain and half-nap before dragging themselves to class.

they were practically stuck to the hip, even having their night routine together down. after class and any obligation they had for a day, it was almost an unwritten rule between the two that they would take turns sleeping over at each other’s dorm, eating sugary snacks that cd would absolutely murder them for eating and passing out during a movie, limbs intertwined and breathing in sync.

it’s predictable. sacred. comforting. theirs.

and if paige’s heart stuttered a little every time azzi leaned into her side on the walk to class, or when their hands brushed accidentally-on-purpose at the vending machine – well. she told herself it was normal. it was fine. they were best friends.

the team had a name for it. they called it “the thing.” paige and azzi’s thing. a relationship that wasn’t a relationship, but also very much was. an entire ecosystem of soft looks, inside jokes, and brush-of-the-hand flirts.

and yeah paige would elbow whoever said it out loud, but everyone knew.

azzi fudd was untouchable. off-limits. claimed.

and paige bueckers?

hopeless. head over heart, down bad.

–

that night, they go out to celebrate the start of the season. just the team, their partners, and a plan to let loose before their lives get swallowed by the practice, travel and press they’ve grown to be thankful for yet still despise. they’re at some packed bar with too-loud music and neon lighting, and paige is already two drinks in when azzi slides up next to her, cheeks flushed and eyes bright from laughter.

“hey, stranger,” azzi says, nudging her shoulder. “been looking for you.”

paige blinks, thrown off for half a second. her pulse spikes. “yeah?” she asks, teasing, turning toward her fully. “you miss me or something?”

azzi doesn’t answer, just grins while she looks up at paige.

paige doesn’t know if she's turned on or in pain.

cause azzi looks good. a simple crop top that showed smooth skin, mascara that accentuated the brown eyes paige has been wanting, needing, begging for.

azzi looked like sin.

“you’re glowing,” paige says, voice low and soft like she means it. because she does. god, she does.

azzi just snorts. “it’s the vodka soda.”

paige grins and leans closer, breath warm against her ear as her lips brush the skin ever so slightly. “nah, it’s just you.”

azzi laughs, easy and bright, like paige’s words are harmless. like they don’t mean everything.

“you’re so drunk, paige.”

“am not!” paige says, pouting now, bumping their knees together. “but even if i was, i’d still say you’re the prettiest person here.”

azzi paused for a second, lips apart and an unreadable look in her eyes and for a second, paige indulges – lets herself embrace the dangerous hope bubbling up in her chest.

her heart actually stutters.

but then azzi giggles, ruffles her hair, and sips her drink.

“you’re actually ridiculous.”

like paige is a joke. a pet. a harmless, harmless crush.

paige laughs along, like her chest didn’t just cave in a little. she turns to aubrey and joins in their conversation, pretending not to feel the slow, quiet crack deep inside her.

still, she tries. because she’s stubborn. because azzi’s worth it. because maybe, just maybe, there’s still a chance. she sticks by the younger’s side, buying their drinks, slipping her water every now and then, slipping her arm around azzi’s waist lightly like it was the most natural thing in the world – like paige’s arm belonged there

god, it does. and maybe that’s what made it worse.

because maybe that’s the problem. maybe it’s too easy. too natural. maybe paige’s touches don’t register as more because they’ve always lived in this space between friendship and something deeper. a line that azzi never seems to notice, even as paige teeters right on the edge.

nonetheless, she stays close, whispering dumb jokes in azzi’s ear just to see those deep dimples and her melodic laugh that for some reason, paige could never get sick of. she lets her fingers linger, lets her eyes do the talking. flirts with a kind of quiet desperation.

and azzi? she just smiles, taking the affection like it's casual. like paige isn’t holding her breath every time she reaches for her hand.

and paige? she doesn’t know what the hell is happening.

maybe azzi was just so comfortable in their friendship she didn’t second guess paige’s motives, and god paige would feel really fucking terrible if that was the case. or maybe she felt the same and was scared to show?

or if azzi knew what she was doing, and cared about their friendship and the team to let her down.

fuck.

still, paige believes. there has to be something behind the way azzi always comes to her—her dorm, her bed, her arms. the way her cheeks flush across the court when their eyes meet. that has to mean something. it has to.

maybe, just maybe, there’s still a chance.

so paige heads to the bar, heart buoyed by vodka and stubborn hope, intent on grabbing them one more round. she’s halfway through ordering when she glances over her shoulder and freezes.

azzi’s still at their table, but she’s not alone.

beside azzi, perfect azzi with her stupidly pretty cheekbones and stupidly pretty smile and stupidly perfect curls sat a guy. tall, muscular, with dark, unruly curls that fall over his eyebrows and clear blue eyes. and he’s close—too close. his hand rests casually at her waist like it belongs there. like he belongs there.

and the worst part?

azzi was laughing, her smile wide and effortless. her posture relaxed. her body tilted just slightly toward him, just enough to say she’s interested. just enough to hurt.

oh.

and suddenly, the cool bar was too warm, and she could feel her throat dry.

her grip tightens on the edge of the bar, knuckles white. it’s too hot, too loud, too much. her chest aches. her throat is suddenly dry. she watches as azzi brushes a curl behind her ear, the way she always does when she’s flustered or shy. she’s seen that look a hundred times.

she used to think that look was meant for her.

fuck, she was gonna be sick. all over this disgusting counter top.

she turns back to the bartender, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“just one drink,” she says quietly. “for me.”

she doesn’t go back to the table right away. instead, she finds a quiet corner near the back of the bar and lets the music drown out the sting of everything. her drink sits untouched in her hand, condensation running down the sides as she blinks back the sudden burn in her eyes.

maybe she has been ridiculous. maybe azzi’s been this close all this time, and paige never actually had her.

she physically shook her thoughts away like they pained her.

cause honestly? they really did.

“caroline!” she calls out, voice hoarse from emotion and noise. “i’m heading back. tell azzi if she asks.” she ignores the way her friend’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“paige, what-”

she slams the glass down the counter too harshly, weird glances thrown at the sudden noise. but she couldn’t bring herself to care as she marches down the dance floor to the exit.

past the dance floor, past the tables, ignoring the curious glances and concerned stares from her friends, chest hollow.

she doesn’t look back.

the worst part?

azzi doesn’t either.

later that night, azzi pushes open the door to paige’s dorm, adrenaline still buzzing from the night out. she expects the usual: paige half-asleep on her bed, tv playing something they’ve seen a dozen times, snacks scattered across the sheets.

but she stops short.

paige was curled up on the couch, her blanket pulled high over her shoulders like armor. small, still, silent.

which only meant one thing.

paige didn’t want to sleep beside azzi tonight.

didn’t want to see her.

and that realization hits harder than it should.

—

three.

can you see me? i’m waiting for the right time. i can’t read you but if you want the pleasure’s all mine. can you see me using everything to hold back?

–

they never talk about it.

not the distance.

not the moment at the bar.

not the way paige disappeared and never came back to the table, like vanishing would make the ache disappear too.

the tension settles between them like a fog, quiet and dense, too thick to cut through. it lingers in the way paige stops cracking as many jokes. in how her texts come a little slower, a little shorter. how she starts replying with one emoji instead of three. it lives in the space between their shoulders when they sit next to each other on the locker room bench. it’s invisible, but it’s everywhere.

and yeah, maybe it stung, but paige was nothing if not loyal.

and maybe stupidly in love.

so she lets it go. or at least tries to.

a week after the bar, she invites azzi over like nothing happened. like she didn’t feel her heart splinter watching someone else touch what she’d spent years silently longing for. she says everything she usually says, they start their routine again like nothing had happened. hell, she even starts touching azzi again.

platonically, of course.

they slip back into routine. barely. paige tells herself it’s fine. and when she let herself touch azzi again, people noticed the scripted familiarity in place of actual closeness.

everyone sees the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. the way she pulls out of azzi’s hugs a beat too early. how she watches azzi like she’s memorizing something she’s about to lose.

everyone could feel that something had changed. that the bar broke something open.

because that night didn’t just sting. it splintered something deep and raw inside her.

watching azzi laugh with someone else didn’t just hurt, it shattered her.

except azzi.

azzi who lived in her own world, who apparently, was the most oblivious person in the planet. azzi who smiled at paige like she hung the stars but never saw paige quietly looking, no, admiring her in the locker room after each game. azzi, who dances in paige’s orbit, always just close enough to warm her but never close enough to hold.

paige doesn’t know what it is—if it’s her, if it’s the way she loves too hard, too quietly. but no matter how badly she’s been hurt, she can’t bring herself to leave. it’s like gravity. like she’s caught in azzi’s orbit and doesn’t know how to break free.

and yeah, maybe the love of her life was painfully oblivious. or maybe she just didn’t reciprocate her feelings. paige tried not to think about the latter for too long or else she would actually have a breakdown and never stop.

so she stays.

and she tries.

and as she looks at herself in the mirror with her hair in her signature game day braids and ponytail. she takes a deep breath trying to gather every piece of her heart and soul she could bear.

one last time.

and this time, she’s not gonna hold back. she’s gonna get a reaction – an answer.

one last time, no holding back.

–

from the second they step into the locker room, paige is already reaching for her.

trying like her heart didn’t shatter just a few weeks ago, like she didn’t feel absolutely bat shit terriffied. and frankly, that she didn’t feel a little exhausted of the constant rejection that wasn’t rejection? maybe? who the fuck knows at this point.

her eyes find azzi as soon as they broke their team huddle, coach going over their strategy and his usual “don’t fuck up” talk.

and it should be a crime really, how azzi managed to look absolutely radiant under the fluorescent lights, her headphones on and hoodie pulled over her head. her long lashes brushed her cheeks as she scrolled through her phone, probably trying to find a playlist to blast before they start their shoot around.

she walks straight up to her like a magnet being pulled in.

paige bumps their shoulders together, “you’re walking around lookin’ too pretty, gonna distract everyone from the game.” she said slowly, her eyes locked on azzi’s with everything she’s too scared to say aloud.

she didn’t expect much, she’s been knowing this was gonna absolutely crush her. so really, it was only a slight sting in her heart when azzi laughed dismissively, “you’re the one with thousands of thirst edits under her belt, be serious.”

paige masked it all with a smirk, “i’m always serious.” she leaned in closer, making sure the distance between their body screamed anything but platonic, “especially when it comes to you.”

they were close. closer than paige had ever dared trying. she could feel azzi’s breath stutter and see the telling pink slowly colour her cheeks.

and god, she really was down bad. cause after all the heartache she’s been through, she still finds her heart stuttering at the sight.

nearby, kk hears it and mutters under her breath to caroline, “god, she’s trying so hard.”

caroline raises an eyebrow from across the court. “do you think azzi knows?” she whispers.

“no,” aubrey sighs. “and it’s kinda sad. i’m starting to feel bad for paige.”

“starting?” caroline mutters. “girl’s been down bad since freshman year.”

paige ignores them all.

her focus is zeroed in on azzi,s tanding so close and still somehow so out of reach.

who had the nerve to fucking giggle like paige hadn’t just casually flirted like her whole heart wasn’t in it. like it was just another day.

paige wanted to die.

it stings. again.

but she pushes through.

they run through warmups and shooting drills. paige’s eyes keep drifting. her fingers brush azzi’s when they stretch side-by-side, and her breath hitches every time their arms bump. she laughs louder around her. lingers longer.

and this time, she means to be obvious.

because tonight, she’s tired of guessing. tired of almosts. tired of being brave in a way that doesn’t count.

so the moment coach’s final pregame huddle breaks, paige tugs azzi’s wrist gently and pulls her just outside the tunnel, into the quiet shadow of the hallway.

“hey,” she says, eyes soft and unreadable.

azzi tilts her head. “what’s up?”

paige hesitates. her fingers tremble at her sides, heart knocking against her ribs so loudly she swears azzi can hear it. she opens her mouth. closes it. opens it again.

“i like you,” she blurts. “no, i love you.”

azzi blinks.

paige pushes forward, voice steadier, “i love you, azzi. like, can’t think straight, can’t breathe right kind of love. like, every time you walk into a room, it’s like my entire world resets around you. and i’ve been trying to push it away, really i have. but i just… i just need to know.”

and then.

azzi laughs.

paige’s chest drops.

“paige,” azzi says, bumping her shoulder like it’s all one big inside joke. “you’re so dramatic. is this like… one of your locker room speeches? you tryna pump me up before tip-off?”

“no,” paige says, voice low, raw. “i’m not kidding.”

but azzi’s already turning back toward the court, pulling her arm gently. “c’mon, let’s go. we’re gonna be late.”

paige stays frozen.

she watches azzi jog ahead, her ponytail swaying behind her, completely unaware of what she just did.

and just like that.

paige thinks that was her answer.

—

the game goes on. and paige plays like a woman possessed.

she’s on fire from the jump. every three-pointer hits. every steal turns into a fast break. she’s moving with a kind of controlled rage that the opposing team can’t figure out how to contain. she drops twenty by the half. thirty by the fourth. and when the final buzzer sounds and uconn takes the win, the whole bench erupts.

the locker room is chaotic joy. music blaring. gatorade everywhere. aubrey filming a live stream. kk’s dancing in the corner. even geno cracks a smile.

paige doesn’t. doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even spare a glance at her team mates.

she slams her locker shut so hard that it echoes, the metallic clang slicing through the music.

everyone goes quiet.

“paige?” caroline calls.

but paige doesn’t answer. doesn’t look at anyone. just grabs her bag and storms out of the room, jaw clenched, eyes stinging.

and still – she doesn’t let the tears fall.

not yet.

a beat of stunned silence.

“…what just happened?” ines asks.

azzi’s still pulling off her shoes, confused. “she’s probably just mad about something else.”

“mad?” aubrey echoes, incredulous.

“yeah,” azzi shrugs, unbothered. “she pulled me aside earlier and said she was in love with me or something. tried to make it all deep and dramatic.”

the room falls completely silent.

caroline drops the water bottle she’s holding.

“what.” aubrey said lowly, as if she didn’t know if azzi was being serious or not.

azzi blinks. “what?”

“azzi,” caroline groans. “that wasn’t a joke.”

“you can’t be serious,” aubrey mutters.

“she’s been in love with you forever,” caroline says, exasperated. “how do you not know that?”

azzi’s smile falters.

“that was her confessing,” caroline says, stepping forward. “god, azzi. you haven’t noticed how down she’s been every since that night at the bar? when you were flirting with a guy in front of her?”

the bar?

azzi feels a flare of confusion and guilt, remembering at how shrunken and small paige had looked that night. when she entered her dorm to a sleeping paige.

“no, i–” azzi starts, suddenly unsure.

“she’s been trying for weeks,” she continues, “you think paige – the one who consistently begged you to come here just so she could play with you, the one who literally will not let you carry anything heavier than a fucking newborn, the paige that’s been loyal and lovey dovey to you for years now – you think that paige bueckers flirts like that with anyone?”

azzi’s breath catches.

and there it is.

that moment.

that horrible, gut-wrenching, oh.

the realization that she misunderstood everything.

that what she thought was playful banter was actually someone – paige – her best friend, handing over her heart.

and she didn’t know whether she should cry or sit and marvel at the realisation that paige liked her.

paige likes her. azzi.

“i… i didn’t know,” azzi says quietly, voice suddenly small.

aubrey sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. “well, now you do.”

and somewhere down the hallway, past the chaos and celebration and confusion—paige is gone.

and this time?

azzi feels the distance.

and she’s terrified it’s final.

–

four. – azzi’s one.

i don’t wanna be forward, i don’t wanna cut corners.

savour this with everything i have inside of me.

—

azzi doesn’t sleep that night.

her bed feels unfamiliar. hollow. the faint scent of paige’s body wash lingers in the sheets, like even her bed misses her.

she couldn’t remember the last time she fell asleep without someone warm beside her. without soft whispers, or a weight curled into her side. without paige. without the quiet reassurance of her presence, the grounding comfort of her voice when azzi’s thoughts got too loud.

and god, how could she be so dense? how did she miss the ache in her chest when paige was an inch too far? how did she miss the giddiness she felt when paige’s eyes zeroed in on her? the way she saw her, really saw her, and not who people wanted her to be.

paige. of course it’s paige.

she loves paige.

of course she does.

the paige who had stuck with her through sweaty practices, sticky summer visits, mental breakdowns and insecurity that came with her acl injury. the paige that was the first to compliment her form and the first to give her pointers on how to improve. the paige that was so gentle with her it practically ached, but the first to make a stupid joke just to see her laugh.

the paige who’s been her constant. her person.

the paige who was so beautiful she had been pushing herself so far. that maybe if she tried hard enough to pretend that this was all a joke, that what she felt was just a silly crush – a figment of her teenage, hormone filled brain, that she could stay in the safety zone they called friendship.

but instead, she ruined it.

her phone sits heavy in her hand now, the screen dimming in and out of sleep. paige’s name glows at the top of their empty thread.

she keeps typing. deleting. typing again.

paige i’m sorry.

can we talk?

please.

call me back, please p.

nothing. no bubbles, no typing, not even a read.

nothing.

and now it all clicks into place: the way paige would pull her closer, only to retreat the moment azzi leaned in. the way her jokes hid something deeper. the way she looked at azzi like she was scared of being seen, but more afraid of being invisible.

god. she’s been breaking paige’s heart without even knowing.

and paige had still tried. had still stayed.

the silence feels like punishment.

cause fuck, she’d been so sweet. she’d been patient with her and she laughed? brushed it off like it meant nothing.

fuck, she really messed up this time.

azzi sits up in bed, blanket around her shoulders, and finally lets the tears fall.

“i didn’t know,” she whispers to no one. “i didn’t know, i didn’t know, i didn’t know.”

but that doesn’t stop the image of paige’s face from playing on repeat. that look in her eyes when she said i love you. the way her voice broke. the way she stood still while azzi walked away. the way her voice broke, the way her hands stayed at her sides like she was bracing for rejection.

and azzi gave it to her.

and now all azzi wants is to run back.

–

it’s raining when azzi stirs.

she doesn’t remember when she fell asleep. the night stretched on like a nightmare, and it was clear she was dragged through it and back. her face felt sticky with smeared mascara and tears, her hair still in her game day braids, now frizzy and messy.

she couldn’t find it in her to even care.

she throws on a hoodie – paige’s, she realizes when the familiar scent hits her, and her chest cracks open all over again.

she walks across campus in her hoodie and slides, socks soaked, barely feeling the cold. her heart’s pounding so hard she thinks she might puke. she doesn’t even stop to think, just walks straight to paige’s dorm, praying she’s there.

she knocks once.

twice.

then harder.

“paige,” her voice is shaky. she tries to steady it but fails. “paige, please. can you open the door?”

nothing.

and azzi can’t even blame her. but still, she feels her heart crack a little more.

“i know i don’t deserve anything more.” azzi starts, sniffling as she attempts to steady herself. “i get it, i wouldn’t wanna talk to me either after… everything.”

she leans her forehead against the door, her voice cracking.

“i just wanted to say, i’m sorry. i’m sorry i kept pushing you away. i’m sorry i didn’t let myself feel.” azzi’s hands were trembling at this point.

but no.

paige has always been the brave one.

paige loved her, even when azzi didn’t make it easy.

paige gave and gave and gave.

and now it’s azzi’s turn to give something back.

“i didn’t let myself believe it was real because… i think i’ve been in love with you too, and i was scared.”

a beat.

and then another.

“you’ve been in my life for so long, and you’ve always been this… bright, golden thing. and i thought if i let myself feel it, i’d lose you.”

her voice drops to a whisper, tears sliding down her cheeks.

“and i don’t know. maybe i already did. but i don’t wanna lose you paige. i can’t.” she couldn’t help the soft sob that leaves her mouth as she crumples to the floor.

she sniffles, wiping her sleeve across her face. “i’m sorry i laughed. i was nervous and caught off guard and i didn’t mean to make you feel like that. if i could go back and do it over, i’d tell you the second you looked at me that i’ve been so stupid in love with you too.”

for a moment, all she hears is her breathing.

god, she must look so pathetic right now.

but then.

a click.

the door opens.

paige, in the hoodie azzi has stolen a hundred times, eyes swollen and glassy. her expression folds at the sight of her, and azzi can barely breathe.

“azzi.”

and god, azzi doesn’t know how to handle this. the way paige breathed out her name, like it was the only thing keeping her alive. like she was her everything.

like she was in love.

“you mean it?” she says, voice barely a whisper.

azzi nods through her tears, already standing, already stepping into her arms. “i mean it. every word.”

and then paige’s arms are around her, warm and trembling and so desperately needed. azzi wraps herself into her like she was always meant to be there, like it’s the only thing that makes sense. she lets herself inhale paige’s scent, lets herself burrow her face into the blonde’s chest like she’s always wanted to do.

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.” azzi rambles before she could pull herself back, shaking as paige pulls her tighter.

“i know. i know, baby.”

fuck.

azzi looks up, gazing into the blue eyes she’s known for forever.

and she looks, really looks.

and maybe it’s the nickname, or the rain, or the way paige still holds her like she’s everything, she has absolutely no fucking clue.

but her body knows before her brain can catch up.

her fingers reach up to cradle paige’s jaw, soft and hesitant at first. she lets her thumb brush the damp curve of her cheek, tracing the warmth of skin that’s always felt like home. and paige just gazes down, awe in her blue eyes – and doesn’t pull away. and when she leans into the touch like she’s been starved for it, azzi moves closer, closer, until there’s no space left between them.

her breath stutters. her heart’s in her throat.

and then she closes the distance.

it’s not perfect. it’s messy and tear-slicked and trembling. their lips crash more than meet at first, azzi’s hand shaking as it curls around the back of paige’s neck, as if afraid she’ll disappear.

but she doesn’t.

she stays, rooted in place at first, as if she couldn’t believe this was happening. like this was another one of her dreams and she was terrified to wake up.

but then she melts.

she melts into azzi like she’s been waiting for this forever. like she’s been holding her breath for years and finally, she’s allowed to exhale.

the kiss deepens, slow and aching. paige lets herself soften under azzi’s fingertips, lets her hand wander to the younger’s waist as she pulls her closer, the kiss turning eager yet desperate. she kisses her like azzi is the only thing in the world that makes sense. like this is everything she’s ever wanted.

it feels like breathing for the first time.

like finally coming home.

when they finally pull apart, foreheads pressed together, breaths shared in the quiet space between them, azzi’s hand is still resting over paige’s heart.

azzi feels herself smile, “so, we’re okay?”

and god, paige feels herself fall deeper.

“we’re more than okay,” paige says, smiling for the first time in days. “but next time i confess my love, can you maybe not laugh in my face?”

azzi groans, burying her face in paige’s neck. “i will never live that down, huh.”

“not a chance.”

and when they finally close the door behind them, curling up together in the quiet warmth of paige’s room, it feels like everything that’s been aching finally finds peace.

and this time, no one’s holding back.

—

ps: talk to me thru the inbox w your thoughts :) makes me so happy after posting a fic to see reactions hehe

[snail-day]

Kiss The Fish

Based off of this little blurb I did a while back <3

Yandere Siren! Gojo x Blind! Reader

TW: Yandere, Monsterfucking (two of them? tentacle like?), Cream pie, dubcon/noncon, body horror, gore, open ending, drowning, power imbalance, Death, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

WC: 6k

a/n: thank you @eevwrites for staying up late and yapping about this with me (and for playing minecraft while we yap <33) I hope you get the best sleepies in the world.

The last thing you remember before being swallowed whole by the icy Pacific was a push.

Not a stumble. Not some tragic misstep. A sharp, deliberate shove between your shoulder blades that sent you lurching forward into nothing.

Air was torn from your lungs before you even hit the water.

Your scream—high, broken, instinctual—shattered against the wind as you flailed, hands slicing through space. There was nothing to cling to. No railing. No mercy. Just the flutter of your ridiculous dress, too many ruffles, far too many bows, the weight of the fabric blooming outward like a funeral wreath as gravity dragged you down.

Down, down, down.

The water. It didn’t embrace you. Instead, it devoured you. Freezing and fast, it surged into every crevice—your nose, ears, mouth, anywhere it could reach. Your body convulsed from the shock, muscles seizing as icy tendrils coiled around your limbs, yanking you deeper into the obsidian belly of the ocean. There was no up or down. No light to orient yourself by. Just a cold so sharp it felt like knives against your skin.

You couldn’t see. You never could. But here, in the deep, it was different.

It wasn’t just darkness—it was nothingness.

Blindness on land meant familiarity. The warmth of your room. The soft echo of your breath. The subtle brush of breeze through the window.

 But this?

This was a vast, voiceless void. A pressure-cooked silence. A sensory grave. You didn’t know which way was the surface. Which way meant life?

Or which was meant to be death. 

You kicked, desperate. Clawed through water too thick to move in. Bubbles streamed from your lips like tiny screams, and still you sank. Panic howled inside your skull, thundering louder than the boat’s fading engine. You tried to remember how drowning worked - wasn’t there a moment where you blacked out? Where the pain stopped?

The cold chewed through your nerves. Your chest ached, lungs locked in an unbearable vice, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth. You thrashed, weightless and leaden all at once, your heartbeat a deafening war drum in your ears.

And then something touched you. 

Brushed against your ankle.

Too warm and sentient. It coiled around your leg like a serpent, slick and possessive.

Your mind screamed louder than your body ever could. Adrenaline surged in one final, useless wave: fight or flight. But you couldn’t fight, and you couldn’t flee. All you could do was feel.

Arms wrapped around you — solid, strong, inhuman.

Not cold. Not like the water. No, this was a heat that radiated into your bones, cradling you like a lover, lifting your limp body with agonizing gentleness. Hands - clawed, maybe - pressing you close to a chest that thrummed with something alien and melodic.

You were being carried.

Up. Or down. You couldn’t tell. You could never tell.

Were you still dying? Was this death? Were you hallucinating some mythical savior in your final moments? Something old and godlike from the sea?

You think you felt a tail. It curled and shimmered through the water like silk, bracing you tighter against something solid.

You suddenly felt something rough against your skin, sand, it scraped against your palms as you were laid down —  the shore, warm and coarse and real. You coughed violently, bile and salt and sea pouring from your lips in heaves. Your ribs burned. Your lungs clawed for air.

There were sounds now — real ones. Waves. Wind. The ragged sob of your breath. And something else.

Flapping.  Not wings. Fins? Something slick and heavy shifting just beside you.

You curled inward instinctively, salt-stiff dress sticking to your legs, the weight of it dragging at your limbs like seaweed. Your hands trembled as they tried to find purchase in the sand. Your mind reeled. Still blind and helpless. Still something’s prey.

But then — a touch.

Wet fingers grazed your cheek again. Long, reverent. A thumb ghosting under your eye, almost like it missed you. As if it had longed for you. A claw caught briefly on your skin — not enough to cut, but enough to remind you. It wasn’t human.

And neither, perhaps, were you anymore.

Warm breath fanned over your mouth. Close. So close. Your lips parted without thinking, tasting salt and something else. Something sweet and sea-born. Something his.

“...Thank you,” you rasped, voice nothing more than salt-burned air.

Silence followed.

And then finally, a hiss. Drawn out. Fragile. Starving. Not angry — at least, not yet. Just yearning.

And then it all shattered.

The thunder of boots on sand.  The crackle of dry seaweed under heavy feet. The roar of men cheering. A voice like rusted knives, thick with blood and fish oil and stale wine. Your father.

“The siren,” he breathed, awed. “You caught it.”

Caught?

Slender hands seized you next before you could think more on your father’s words. Delicate only in size, but not in touch. You knew her — one of the housemaids. She smelled like lavender soap and liniments used for scrubbing backs. Her fingers were cold, her grip clinical.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, dearie,” she murmured. Not unkind. But distant. Oblivious.

You were lifted roughly. Boneless in her arms, your soaked dress clinging like dead weight. Hair matted across your face. Lips split and slack. Your limbs swayed with every jarring step she took —  legs dangling, knees bumping against her hips.

And from the surf — he screamed.

A sound that did not belong on land. A noise that split open the air like lightning through rotted wood. Not pain or even fury. Something older. Hollow. Ancient.

And then came the metal. The rattle of chains. The dry hiss of nets. The guttural commands of armed men thick with salt and ego.  Shouts of strategy turned into panic.

“Harpoons — now!”

“Hold him down, he’s - he’s not —”

“Jesus Christ, what is that thing — ”

The air turned metallic. Heavy. The scent of copper and salt and him filled your nose like smoke before a firestorm.

Ripping.

You heard it. Felt it in your chest.  The wet, sickening tear of flesh split apart. The squelch of something soft and vital spilling onto the sand.

The maid’s hands clenched tighter. Her nails dug crescents into your skin. Her breath came faster. She started to run.

Those screams.

Not sharp anymore. But gargled. Choking. Drowning in their own blood.

And above it all, the low, keening hum of something monstrous. A sound no human throat could ever replicate. Beautiful. Terrifying. Your heart pounded like it might crack your ribs. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body knew before your mind could catch up —  something beautiful and horrific was behind you. Something not meant to be seen.

The maid hissed, as if realizing you were listening too hard.

“Be thankful you’re blind,” she whispered.

And for the first time in your life. 

You were.

Because you didn’t see the way he moved. Didn’t see the way his mouth unhinged. Didn’t see the bones he snapped like a twig or how the blood sprayed across the surf in thick, arterial arcs.

Didn’t see the smile.

But you sure felt it.

Every step the maid took trembled under the weight of it. You felt her flinch when something wet hit her back.  You heard a body collapse, still twitching, not far behind.

There, on the blood-soaked beach. He waited.  In the aftermath of the slaughter. In the salt-slick cradle of death.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

A small part of you had sunk inward long before you sank into the bath.

Now, half-limp in the scalding porcelain tub, you sat in silence while a new maid—young, quiet, smelling faintly of chamomile and starch—worked her fingers gently through your hair. Her hands were steady, but you could feel the tension in them, like she didn’t quite want to touch you.

You didn’t blame her.

The water had long since cooled from soothing to lukewarm, but you hadn’t moved. You let it swallow your body, inch by inch, up to your chin. Your fingertips had gone pruned. Your spine ached. Your throat still burned from salt and screaming.

The scent of blood clung to you, despite the scrubbing.

Despite everything.

Your father had come back.

Not quietly, and surely not clean.

You heard him retching in the next room. Heard the thick splatter of bile against tile, the wheezing gasps of a man whose stomach had turned itself inside out from guilt, grief, or perhaps just the stench of what he’d witnessed.

He didn’t say much when he staggered past the door — just offered a few garbled apologies. Maybe to you. Maybe to some half-forgotten god. Maybe to himself.

But at the end of it all, he lived.

He lived.

When twenty others didn’t. When blood soaked the beach like high tide. When something divine and dreadful rose from the surf and punished every hand that tried to pull you away.

You turned your face slightly toward the door, your voice still too hoarse to speak aloud.

Why him?

Why was he spared?

Out of everyone on that crew—strong, cruel, and desperate men—he was the only one left gasping on the shoreline. Shaking. Pale. Alive.

And you had a feeling. A terrible feeling. It wasn’t mercy. It was scent.

Yours.  

His.

You shared blood. Skin. Smell. Something primal. Maybe that was enough to keep your father breathing. Or perhaps, the creature in the water hadn’t spared your father out of grace. Maybe mercy had nothing to do with it.

It took nearly a month for things to return to a version of normal. Not true normal — not the warm, salty kind that clung to your skin after sunbathing, or the familiar creak of dockwood beneath your shoes — but something brittle. Fragile. Like a painting of normalcy stretched too thin over something dark and wet and unspeakable.

The beach was off-limits for weeks. You’d ask quietly, and your requests would be met with stammered refusals, soft curses, and sharp silences.

No walks. No wandering.  No tapping your cane along the pier. And certainly not alone.

Your father wouldn’t speak to you as much. Dinners were now quiet. His voice, once booming and sure, had dulled into a rasp. You could hear it catch in his throat like a hook when he thought you were asleep — prayers muttered to gods he hadn’t believed in before, hands shaking with what he claimed was fatigue but smelled like guilt.

When he returned from that cursed night, it was with blood crusted under his nails and a stench that clung to his skin for days. He brought no crew with him. Only the memory of the beach turned battlefield.

The authorities said there wasn’t enough evidence. The accounts were too conflicting. Too surreal.

Only one thing saved him: the maid.

The girl who dragged you off the shore, half-conscious, while the sea behind you boiled with screams. She testified. She lied. Beautifully. It was said that the storm had come in fast. Said the men panicked. That they’d drowned. That your father had saved you.

No one questioned her too deeply. No one wanted to know the truth.

And when the rumors cooled — when curiosity waned and fear became background noise — you were allowed to return.

Daylight only.

Never alone.

But you found a window. A moment. A lull in supervision.

The breeze was soft when you stepped onto the familiar path, cane in hand. The gentle tap-tap of its tip brushing the boardwalk comforted you, even as the stillness pressed in from all sides. The sand was warm beneath your soles. The breeze carried the same scent it always had — brine, distant saltweed, the breath of something old and watchful out beyond the rocks.

But something was missing.

No fishermen calling to one another or the creak of nets drawn tight with the morning’s catch. Not even the hum of boats lapping against the dock, thick with engine oil and fish blood.

Just silence. Thick, expectant silence. They were all out at sea, the rumors said. Hunting. Hoping to capture what your father failed to, or avenge those who never came back.

You found your way to the edge of the dock, your cane dipping once against the final plank before you lowered yourself to sit. Carefully. Cautiously.

Your dress bunched awkwardly at your hips. The hem hung limp, brushing the wooden slats. You let your legs dangle over the edge, the water licking just beneath your shoes.

And there, with the sun high and the shore silent, you felt it.

Not quite a touch or a sound, but the feeling of a presence. A weight that pressed against your back like the heat of a stare. The kind of attention that tightens your breath. That makes your throat dry. The kind that doesn’t feel threatening — not exactly. Just… knowing.

You stiffened. You gripped your cane tighter.

It could’ve been anxiety or even the wind. Perhaps, the memory of blood-soaked sand and the screams you never saw.

But it felt specific. Personal.

And then, without warning, the water beneath your feet shifted. Not violently. Not enough to splash. But enough to ripple. Enough to feel. A current brushed up against the dock post. A shiver licked across your ankle. Barely a whisper. Like a fingertip. Or perhaps a breath. 

And in the stillness, in that space between heartbeat and breath. 

You knew you weren’t alone.

The creature—your savior, your curse—had never left. Waiting.

You heard it first. A splash. Small. Intentional. Too precise to be the tide. Water stirred beneath your dangling feet, rippling gently, reverently, like the sea itself was exhaling just for you.

A hand, wet and cool, brushed against your ankle. The sensation made your breath catch. You didn’t recoil. You should have. But the contact was cautious, almost hesitant. Curious.

You could feel the texture of it: The webbing between long fingers. The faint resistance of slick skin. The subtle drag of scaled flesh against your calf, the way it clung like velvet soaked in salt.

And then—his voice. A sound so low and sorrowful it nearly unraveled you. “I missed you.” A whine, cracked at the edges. Yearnful. Soft. Like a child left out in the cold. Like something that didn’t know how to be anything other than lonely. His voice draped itself over your shoulders like a blanket of warm fog, soothing, silken, just a little too perfect.

You shivered. Not from cold. From the way his voice pulled at you.

That’s what sirens do, don’t they? Lure. Lull. Captivate.

Or so you’ve read.

Your knowledge was limited to what little information your fingers could find pressed into Braille pages. Most academic papers weren’t keen on accessibility. Myths don’t translate easily. Neither do monsters.

And yet — he did. Every syllable of his voice seemed designed to bypass logic. He didn’t speak so much as sing. A song without melody. A hum beneath his words that resonated somewhere deep in your ribs, like a forgotten chord being struck in your soul.

You opened your mouth, unsure if it was to scream or to respond. But no sound came.

Just the fragile press of breath against your lips. Just him, half in water, half in shadow.

You couldn’t see his face.

But you didn’t need to.

Not when you could feel the devotion in the way he touched you, like a man in prayer, reverent and trembling. His fingertips, half-wet, half-scaled, ghosted over your skin with the care of someone handling something sacred.

And you knew.

He hadn’t just missed you. He had ached.

“...You missed me?” you asked softly, breath catching in your throat.

There was a pause. Then the feeling of hair brushing against your calf, slick, heavy strands brushing against your leg as he leaned in, pressing the curve of his face against your calf like he was trying to memorize the shape of you all over again. A sigh left him content and broken.

Then came the kisses.

A trail of them. Quick, warm, damp down your shin, over your ankle, to the very tips of your toes. Little presses of lips, too eager, too desperate, like he didn’t care how strange or humiliating the act was.

You flinched, instinctively trying to pull back, only to feel a sharp pinch, a claw digging into your skin, just enough to stop you. Not enough to pierce — yet.

He didn’t lift his head.

“Mmm?” he hummed, a low vibration in your bones, amusement curling like smoke through every syllable. “You ask as if you don’t know.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. A wet, sticky joy.

“You torment me,” he whispered. “Bewitched me. How cruel of you… to make something like me weak.”

The last word hit like a bruise. But you wouldn’t use the word weak to describe him.

Never him.

Not when the sea had screamed for him.

Not when twenty men had died on the beach.

Not when your father still woke in the night, gasping your name and whispering his.

He wasn’t weak; instead, he was just starved.

For you.

“You’re confused,” was all you managed, the words small, almost a laugh—bitter at the edges. A weak protest. A failing defense.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort…”

But he didn’t like that.

The claw at your leg sank deeper, just enough to warn. Enough to draw a sharp sting, a gasp. You winced, your breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—you wanted to plead. To yield. To give in to whatever he was, whatever spell he had woven in the deep.

But then he hummed. Low. Lulling. Almost sweet.

On the other hand, his free one came up to cradle your face, as gentle as the claw was cruel. Cold, wet skin pressed against your cheek, thumb brushing across your lip like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth by touch alone.

You felt the tremble in his fingers. The ache in his stillness.

And then he muttered, more to himself than to you: “How good would you taste…?”

The words were soft. Almost tender. Almost human. “If I dragged you to the bottom of the ocean, held you there until your lungs collapsed, until your breath stopped struggling in your chest, until my teeth sank into your skin…”

His thumb dipped into the corner of your mouth. Not forceful. Curious. Possessive. “…and tore your throat out.”

You froze. Your blood pulsed behind your eyes. Your lips parted, not in response but in terror. A pause. A sound caught in his throat—not a growl. A whine. Fragile. Desperate.

“I dream of that,” he whispered, voice cracking like driftwood splitting in the tide. “Every night. For you.”

Another breathless pause. The confession was too heavy for even him. “To die at my hands. For your flesh to stain my teeth. For you…”

The claw on your face jerked. You felt it. Sharp. Sudden. A slice blooming just beneath your cheekbone. Warm blood welled. Traced a slow line down your jaw.

And still, he held your face like it was the most precious thing in the world. “For you to love me… as much as I love you.”

His voice shattered on the last word. Not rage. Not a command. Just heartbreak.

The kind of love that doesn’t know how to be gentle. The kind that drowns what it can’t bear to lose.

You slapped his hand away. A sharp, wet smack as your palm struck skin, slippery and cold and too real.

Perhaps it was a stupid mistake, but you didn’t regret it. Not even as silence stretched thin between you.

He didn’t growl or retaliate. Instead, he laughed.

A sound, soft, and breathless. Delighted, amused, like wind catching the edge of a bell. A beautiful sound. Inhuman in its lightness. The kind of laugh that said: You’ve misunderstood everything.

“You don’t know what love is,” you said, barely above a whisper. Your voice is low, firm, trembling at the edges. “You murdered them.”

There was no accusation in your tone—just quiet, weary horror. You heard him shift in the water. Felt the slight pull at your ankle where his claw still curled. A gentle splash as he exhaled through his nose.

And then—a hum. Resonant. Thoughtful. Like he was rolling the word ‘murder’ over in his mouth, tasting it. Considering it like one might consider a foreign language or a flawed metaphor.

“Is it murder?” he mused, tone feather-soft. “They threw you in, did they not?”

You flinched.

The memory hit like cold water again. The push. The fall. The salt clawing at your lungs.

“You were to be my meal that night,” he continued, almost dreamily. “A gift. An offering. Dressed in white, ribboned like a feast. I would’ve eaten you whole.”

Another pause. A breath. His lips ghosted across your knee as he whispered: “I still might.”

He said it with such tenderness that it made your stomach twist. As though devouring you was the most romantic thing he could imagine. 

As though that was what love was—possession so complete it leaves nothing behind.

And yet, he let you go. You weren’t sure why.

Perhaps he heard the distant churn of engines—ships cutting across the sea, their steel hulls humming with human voices and guns. Perhaps the scent of strangers carried on the breeze. Perhaps he didn’t want to share you with witnesses.

But he didn’t speak another word.

All you heard was a soft chuckle, low and breathy, and then the strange sensation of his cheek resting against your calf—warm, tender, almost shy.

You flinched when you felt the skin damp—wet. Not from seawater. From blood. Yours. And still, he stayed like that. Nuzzled close. Like he didn’t want to move. Like letting you go took more from him than the killings ever did.

But he did.

And the next morning, you returned. You weren’t sure why. You told yourself it was curiosity. That it was unfinished questions. That it was part of healing. But each day, your feet found their way back to the edge of the dock. Each day, you dipped your toes in and waited. And each day, the sea answered.

Eventually, you gave up the dock entirely.

It was Satoru who had guided you to the rocks, flat and warm beneath your hands, bleached by sun and tide. He would circle you as you sat, humming low, half-submerged, his voice curling around your ankles like ribbons. You never felt him fully. Just fragments. The brush of a hand. The flick of a tail. The soft splash of him surfacing beside you to let his fingers trace your wrist like he was memorizing the weight of your pulse.

You learned his name.

Satoru.

He said it as if it were something unspoken, something soft, something only you were allowed to speak.

Sirens were meant to be lonely — your fingers had told you that much, searching across faded braille in myth-soaked pages. Loneliness made them dangerous. Starved. But some texts spoke of others. Of merfolk. Creatures not quite siren, not quite human. How they have mates.

One day, without thinking, you asked: “Do you have one? A mate?”

The question left your mouth before you could stop it.

You were perched on the smooth spine of a seaside rock, sun warming your back, the sea misting your face. He floated beside you, so close you could hear the water sliding across his skin.

You don’t remember how that started, when you let him bring you here. When you stopped resisting the pull.

A foolish mistake. But not one you remembered making. Not clearly.

There was a pause. A shift in the water.  Then a hum, low, laced with amusement.

“I’ll tell you…” A cheeky laugh left his lips, “If you come in.” The words were playful. Lilting. Teasing like a lullaby. And as always, followed by touch—his fingers dragging along your calf, just enough pressure to remind you that you belonged to him, that he'd been patient, so patient.

Your throat tightened. “I can’t swim,” you said quietly.

You expected mockery. Dismissal. But instead, he laughed again.  Light, musical, pleased. A sound that would’ve been lovely if it weren’t brushing up against your fear like velvet against raw skin.

“Obviously,” he said, with a grin you could hear. “But I can guide you.”

One hand settled on your thigh. The weight of it was gentle, but beneath the surface, you felt his claws held back, barely restrained. His skin was slick and cool, damp from the tide, and his thumb rubbed small, slow circles against your leg like he was soothing a trembling animal.

You hesitated.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the rock, nails scraping over lichen-slick stone.

This was a bad idea.

Everything about this was a bad idea. Your mind was racing. 

This was a bad idea. One that could end horribly. An image appeared in your mind, one you would not like to reflect on. 

“Just fully submerged,” he coaxed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “We won’t leave the rock.”

The promise hung in the air between you like a web. Sticky. Shimmering. False.

You could feel the water now, lapping just below your knees. You could feel him, shifting beneath the surface, his tail brushing against the rock like a current, coiling and uncurling like a waiting serpent.

And his voice—soothing, low, beautifully wrong—threaded through your thoughts, warm as blood in your ears.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You’re not sure if you trust him or if you’re even sure it even matters anymore. Still, gently, cautiously, you slip deeper into the water. Your breath stutters. Your pulse flutters.

You’re an idiot.

His hands are already there to catch you. Guiding you.  Fingers curling around your wrists, pressing them to the slick surface of the rock. Anchoring you. Positioning you. His tail wraps around your legs next, slow and deliberate. The cool, scaled muscle coils up your thighs, tighter than it needs to be. You can feel every shimmer, every shift in his body as it glides over your skin. And then, his chest. Bare. Cold. Pressed flush against your back. You shudder. His breath ghosts over your shoulder, over your throat, thick with salt and something sweeter.

This is a mistake. You know it. Like prey entering the predator’s den. Because you can feel teeth. Just barely. Grazing. Waiting.

And yet, he speaks. “I suppose I owe you an answer,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, too calm for how tightly he’s holding you.  “It’s… complicated. There’s Suguru…”

Your brows knit. His tone is strange, bitter, breathless, threaded with something almost childishly resentful. As he speaks, one hand slips to your front, tracing the laces of your corset with idle curiosity.

Rrrrip. The fabric tears like paper in his claws. Your breath hitches. You go rigid in his hold. “But Suguru…” he sighs, soft and wistful. Pouting. You hear it in his voice, like a child denied something precious. “Suguru is a male.”

A simple statement, but full of meaning. A declaration. A boundary. A grievance.

Then, his soft lips on your neck. Soft, scattered kisses trailing downward. feather-light, open-mouthed, suckling gently like he’s soothing the places he wants to bite.

“Can’t have babies with a male, you know…” The words make your blood run cold. Your breath stutters.

His hands move again, greedy, unhurried. One cups your breast, his palm cold and slick, thumb brushing over your nipple as though curious how you'd react. The other slides downward, slipping beneath the ruined hem of your dress, fingers trailing heat and water in their wake. You remember hearing a snap earlier, like claws being clipped. 

The memory drifted away at the sound of another rip. Your tights. Then your panties. A mutter under his breath, “Useless things.”

He keeps you turned, body flush to the rock, your front pressed to sun-warmed stone, the rest of you buried in his hold. His tail tightens, muscles rippling beneath scaled flesh as he coils more tightly around your legs, locking you in place with a possessive firmness that trembles with restraint. 

The water churns around your waist, lapping against your hips like it’s breathing in time with him. His hands move like he’s sculpting you - mapping, claiming, memorizing. You can feel him everywhere. On your throat, your breasts, your thighs. Inside you.

And all you can do is hold on. Tremble as he explores your body, his hands tremble slightly. You guess not in fear, but rather in excitement.

“At first,” he murmurs, mouth dragging along your shoulder, his voice a purr of reverent confusion, “when I saw you, I thought it was mating season. I was a bit worried...”

Your breath hitched, then cracked into a silent scream as his teeth sank into the column of your throat. Sharp. Blunt. Too deep to be teasing. Pain bloomed across your skin, blooming hot and fast before it dissolved into something murky and unbearable.

He groaned—shuddered—like your blood, your taste, was a relief. “I was so confused,” he went on, voice hitching, breaking, as his hand dipped lower.

Between your thighs. 

Over your folds.

Inside you.

A moan punched through him, sudden and guttural, and he all but arched against your back, tail jerking with the force of his need.

“Fuck...” his breath trembled, lips trailing up your neck, nibbles against the skin, “you’re so warm, so fucking warm...” His fingers curled inside your core, slow and possessive, drawing wet sounds from your body like music only he was meant to hear.

“Because,” he gasped against your ear, voice raw with bewildered joy, “I’d already gotten rid of my eggs for the season. Guess we have to wait until the next.”

As if that meant something. As if that justified anything. You could feel the way he trembled behind you, his chest heaving, his cock hard and pressed against the small of your back, restrained only by the last thread of reverence still clinging to him.

“And yet—you, this soft little thing in the middle of the ocean—you ruined everything.”

He nuzzled against your cheek, pressing soft, wet kisses to the skin just above where your blood still trickled.

“My instincts told me to ignore you. But my soul—” he moaned again, thrusting his fingers deeper, spreading you open wider—“told me you were mine.”

You couldn’t do anything but moan—soft, broken, trembling—while he lapped at the blood trickling from your throat. Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate. Lingering. Worshipful.

You felt dizzy. Hollowed out. Heat curling in your belly like a fever that couldn’t break.

Then his fingers—still slick and buried deep—curled inside you with intent, spreading, stretching, preparing.

And that’s when you felt it. Something hard pressed against your back—thick, ridged, hot even through the water.

Not one. Two.

Your blood ran cold.

“There’s… two.” You whimpered out in between a moan, a sharp bite on your shoulder, and left your hands gripping the sun-kissed rocks for salvation.  The realization made your breath stutter in your chest, panic beginning to flicker beneath the haze.

He felt it.  Of course he did. He always felt everything. Immediately, his touch changed. Softer. His hands, once possessive and firm, became coaxing, stroking your face as he guided your chin toward his. A whisper of pressure. A kiss before the fall.

“Shhh,” he breathed, brushing your lips with his own, “It’s alright. You’re doing so good.”

His fingers slipped out of you, and one of his lengths took their place, pressing inside with a force that made your lungs seize.

The thrust was smooth. Deep. Too deep.

Your scream never made it past your mouth—his tongue was already there, swallowing it, muffling your panic with something wet and hot and hungry. His kiss was messy, teeth dragging across your lips, fangs nicking you just enough to remind you what he was.

Your hands scrambled against the stone. Your body fought to stretch, to fit around something it was never meant to take. As his other cock bounced against your clit, making the sensation so much more unbearable. 

He groaned—more a laugh than a sound of pleasure—as he sank deeper, letting you feel every inch, every twitch of his body moving inside yours.

“Hah…” he panted, voice thick with delight, “I’m not usually this gentle, you know…”

He gave a shallow thrust, just enough to make your body jerk forward. 

“You can ask Suguru when you meet him.” His voice dripped with amusement, cruel in its fondness “He’s always scolding me for being so — fuck — rough.”

You winced as the tip of him pressed up against your cervix, an ache blooming sharp and unforgiving somewhere behind your hips. The pain had teeth, hot and blossoming like fire underwater. And still, he kissed you again, lips wet and unrelenting, fangs dragging across the plush of your bottom lip like he was tasting you from the inside out.

“But with you…” he murmured, voice thick with wonder and ruin, a shudder rolling down his spine, “you’re worth savoring.”

You felt yourself begin to unravel, limp in his arms, breath shallow, nerves frayed like salt-wet lace. The drag of his cock was too much, too deep and consuming. His teeth mapped your skin with feverish precision, each bite sharper than the last, each one punctuating a devotion that veered far past human. The water churned around you, thick with heat and the iron-slick scent of blood.

He trembled behind you, groaning low and guttural as his hips pressed flush to yours, his body locking into place. You felt the full weight of him, the heat, the stretch, the sheer wrongness of it. And then, hot, sticky, release. A surge deep within you.

His moan, if you could call it that, was a high, pitchy, cracked thing. Like something old and lonely, remembering how to pray. Claws skimmed your belly and thighs, possessive, trembling. Holding you close. Ensuring every last drop stayed inside. 

Your hands slipped from the rock.  You didn’t remember letting go. He caught them easily—captured them—and pressed them flat to his chest, where something beat too fast, too shallow. Like a bird trapped beneath his ribs.

“S–Satoru,” you choked, voice thin and laced with salt, terror curling at the edges.

He pulled out of you, slowly or maybe those things, the lengths of him, were curling back into the shadow of his tail. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. Siren biology wasn’t recorded in braille. No one thought it was worth transcribing. Or maybe you’re the only one who survived to tell the tale. 

“Shhh…” he whispered, soft as a lullaby, “just taking you with me.”

He laughed, breathless, light, euphoric. Like you’d given him the greatest gift without ever meaning to. As if dying for him would be enough. His hands slid down your back, down your thighs, holding you tight like a bride. 

The rock’s warmth faded behind you. The warmth of the sun was lost to the cool ocean waves.  He nuzzled against your throat again, lapped away the drying blood with reverent little swipes of his tongue, then trailed up to kiss your jaw, your lips, soft and slow, as though you weren’t drowning.

Down. 

Down. 

 Down.

Into the dark. Surrounded by pressure. The water surged past your ears. You tried to breathe. Tried to scream. Tried to do anything, but his mouth was already on yours again, swallowing every desperate sound, every last shudder of protest.

You felt your body go slack. Felt your lungs burn. Your thoughts began to scatter like bubbles rising too slow to reach the surface.

And just before the black took you. 

You thought, distantly,

If this is death…

…maybe it’s better to not be awake for it.

[koqabear]

Hello, I’m Sol, and I am a proud daughter of immigrant parents. Today I come to you in hopes that you can stop and read this message. 

I have always dedicated this account to be a safe space for all; an escape from the busy world, and a chance to offer community. It’s easy to use these spaces as a way to tune out all the negativity that may go on in your daily lives, but with the way the world has become, there is no longer such a thing as a safe space. I refuse to let this account remain idle, knowing my platform and the potential reach— silence is complicity, and right now, it’s exactly what the government wants from us; to remain uneducated, to remain quiet in hopes that others will step up for us. 

It is urgent, now more than ever, that we use our voice— exercise our rights, to speak up and look after those who are unable to do so for themselves. ICE has been sent to raid Los Angeles, they are kidnapping people and deporting them without due process, using force against protestors who are bravely demanding change and letting their voices be heard. It is an inhumane act of violence and racism that is not only affecting the defenseless, but getting twisted in the media to turn civilians against each other. People are afraid to leave their homes, afraid to go to work, to send their children to school, in fear that they may never see each other again. Families are being ripped apart— tell me, is this something that you want to watch happen, standing idly in silence?

Now, you may be asking yourself, what can I do to help? First and foremost, educate yourself. Be aware of what is happening in the world, why it’s happening, and what others are doing to strive for change. Do not let this post be your only knowledge— do your research, stay updated. Second, there are many protests that are happening all around the world; look into them, see if there are any you can go to, let your voice be heard, and show your anger. There is currently a nationwide protest happening June 14th, with a website dedicated to it: nokings.org. Do not fall for the propaganda of good protestor vs. bad protestor. When our humanity is being stripped away from us, and our rights are ignored, why should we be expected to stay in place and beg on our knees for our government to listen? Third, spread awareness, donate to organizations that help our cause— I am currently looking into opening commissions, with many affordable options, in hopes that I can donate the proceeds to organizations such as CHIRLA, who are dedicated to advancing the rights of immigrants and refugees, and HEAL Palestine, an organization dedicated to providing health care, education and aid to children, because there is no such thing as justice until we are all free. The conflict and war crimes in Palestine continue and only worsen as time goes on; the situation is dire— they are without food, without homes, without access to medical help— and it is not something that will be forgotten, even as other crises arise. 

If you find yourself aggravated by anything I said, annoyed at seeing this post on your timeline,  unwilling to care or take action, unfollow me, and block me immediately. I do not want you here. Now is the time to speak up and educate ourselves in a world where our ignorance is profited off of, and we are all expected to turn against each other; You do not need to “be affected” to act. Do not be a bystander, and stay safe.

Thank you.

[mcrdvcks]

congratulations!!! headcanons for logan who’s dating a person who loves to sleep 😭😭 like naps everyday up late at night sleeping in type of person (me) LMFAOOOO

you’re awesome thank you for feeding us always ❤️🙏🙏

at first, i though this might've been something i sent myself because you just described me TO A T!!! i have chronic insomnia and chronic fatigue, so the second i wake up, i'm already tired. it's why i love summer break, i can wake up whenever i want, and then after a few hours, take a long nap, lol

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: sleepy!reader, soft!logan, protective!logan, fluff!

At first, Logan doesn’t get it. He’s used to being up at dawn, out the door, running five miles before the sun hits the treetops. So finding you still passed out with a blanket over your head at 11am? Wild.

Most of it’s not completely your fault. You have insomnia and you’re a night owl.

He doesn’t say anything the first time he finds you curled up, drooling, mid-nap on the couch in the middle of the afternoon. But he stands there for a solid minute, arms crossed, just watching you with a small, crooked smile.

Logan has learned your routine (if you could even call it that). You wake up at 11, have breakfast, do some work. Then by around 2 o’clock you’re heading back to bed for a 3-4 hour nap.

He’s always the big spoon in the morning—because you’re still unconscious and wrapped up in the comforter like a cinnamon roll. So he just tucks in behind you and buries his face in your hair until you start stirring.

He secretly loves when you fall asleep on him. Whether it’s movie night, after a mission, or just a lazy day—you curled against his chest, soft breaths warming his collarbone? He goes still as stone and refuses to move until you wake up naturally.

He’s extremely protective of your nap time.

“Hey—Y/N’s sleepin’. Shut it.”

“Don’t even think about knockin’ on that door.”

“No, you can’t borrow the vacuum right now, Scott. Pick a different day to annoy me.”

He learns that waking you up is a delicate process. Gentle voice. Warm hand on your back. A whispered, “C’mon, sweetheart. Just for a sec.”

Over time, you start noticing the subtle ways he encourages your sleep habits: The blackout curtains. The space heater by the bed. A new, softer pillow that “just showed up” one day. The fact that he’s already made the bed when you crawl into it after midnight.

And if he ever catches you fighting sleep—dragging yourself around the house, yawning every five seconds—he just sighs, scoops you up, and grumbles, “quit bein’ stubborn. You need rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

After a while, he stops pretending to be annoyed by your sleep habits. Instead, he builds his day around them. He’ll go do his workout, run errands, finish a Danger Room session—and still make it back in time to sneak into bed with you during your 2 p.m. nap.

He becomes a nap convert. Not because he needs it, but because you’re there. You’re warm, soft, and smell like his T-shirt and lavender lotion. It’s addictive.

He lives for mornings when you’re half-asleep and clingy. You drape yourself over him like a blanket, bury your face in his chest, and mumble incoherent sleepy nonsense. He just kisses the top of your head and grunts happily. “You’re real sweet when you’re unconscious, y’know that?”

You once mumbled “don’t leave” in your sleep when he got up to grab something. He sat back down immediately and didn’t move for the next hour. Just stared at you like a lovesick idiot.

If anyone ever gives you shit for “wasting the day,” Logan shuts that down fast. “She does more in her dreams than most of you do awake. Leave her be.”

[robbysreaders]

I had a thought for the ex!co-parent Jack story.

1) Did Jack get sad or upset when you dated Chris? Like I can picture Beau letting it slip that you had a movie date with Chris after pickup, and Jack just going what? 🥺 I can also see him having beers with Robby and Jack is just like ‘I’ve really lost her this time’ because he always held out hope that he could prove to you that he is worth a second chance.

2) Did Jack ever go on a date after you split? Or was it more of a I’ve lost the love of my life, and it wouldn’t be fair to any woman that tries to follow her since I am still in love with her.

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader word count: 1.4k notes: Part ? of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack i really need to update my masterlist and reconfigure my parts lol -- this is between the Prequel and Part 1! Thank you for this prompt in my inbox!!!! sorry it took me so long to get to! I mixed both together since i felt like the worked -- hope you enjoy!!!

The last thing you’re thinking about in the months after you and Jack officially split is dating.

You barely have time to fold the laundry, let alone entertain the idea of starting over. Your kid is growing at lightspeed. You’re juggling a full-time job. Jack—while frustrating in a hundred little ways—has always been a reliable co-parent. From the moment you separated, he never missed a pickup or check-in. He’s there when he says he’ll be. That’s more than a lot of people can say.

Still, the whole thing stings because Jack makes single parenting look easy. Natural. Like he was always meant to do it on his own.

And you? You’re exhausted. Every time you scroll instagram and see someone posting a date night selfie, you close the app. Not because you miss dating, but because you miss being someone who wasn’t running on fumes.

You would never admit it, but sometimes it feels like Jack is happier co-parenting with you than he ever was being with you.

But the truth is… he’s not. Jack’s a fucking wreck.

He’s throwing himself into hospital shifts like he’s allergic to free time, offering advice to  every resident who so much as breathes in his direction, and texting Robby at 2 a.m. on his days off just to talk about the latest ER policy update. He’s working himself into the ground because he still thinks this is temporary. That if he can prove to you he’s changed—if he cooks enough dinners and shows up to enough pediatrician appointments and keeps the fridge stocked with the yogurt tubes Beau likes—you’ll come back.

Three months. That’s what he gave it.

Three months for you to get it out of your system. The space. The clarity. The breathing room.

Then, month four hits. And Jack starts to unravel.

Robby finds him on the roof after handoff, leaning against the rail like it might hold all the weight in his chest.

“Haven’t seen you up here in a while,” Robby says casually.

Jack doesn’t look up. “You forget this was my spot first.”

Robby nods. Waits. “Tough shift?”

“Tough life.” Jack quips.

“Was waiting for that shoe to drop.”

Jack drags his hands down his face. “I had a plan. Thought I could show her I’d changed. I’m cooking. I’m present. I’ve read five goddamn parenting books. And she still barely looks at me like I’m anything more than a—”

“Co-pilot?” Robby finishes.

Jack nods. Miserable.

“I think I really lost her.”

Robby claps a hand on his shoulder. “Go home. Sleep. Do not come back tonight. I’ll get you coverage. And when i’m off tonight I’m dragging your ass out for a beer.”

Jack gets to their usual dive bar by 7:45, already knowing Robby would show up at his front door if he didn’t.

“You know,” Robby says when he sees him, “I was fully prepared to have to break in.”

Jack shrugs. “What can I say? The love of my life left me and I’ve matured.”

“This is worse than I thought.”

Jack grunts into his beer. “She was, though. Still is.”

Robby sighs. “Brother, you gotta snap out of it. She’s made her choice. You gave her space. You figured out a routine that works for Beau. Now you gotta figure out what works for you.”

“This is working for me.”

“Running yourself ragged and using your kid as an emotional flotation device? Sounds sustainable.”

Jack shoots him a look.

“I’m not saying you gotta run off an marry some girl from an app or whatever,” Robby says. “Just… reevaluate. Figure out what fills your cup. Hell, maybe even go get your rocks off now and then.”

Jack flings a fry at Robby.

Robby grins. “Just saying. A good orgasm never hurt anyone.”

“Alright enough about my dumpster fire of a life” Jack shifts. “Now i get to psychoanalyse you.“

The next day, Dana corners Jack by the trauma board. Jack could kill Robby.

“I have this friend,” she says. “Amy. Divorced last year. Bit of a rut. Not looking for anything serious, just trying to get back out there. Hasn’t dated in over a decade and I told her I knew just the guy.”

“No.”

“She has your number. I told her to wait a couple days before texting you. You’re welcome.”

Jack groans, but two days later, the text comes.

Amy is… fine. They go out a few times. She’s smart, warm, has a killer laugh. But there's no pull. No spark.

Eventually, they both admit it.

“Jack,” she says over tapas one night, “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you. But I don’t want to do this just to do it. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” Jack says, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “You’re great and if you ever need someone to beat up your ex, you know where to find me.”

Amy smiles. “You’re gonna find your forever, Jack. I think you already have. She just needs more time.”

Jack starts therapy.

One of his Army buddies had given him some resources a while back, but it’s Dana’s offhand comments about “emotional constipation” that finally gets him to make the call.

It helps. Not all at once, but piece by piece.

He starts saying no to extra shifts. Makes room for sleep. Finds himself laughing more when Beau does something ridiculous—like trying to microwave a fruit snack “because it was cold.”

And when Beau mentions a guy named Chris for the third time, Jack doesn’t spiral. He breathes. Notes it. And waits for the right moment to ask.

Jack’s cooking dinner at his place, your typical handoff routine. Beau is sprawled on the floor with a cartoon, crayons everywhere. Jack pulls the roasted veggies from the oven.

“Never thought you’d be a regular Martha Stewart, but I could get used to this”

He chuckles “It’s just one of those meal delivery things. I got a month free from Ellis for my secret santa and just stuck with it – made a joke that Beau and I couldn’t survive on MREs.”

“Beau talks about how much he likes your food so it must be working”

“Hey… before we eat,” he says, awkward, “Beau’s mentioned someone a few times. Chris. And that’s totally fine. I just thought maybe we could talk about giving each other a heads-up before introducing new people to him.”

You freeze, hand stilling over the plates. “Shit.”

“It’s okay...really. I don’t need details. Just a heads-up next time would help.”

“No, you’re right,” you say quickly, and Jack actually blinks like he wasn’t expecting that. “Jack, I’m sorry.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. Not unkind—just surprised. Like he’s trying to remember the last time you admitted fault without a qualifier.

“It all just got a little muddled,” you continue, rubbing the back of your neck. “He’s the dad of one of the kids in Beau’s music class. Recently divorced. Having a hard time keeping his kid entertained on his off days, so I offered up a few playdates. That’s the only time he’s really been around Beau.”

Jack nods slowly. “So you’re dating this guy?”

You exhale through your nose. “We went on a couple dates, yeah. But it fizzled out a few weeks ago. Nothing serious. Beau might still bring him up—playdates for the boys are still happening—but I promise I’ll keep you in the loop moving forward. It’s only fair.”

“I appreciate that,” Jack says, voice low, steady.

He lets out a breath then, like some invisible pressure just eased off his chest.

You hesitate, fiddling with the corner of the napkin on the table. “Any updates on your end? Your love life?”

Jack smirks, eyes twinkling. “What happens between my hand and the shower drain is strictly between me and God, thank you very much.”

You bark out a laugh, caught off guard. “I really struggle to believe that a hot doctor DILF can’t find someone willing to help him take the edge off.”

His face turns bright red. “Well, contrary to popular belief, I’m not exactly rolling in spare time. I’m busy co-parenting the best kid ever, saving lives four nights a week minimum, and publishing in not one but two medical journals—practically in the running for a Nobel Prize.”

You raise a brow. “Oh, is that all?”

He grins. “I keep a full calendar.”

Before you can volley back, a small voice cuts in from the living room.

“Dad, I’m hungry.”

“Hi Hungry, I’m Dad,” he says with a straight face, setting the serving dishes down on the table like he’s done it a hundred times.

You shake your head, smile tugging at your lips.

Same old Jack. Still infuriating. Still too charming for his own good.

[rainrot4me]

First the compliment: your writing is much better than mine when i was at your age, props for writing creepypasta hcs like YOU imagine them while still making it feel like it could absolutely pass off as canon/in character. Thats some talent right there.

Can i request the creeps with a reader that tends to escapism/ suffers from maladaptive daydreaming? Thanks in advance!

Thank you so much!!! As someone who uses daydreaming to get away from the hectic cycle of life, this was very fun to do :)

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

At first? Jeff’s annoyed.

“Earth to space cadet,” he snaps after the third time you don’t respond when he calls your name. Jeff has always been a face-value guy, so it’s hard to understand why someone he wants to talk to doesn’t always want to talk to him. But eventually, he realizes it’s not disrespect, it’s protection.

And after a while, he starts watching you during those dissociative moments, leaning in close, not to scold, but to anchor you. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice unusually soft. “Where’d you go just now?” He wants to know where and what it is that takes you away, what makes that other place so much better than where he is?

Sometimes he’ll jokingly insert himself into your fantasy, “If you’re gonna vanish, at least imagine me shirtless and feeding you grapes or something.”

But other times, when he sees how hard you’re clinging to your daydreams, his voice gets quieter. “You don’t have to run up there anymore,” he says, brushing your hair back. “You got me now. Let me be your somewhere else.”

✦ . ticci toby

Toby understands.

God, does he understand. Dissociation, checking out, needing the dream version of life just to make it through the real one? That’s been his whole survival method. He doesn’t interrupt your spells, he just sits with you, quietly. Maybe fidgets with your hands or hums under his breath so you know he’s still here.

When you come back around, he doesn’t push. Just gently says, “You drifted again… You okay?”

If you let him, he’ll join you in your mental escape. “What’s it like in your head? Ca-Can I come too?” He wants to build you a safe world outside your mind, even if it’s messy and full of shadows, he just wants you to feel safe inside and outside of your head.

“I’ll be your anchor, if you want,” he says once. “Just tug on me when you need to come back.”

✦ . eyeless jack

Jack takes a clinical interest at first, but it turns personal fast.

He notices the signs—the unfocused stare, the half-listening answers when he asks you questions, the barely-there smile like you’re living in a different timeline. “You’re retreating,” he says one evening, gently. “It’s a protective response.” It’s more like he’s evaluating exactly why more than letting you know.

But instead of shaming you, he asks questions. “What does it look like, in there? Are you safer there? Happier?” He’s not offended, but he does want to know why your mind works the way it does without feeling like it’s an interrogation. He’s happy when you let him into your personal space.

Over time, he starts helping you ground—hand on your thigh, blanket over your shoulders, little sensory tethers that ease you back to him without abruptly dragging you from your headspace.

“You don’t have to leave to feel okay,” he tells you. “Let’s make the real world something worth staying in.”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Tim has no patience for it at first.

He’s from a world where zoning out gets you killed. “Stop checking out,” he growls during a heated moment. “You can’t afford to float off.” But then he sees the aftermath, the guilt in your eyes, the way you cling to your sleeves like they can shield you.

And suddenly, he sees himself in you. He sees that scared man who was being ripped apart at the edges by some horrifying force out to get him. It hits him like a guilt-filled truck.

Next time, when you space out, he doesn’t snap. He sits next to you in silence, lights a cigarette, and murmurs, “It’s not real, whatever’s happening in there… but I get it. Sometimes you just need out.”

He’ll stay for as long as you’re gone, making sure that nothing and nobody bothers you. He’s protective, so when someone he cares about is vulnerable, he’s sure to have their back. Eventually, he’ll nudge you gently. “Come back. I miss you when you go.”

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Brian recognizes the signs immediately.

He’s been there—lost in thought, lost in nightmares, lost in anywhere-but-here. He never interrupts harshly. Instead, he waits for you to return, then meets your eyes behind his mask. “You were somewhere else again,” he’ll say calmly. “Did it help?”

Sometimes, he sits beside you and just says nothing, letting you wander mentally while he holds your hand. He’ll build rituals to ground you—soft touches, steady sounds, warmth.

He doesn’t force you to stop escaping, but he does give you something to escape to instead of from. If it’s silence you want, he’ll offer that, but if it’s noise and activity, he’ll offer that too.

“When you need to drift,” he says, “make me part of the dream. I’ll keep you safe in there.”

✦ . kate the chaser

Kate’s response is quiet at first.

She sees you drifting off and doesn’t call attention to it, just places a hand on your arm and keeps it there until your eyes clear. There’s no need to rush anything, she’ll take all the time she needs to bring you back. She feels honored that you feel comfortable enough around her to zone off.

But one day, after a long silence, she speaks, “I used to do that too. Escape—into stories, into people, into a version of me who didn’t have to fight so hard.”

She doesn’t try to fix you. But she will make sure you’re okay. “You don’t have to explain where you went. Just… come back when you’re ready. I’ll still be here.”

Eventually, she starts narrating things to help keep you present. She knows it’s easy for you to slip away, so she wants to make sure you’re always being attended to. “We’re in the woods. It’s dusk. You’re holding my hand. We’re walking back to the mansion.” Because with Kate, she makes sure you are never forgotten.

✦ . ben drowned

Ben lives in fantasy.

He’s half code, half memory, always just slightly unreal. So when he finds out you’re a dreamer too? He lights up. “Finally,” he says, half-grinning. “Someone who gets it.”

He’ll ask you about your worlds, your characters, your imagined futures. He wants to play there with you—build kingdoms, bend the rules, dream impossible dreams.

But when it becomes too much, when you start forgetting to eat or sleep, he gently reins you in. “I know it’s beautiful in your head,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek. “But you’re beautiful out here, too. I need you with me.”

He enjoys spending time with you, inside your head or out, but there’s no way he’s going to let you ruin yourself. “…Besides, you’re way cuter in person.”

✦ . clockwork

Natalie notices the disconnect, but she doesn’t get angry.

Instead, she plants her palm against your chest and says, “Hey. You still in there?” If you don’t respond, she waits. And when you do, she doesn’t make you explain yourself. She’s patient. Fierce, but patient.

“You’re not weak,” she says. “You’re surviving however you can. I respect that.” She becomes oddly motivating and supportive.

But she’ll challenge you when the daydreams start taking over your real life. “Tell me what your dream self has that you don’t. Go on. I’ll wait.” Because she wants to help you become that person—here. Now. With her.

“I’ll fight the world for you,” she says, gripping your hand. “But you gotta stay present enough to fight it too.”

✦ . laughing jack

Jack is fascinated.

“You escape into fantasy?” he says, tilting his head like a raven. “What’s so wrong with this twisted little circus we call life?” Jack is a being of the dreamworld himself, but that’s a control tactic, something he uses to lure victims and churn feelings, not an escape.

But then he sees how much pain you’re hiding, how deeply you need the dream world. And strangely, something shifts in him. “Fine,” he says. “Then I’ll make the real world just as colorful. Let’s paint the walls with glitter and scream at the moon. Let’s make this place worth living in.”

He pulls you out of your fugue states with humor, with chaos, with surprise. But always with a touch of care. Whenever you slip, he’ll make sure to lure you back with the sweet smell of baked goods or the wonderful sensation of a dryer-warmed blanket, anything to bring you back to him.

“You don’t have to go to Wonderland, darling. I’ll bring Wonderland to you.”

✦ . slenderman

Slender is eerily in tune with your disassociation.

He can feel when your presence flickers. He doesn’t speak, but his tendrils will coil protectively around you. He grounds you with texture, sensation, pressure, drawing you back into your body.

When you return, he gently cups your face in his clawed hands. “Your mind is a vast, haunted forest,” his voice echoes. “But even the wildest forests need a path home.”

He never demands you stop dreaming. But he offers reality as something beautiful, terrifying, and shared. He understands slipping away for a while, but he’ll always make sure to stick close to keep a watchful eye over you. Nobody is allowed near, at least not until you’re back again.

“If you must wander,” he says, “let me walk with you.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[onlyheluvsme]

I've been loving your big clit abby series!!! So blessed to have another talented writer in the fandom hehe.

If youre looking for inspo, how about flustering abby while she's driving? Perhaps some roadhead? I think abbys so perfect as a sub

road head!!!! ive always wanted to try this but isnt there some final destination scene or something about that? i like my head on my neck lol. sorry for that horrible visual heres your porn lol. thank you for the req anon!

˗ˏˋbig clit!abby vi´ˎ˗

in which abby gets road head — mdni, lowercase intended, modern!au, f!reader, reader has hair, smut, mentions of: parents, siblings, driving, cars, oral, fingering ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ pls leave reqs

parts: one-five | six

after moving half way across the country with your girlfriend and flight prices being way too high, the two of you drove to your parents for your siblings graduation. the first few hours were perfect, you sang, played the license plate game, asked her which five letter word she could think of for ireland.

however, when hour five came around the tiredness hit,

"we should probably find another rest stop, i need to get another coffee" abby rubbed her eyes quickly, her other hand on the wheel.

"you sure you don't want me to drive?" you lob your head from looking out the window to her.

"absolutely not" she chuckles, her hand coming down to grip your thigh.

"we gotta make it to your parents in one piece" she jokes,

"haha" you mock, even though you knew she was right, you were a horrible driver.

a big blue sign passed on your right, 'rest stop in three miles, exit seventeen' and your eyes lit up,

"exit seventeen has something i think" you tell her as your hands begin to play with her hand on your thigh, lightly drawing shapes into the skin.

"alright" she says, moving around uncomfortably in her seat, the feeling of sitting for so long becoming bothersome.

a sweet silence came over the car, the radio playing softly, the sun roof open slightly letting the warm air and sound of nature in.

you couldn't help but to look over at your girlfriend as you appreciated the serene moment, the domesticity of it all. the wisps of hair that had fallen from her braid danced with the wind, framing her face like an angel. your eyes traveled down her beautifully sculpted face to her arms and chest, admiring the muscle through her black tank. the few tattoos she had along her arm ripple over her thick forearm as she rubs the warmth of your thigh.

the sight was one that quickly made your core heat and panties soak. your eyes trailed down to the hand on your thigh, watching the fingers closest to your cunt, suddenly hyperaware of every movement of her fingers. without thinking, your hips slightly buck as her pinky lightly glosses the hem of your shorts.

her head turns to your at the feeling, eyes slightly wide,

"baby?" she asks,

"i need you" you huff, removing the seat belt and bending over the console to press wet kisses into her neck,

abby's breath is caught in her throat for a moment and she almost swerves the car into the other lane. your lips start an assault on her neck and abby can't help the way she angles her neck to give you more room.

within seconds she's wide awake again, the tiredness from before completely dissipating with the shock of warmth of your lips behind her ear. one of your hands gripped her seat to hold you up while the other roamed her body, pinching at her nipples through her shirt,

"fuck baby, what are you doing?" abby asked, feeling her core heat at the feeling of you, clit becoming uncomfortable in her boxers. abby had to force herself not to close her eyes in bliss and focus on the road.

the hand that roamed her chest and pinched her nipples trailed down her stomach to find the band of her sweat shorts. your finger slightly pushed inside, feeling the warm skin underneath,

a shaky breath left abby's mouth, "be careful" she mumbled.

out of instinct, abby's thighs spread against the seat, foot staying on the pedal. the extra space gives you room to move your hand slowly down her abdomen till it reaches the hem of her boxers,

"can i touch you abby?" you whisper into her ear, shivers go down her arm.

"b-but i'm driving" she mumbles but theres a slight desperation to her tone.

"then you better pay attention," you say as your hand slips into her boxers.

with quick thinking, abby puts the car into cruise control, letting herself take her foot off the pedal — she had never been more grateful for the empty road.

her hips raise as she helps you guide off her shorts and boxers, leaving abby's soaked thigh to stain the seat. her thighs spread and you find her clit already at its full size, all pink and swollen begging to be sucked.

you moved yourself so your entire upper body laid across the console between you, your legs bent into your seat. with the side angle, you weren't give full access to her, so you had to improvise, spreading her glistening lips with your two fingers.

a line of spit comes down from your mouth onto her clit and abby's hips raise, cunt desperate for your tongue. you watch as her clit twitches before bending your head down to wrap your lips around it.

abby's chest deflates in relief at the feeling of your lips and tongue as they slowly began to massage her sensitive clit. abby's eyes stay on the road as you start to slowly bob your head up and down on her, hands gripping the wheel so tight her knuckles where red.

your tongue swirls around the reddened tip of her clit, the most sensitive part, mouth suctioning the rest into your mouth. you begin a rhythm with your mouth, bobbing your head slightly to press as much of her into your mouth.

abby's legs began a slow shaking underneath you, hand removing itself from the wheel to grab your hair into a ponytail,

"f-fuck that feels really good" she whispers into a moan, you moan in response letting the vibrations hit her core. the hand you used to spread her lips slipped lower to find her weeping hole, her slick covering your fingers within seconds.

your pointer and middle finger slowly slip into her tight hole, you pumped them into her until they were all the way in.

it took everything in abby to hold herself together, to not pull the car into the shoulder and let your finish her off — yet she wouldn't abby refused to give up the moment.

her hips bucked sporadically against you as you continued to fuck her tight velvety walls with your fingers, mouth lapping at her enlarged clit,

"i'm not gonna last" abby whines, head hitting the headrest behind her, eyes forcing themselves on the road.

your pace against her picks up and soon enough abby's hand is pushing your head down onto her clit as her orgasm rocks through her.

your fingers are met with a rush of her come as your mouth sucks her clit vigorously, tongue rapid against its tip. abby's moans above you stir you on, so instead of slowing down your pace and pulling away, you latch onto her.

abby's thighs quiver as a second orgasm approaches rapidly, so your fingers curl inside of her and she loses it again,

"fuck fuck fuck" she whines above you, hips unable to stay still.

your mouth final relents after you clean as much of her cunt as you could, lapping her slick into your mouth as you savored her taste. soon enough you were helping her guide on her boxers and shorts,

"c'mere" she said when you finally got her settled, you twist yourself around to lay across her lap, head into her shoulder as one of her hands wrapped around your torso the other on the wheel.

"you're a dangerous girl, you know that?" she asked you, hand slipping under the hem of your shirt to feel the heat of your belly.

the two of you slip back into the serene moment from before, however this time feels slightly more special, like your appreciating being together as one.

abby was grateful for the next few hours as you laid across her, slowing down when she drove near a state trooper, no need to get the two of you into trouble. she hadn't even realized she missed exit seventeen till she drove passed exit thirty-two.

[bc abby masterlist]

[abby masterlist]

[hoe4hotchner]

Hi hi hi! So I'm new to tumblr and found your account and omigod I love the way you write 😍😍

So can I request a little something thats been rattling around in my brain? So it's Aaron Hotchner x Southern!Reader.... Basically Penelope drags everyone to a country bar to celebrate Reader's anniversary of joining the team... and she blows everyone away with her line dancing skills and her bullriding... Hotch realises that the polite sunshine girl he fell for is also very talented.

Thank you thank you! Kisses, have a great day xxx

Boots, Bulls, and a Bit of Surprise | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Southern!Reader | WC: 1.5k | CW: Fluff, mention of bar and alcohol

A/N: I tried my best, but bear in mind that I'm not american and have no clue at all about southern culture and styles ;)

Also yay, this has been in my inbox for ages and I just finished it as a treat for me being done with school for hopefully the next 3 months.

Garcia had declared it a mandatory outing. And when Penelope made something “mandatory,” it might as well have been written into BAU policy.

“Three years!” she had exclaimed that morning, dramatic as ever. “Three years of grace, sweetness, charm, and accented perfection! You think I’m letting that slide by without a celebration? Absolutely not. You, my dear, are going to put on your boots and let me celebrate you.”

You’d tried to argue, gently. Said you didn’t need anything fancy, that you were just grateful to be part of the team. But Garcia had waved you off with a sparkling hand and muttered something about “honky-tonk happiness.” And that was that.

So here you were, standing outside The Rusty Spur, a weathered but lively country bar tucked just off a back road near Quantico. Warm yellow lights glowed over the porch, and the sounds of fiddles and guitars spilled through the open door into the night air. The faint smell of barbecue and beer made your stomach growl despite your earlier apprehension of going out.

“Feels like home,” you murmured without thinking.

Hotch, standing beside you in his usual dark attire, that made him look extremely out of place in this setting, turned slightly at the sound of your voice.

“Good or bad thing?” he asked quietly.

You gave him a soft smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Good. It’s a good thing.”

He nodded, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he stepped ahead to follow the others inside.

The interior of the bar was like something plucked straight from your childhood: worn wooden floors, strings of fairy lights draped from wooden beams, a live band already in full swing near the bar. Cowboy hats dotted the crowd. Boots stomped in rhythm across the dance floor. The vibe was warm and loud and just a little chaotic.

Everyone looked vaguely overwhelmed, while Penelope looked like she’d ascended to country-western heaven in her rhinestone-studded jacket and pink boots.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, spinning in a slow circle as she took everything in. “I’ve found my aesthetic soulmate. This bar is me. This is who I am now.”

You laughed softly, slipping off your denim jacket to reveal a button-down tucked into high-waisted jeans and a belt that had your name stitched into it from years ago. Your boots scuffed lightly on the floor as you stepped forward.

Morgan gave a low whistle. “Okay, cowgirl. You been hiding this whole time or what?”

“Not hiding,” you said with a wink. “Just hadn’t had the chance to show y’all yet.”

Hotch didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. You didn’t look at him yet.

Penelope ordered the first round, a mix of drinks in mason jars and bright-colored cocktails with umbrellas, and you all settled into a large booth near the dance floor. The bar had just enough space for the team to spread out but not enough to avoid the rhythm of the music pulsing through the floorboards.

When a new song kicked up, upbeat, classic country, full of claps and kicks and steel twang, your ears perked up.

“Oh, I love this one,” you said, already halfway to your feet.

JJ blinked. “Wait. You dance?”

You paused, halfway through pushing in your chair, and smiled like you were letting them in on a little secret. “Y’all really haven’t been paying attention, huh?”

Without another word, you made your way to the dance floor, hips swaying casually as you joined the growing crowd already in formation. The second the beat dropped, your entire posture changed.

You were electric.

Steps crisp, turns sharp, your body moving with an ease that only came from muscle memory built over years. You glided through the line dance like you’d been born into it, like the rhythm had grown with you, which in reality it had. People around you started to slow down just to watch, and the team definitely did.

“She’s incredible,” JJ said under her breath.

“I thought she was just sweet tea and apologies,” Emily muttered.

Garcia let out a breathy gasp and grabbed Morgan’s arm. “My girl is lighting the place on fire. She’s setting the bar on actual fire.”

Even Spencer looked floored. “Her coordination is… statistically uncommon.”

Hotch was silent.

He didn’t say a word. He just watched, his eyes locked on you like he was trying to decode something he hadn’t realized was right in front of him all along.

He’d always known you were kind. Grounded. The kind of person who remembered birthdays and brought snacks to stakeouts and sent thank-you notes in handwriting that curled like calligraphy. You were soft-spoken and steady.

But this was something different. You weren’t just good at this, you were magnetic. Controlled. Radiant in a way that went bone-deep. He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the table until the song ended.

You curtsied with a grin, breath a little heavy but eyes bright, and made your way back to the table. People clapped as you passed.

“I am… genuinely intimidated,” Emily said, wide-eyed.

“You never told us you could move like that,” JJ added.

You just shrugged, cheeks pink with the rush of the dance and the attention. “It’s just like breathing, where I come from. County fairs, church picnics, Friday night dances. You either learn, or you get left behind.”

Penelope leaned in, dreamily. “I would commit crimes for your kind of footwork.”

Hotch still hadn’t spoken. His gaze hadn’t left you, but his expression was harder to read now. Thoughtful. Quiet.

You were just about to ask him what he was thinking when a voice near the bar yelled over the music.

“Bull time!”

A cheer rose from the crowd. A spotlight flickered toward the far corner, where the mechanical bull sat like a challenge waiting to be accepted.

You perked up instantly.

“Oh no,” Morgan said, eyebrows rising. “Don’t tell me...”

You were already standing again. “Oh, I’m telling you.”

Penelope clapped like a delighted child. “YES. I knew you’d be the one.”

“You’ve done this before?” Emily asked, half-laughing.

You shot her a wink as you handed your jacket to Spencer. “Won my county fair four years runnin’. That bull and I go way back.”

Hotch was still silent, but his eyes followed you with the same intensity as before.

The bull operator gave you a nod like he recognized a fellow pro, and you swung yourself up into the seat without hesitation, adjusting your grip and posture with ease.

The bar quieted a little.

Then the machine jolted to life.

You rode like you were born for it, hips moving in sync with every lurch and twist, one hand high in the air, the other tight on the rope. You didn’t wobble. You didn’t flinch. The crowd whooped louder with every passing second.

And then, with a final spin, you let yourself fall, landing lightly on your feet and giving a little bow, grinning from ear to ear.

The bar exploded.

At the booth, everyone was shouting and laughing.

“You’re actually a menace,” Morgan said, stunned. “An actual bull-riding menace.”

“Your core strength must be off the charts,” Reid muttered.

Penelope looked like she might cry. “You are the most beautiful cowboy goddess I have ever seen.”

But you weren’t really listening to them anymore.

You were looking at him.

Hotch was still seated, still quiet, but something had changed. His arms were crossed, his brow furrowed, but not in disapproval. It looked more like… awe. Curiosity maybe?

You walked over slowly, chest still rising and falling with adrenaline.

“Well?” you asked softly. “Still think I’m just polite and sweet?”

He looked at you, gaze steady and intense. “I’ve never thought that,” he said, quiet enough that only you could hear it.

Your stomach fluttered.

“Good,” you murmured.

The music shifted to something slow.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Dance with me?” you asked, holding out your hand.

He hesitated, just a second. Then he stood, his hand sliding into yours. His touch was warm. Steady. Reassuring in the way only he could be.

You led him to the dance floor, placing one hand on his shoulder, the other holding his firmly. He was stiff at first, classic Hotch, like he wasn’t sure how to let go. But you leaned in just enough, your voice soft.

“Relax. Ain’t no performance. Just you and me.”

Something in him loosened at that. Slowly, he matched your rhythm. Not perfectly, but with effort. He was trying. And he was holding you like he didn’t want to stop.

And under the soft lights of a bar that felt like home, with a team that had become just like family, watching from a distance and the music wrapping around you, Aaron Hotchner danced.

Badly.

But you didn’t mind one bit.

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Rapunzel

In Which: After receiving a reminder of your life before Seonghwa, you've become defiant again. He tries a gentle approach, then a not so gentle approach, then you make him get mean.

❥Yandere Park Seonghwa x fem reader

Baby Series !

♫Baby Playlist♫

18+. MINORS WILL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST IF THEY TOUCH MY BLOG.

➯a/n: the long awaited, dreaded, anticipated — the window escape... omg seriously yikes i can't tell you how many times i cried while writing this. it's the longest any chapter has taken me and you can probably tell why, it's a very very fucked up chapter, enjoy !! ➯a/n2: seriously after this i swear i'll PROGRESS the story lmao

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, ANGST (and fucked up comfort)

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: DEAD DOVE I CRUSHED IT (just like babys foot-), captivity, baaad physical violence against reader: slapping / spanking / legs scratched / foot crushed (off screen), hwa insults reader; calls her: little girl / brat / stupid, forced nudity, forced little space, heavily implied that readers ex s/a'd her but never explicitly stated, trauma bonding, panic attack brought on by being locked in a dark closet, reader is canonically afraid of the dark, seonghwa is way too good at lying to the police, seonghwa is INSANE and MEAN when he's pushed too far, mind breaking, the beginnings of stockholm syndrome, kissing in little space, san and mingi are OFFICIALLY accomplices (they stop reader from escaping), not even slightly proof read i couldn't handle it 😭

➯disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and does NOT represent a healthy little and caregiver relationship, or a healthy relationship of any kind.

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

˗ˏˋbaby-yaaaˎˊ˗ @maplelilly05 @m00njinnie @tinyteezer

₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sousydive @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

    "Rise and shine, My Baby."

     Two weeks, three days, and a handful of hours.

     "Five more minutes," you grumble as you press your face deeper into your stuffed raccoon. You don't want to face the day yet. You don't want to face Seonghwa yet.

     You can count the number of hours you've spent out of little space during these past weeks on your fingers. Every time you think you might be coming back to your grown self, to a mind-space where you can be angry and violent and fight your way out — Mommy was there to make you feel tiny again.

     Instead of angry, violent, and trying to escape; you were mostly confused, scared, and frustrated.

     And you had no other way to cope other than to fall deeper into your little space. It has been an inescapable loop.

    "C'mon, baby-doll," he lifts your sleepy form from the false comfort of the blankets, letting you drag your stuffed animal with you. "Time to wake up."

    Mingi is already at the table, eating quietly with his head down as Seonghwa carries you to the table; the stuffie dangling as you hold its hand. "Morning Mingi," he says as he sits you down carefully.

   Remember your manners, Baby.

    "Mornin' Ming." You whine as you rub your eyes. You wait with your head down, leaving you and Mingi as some sort of warped mirror to each other.

You aren't allowed to look him in the eyes. You aren't allowed to look anyone in the eyes. Only your Mommy.

"Here you go, love bug," Seonghwa hums as he sits next to you, sliding you a bowl of oatmeal and fruit.

When you go to pick up the spoon, he grabs your wrist — not roughly, but purposefully as he looks at you pointedly. He lifts an eyebrow.

"Tha- thank you, Mommy."

He lets you go and smiles softly, "you're welcome, Baby."

A knock at the front door makes everyone freeze.

None of the members bother to knock. They all have keys, they waltz in whenever they want.

"Stay there," he points to you sternly as he hurries to the door, giving you one last glance before leaning to the peephole.

His heart drops to his toes.

"Who is it?" Mingi asks as he leans with you over the table-top.

His jaw tightens as he cracks the door just slightly, keeping the chain in place. "Can I help you?"

"Park Seonghwa?" The cop on the other side of the door lowers his hand from where he was about to knock again.

He gulps, nodding slowly, "yes."

"Do you know a Miss (L/n)?"

Seonghwa can hear you gasp quietly, followed by Mingi's hand slapping over your mouth and a 'sorry' whispered soon there after. "Uh... I'll join you in the hall. My roommate is sleeping on the couch. Just a moment." When the cop nods understandingly, he closes the door quickly.

He runs over to you both quickly and rests his palms on your cheeks, squishing them firmly as he stares into your eyes. "You're my good girl, right?" 

    "Is that the pol-"

    "Right, Baby?" You nod against his hands, and he forces a smile as he coos, "you are. I'm going to step outside, and you're going to go wait in Ming's room, okay?"

    "Yes, Mommy..."

    You squeak as his lips suddenly meet yours, and you hold onto his wrists as a lifeline as he kisses you like it's his last chance to ever do so.

    For all he knows, it might very well be.

    A soft knock at the door makes him pull away. With a sigh, he turns you toward the hallway softly and hums, "go on, Baby. Ming will be right there."

    As you dazedly wonder down the hallway, he looks towards Mingi: who has his head down and is fidgeting with his hands. He looks torn.

   "Mingi?"

    His head snaps up, looking towards Seonghwa with wide eyes.

    "Don't do something you'll regret. You get it?" He sets his hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes intently, "just go and keep her distracted, okay? Keep her little."

    "O-okay, Hyung," he nods, though his face still clearly shows how he's stuck between wanting to listen to him and wanting to tell the police outside the door everything.

     Seonghwa can see that, and he gives him a shove in the direction he wants him to go by hugging him tightly. "Thank you, Mingi."

    Another knock.

  He runs back to the door quickly, taking a glance towards Mingi and sighing relieved as he watches his figure disappear down the hall.

   He unlocks the door and moves the chain, slipping out quickly and closing the door behind him before they can see inside. "Sorry," he bows a bit, "sorry, I had to- to take something out of the oven."

    The older man nods, a bit suspicious, but he takes the excuse anyway. "So, you know a Miss (L/n)?" He asks, clicking his pen.

   "Oh, yeah. We are- sorry, we were dating." He's so nervous. He's thankful he's taken acting classes. If he weren't always in the spotlight, he thinks he would have crumbled the second he spoke to the cop.

    "When was the last time you had contact with her?"

   "Uuuhm." About a thirty seconds ago. "About three weeks ago maybe?"

    "Was this in person?"

    "Yes, I went to her apartment..." Act innocent. Act dumb. Say something! "Is- is she in trouble or something?"

    The cop looks up from where he's writing on his small note pad. "Have you had contact with her since you were at her apartment?"

    "No, sir. We had just broken up, she said she wanted space — is she okay?" Of course you're okay. You're just inside.

    "Unfortunately, Miss (L/n) is missing."

"...what? Missing how?"

"Missing as in nobody knows where she is, Mr. Park. That's the general definition, isn't it?" The cop raises his eyebrows, tapping his pen against the paper. "Apparently, you're the last one to see her."

Shit. Fuck. Shit-fuck. Why isn't his brain keeping up? "But that was so long ago... You're just now investigating?"

"To be completely honest, Mr. Park," the cop shrugs, "we had no reason to believe she was truly missing until a week after she was gone. But her friend was very insistent that she would never just skip town, and now we believe her."

Seonghwa has to take a few deep breaths. "What- I'm sorry, can I ask what changed?"

"Unfortunately, we found her ex-boyfriend a few days ago."

He blinks. Oh, he's not supposed to know about your ex — "he doesn't know anything?"

"He's dead." The cop watches his reaction closely, and thankfully he's in his mind enough to respond appropriately.

His jaw slightly dropped, he looks down at the floor. "Oh..."

"Did you know him? Lee Namsun?"

"Uh," he shakes his head, "no, not personally." He's onto you. He's onto you. He's onto you. "Do- do you think she's dead?" He bites his tongue hard enough to make a thin layer of tears build up in his eyes.

The cop sighs as he tears up, and he reaches over to pat his shoulder, "don't worry, son. We have no reason to believe that."

"Thank goodness," Seonghwa wipes his eyes. Thank goodness he bought that.

"I have just a few more questions, then I'll let you be."

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

"You won't tell me what you talked about?" You ask Seonghwa for the fifth time. Sitting on the unmade mattress, holding the bedsheet; supposed to be making the bed but instead looking at him beggingly as he folds laundry.

"Baby," he groans, glancing over to you sternly, "drop it. This is the last time I'm going to say it. Forget about it."

"Did he mention Yejin? I'm sure she's worried about m-" He drops the shirt he was folding and turns to face you with an angry look.

Oh, crap.

Not only were you annoying him, now you've broken a rule. 'Don't talk about before.' Meaning, forget everything that happened before he 'brought you home.'

"I'm sorry, Mommy." You blurt out quickly, hugging your knees to your chest.

"How many times have I told you-"

"I'm sorry! I miss her!" You're crying before you even know what's what, thick tears streaming down your face, "I just miss her..."

You flinch as he steps forward, anger barely concealed on his face.

"It's okay, Baby," he sighs as he sits next to you, dragging you into his lap. "I know you miss her. She was a good friend, but you know what I say, right?"

"Mommy is the best friend." You whisper through your tears.

"That's right, angel~" He cups your face softly, rubbing away your tears with his thumbs. "Mommy is the best friend. You don't have to have any others when you have me." There's a long pause, and then, "and what about Ming? Isn't he your friend too?"

"...Yeahm." You shift in his lap, picking at the patches on your shorts.

"I know you miss Yejin. But you don't need her. You have Ming, have all of us. You have Mommy~" And, more importantly, Mommy has you.

"Yeah," you say shortly, blinking away the remainder of your tears, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, but..."

"I know." Your head hangs low, soft sigh escaping your lips. "Only five?"

"Only five, Baby. Will you be a big girl about it?" Hesitantly, you nod before climbing out of his lap quietly.

"Do you have to-" You get cut off as he pulls you forward, wrapping his arm around your waist and burying his face in your stomach.

"Yes."

His palm hits your behind, making you yelp and grab onto his hair. "Ow!"

"I know, starlight," he says with another harsh smack. "I know it hurts." Smack!

"Wait, wait-" You'd think you'd be used to getting spanked by now. You've acted out a good amount, so you've had your fair share of spankings.

But his hands are so large. And he doesn't hold back. And it's humiliating.

"But that's the point." He mumbles into your stomach before looking up. "What were you going to say?"

"I d- I just wanted to say I'm s- I'm really sorry for breaking a rule..."

"Are you stalling, Baby?"

"Nuh-uh!" You yell, quickly slapping your hand over your mouth. Raising your voice is another big no-no.

He knew that the police visiting the apartment would send you back to 'brat-land', as he calls it.

And you've been making such good progress, too...

Such a shame.

"No! No!" You yell some more as he pulls you to the bed, already knowing you've earned yourself more punishment. "Mommy, please! I'm sorry!"

"Are you? You're sorry, Baby?" He groans while shoving you face down into the mattress, pining you with his knee on your back.

"Yes!"

"Then why are you still screaming like a brat?" His insult hits your foggy brain right where it hurts, making you dig your fingers harder into the bed as he yanks your shorts down.

"...'Cause you're hurting me, M-"

"I wouldn't have to hurt you if you behaved. I'm sorry, angel, but clearly you need a reminder of the rules. Two in one day? I thought we were past this..."

He pushes your head to the side softly and traces your cheekbone with his knuckles. "Why are you acting up, Baby? Because you miss your friend?"

"I- Because- Just-"

"Baby-ya..." He pouts — and you'd almost think he was feeling sorry for you if he wasn't still pinning you to the bed with your panties exposed. "Tell me. I won't be mad."

No, of course not. He's going to be furious.

"I miss my life..."

He presses his lips together, nodding slowly. "What do you miss about it?"

You watch him with wide, fearful eyes. He's urging you to talk about it? You aren't allowed to even bring it up.

"I miss... my bed- ow!" You try to bury your face back in the bed when he smacks your bottom suddenly, forced to keep your head sideways as he holds you.

"What about our bed, hm? Isn't it comfy?" His anger is about to boil over, you can see it in his eyes through your unshed tears as you look up at him. "Don't you like cuddling with Mommy?"

"I do," you nod quickly, "I love our bed, Mommy. I like your cuddles." He needs so much validation it's almost impossible to give him it all. Especially when you're feeling big and feeling disgusted at the words you force off your tongue.

"What else do you miss?" Oh, this is all a way to get you to admit you don't need your old life. He's done this before. He doesn't really care about what you miss — what he's stolen from you. "I asked you a question, precious."

"M-" You close your eyes, breathing out heavily, "Miss Lee."

You bite back the whine as you earn yourself another smack. "Why?"

"She was kind to me."

Two smacks, this time. "And we aren't? Doesn't Sannie give you extra TV time? Hm? Doesn't Ming color with you? What about me?"

"I'm sorry, Mommy. I don't mean-"

"Am I not kind to you? Do I not take care of you? I don't worship the ground My Baby walks on?"

His words are making your gut churn in knots. Because they're true; at least to some extent. He does take care of you. He does adore you. More than anything. All he expects in return is your love — and complete submission.

"I'm really sorry, Mommy. You do take care of me. You- you are kind, you're the best." You pull your hands up to your face, hiding in them as he sighs. "I'm sorry I'm a brat. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, little angel," he whispers as he rubs your head, "don't cry." But how could you not? "Catch your breath, and let's get this over with. I don't like hurting you, Baby. Please, don't draw this out..." As if he can't just stop at any point. As if he has to do this.

He lets you push your face into the mattress when you move again, taking slow breaths to calm himself down. "I'm sor-"

"I know, Baby. You said you would take your punishment like a big girl, are you still going to do that?"

Sniffling, you press your forehead to the bed, resting where he can hear you; because you know the drill. "Yes, Mommy."

"What are the rules, Baby?" He'll ask you, every time you end up in this situation. Which, even in this short amount of time, has been too many times to count. Sometimes, during the first few days, it was multiple times a day because you were just so disobedient.

"Don't look other people in the eyes." And you'd go through them all.

Smack! Getting a hit for each one; making sure you'll remember it when you sit down later.

"Don't talk back."

Smack!

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

"You okay?" San asks quietly as he sits across from you at the table. He didn't miss the shouting the hour before, and he surely didn't miss the pillow under you.

"Fine." You say shortly, stabbing your fork into your food.

You aren't in little space. Even though Seonghwa has been trying to get you there ever since you scrambled up after your punishment and pulled up your shorts without a word.

You aren't in little space; so you're angry and violent and you want to bolt for the door. But that's never worked for you before. After the first time, Seonghwa even stopped counting that as an escape attempt because you were snatched up so easy as you fought with the dead bolted door that could only be opened with a key.

"Eat your food, Baby." He says from the kitchen, wiping down the counters.

"I'm not hungry."

"How much did you eat?"

"Enough."

"How many bites?"

"A couple."

San and Mingi listen to you go back and forth, eyes glued to their own plates. The younger man flinches when your raise your voice —

"I said I'm not hungry!"

"And I told you to eat. Don't make me come over there and feed you myself. Stop being so difficult, do you want another punishment?"

"I hat-" You stop yourself quickly as his head whips around, correcting your near fatal mistake. "I'm so mad at you!"

"Go to our room, love."

And you're glad to do just that, stomping off. "And don't slam the door!" He shouts just as you push the door closed loudly on purpose.

You slump to the floor quickly, swallowing back your tears as your sore behind collides with the hardwood. Swiping up the stray that makes it down your cheek, you look around the room.

The bed is still unmade. He had held you after your punishment, shushing you softly until you calmed down despite pain and lingering humiliation. And by the time your tears had stopped; it was lunch time.

You push yourself up to make the bed so that he doesn't come back and get mad that your chore isn't done — before you realize what you're doing and scoff at yourself. Yanking up the blanket, you look down at the soft fabric.

And then your eyes trail to the window.

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

He knocks again before he enters the room, already having waited long enough for you to answer. "Baby, you shouldn't ignore-"

His heart jumps to his throat as he notices you aren't in the room. And the sheet is tied to the bedpost closest to the window. And the window is open —

"Baby!" He yells as he runs to the window, eyes wide and teary as he leans over the ledge.

And there you are, hanging just out of his reach in the alleyway. Thank goodness his window doesn't face the road, or he'd be screwed; even more than he is now. "What are you doing?!"

His hands scramble to grab the fabric, fighting with gravity to pull you back up. "San!" He screams as loud as possible, "Mingi! Help!"

He's never had to witness you in any danger that he hasn't been in control of. He's about to pass out from fright. From pure heart-shaking fear.

"Hyu- oh, shit!" San runs in quickly, wrapping his hands up in the fabric and pulling you up even as you protest.

Mingi is right behind them, eyes wide as saucers and his heart about to slam out of his chest. He reaches between them quickly and grabs your arms as he watches your fingers twitch, knowing what you're about to do. "Don't!"

But you do anyway; you let go of the sheet and the two elder members fly back as they yank it inside the apartment. Mingi almost falls forward, straight out the window with you, if not for letting go of one of your arms and grabbing the wall. Leaving you dangling precariously from the third story with nothing but his grip on your forearm keeping you from the drop.

"Let me go! Mingi, please! Just let me go!"

His breath catches in his throat as you say his name. His full name. Not 'Ming'. Grown-up to grown-up, you're begging him to let you fall rather than be back in the apartment.

He doesn't have time to think about it as San wraps his arms around his waist and starts using him as leverage to pull you higher and higher until Seonghwa eventually gets his arms wrapped around you and pulls you back in.

"Oh, Baby!" He sobs as he falls to the floor with you, "My Baby! Why did you do that? God, my sweet girl..."

You start to cry with him, face in his shoulder as your cries shake your body; held tightly in his arms. Your own wrap around him before you can stop them.

"L-let me see you," he breathes shakily, cradling your face in his hands; tilting you this way and that, "are you hurt, Baby?"

Mingi backs into San, hand seeking his and finding it quickly to wrap their pinkies together. They already know what you were trying to do. Seonghwa is lagging behind because his brain is stuck in the panic.

"You're okay? Yeah?" He sniffles, wiping his eyes quickly before his arms are right back around your shoulders and crushing you to his chest. "Oh, I was so scared... You-"

It clicks. Just like that.

His breathing gets shallow and his hands tighten around you, "what were you doing?" He asks lowly; and you only cry harder. You don't even want to imagine the punishment you're going to receive.

He pulls you up, throws you to the bed without care, and slams the window shut before turning to the others. "Get out." Mingi shrinks into Sans side as he stands semi-tall.

"Hyung, don't hurt her... Please, take a secon-"

"Get the fuck out before I strangle you!"

Everyone jumps into action: San backing away quickly with a heavy heart, Mingi pulling him out of the room with just the same, and you lift yourself on shaky arms; crawling to the corner of the bed.

Seonghwa stands at the door for a moment after he slams it. The sound of your cries usually breaks his heart, but right now they make him even angrier. You're crying? After you tried to leave him? After you tried to leave in such a dangerous way?

"Get over here."

"N-no, ple-"

He's on you in a second flat, yanking you to the middle of the bed; straddling your legs and pinning them to the bed as you try to kick away. "I can't fucking believe you, Baby." He sneers as he fights with your shorts so hard that the button pops off.

When you notice what he's doing, you start screaming even harder. "No!! Stop! Stop!!" You haven't screamed like this since the first night, and you know that the others in the apartment can hear you. You'd be surprised if the members in the apartments above and below you don't hear. "You liar! You lied to me! You promised you wouldn't be like him! You promised me!"

And he plans to always keep that promise. He just wants you to feel as vulnerable as he did watching you dangle out of the window by a goddamn sheet.

In one swift pull, he's rid you of your shorts and underwear, back on top of you before you can scramble up. "Please, don't! Mommy, Mommy!"

"Stop screaming. I don't want to hear it." He's never going to cross that specific line, but you can think he will for a little longer. Maybe a bit of terror will do you some good. "Get your ass up," he pulls you by your scalp, making you hiss.

Standing on wobbly knees, you don't have any choice but to let him peel your shirt away; leaving you trembling and naked. When you go to wrap your arms around yourself —

Seonghwa slaps you. You freeze, both in disbelief and fear. He's never slapped you. It hurts so much more than spankings. It makes your knees buckle under you; and he lets you fall to the hardwood with a thunk.

"D-" You stutter as you bring a hand to your cheek, the other holding your weight as you sit on your hip. "...Did you just slap me?" Your shock has stopped your tears, leaving you to look up at him in confusion.

He crouches in front of you, ignoring your words completely.

"What the hell was that?"

His tone is so level and calm that your heart stops. Your tears are back full force, and you're blubbering like an idiot; unintelligible pleas and apologies until he slaps you again. You face the floor, biting your lips to stop your sobs.

"You're un-fucking-believable, do you know that, Baby? I'm so disappointed in you. After everything we've been through? Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Of course, when you try to say anything, it comes out as a pained cry; holding your freshly slapped cheek in favor over the other one.

He tuts his tongue, "I didn't think so." You can't fight his arms as they wrap around you and haul you up, even if you tried.

He pushes open the sliding closet door and shoves you inside. "Think about what you've done." Is all he says before he closes it.

You're so frazzled, caught off guard, that he has time to jam the door before you try to slide it open. "Mommy?" You slap the door, looking around the pitch black space. "Open the- please! Don't leave me here!"

You sit quickly, rubbing your face before you hit the door again, weaker, "please? Pl- put me in the corner, I swear I won't- won't move. You know I'm sacred of the dark..."

He knows. Of course he knows. That's part of the reason you're in there. When he opens the door and the first thing you seen in hours is his face, you'll associate him with safety — even after what he does to you.

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

Your head is pounding as you rest it against the door. Your hands shake as you hold yourself. The tips of your fingers are numb with a lack of oxygen, just now calming down after hyperventilating for the past hour.

You don't know what to think. What to feel. You just want Seonghwa to open the door.

You feel phantom touches that aren't there after a while.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you bring your thumb to your mouth to comfort yourself.

You want nothing more than to be out of this damned closet. You're starting to feel small, starting to regress even though you try to fight it off because you know it will only make matters worse.

You begged for a while before you realized he was either ignoring you — or left you. He never leaves you. Not when you're upset.

But he did today.

The door slides open slowly, and you barely catch yourself on your hands. "Mommy?" You ask as you look up quickly, meeting his dark eyes as you crawl out of the cramped space. "Mommy! You came back." You hug his leg tightly, uncaring of your nudity after so long. Uncaring of anything.

Not even noticing the hammer in his other hand as he pets your head softly. "Of course I did. Silly girl." His voice doesn't carry its usual playfulness when he calls you that. His tone is still flat, but you don't mind as long as you can hear it. As long as you can hear anything other than your own echoing breathes.

You cling onto his pants as he leans your head back, "are you ready to apologize?"

"Yes." You gulp, eyes finally finding the tool in his hand, "wha-"

"Get to it, then."

And you do, forcing everything else off your mind as you let go of him; getting on your knees to quite literally beg for forgiveness.

He lets you grab onto his pant legs, a bit of a smile trying to tug its way into his lips as you try to keep some part of him adhered to you so he can't disappear again.

"I'm really sorry, Mommy... I was- I acted out because I was upset. I don't know what I was thinking. I k- I should know better. Please don't stay mad at me. Please? I'll never do anything like that again, and- and I'll never complain, I'll eat all of my food and I pr- I swear I'll be good! I won't be a brat, Mommy- please, don't put me back in there! I'll be good! I'll be so good!"

Even though you had hours to think about what you wanted to say — you start losing your words as he doesn't say anything. He just lets you keep on begging until he hears what he wants to.

"-and I'll never talk back, I'll always do what you say- just say something! Mommy, please, say something?" You tug on the fabric with a pout, "I'll take all of my punishments like a big girl and I won't fight you on them-"

"Is that right?" He finally speaks, heart softening with each of your words. "You'll take your punishments like a big girl?"

"Y-yes." You stutter as your brain reminds you of the weapon in his hand.

"You know I'm always fair with you, right? The punishment fits the crime. Isn't that what I say?"

You nod slowly, letting your hands drop to your sides.

"Listen closely," he leans down and looks right in your eyes, "don't try to run away. Or you won't be able to walk. Walking is a privilege, Baby."

"Wait, hold on a s-" You try to crawl backwards into the closet you dread so badly as the puzzle pieces fit together in your mind.

He throws the hammer onto the neatly made bed, both hands clawing at your legs — clawing. Nails scratching up your skin as he pulls you back out into the light. Nowhere for you to hide.

"Don't be a liar now," he pouts down at you as you thrash, but it isn't his genuine pout and you can feel it, "you said you'd be a big girl about this!" And you're proven right as he drags you out by your ankles as he yells. "We always keep our word, Baby!"

He crawls over you, pinning you to the hardwood and slamming your hands down with a death-grip on your wrists when you try to slap at him.

He ignores your cry, "are you ready to keep yours?" You shake your head, fast. You'd rather be a liar than get a hammer to your legs at the hands of an angry Seonghwa that you hardly recognize. "No?" He huffs a small laugh, "no? You have some serious nerve, little girl."

Your heart shatters; stuck in a million pieces in your chest as he calls you that with such... venom in his voice.

"You're scaring me..."

"Am I? I'm scaring you, Baby?" He raises his eyebrow, gesturing to the window, "that! That was scary! Seeing My Baby dangle out of the fucking window like goddamn Rapunzel! Do you know what was going on in my mind? Do you have any idea!?"

You can only shake your head, choking on your sobs.

"No. You don't. You don't know- do you know anything?" He groans as he reaches and gets the hammer. "One thing you're going to get through your thick, little head-" You scream as he lifts you up, back on the bed without a struggle.

"You don't get to leave me."

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

You must have blacked out, because the next thing you know; Seonghwa has his arms around you and your foot is filled with a pain that spreads through your entire body.

You let out a wheezing breath, eyes screwed shut tightly and hands shaking as you hold onto the sleeves of his t-shirt.

You don't have the wits about you to notice him wiping his eyes before he lifts you up wordlessly and carries you into the hall; still naked as the day you were born. You would be mortified if you could focus on anything other than the throbbing in your foot.

Thankfully, San and Mingi seem to be hiding. You make it to the bathroom without incident, eyes glazed over as he sets you on the counter.

He's silent as he digs out a bandage wrap, not a word spoken as he wraps up your swollen and discolored foot. He sighs as he stands up, spreading your knees to stand between them.

"Hurts really bad, doesn't it?" He searches your eyes as you force yourself to look up at him; nodding carefully. "Good. Maybe you'll think about that next time you decide to act so stupid."

The million pieces of your heart break apart and fall into your stomach.

Stupid. Stupid.

"Next time, I'll break your leg." His words don't reach you; still stuck on him calling you stupid.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stu-

"I didn't mean to be stupid." Your voice trembles, your chin wobbling as tears try to fight their way out. You bring your arms around yourself, hiding your chest as you start to shake with emotion.

His eyes widen slowly.

Like he's finally come back to himself. "Oh, Baby, no... No, that's- I didn't mean that. You aren't stupid, sweet girl. You just did something stupid. That doesn't mean you are."

He's putting his arms around you again, slow and gentle; rubbing your back in comforting circles as you immediately wrap yours around him and cling to him for dear life.

"I'm sorry, Baby, I didn't mean it like that." He's forced to look in the mirror behind you as he hugs your quivering form. Until he closes his eyes, that is; unable to bear it. He leans his head against yours with tears of his own slipping down his face. "Didn't you think about what could have happened? We live on the third floor, angel... You could have gotten so hurt. What would I have done if you- if-"

He has to stop himself. He can't think about that.

"Come on, starlight," he whispers as he carefully pulls you into his hold, "let's get you some pain meds and some comfy pajamas, yeah?"

"P-please?"

You've fallen far, far into your little space. Everything is far, far too much to handle. You're in pain, both physical and emotional. Seonghwa is gone from completely horrifying and mean to the sweet and caring person you fell in love with. And it makes your head spin.

"Of course."

The pajamas are soft, and so is his touch as he helps you into them. He gives you the medicine as promised, and for once — you take the pills he hands you willingly. Washing them down with a sip from your bottle and waiting for them to kick in while he rubs your head slowly.

He multitasks, heating up a pot of soup while he massages your scalp slowly; never leaving your side, keeping you on the counter next to the stove. Always within reach.

Thunder rumbles outside. You hold onto his sleeve a little tighter. "Mommy?"

"Yes, Baby?"

"Can- maybe can I eat in our room, please?"

He thinks for a moment, rubbing the back of your neck gently. "Okay, you can eat at my desk, how about it?"

"Thank you," you lean and give him the quickest, smallest kiss to the cheek. But he still smiles.

He carries you first, sitting you in his chair before going back for the food. He holds the spoon, and you don't fight him on it as he leads it to your mouth and then back to the bowl until it's empty.

"Are you getting tired, angel?" He asks as he sets it down, rolling the chair to the bed so you can crawl in.

"Yeahm..."

"Let me get your blankey, you can have a nap." He knows you won't argue, and you don't. You simply fall onto your side of the bed and curl up, grabbing your stuffed raccoon with a yawn.

The medicine has you a bit tired, but mostly it's from your emotional exhaustion.

You melt into him as he cuddles up behind you, draping you both in your favorite throw blanket.

"I love you, Mommy."

It gives his pause. Then a wide smile spreads on his lips. It's the first time you've said it first. And he knows it's probably just because of your fragile state; but he'll take it.

He'll take anything when it comes to you.

"I love you, Baby."

❝rapunzel❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

[rosszulorzott]

some highlights from the article about the article

And their answer was, “Oh, I can see how that can be looked from two different perspectives.”

I've learned that this is really the best response I can expect realistically. it's nowhere close to validation but all the other responses are way harsher

Are there skills you teach that help clients with their feelings of trauma and isolation? Bar-Halpern: I would do what we call “cope ahead” for future invalidation, for future situations that they might get invalidated ... So we try to cope ahead for that as much as we can, while acknowledging that we cannot cope ahead for everything.

practical

Particularly important to coping ahead in the long term would be finding a new sense of belonging and connecting to a community, whatever community that is connected to their own values.

I'd like to add my own experience as it fits here. I've been part of a small community of like-minded people, in which I am now losing my sense of belonging. and in a wider sense too - I have always belonged among people with leftist, progressive, humanist, liberal views, and there is a sense of betrayal. even if I don't count my personal connections. just to know that our values are not the same anymore with a lot of them

this is my first family so to speak as I dedicated myself to this world view before it came to my knowledge that I am Jewish (family practicing caution with the information in case it will get dangerous again)

so it's loss upon loss

I still believe that on the deepest level every person feels, reasons and acts based upon true, positive, values. fear is needing a degree of safety, enmity is needing a degree of control, and so on. in your core, you are never wrong, you just need what you need and then find some way to try to make it come about. I am not disappointed in humanity but I am alienated from people who have seemed to translate these truths of our human nature into beliefs and views similarly to how I do it

“This is not about the war. This is about the Jewish experience in the United States.”

yeah. the Jewish experience or the experience of a political being (again, I don't want to take away the focus of the articles from the Jewish experience, this is just an addition). how everything that is happening locally (for me it's hungary), the messages, the responses, the shifts in our community and other activist spaces are so heavy now to bear

I really want to make the case that it is not just a Jewish problem. When you start dehumanizing any type of group, you’re going to dehumanize other groups as well.

this is what hurts my political beliefs, yes

I think that’s really important to acknowledge as well: We can validate each other and find those supportive communities, and make meaning from our experiences alongside the grief and pain that a lot of us have been feeling and continue to feel.

here's to hoping that

the article itself is very useful, too

“grieving the pain of not being accepted,”

I'll do that, thank you

Reading this open source article on how Jewish tauma and distress is treated by non-Jews made things click for me and helped me realize what happened and why I felt ill when I expressed my fears of antisemitism in my city and globally during a situation that took place roughly a year ago. I highly recommend reading it through.

This is an article about the article:

The article itself:

[whisperedmeg]

CONVERGENCE ZONE ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part ix

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: when her parents show up unannounced, domestic peace turns stormy. but spencer holds steady — apron-clad and unshaken — and later, in the quiet, love reclaims the space.

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

w/c: 3.3k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, strained familial relationship, judgmental parents, spencer being comforting and lovely as always, vague suggestion of reader’s age (“three decades of subtle parental judgement”) but you can ignore it if you want to imagine her differently

a/n: this chapter was so fun (& weirdly healing?) to write. as always, appreciate all comments/ likes/reblogs more than I can even express! thank you sm to everyone who has followed this series so far 🫶🏼 I have most of part 10 written, so i should hopefully get it posted sometime early-ish next week.

this is part of a series, but can be read as a stand-alone one shot! (just ignore the first couple paragraphs)

series masterlist

We’d gotten good at quiet again.

Not the brittle kind that used to crack between us when one of us pulled away too fast or said too little — but the soft kind. The kind made of inside jokes and shared breath, a rhythm built slowly and held with care. In the months since the world nearly tilted off its axis — the lamp, the distance, and the night our bodies finally stopped resisting gravity — things had settled into something gentler.

Some mornings still felt tentative. Spencer still had bruises beneath the surface I didn’t always know how to sooth. But love lived in the mundane now — in crosswords and burnt toast, in the way he reached for me in his sleep and didn’t flinch when I kissed his scars.

And on that morning, it lived in pancakes.

My apartment smelled like maple syrup and cinnamon, warm and clinging to the walls the way the early sun clung to the blinds. Spencer was shirtless, clad in just pajama pants and one of the cheesy aprons I’d owned for years but never worn — navy with a faded cartoon pig that said “Don’t go bacon my heart” — and flipping flapjacks with precision, like it was a high-stakes science experiment.

He was concentrating hard, spatula poised, tongue poking out just slightly between his lips as he studied the pan. His hair was still damp from the shower and curling at his temples. I leaned against the counter, biting back a smile.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” I teased.

“Pancakes are delicate,” he said matter-of-factly, eyes still on the griddle. “Too much force on the flip and you risk structural collapse.”

“Tragic,” I deadpanned. “All those poor, collapsed cakes.”

“Hey, have some respect for the breakfast sciences,” he said with a teasing grin, finally sliding the spatula beneath the pancake and flipping it with an elegant, practiced motion. It landed perfectly.

I clapped. “Wow, that was beautiful.”

He beamed, and I crossed the kitchen to press a kiss to his cheek, tasting the salt and steam on his skin. His free hand found my waist, pulling me in gently.

“Almost done,” he murmured. “You want blueberries or chocolate chips in yours?”

“Mmm, surprise me.”

He nodded, turning back to his work with the kind of focus he usually reserved for criminal interrogation or Tuesday evening Scrabble games. I stole a piece of bacon from the paper towel-lined plate beside him and popped it in my mouth just as a sharp knock echoed from the front door.

I blinked. “Were you expecting someone?”

He shook his head. “This is your apartment. Were you?”

“Oh…right,” I chuckled. “Nope.”

Another knock, more insistent this time. I frowned and padded toward the door, pulling it open, and then — I froze.

“Surprise!” said my mother, smiling too brightly. Behind her stood my father, holding a paper grocery bag.

My brain stalled. “Mom? Dad? What are you doing here?”

My mom brushed past me like she owned the place. “We were in the area.”

“We were in Bethesda for a wedding,” my dad clarified. “Your mother insisted we stop in.”

“You didn’t answer your phone last night,” she said, dropping her purse onto the entry table like she hadn’t just completely ambushed me. “We figured we’d catch you in the morning. And we brought oranges!”

“Oranges,” I repeated slowly. She just nodded, a wide, oblivious grin on her face.

And then Spencer stepped into view.

Shirtless.

Wearing a cheesy apron that said “Don’t go bacon my heart.”

Holding a plate of pancakes.

My mother blinked. My father looked at the floor like it might offer him answers.

“Uh,” Spencer said. Then, valiantly, he extended the plate. “Pancakes?”

—

The silence was almost painfully comical. Like a scene from a play where someone forgot their line and the audience could feel the pause awkwardly stretch.

Then, my mother recovered, her voice overly bright. “Well, aren’t you a surprise.”

Spencer gave a small, tentative wave. “Hello. I’m Spencer. Spencer Reid. Dr. Spencer Reid. Uh—sorry. Just Spencer is fine.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Doctor? Medical?”

I resisted the urge to bang my head against the doorframe. I’d told her in one of our infrequent phone calls what he did for work. Probably while she was reorganizing the freezer and only half-pretending to listen, but still, it was definitely something she could’ve at least tried to remember.

“No, PhDs,” he said quickly. “Uh, three of them. Chemistry, mathematics, and engineering.” He was visibly trying to stop himself and failing. “And, uh, bachelors in psychology and sociology and, more recently, philosophy. And, uh, I’ve done post-doctoral work in—”

I touched his elbow lightly. “Spence.”

He exhaled. “Just Spencer. Really.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” my mother said smoothly, which I knew for a fact was a lie, because I’d told them maybe six sentences total — one of which was his name, another his job, and the rest were carefully vague things like he’s very thoughtful and yes mom, it’s serious.

My dad gave a vague nod of agreement, still holding the bag of oranges. I watched as his eyes flicked toward the apron, then quickly away again. I could see him filing it under “information to never speak of again.”

“Would you guys like to stay for breakfast?” I asked weakly, trying not to sound like I wanted to die.

“Oh, no,” my mom said breezily. “We’ll head back to the hotel and take you two out for dinner later. Our treat.”

“You just said you brought oranges, mom.”

“Those are for juicing, not breakfast,” she said, as if that made perfect sense. As if we were ever a family who juiced.

Spencer glanced at me. I gave a subtle shrug. We were stuck in it now.

—

We saw them off with promises of dinner and fresh-squeezed orange juice, and then closed the door like we’d just survived a hostage negotiation. I sank onto the couch. Spencer leaned against the wall, still holding the plate of pancakes.

“Think they liked me?” he asked with an awkward, adorable smile.

I gave him a long look. “You were shirtless in a punny apron and offered them pancakes. I think you did fine, given the circumstances.”

He grinned, a little sheepishly, and finally set the plate down.

—

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I tried to clean, and then stopped. I tried to nap, but couldn’t. I paced the apartment while pretending not to pace, rereading texts from my mother and glaring at my phone like it had personally betrayed me.

Spencer tried to distract me — he suggested chess, then reading side-by-side on the couch, then an episode of some old British crime drama where everyone wore tweed and called each other “Inspector.” I couldn’t focus. My stomach felt like it had been spun in a centrifuge.

“They’re going to hate anything I wear,” I muttered, rifling through my closet two hours before the reservation. “Too casual, too dressy, too plain, too loud. Last Christmas, my mom told me I looked tired while I was wearing a full face of makeup.”

Spencer leaned against the doorframe, watching me turn my closet into a disaster zone. “Okay,” he said, slowly, “but what if you just wore something you liked?”

“That’s not how this works,” I said with a sigh, pulling out a navy dress and holding it up to myself in front of the mirror before immediately tossing it on the bed. “You don’t understand — they’ll find a way to be disappointed no matter what. It’s like a sport to them.”

He stepped forward, sliding his arms around me from behind. “Then let’s just disappoint them together.”

I couldn’t help the lopsided smile that curled at the corners of my lips when he said that. I spun around to face him, giving him a look. “You’re weirdly good at pep talks.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice. High-stakes hostage negotiations, fresh-off-a-breakup Garcia after three mimosas at brunch, et cetera. You learn.”

I rested my forehead on his chest. “I’m sorry. I know I’m acting neurotic.”

“No, you’re acting conditioned by three decades of subtle parental judgment,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Big difference.”

I laughed, even though it caught in my throat.

Later, when he changed into a starched button-down, vest, navy slacks, and a blazer that made him look like he was about to give a lecture on quantum mechanics, I could tell he was nervous. He switched ties three times. He checked his reflection and stared at it like he was waiting for it to blink first.

“You look handsome,” I told him softly.

He looked at me then, a flicker of something vulnerable in his expression. “I just want them to like me, even a fraction of as much as I love you. Honestly, I’d settle for not being actively hated. But I’d really like them to know I’d do anything for you.”

That undid me a little.

—

Eight hours after my parents’ initial intrusion, we ended up at a too-fancy steakhouse across town from my apartment. Spencer sat beside me in the booth, his posture uncharacteristically perfect, his hands folded neatly in his lap until the waiter arrived with a charcuterie board the size of my coffee table.

My mother looked delighted. My father looked vaguely overwhelmed by the cheese selection.

“So,” my dad said, swirling his gin and tonic like it might hold answers. “What is it you do again?”

Spencer gave the faintest smile, polite and practiced. “I’m a supervisory special agent with the FBI.”

My dad blinked. “Oh. That’s… intense.”

“It can be,” Spencer agreed. “I’m part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We do criminal profiling. Local police departments and FBI field offices bring us in to consult on serial murders, kidnappings, that sort of thing.”

“Profiling?” my mom echoed, eyebrows rising. “Like they use in those shows on TV?”

He hesitated, then nodded slightly. “Kind of. Though it’s much less glamorous in real life.”

There was a pause. My mom tilted her head, faux casual. “And you were… also…” She let it trail off, like she’d flung a trap in the middle of the restaurant and was waiting to see who’d step in it.

Spencer didn’t flinch. “Yes. I was framed for a crime I didn’t commit and sent to prison. Then I was exonerated.”

My stomach twisted under the weight of it. Not because of what he said — we’d long since made peace with the facts — but because I could feel the discomfort ripple across the table.

“Well,” my mom said, adjusting her napkin. “That must have been… quite the experience.”

Spencer nodded. “It was.”

Silence fell. Long, awkward, aching.

Then, mercifully, my dad jumped in. “I heard you’re a big reader?”

And just like that, the tension broke. Spencer’s whole body shifted — like someone had finally spoken to him in a language he actually knew.

They launched into a rapid-fire exchange about literature, poetry, Russian novelists, used bookstores. My dad even laughed once, nodding along like he wanted to keep up. My mom watched the whole exchange like it was a foreign film without subtitles.

I didn’t even try to join. I just stared blankly at the gouda and salami and tried to remember how to breathe.

—

The fleeting moment of bonding between Spencer and my father was just that: fleeting. Everything got worse after that.

“Still working at the prison?” my mom asked me as the entrees arrived, slicing into her filet with surgical precision.

“Yep,” I said too quickly. “Still there.”

She smiled tightly. “It just always struck me as… a difficult environment. Not exactly what you dreamed of doing when you were graduating nursing school.”

“I don’t remember telling you what I dreamed of doing,” I said, keeping my voice light even though I could feel Spencer tense beside me.

She laughed like it was all good fun. “It just seems like a lot of stress. All that… violence and confinement. Don’t you ever want something more normal?”

Spencer’s knife paused mid-cut. Then, without looking up from his plate, he said gently, “Most people wouldn’t last a week doing what she does.”

My mom glanced up.

He went on, tone calm and unassuming. “It’s not just handing out meds and charting vitals. It’s care, in a place where care is rare. Where it’s easy to forget people are still human. But she doesn’t. It’s incredibly admirable, truly. You should be proud.”

I swallowed hard.

He didn’t look at me when he said it — didn’t need to. His voice did the work. Steady. Quiet. True.

I picked up where he left off. “I like the work,” I said, shrugging. “It matters. It’s good for me right now. I’ll probably go back to the ER one day, but for right now, correctional health is where I’m staying.”

“It’s just not what we imagined when you were studying,” she said, as if that made it better. “You were always the one who could do anything.”

“And I did,” I said calmly. “I chose this.”

Spencer’s hand brushed mine under the table. A soft, invisible tether.

—

By dessert, my mom had moved on from dissecting my career to probing Spencer’s future — or maybe, more pointedly, our shared one.

“And what about you, Spencer?” she asked, swirling her spoon through the remnants of her crème brûlée. “Do you have… plans? Long-term?”

The question was casual in tone, but not in intent.

Spencer straightened slightly beside me. “Well, I’m still with the BAU,” he said, polite and measured. “But yes. I’ve been thinking a lot more lately about what kind of life I want — what it means to build something lasting.”

Her eyebrows lifted a fraction. “How nice. And do you see that life including my daughter?”

There it was — barely veiled, lightly sugar-coated, and sharp underneath. I groaned and gave my mother a look of complete exasperation, which she conveniently pretended not to see.

But Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do,” he said simply, a calm, soft smile on his face.

She looked at him blankly as if that answered nothing and took a sip of wine, plastered her smile back on, and continued, “Well, I suppose the kind of work you do can be hard on a relationship. All the travel. The danger. The unpredictability.”

“It can be,” he said. “But I also teach, part-time. Graduate seminars in behavioral analysis and criminology. I’ve been doing more of that lately, a little less traveling with the BAU.”

“Oh,” she said, as if that somehow helped. “That’s nice.”

I could feel the tension tightening across his shoulders, the effort it took not to shrink or bristle.

“I think we’re building something solid,” he added, voice still calm, then looked at me a moment before turning back to my parents. “I love your daughter, and all I want is for her to be happy.”

My mom hummed, noncommittal, and reached for her wine again. I grabbed Spencer’s hand beneath the table and squeezed.

—

When the check came, my dad reached for it at the same time Spencer did.

“Oh, no,” my dad said, too cheerfully. “I’ve got it.”

“Please,” Spencer said. “Let me contribute.”

My dad blinked, caught off guard. “That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.”

“I insist,” my dad repeated, a little too sharply this time. He tugged the check free and handed his card to the waiter before Spencer could speak again.

My mother looked like she might combust.

I wanted to scream.

—

“I’m sorry,” I said once we were finally alone and back inside my apartment, kicking off my heels with more force than necessary.

“You don’t have any reason to be,” he said gently, but I could already feel the tears pressing behind my eyes, hot and embarrassing.

“I do, though. They were so condescending toward you. And they don’t understand me. They hate that I work at Millburn.”

Spencer walked over and pulled me into his chest like gravity. His voice was low, steady.

“You know what I see when I think about your job?”

I swallowed. “What?”

“Someone who runs toward the fire when most people would rather look away. Someone who stays in the room with the people everyone else has already given up on.”

The words broke something open. I exhaled shakily into his shoulder.

“They don’t get that,” he continued. “But that doesn’t make your work any less valuable. Or any less brave.”

“They think I’m wasting something,” I said. “My education, my potential, I don’t know. They’ve never said it outright, but I’ve felt it for years.”

“They’re wrong,” he murmured, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles along my spine. “You’re not wasting a thing.”

I nodded into his shirt, my voice barely audible. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he said. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t particularly care if I’m not who they pictured you with. They don’t really know me yet. I’ll get them to like me eventually, I promise.”

That part — the quiet determination in it — undid me.

I squeezed him a little tighter and let out a breath that almost resembled a laugh. “They think I should be with someone who works in big law and wants to file joint taxes.”

“I could always add another degree to the list and get my Juris Doctor,” he offered, tone mock-serious. “And I’m very good at doing my taxes. I itemize with passion.”

I laughed for real then, the kind of laugh that caught me by surprise and made my chest ache a little with relief.

“You handled it all so graciously, Spencer,” I said. “You really did. Thank you.”

He kissed my temple. “So did you.”

We curled up on the couch after that, legs tangled, a blanket tossed over us. I rested my head on his chest and let the sound of his heartbeat lull me back into my body.

Outside, the rain started up again — light, rhythmic, like fingertips against glass.

Spencer pulled me closer. “They’ll come around.”

“You think?”

“I think they’re stubborn, not heartless. They love you. And they saw how we looked at each other today. That’ll stick with them more than anything you or I said.”

I smiled softly at his optimism and tucked my head under his chin.

And for the first time all day, I felt like I could breathe again.

—

Later that night, I found the oranges still sitting on the table.

“We should juice those,” I announced.

He looked at me a little dumbfounded. “You don’t have a juicer.”

���No. But we have hands.”

He raised an eyebrow, already smiling. “You want to hand-squeeze oranges at midnight?”

“It feels poetic,” I mused, shrugging.

“You’re poetic.”

I giggled. “And you wore a bacon pun apron for me. That’s love.”

He grinned as he walked closer, soft and slow. “I’d wear so much worse for you.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

We didn’t squeeze the oranges. But we did dance barefoot in the kitchen, the way we always did when the world got a little too loud. His hand slid up and down my back in slow arcs. My head rested against his chest, and I listened to the sound of him breathing, steady and sure.

We didn’t say anything for a while. We didn’t need to.

And as if the universe knew I needed to hear it, even the rain sounded like applause.

ᝰ.ᐟ

[dreamwatch]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Somewhere Over The Rainbow event.

Pleasant Valley Sunday

Prompt: Green | Song: Pleasant Valley Sunday by The Monkees | Word Count: 2494 | Rating: T | CW: mention of car accidents | POV: Steve | Relationships: Steve & Robin, Steddie | Firefighter Steve Harrington, Corroded Coffin are the best and worst neighbours, little bit of angst for Steve because he deserves a treat, a little bit meta

Thank you so much to @vthx and @tinytalkingtina for helping me through this one! ❤️

Steve drives onto his street and the tension leaves his body.

The last of the sunrise has washed away leaving behind a bright crystal blue sky that he knows is going to stay cloudless all day.

He pulls onto his drive and climbs out of his car to the sounds of the neighbourhood waking up. It’s going to be warm today, there’ll be the smell of charcoal burning in the air this afternoon. 

Steve opens the door and is greeted by the smell of pancakes. He smiles to himself before toeing off his shoes and dropping his keys in the bowl on the entrance table.

“Hey!” shouts Robin from her place over the stove. “Just in time.”

“You’re going to make some girl really happy someday, Robin.”

Robin stands stock-still and glares at him.

“Or not,” he says with a smile.

They sit at their table, yellow curtains flutter in the gentle warm breeze.

“So, tell me about last night’s adventures.”

He takes a sip of his freshly squeezed orange juice, and Robin really is a kitchen goddess whether she likes it or not.

“Quiet night actually. One drunk kid chained to a streetlight, one gas leak, and one cat.”

Robin wipes her mouth with a napkin before getting out of her seat and padding to the other side of the kitchen to the large whiteboard. She uncaps a marker.

“Tree or storm drain?’

“Tree,” he says, and Robin drops marks a line under the ‘tree’ column.

“Trees are winning this month.”

“Summer,” he says, getting up and dropping his dishes in the sink. He stretches, his back cracking with a satisfying pop.

“Okay, I’m going up, see you in eight hours.”

He showers the night off himself, opens his window and pulls his black out curtains before climbing under the light summer duvet, the cotton crisp and fresh against his skin. Robin never understood how he could sleep with the noise from the street, no matter how many times he tried to explain it to her. 

It’s a quiet neighbourhood, large houses all politely spaced out, and for the most part his neighbours skew older. Sundays here are sweet things, and the sounds wrap him up and make him feel warm and alive.

Mrs Gray will be pruning her roses next door; Mr Greene across the street will have the windows thrown open, the sounds from his television set will catch on the breeze; Mr Squire will mow his lawn. The sounds are soothing to him, calm and ordinary, numbing. After a long night, after the roar of flames, or the screams of people trapped in an overturned car, being wrapped tight in these noises   fills him with normality and safety and warmth.

His eyes slip shut while the mothers across the road complain about how hard life is…

Steve wakes with a start, ready to gear up, ready to—

His heart races and his breath comes heavy for a moment while he tries to work out what woke him. 

There’s a horrible metallic screeching, an awful shrill whine and banging loud enough he think something is going to come through the wall.

A terrible minute later his sleep addled brain connects the dots: music. Or a close approximation. 

Steve wanders onto his driveway and it doesn’t take long to figure out where the noise is coming from.

The house next to Mr Squire has had a For Sale sign on the lawn for a month or so, Steve hadn’t noticed the sign had come down, but now he can see the garage doors wide open and a bunch of long haired assholes are in there murdering their instruments.

On Sunday.

His day of rest.

Absolutely not.

Steve storms across the street in his slippers and check sleep pants, and fuck anyone that has a comment to make about it. 

“Hey! Assholes!”

They don’t even register him over the noise, and they’re so caught up in their playing that they can’t see him standing on their drive with his hands on his hips and and thunder on his face. He tries shouting some more before he decides to escalate his intervention, storms into their garage and pulls a line of plugs out of a socket bank.

“What the fu—“

“Hey, you can’t do that man!”

“I can and I did. Have you any idea how loud you are? It’s,” he checks his watch mid rant, “eleven thirty in the morning.”

Some runt sitting behind the drum kit shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah? It’s not like we’re doing this at eleven thirty at night, man. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that I came off a night shift and I’ve had about three hours sleep before being woken up by whatever the fuck this is. It’s unacceptable.”

“Says who?”

Steve turns toward the voice, and ends up face to face with a guy with long, sweaty curls grinning innocently at him, and the fucking audacity of him.

“I say!”

“Well, I don’t see anyone else complaining. Do you speak for the kingdom? And if so, on what authority?”

Someone sniggers and Steve hates this, hates being made fun of. Long hair must see it and the grin softens.

“I’m just kidding.” He wipes his no doubt sweaty hands on his jeans and leans over for a handshake. “Eddie. That’s Gareth, Jeff and Matt over there on bass.”

He doesn’t want to tell them his name, he’s not here to make friends with these dicks. But Robin would be disappointed. He takes the offered hand.

“Steve. Look, I’m not here to stop you having fun, but it’s Sunday and this is a quiet neighbourhood and I am trying to sleep. Please, can you… turn it down, or better yet just stop.”

Eddie looks regretful and for a second Steve wonders if he’s actually sincere.

“We really have to get the practice in, but maybe—”

Steve scoffs, cutting him off. “I don’t think there’s any amount of practice that’s going to fix that noise.”

Perhaps he went too far, if the scowl he gets back from Eddie is giving him is anything to go by.

“You know, I was going to cut you some slack there, Steve, but just for that I think we’ll have to practice a little more.”

He wanders over to the power bank and switches them back in. 

“Count us in, Gare.”

Steve stands in the garage speechless as they turn their back on him and the screeching starts up again.  He storms back across the street, slams his door behind him, closes all his windows and climbs into Robin’s bed at the back of the house. 

“I’m telling you, Rob, you have never heard noises like this.”

“I don’t know, I’ve heard you having sex, Steve.”

“Hey!”

They’re wandering around Krogers, Steve pushing the cart as Robin picks up random jars and cans that are definitely not on their shopping list.

“I told you, they’re a heavy metal band. Apparently they’ve been signed to a label and everything.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mrs Gray told me.”

“She’s spoken to them?”

“Oh yeah, thinks they’re lovely young men, actually.”

That does not sound right. 

Two weeks later it happens again.

After the way he ended things last time he debates whether it’s even worth crossing the street, so he tries closing his window first, blocking out the yelling and thumping war cries that they’re trying out today. But without the mellow, familiar sounds of his neighbourhood he just can’t zone out enough for sleep to come back to him.

Steve thinks about going back to Robin’s room again, but he can’t do that every weekend and nor should he have to. Why is he letting himself be driven from his own bed by these pissants?

So he goes over to them, again, and they fight, again, and Steve comes back to his own home that he has lived in and enjoyed for close to five years in peace and quiet, and sleeps in his best friend’s bed.

Again.

The thing he cannot get his head round is how all his neighbours seem to not care. This is clearly not a battle he’s going to win on his own. 

On his next day off he goes on a mission, knocking at all his neighbours doors, starting with Mrs Gray.

“Oh, they’re such sweethearts,” she says.

Did Steve take a knock to the head?

“What?”

“Oh yes, lovely young men. The little one, what’s his name? Garth—”

“Gareth,” he corrects her, why is he doing that? He shouldn’t even know the little pricks name.

“He’s been mowing my lawn for me, you know how my back is getting.”

“But I mow your lawn for you.”

She beams and pats him on the arm.

“I know! And now you don’t need to, dear. Now you get all that time back for yourself. It’s time you found a nice girl to settle down with. Or a nice boy.”

And Steve is absolutely not having that conversation with his neighbour today.

It’s the same story as he goes door to door; Eddie climbing Mr Greene’s roof to adjust his TV aerial; Jeff fixing Mr Squires lawnmower; Matt playing street hockey with some of the kids to give their mothers a break.

They’re taking over his neighbourhood, one neighbour at a time.

Steve parks in his drive, shuts the engine off and gently drops his head onto the steering wheel. It’s about eleven steps to his front door and he just doesn’t have the strength, mentally or physically, to walk it.

Images flash, rapid and harsh, things he desperately tries not to see again. He breathes, deep and slow, tries to count his breaths like his therapist taught him. When the images stop and his heart rate lowers he goes inside.

He showers, and climbs into bed and he listens to Mr Squire’s lawn mower and he hopes it will be enough to help him sleep.

He wakes with a start to the sound of screaming. For a horrible moment he’s back on the highway, trying to cut open a door but then the sound registers properly.

Those fucking assholes.

Before now it’s been an annoyance, a pain in his ass he could do without, but today it’s so much more. Today’s it’s the universe coming for him, prodding him in all his soft parts.

He grabs his baseball bat and crosses the street, and slams it it against the garage door. The music stops immediately.

It’s Eddie that rounds on him first this time.

“What is your fucking damage, man?”

“My damage? My damage is you! I have asked you, I have pleaded with you, I have practically begged you. What is wrong with you people?”

“What’s wrong with us?” Gareth shouts as he rounds the drum kit, “You’re the one swinging a baseball bat, man!”

“You know what, screw this, I’m done trying to be reasonable with you assholes.”

“Okay, bye bye Mr Reasonable, sorry we disturbed your precious beauty sleep!”

Steve rounds on him and Eddie gets in between them, pushing his arm against Steve’s chest.

“While you were sleeping, I was cutting someone out of a car wreck.,” he spits out. “I’m not sleeping to be pretty! When you don’t get enough sleep you’re shitty music sucks more. When I don’t get enough sleep people die!”

For the first time in weeks the garage is silent.

Eddie drops his arm.

“You’re a—”

“Firefighter.”

“Shit, we didn’t—fuck. I’m sorry man. We’ll pack up it up now, absolutely. You head on back to bed, get your beau— sorry, I didn’t mean— not that you’d need it anyway.”

If he wasn’t so worn down Steve could have raised as smile at that, but he’s drained.

He walks away to the sound of birds singing.

Steve sleeps the day away and by the time he wakes up he feels cleansed. Feels like he can take a deep breath again.

He hears voices as approaches the kitchen and is surprised to see Robin and Eddie sitting at the table together.

“Hey! I finally got to meet Eddie. And he brought you a gift.” She casts him a sly grin before hopping off the breakfast stool. “Bye Eddie, lovely to finally meet you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.” 

Steve scowls at her before she leaves him alone with Eddie. He pours himself a coffee and takes Robins seat at the table.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Eddie replies. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah, eventually.”

There’s an awkward pause where neither of them know what to do, until Eddie seems to snap out of it and pushes a small box toward him.

“I just wanted to drop these over and say we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to be assholes, honestly. Our labels breathing down our back and we’re supposed to be writing and getting ready for a tour and so they thought it was a good idea to move us all into a house together. I feel like I’m living with The Monkees.”

Steve laughs, the first genuine one in a while. 

“Oh yeah. Which one are you?”

Eddie almost looks offended.

“Mike, obviously. You even have to ask?”

“Kind of hard to tell without the hat.”

“Fair.”

There’s a moment of silence again, but this time it’s comfortable.

“Can I open it?”

“Of course, it’s yours.”

He takes his time unravelling the carefully tied bow to find four cupcakes, each with a little fire engine on. Steve shakes his head with a small laugh.

“And I’ve spoken to the label about getting set up with a better practice room. So you won’t have to worry about the noise again.”

“Thank you. That really means a lot.”

Eddie nods and raps his knuckles on the table. His hair is tied up, revealing his pale neck, and he has the biggest brown eyes. He smiles at Steve when he notices he’s being looked at and a dimple reveals itself. 

In all his anger and exhaustion Steve had never noticed how cute he was.

“I know you’re busy firefighting a lot of the time, but there’s a really cool bar in the city and maybe…,” Eddie shrugs awkwardly. “Maybe you could let me buy you a drink to make it up to you. Cup cakes don’t seem suitable compensation.”

Steve feels his cheeks glow.

“Sure. Sure, I’d like that.”

There’s a gap in the blackout curtain, just enough to know it’s morning. He can hear Mrs Gray singing to herself; Mr Greene’s TV set is playing and he can just make it out over the sound of Mr Squire’s lawn mower.

“How the fuck do you sleep with that noise, dude?”

Steve giggles and wraps his arms around Eddie, pulling him closer before kissing the back of his neck.

With a contented sigh Eddie pushes himself back against Steve’s chest, and Steve has a new sound to add to his Sunday chorus.

****

Ok this was a struggle bus and didn't end up anything like I'd planned but I ran out of time and so here we are. I'm sticking to angst!

@the-unforgivenn❤️

[letjungk09k]

── INCOMING

here's a small teaser for my Fang and Flame sequel! No promises as to when it will be released, but I promise I'll make it worth the wait :)

If you don't want any spoilers to the sequel then don't read this! and minors do not interact.

Thank you for the support on the story and all my other fics! It means a lot and I love reading your comments :3 see u guys (hopefully) soon with the update.

That cut on his bottom lip that he had been scolded for just hours ago was now split open again, fresh blood poking through and this time you knew it wasn't just Rafayel who was testing you but the world itself. There were scratches across his knuckles, a small purple bruise rising beneath the hollow of his throat and you truly wondered how hard he had sparred. 

He didn’t look ashamed, not even close.

"You’re bleeding" you told him flatly, because you needed to say something before you forgot yourself.

You needed to say something before you acted on the impulse to drag him somewhere dark and private and tear him apart with your hands and your mouth and everything you’d been holding back since that night.

You kept your gaze locked on the damaged skin, eyes filled with something that wasn't concern, not entirely anyway but it was more from anger, from want, from everything else you had tried to choke down tonight.

Rafayel’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

He swiped his thumb slowly across his bottom lip, catching the streak of blood with a casualness that would have made your pulse spike. He glanced down at it, at the smear of red against his skin and then, still smiling, lifted his gaze to yours again.

"Well... I suppose that means that I’m having too much fun" he said. Shameless.

And gods, he knew. He knew exactly what that would do to you.

How the sight of his blood, the taste of it still burned into your memory, would pull at something inside you. He knew how your body would react to that line, to the sight of him bruised, bleeding and reckless all because he wanted your attention.

And now he had it.

Your eyes dropped to the blood on his thumb, bright and wet in the low light and for a moment you swore the world stopped moving. The pull was so sudden it nearly startled you. You knew exactly how he tasted. You remembered the way his blood had spilled warm against your tongue, remembered how he had moaned into your mouth like the feeling of being drained by you was more pleasure than pain. 

The memory hit you as you watched the motion of his hand. His thumb hovered near his mouth, lips parting just slightly as if he might drag that blood across his tongue and you hated how badly you wanted him to.

You hated how badly you wanted to lean in, close the space between you and take his hand in yours and bring it to your mouth instead like you had done once before. To taste him again. To remind you both of the night where everything was only him and only you, when the world outside these palace walls hadn’t mattered and he hadn’t been a king and you hadn’t cared that you were a monster.

He tilted his head just a little and then, eyes still locked on yours, he slipped his thumb into his mouth.

Fucking asshole.

You watched as his lips closed around his thumb and he drew the blood from his skin like it meant nothing, like he didn’t know exactly what that would do to you. But he did, of course he did. Your jaw tightened and you swore the rest of the room faded into a dull hum.

After what felt like minutes but was really seconds he pulled his thumb from his mouth and the corner of his lip quirked upward. Smug.

"Still hungry?" he murmured, and you clenched your jaw in response.

"You think this is funny?" you asked.

"What I think is funny.. is how you look at me when you're tempted," he responded, voice pitched low enough to curl beneath your skin "Like you don’t know whether to kiss me, or kill me"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat felt too tight and your fists were clenched at your sides, as if that could keep you from grabbing him by the neck and shoving him into the nearest wall.

He took a step closer to you, not enough to cause suspicion or enough for anyone to notice but just enough for you to feel the heat coming off him. Just enough to remind you that there had once been no space between your bodies at all.

"I don’t mind you know," he said, softer now "Either one is fine"

Your eyes snapped up to meet his and the look he gave you was all hunger, all heat, it was him daring you.

"Don’t.." you breathed, and it was all that you could manage to say.

"Don’t what?" he asked, eyes dancing with that maddening, deliberate cruelty only he could make feel like foreplay.

"I said don’t" you snapped, a little louder now and someone a few feet away glanced toward you before politely looking back down into their wine.

But Rafayel didn’t flinch, he never did. He had told you that the only thing he was afraid of when it came to you was that you'll deny him.

His gaze stayed fixed on you, unreadable to anyone else but not to you. You knew exactly what he was thinking because you were thinking it too.. what it would feel like to give in right here, in front of all these people, to throw decorum to the wind and let your hunger speak louder than your duty.

"You shouldn't say things like that," you said at last, voice surprisingly steady "Not when you know what I am"

He only snorted in response, eyes fleeting over your figure and your clenched fists before meeting your eyes again.

"You’re shaking," he said under his breath and his tone was so maddeningly gentle you almost lost it right then and there "Is it anger, or is it want?"

"I—"

He leaned in, not quite close enough to touch but close enough that the scent of him began to blind all of your senses.

"I could kiss you right now," he murmured once again "and not a single person here would be able to stop me"

You stared at him, frozen. Every part of you screaming not to take the bait but fuck, he made it so hard.

"You wouldn’t..." you managed. He tilted his head, and his smile twisted.

"You want to know what I think?" he whispered, his voice so low you felt it more than heard it.

"No" you said, even though you did, you both knew it.

"I think you want me to do it," he began, and you hated how much hold he had over you in this moment "You want me to forget the room... forget the crown, forget that anyone is watching. Just take you in my hands and—"

"Stop"

He did. Caught mid sentence, gaze drifting from your lips to your eyes as if he couldn't decide where he wanted to look the most. He waited for you to say something else, to tell him he was overstepping and that you wanted nothing to do with him but you didn't.

You didn’t.

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed slightly not in suspicion but something crueller. Like he could smell the want on you, like he knew you were biting down on it so hard it hurt. Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. You hated him. You hated how calm he was, how deadly he could be with nothing but a mouth and a heartbeat.

Your gaze snapped back to his, a feeling of your breath catching in your throat, the fire in your belly starting to rise and you were just about to say something, do something, when—

"Rafayel"

[casssssssi]

Worst Way

Macklin Celebrini x fem!reader

I kind of blacked out while making this…

warnings; suggestive but no explicit smut, macklin not being able to think rationally for the most part, The Toffoli’s mentioned! (I love Cat so much)

wc; 2,088

summary; Macklin and his girlfriend attend a formal gala, but he can’t seem to keep his eyes (or hands) off of her.

—

Her and Macklin have been together for almost two years at this point. Shes been with him throughout everything. BU, at the draft, his rookie season, she’d been there for it all, and he’d been there for her too. He’d taken her to her senior prom, sat for her graduation, all of it. He’s been with her throughout so many memorable moments, so many nice occasions. Which is why she can’t understand why he keeps looking at her like he wants to eat her.

They’re currently at a charity banquet that Macklin’s team, the San Jose Sharks, is hosting. She had taken it very seriously, bought a new dress and shoes and everything (Really Macklin had bought it, as a thank you for even coming to the event with him). It was a beautiful fitted gown with a black corseted top, paired with some black heels. Fancy but not too much. She catches his eye again and he still has that same look in his eye. She turns back to her conversation with one of the other players wives, smiling as she speaks, but she can’t help the way her skin pricks under Macklin’s gaze.

Macklin’s eyes stayed on her, tracking her every move. He was having a hard time containing himself, sitting here in his best suit, surrounded by people he had to be polite to. all he wanted to do was take her away and have her all to himself. He took another drink, his eyes narrowing at how effortlessly beautiful she looked, laughing at something one of his teammate’s wives had said. He clenched his free hand, his knuckles turning white as he suppressed the urge to go over there and grab her. She makes her way back over to him after a few more minutes, curling her hand in around his bicep. “You okay Mackie?”, she asks, “You’ve been looking at me funny all night..” He let out a shaky breath as she touched him, the familiar feeling of her hand on his body sent a jolt through him. He turned to her, his eyes burning with intensity. "I’m just fine, baby." He said, trying to keep his voice steady. "You look beautiful tonight." He took another sip of his drink, trying to calm his racing heart. She smiles at him, a familiar flush coming to her cheeks, the way his compliments always made her blush. “Thank you. You look handsome too”, she says, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

Macklin’s skin tingles where her lips touch him, and he has to bite his cheek to keep from responding in the way he wants to. He wants to pull her on his lap and kiss her until she’s breathless, he wants to make her moan his name until her throat is raw. But he can’t. Not here, not yet. She grabs his hand and squeezes it softly, oblivious to the internal battle he’s currently having. She chats with the two Toffoli’s as they approach. Macklin forces a smile as they do so, his hand instinctively gripping hers tighter. He was having a hard time concentrating when she was so close to him. He could smell her perfume, her shampoo, her. It was intoxicating, and he was a desperate man. The conversation continues, but Macklin only half-listens. He’s far too focused on the feel of her body pressed against his, the grip she has on his hand, the way her dress shows off just a tiny bit of cleavage when she leans forward.

His teammates say goodnight and leave, and he’s left with her in an open space with a few other people milling about. That’s when he finally succumbs to the urge to touch her. He puts a hand on her waist, his fingers tracing small circles over her skin. She leans into his touch, as she always does, finding his hands on her comforting. “I wasn’t expecting it’s to be so fancy”, she says, “I’m glad i’m not overdressed. I was worried about that.” Macklin lets out a soft laugh, still tracing circles into her skin. “You could never be overdressed, baby. Not with how good you look.” He pulled her closer, his hand slipping slightly under the fabric of her dress. She can feel his fingers under the dress’ slit on her thigh. “Mack”, she says, already kind of breathless. He just had that kind of effect on her, “Not here. There’s people.” Macklin ignored her warning, his fingers still tracing patterns on her thigh. “But I want you now.” He whispered in her ear, his breath warm against her skin. “I can’t wait. I’ve been waiting all night to have you to myself.” “It’s almost over”, she hums, her eyes closing at the feeling of his breath against her earlobe. Macklin’s hand is gripping her thigh now, his fingertips pushing past the fabric and touching her bare skin. “Almost isn’t good enough. You don’t understand how badly I want you.” She manages to pull herself away from him, her eyes opening and Macklin can see that dazed look she always gets and knows she needs him just as bad. “It’s almost over.”, she repeats, “Let’s go back to our seats.” Macklin lets out a low groan, his heart thumping hard as he looks into her eyes. He knows she’s right, but his body aches to touch her, to hold her. He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself before he nods. “Okay” he says, his voice gruff. “But we’re leaving as soon as this thing is over.”

Macklin reluctantly lets go of her thigh and takes a step back, his body already missing the contact. He follows her over to their seats, his eyes glued to her the entire time. He watches as she sits down, crossing one leg over the other, the slit in her dress falling open, revealing her bare thigh. He swallows hard, shifting in his seat at the sight. She watches as the Sharks and the charity director take the stand at the podium they have set up on the stage. They start by thanking everyone for finding the time to come, and how much them being here will support the charity. Her eyes flit over to Macklin as his hand finds her thigh again, rubbing the skin where her slit has fallen open. The action makes her press her thighs together. Macklin smirks as he feels the action. He knows what he’s doing to her, and he loves it. He leans over and whispers in her ear, his hand still tracing circles on her thigh. “You’re so sensitive tonight. Is it because I’ve been watching you all night? Or because I’ve been touching you all night?” “Macklin. Stop it.”, she says, her tone strained. Macklin doesn’t listen, instead he leans in even closer, his lips brushing against her ear. “Why should I stop when you like it so much?” He says, his voice low, “I can feel how much you like it, baby.” She ignores him, pushing his hand away from her thigh, letting out a shaky breath. Macklin lets out a low chuckle and settles back into his seat, a smirk on his face. He knows he’s gotten to her, he can see the way her breath is ragged, the slight flush to her cheeks. He can see how she’s struggling to keep her cool and he’s enjoying it. He crosses one leg over the other and stares at her intently, his gaze practically undressing her.

She tries to focus on the presentation going on in the stage, but her mind is elsewhere. All she can think about is Macklin’s hand on her thigh, the feel of his touch through her dress. She presses her thighs together again, trying to relieve the growing ache inside of her. She steals a glance at him, and sees the way he is looking at her intently, that same look from earlier. It makes her heart race and her breath hitch. Macklin watches her intently, her every little move, every expression. He knows she’s affected by him, and he can’t help the way it makes him feel. He’s addicted to her reactions, the way she’s trying and failing to hide how much she wants him too. He leans forward and whispers in her ear again, his breath warm on her skin, “Are you thinking about me, baby? About how much I want you right now?” She gives him a pointed look. One that says “Stop it. Right now.” but her eyes are still clouded over with desire and she has that dazed expression on her face again. Macklin laughs softly, enjoying the way she’s trying to act tough. “You can’t fool me, baby. I know exactly what you’re thinking.” he murmurs, his hand finding her knee again. “You’re thinking about how good it’s going to feel when I finally get you alone.”

She takes a deep breath to steady herself as the speakers finish. She stands quickly, grabbing her boyfriend’s hand. Macklin stands up, his heart thumping at her quick movements. He interlocks their fingers and follows her, his eyes never leaving her form. He was desperate and impatient, as he knew how the rest of the night would go. He would have her, over and over until he was breathless. They make their way out of the ballroom and to the elevators, Macklin still holding her hand as they wait. He can feel the tension between them growing with each passing moment, and he knows they’re both eager to be alone. The elevator finally arrives and they step inside, the doors closing behind them. She gasps softly as he has her pinned immediately. His mouth crashes to hers in a way that can only be described as desperate, and she kisses him back with just as much fervor. Macklin presses her against the wall, pinning her body between the cool surface and his warm frame. He kisses her hard, his hands roaming over her curves, desperate to touch her everywhere. He can feel her trembling beneath him, her body responding to his touch as if it was made for him. He nips and sucks at her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. “Mack”, she says, her voice already wrecked even though they haven’t done anything. Her eyes flick to the numbers above the door, steadily rising until they reach the floor they’re staying on. Macklin responds with a low hum, still kissing and biting her neck, his hands gripping her hips. He can feel her shaking, the way she clenches her thighs together, and it drives him wild. He presses himself closer to her, his body tight against hers, and she can feel the length of him pressed against her thigh.

The elevator slows to a stop, and the doors open slowly. He detaches himself from her neck, his eyes dark and clouded with desire. "Come on" he says, his voice gruff as he grabs her hand. They move quickly down the hall, almost sprinting towards their hotel room. She fishes the key card out of her small purse, her hands shaking as she tries to unlock the door. Macklin is pressed up behind her, his hand on her hip, his breath hot against her ear. “Hurry up", he growls. She tries, but the feeling of him behind her, mouth pressed to the side of her neck as he sucks brutally on her pulse point makes her hands shake as she fumbles with the card. Macklin's arms wrap around her waist, his chest against her back as he presses her into the door. "I need you," he whispers, his lips traveling down her neck. "I need you now." His hands roam over her body, sliding under her dress and up her thighs. When she finally gets the door open, they stumble inside and she’s turned around and attacking his mouth with her own almost instantly. Macklin pushes the door shut behind them, not taking his lips from hers. He backs her up against the wall, his body pressing hers into it. He hikes up her dress, his hands roaming over her bare thighs, as he kisses her hungrily, desperate for her taste. His hands trail higher up her thighs, fingers tracing over the edge of her panties. He moves his mouth from her lips and kisses her neck, her collarbone, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "You look so good in this dress," he says, his voice low, "but I think I need to get you out of it.”

—

a/n; uhhhhh hi guys… this is definitely… different… idk let me know how i did. it may not be the best because i just haven’t been feeling writing lately, but i promised you guys this one, and then i’ll probably write the Country boy!Mack prompt i came up with because i do actually want to write that one. once again, like all my other works, this is most definitely based off a c.ai chat 💔 i just find it makes it easier for me to come up with stuff and scenarios that way! Requests are always open! Love you thank you for your support!

this is what i kind of pictured the dress to look like!

[kenziiie]

ib: @keraawrites

the party was jean’s idea — something about summer break being “too short to spend in isolation,” which really just meant he wanted people to witness how good his arms looked in a tank top.

you only came because eren begged. like, full begging. voice notes. emojis. “please please please” texts with long-winded explanations about how his best friend never talks to girls and how you’d be doing science a favor if you just showed up.

you almost ignored him. but the way he hyped his boy up?

lowkey intrigued you.

“he’s shy,” eren said. “like painfully. but smart as hell. funny in a weird way. looks like a little prince.”

you laughed, typing, what the hell does that mean

and he hit you back with: like he reads sad poetry and has the eyelashes for it.

then: he’s built like a thought. you’ll see.

so, here you are. walking through the gate of jean’s parents’ lakehouse, late as hell and instantly regretting your outfit. not because you didn’t look good — you always did. crop top, cutoff shorts, hair big and soft, hoops in. no, the problem was: you knew you were about to make someone nervous.

the backyard’s full of noise. connie’s shirtless on the grass trying to beat sasha in a handstand contest. mikasa’s watching with a wine cooler in hand. music bumping from the bluetooth speaker on the porch.

and then there’s eren — standing on a cooler, already grinning at you like he’d been waiting.

“thank god!” he jumps down. “okay okay, act normal, but turn around real slow. see that dude by the porch swing?”

you look.

boy in a navy hoodie, sipping from a can like it’s a social crutch. long legs crossed. pale skin. floppy blond hair that looks soft as hell. head turned just enough for you to catch the outline of a cute-ass jaw.

“that’s him?” you ask.

eren nods, proud. “armin. the human hypothesis.”

you blink. “why’s he dressed like it’s november?”

“he always is. says he gets overstimulated when it’s hot.” eren snorts. “he built a weather simulator from scratch last semester and wrote a short story about a coral reef falling in love. he’s insane. i love him.”

you raise your brows.

eren slaps your arm. “go talk to him. he knows who you are.”

you’re halfway across the yard before he even finishes the sentence.

he looks up as you approach — soft blue eyes framed by thick lashes, and behind them, shock. like he wasn’t expecting you to come close. like he never even hoped you’d be this close.

“hey,” you say, smiling easy. “you’re armin, right?”

“y-yeah,” he stammers. “you’re— yeah.”

you tell him your name. he repeats it like a prayer.

you nod toward his can. “what’re you drinking?”

“sprite. i don’t… really like alcohol. makes my face hot.”

you laugh, and he lights up like it’s a reward.

“can i sit?”

he shifts immediately, giving you space. “of course.”

you lower yourself into the swing beside him. the wood creaks. your knees touch. he jolts slightly but doesn’t move away.

“eren said you write stories,” you say.

his cheeks flush. “sometimes.”

“can i read one?”

he blinks. “you… want to?”

you grin. “don’t act so surprised.”

he looks down at his lap, and you catch a tiny smile flicker across his lips.

“i’ll send you something tonight,” he says.

you lean in. “i’ll hold you to that.”

⸻

he texts you at 1:14 a.m.

it’s kind of sad but here’s a piece. don’t judge me too hard.

you read it three times before replying.

you’re brilliant. when can i see you again?

⸻

you meet at the library. then the park. then again in the music wing of campus where he says the acoustics help him think.

he always shows up early. always gets flustered when you wear shorts. always asks if you’ve eaten.

the third time you hang out, he brings you a book with your name scrawled on a sticky note inside. says he thought of you while reading it. says the main character reminds him of you.

you ask why.

he doesn’t answer — just hides his face behind his water bottle and blushes straight through his neck.

you’re not used to this. not to boys who say thank you when you compliment them. not to the kind who tremble a little when you rest your hand on their thigh. not to the ones who look at you like you’re gravity and orbit all at once.

and god, the way he listens.

like everything you say is the most important fact on earth. like he’s filing it away for future use. like he wants to memorize you.

you start catching feelings so fast it makes you dizzy.

⸻

he invites you to the aquarium — “for the jellyfish,” he says, voice soft over the phone. “they’re only here till next week.”

you meet him outside. he’s in a button-up again, hair a little messy, glasses perched low on his nose. he smiles when he sees you and wipes his palms on his jeans.

inside, it’s dark and blue-lit. couples and kids moving slow. he walks beside you, close but not touching.

when you reach the glowing tanks, he finally speaks.

“they don’t die, you know,” he whispers. “jellyfish. or, at least, they don’t have a set lifespan. they just… collapse and start over.”

you hum, watching the way the light flickers across his face. “you think they ever get tired of starting over?”

he looks at you, eyes soft. “i think they keep going because they don’t know anything else.”

you don’t touch him. but you want to.

⸻

your mom hosts a dinner party the next week. family, coworkers, neighbors.

you text him the invite on impulse.

he says yes immediately.

he shows up five minutes early, wearing slacks and a pale green crewneck.

brings your mom flowers. tells your cousin she has pretty braids. shakes your dad’s hand and calls him “sir.”

you watch him from the hallway while he listens politely to your uncle talk about fishing. he nods. asks follow-up questions. doesn’t once try to leave.

you pull him upstairs when no one’s looking.

your room’s warm. candles flickering. windows cracked.

he steps inside like he’s afraid to mess anything up.

you close the door behind him. press your back to it.

he turns to look at you — and the way he breathes changes. goes shallow. unsteady.

you’re wearing a sundress. strapless. tight around the hips. bare legs. lip gloss.

“you look…” he trails off. swallows. “you’re beautiful.”

you cross the room. slow.

“armin,” you whisper. “can i kiss you?”

he nods. quickly. “please.”

you kiss him soft. once. then twice. his lips are plush and eager. he whimpers when you suck on his bottom lip.

you push him back onto your bed.

he goes without resistance.

you climb onto his lap, dress riding up your thighs.

he stares up at you like you’re something out of a fable.

“you ever done this before?” you ask.

his ears go red. “no. i’ve… never even gotten close.”

you nod. brush your fingers down his chest.

“that okay?” you whisper.

he nods. “with you? yes. please.”

you take his glasses off, fold them gently.

you kiss down his jaw. down his neck. he gasps. shudders.

you grind slow over his lap. he twitches beneath you, gripping your hips like he might come undone from just this.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so warm. i can’t—i don’t know how to—”

“shh,” you coo. “just feel it.”

you undress him. slow. reverent. shirt off. pants next. you whisper praise as you go.

“so pretty.”

“you smell so good.”

“been thinking about this for weeks.”

he covers his face with one hand, overwhelmed. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

you laugh softly. “good.”

you let him touch you. guide his hands under your dress. over your ass. up to your tits.

he moans when he feels how soft you are.

“i don’t deserve this,” he says, breathless. “you’re unreal.”

“you do,” you whisper. “you do.”

you slide his boxers down and wrap your hand around his cock — thick, flushed, leaking already. his whole body jerks.

“i’m not gonna last,” he warns. “i-i’m so sorry, i can’t—”

you straddle him. press your wet folds to his tip.

he groans. head thrown back. fingers clawing the sheets.

you sink down slow. he cries out. buries his face in your chest.

“fuck,” he whimpers. “fuck, you’re perfect. you’re perfect.”

you ride him soft and slow at first. let him feel everything. let him fall apart under you.

he wraps his arms around you like he’ll disappear if he lets go.

“feels so good,” he pants. “you feel so good, oh my god—”

you speed up. bounce harder. his eyes roll back.

he grabs your ass with both hands, guiding your rhythm.

“can i come inside?” he begs. “please, can i? i’ll pull out if you want, just—please—”

you nod. you’re close too.

he moans when you tighten around him. presses kisses all over your neck. begs in your ear like he’s praying.

you come first. shaking, clenching, crying out his name.

he follows instantly, cock pulsing deep inside you, arms trembling.

you collapse together.

underneath, downstairs, your family laughs around a table full of food.

they didn’t hear a thing.

⸻

after that?

he doesn’t leave you alone.

walks you to class. buys you snacks. sends you 3 a.m. voice notes talking about how lucky he is.

and every time he fucks you — slow, deep, with full-body reverence — he says your name like it’s sacred. like it’s his.

and he thanks eren every time he sees him.

because he knew, from day one,

that you were his gravity.

and he was ready to orbit forever.

[breelandwalker]

(This is the REALLY neat article to read and I do recommend clicking through the read the full thing, since Salem Witch Drama gets tangentially referenced a lot but rarely talked about in-depth. Thank you OP for including all the linked sources to the people and events discussed, receipts are SO important when discussing these topics. I just wanted to add my personal opinion based on my own experiences.)

As someone who was put down as a witch early in my career for not having "a proper mindset" and for "not belonging to a proper tradition," this is giving me a lot of validation.

It took me several years of building up my own practice and my own confidence to be able to say, "Listen, not being part of a Big Name Pagan Tradition is the POINT of all the work I'm doing and I don't need anyone's approval." But on the way there, I caught flack from a handful of people claiming to be from Salem for not following Laurie Cabot's teachings. (If you've seen the Amazon reviews for The Sisters Grimmoire, you can see for yourself that somebody got their panties in a wad TWICE about a book that didn't follow "the Salem tradition" while anonymously bragging about their own work as a Salem witch. Not that it pinged the radar much when there were way more people yelling at me online for saying Raymond Buckland and Silver Ravenwolf were full of shit, but it bears mentioning here.)

Honestly, you couldn't pay me to try and be a professional witch in Salem, MA. It just sounds so difficult and complicated and a social and professional nightmare to navigate. Everything I've heard and seen from people who are really loud about being "Real Salem Witches" just smacks of self-aggrandizement and walking around with their noses so far in the air it's a wonder they don't snag on the power lines. (See the frequent-flyer troublemakers listed in the previous post.)

Meanwhile, witches who just happen to practice or have a shop in Salem but don't make Being A Salem Witch their entire personality seem to dodge the drama and do all right for themselves. I'm willing to bet, though, that there's a distinct sense of which puddles you don't step in and which trees you don't pick from, lest you incur the ire of one of the popular factions.

Personally, I think the Salem Witch Sickness has nothing to do with the history of the town, the spirits that might be lingering there, or trauma in the land trying to push people out. I think it has much more to do with big egos in a finite space, clashing over business and personal issues over the course of several decades, all fighting to control the narrative and be known as Big Witch On Campus. It's a toxic social group with business interests and personal branding mixed in. It's a case of Big Name Salem Witches being big fish in a pond they've aggressively and deliberately kept small.

As long as this attitude persists among the Big Name Witches of Salem, there will probably continue to be a sickness. And it's one of their own making. But since that doesn't look good on branding, they'll probably continue to blame it on some kind of curse. Magical thinking tends to look for magical causes, after all.

Witch Sickness in Salem Massachusetts

[This is inspired by my observations as someone born in Salem, and then validated by conversations with other witches in and around Salem who observed a "Sickness" in Salem witches.]

Salem Massachusetts, Witch City, is a town known for it's witch trials that has become a bit of a tourist trap in the recent decades. Many aspiring witches move here to open businesses, write books, and to make a name for themselves as a Salem Witch. With all these different people trying to move in and make Salem part of their craft identity, I've observed them over the years as someone born here and seen mostly negative results. Which lead to people starting to use the term "Salem Sickness" to describe the effect this city has on witches minds.

These witches moving to Salem often start our level headed with their own goals of moving here because it's history and being a place you can call yourself a witch openly. As their ego and aims grow this goes to people's heads leading to their downfall, at least within their local reputation as they become victim of Salem's Witch Sickness.

Salem as a town has always had a reputation, within history especially but also locally that has nothing to do with the witchcraft. Salem has an aura of fear to it, and known to create a feeling of being an "unlucky" or "unsafe" place for some (especially during the October season). I and other locals I talk to think this is the land's way of keeping people with bad intentions out, among other factors. In recent years this has begun to shift with the increase in witch tourism (and gentrification), but within the surrounding towns you can still hear older folks tell stories about Salem from the 90s and 2000s.

Some of those messy stories are also about drama between rising Salem occultists such as Laurie Cabot, Christian Day, Lorelei Stathopoulos, and many more. A running theme seems to be rivalry, hypocrisy, and jealously, someone is always mad about what another knows or has and ruins their own reputation in the process. Frequently this devolves into frivolous legal battles, or the individuals sense of self importance gets the best of them as these dramas become all consuming in their mind. Making them defensive, off putting, and difficult to be around.

A classic example is Laurie Cabot, the official witch of Salem. She has publishes a few books, opened a few different shops, and really brought the modern witchcraft revival to Salem (tho if anyone knows of others doing public facing witchcraft before she got here please correct me, i'd prefer to be wrong). You could find her walking the streets of Salem dressed in black, her face painted, and her body decked out in jewelry. She was the face of witchcraft here for a while, and eventually it got to her head. She started a tradition of her own, the Cabot Kent tradition. Many things she's said earlier in her career have come back to bite her in the ass, especially about not cursing and her claims about the history of witchcraft.

On Laurie's website you can find the following quotes on her "understanding witchcraft" page where she makes the following claims about devils in witchcraft,

"Demons such as Satan and Lucifer are the relatively recent fabrication of the Judeo-Christian faiths to cow their ‘believers’ into obedience and have nothing to do with us.  We were around way before the Christians or the Jews, which is why they usurped so many of our traditions, but that is another story entirely.  Our religion has no evil deities; our philosophy requires no fear tactics to function, only education and enlightenment."

This can be found to be untrue with just a little research into history. Also who is this "We" she loves to talk about, is it all witches, pagans, or her tradition of witchcraft?

She also says the following about her tradition in regards to cursing,

"We use our Magick and our science to get out of harm’s way and to help others do the same. We do not return harm or incorrect energy to those that wish it upon us, we neutralize it so it can harm none.  It is best to make the fire ‘cease to be’ than to drown it with water."

These words have come back to haunt her. She she has found herself in the local news a lot for cursing people, one example here involves a doll left on someone's lawn. I can't find the original news article but this blog mentioned an incident where cursed the Salem police (I don't support their opinions, but it's the only source of this incident I can find at the moment). I remember when this happened and hearing everyone talk about it as it did a number on the way the community saw her. At the same time other people's already difficult reputations were beginning to sour.

Christian Day was consistently finding himself in hot water when he came to Salem and opened his own stores here. Locally there was talk about him jumping from group to group, burning bridges behind him as he want. Creating lots of drama, such as this case where he and Lori Bruno ended up in court. Which was only one of such cases for him. There was also an incident where Day allegedly doxed someone, you can read the person's blog about it here. All of this local drama eventually lead to Day moving away from the city, but still managed to bring this curse of witch drama with him to New Orleans where his coven and many elders denounced him (and those that support him, such as Brian Cain) for his behavior. From what I hear things have not been great lately.

The current owner of the store Crow Haven Corner, the oldest witch shop in Salem, has also found herself in trouble with the law landing her self in the local news for a brawl during a street fair in downtown Salem. I know this incident well because I worked for Joanna Thomas (another person who came to Salem to open a witch business) in college and heard a lot about this feud, among other local dramas.

The writer and practitioner of magic Damien Echols came to Salem thinking he could find safety here as a witch, but instead found himself experience what was called a modern day witch hunt. Leading to him swiftly moving away too.

All of this isn't behind Salem either, a lot of interpersonal witch drama still happens in the city. It's just kept a little more quiet because of the way all of this was handled in the past, and the harm it did to these people's reputations. So now these store owners try to hide their transgressions and troubles betters, but the local community still sees it as a symptoms of the city's witch sickness. These owners are always having falling outs, they all gossip about each other while smiling to people's faces at events. There's rumors of theft, plagiarism, under paying and mistreatment of employees, wrongful terminations. A lot of this just doesn't reach the surface, or just hasn't yet, because their targets haven't had the money to make as much noise. Current witch store owners know the history here in the city, and the know the way it has made the minds of witches sick, so they try to be mindful of this, but very often fail.

Why is there this Witch Sickness in Salem?

I've heard a few different local theories on why Witch City carries this witch sickness. Some people think it's because there was never any real "witches" in Salem, so the land doesn't like to be known as a harbor for witches. Salem's witch history is full of misinformation and theories about what happened here, and that history isn't really the point of this post so I'm gonna quickly skim through it. Essentially Salem, as many know, was where a major witch hysteria occurred in the United States (but there were other places throughout the country also seeing a rise in accusations of witchcraft). Where 2 young girls fell suddenly ill and started acting very strange. There was so explanation for this behavior, and prayer and medicine didn't work, so the community thought it MUST be witchcraft as the victims started to report spectral visitations and painful sensations. This lead to the mass hysteria where 150-200 people were jailed, 14 women and 5 men were hung, one was tortured to dead, and 5+ died in jail. The community response to the accusations of witchcraft that were thrown around was harsh, cruel, and trauma filled.

This Massachusetts Bay Colony was primed for this as there was a strong belief in the Devil here among the English settlers, there was lingering fear of attack from the local indigenous tribes as well from the French leading to boundary and boarder disputes. Tensions were very high at this moment in Salem's history. Changes with the city cheater were also happening, causing some internal shifts to occur too. Which didn't help the rising witchcraft suspicions. Some changes were made to the legal system that allowed spectral evidence to be used in court, and this seems to be have really been the tipping point in these trials. Eventually this was undone, and people were retried and released. But the damaged had been down, to these people, and the land they lived on by bringing forth all this social strife.

As modern scholars seem to agree there were no witches in Salem, and that many factors contributed to the outburst in witch accusations such as the things i mentioned above. This page from a local museum talks more about this, i recommend exploring. Another museum also discusses the debunking of the ergot theory which i recommend too. I've seen conversion syndrome (where psychological stress manifests as psychical symptoms) suggested by a few different articles for the cause of Salem's witch hysteria, which was then fed by a need to scapegoat all their community stressors. All of this to say, Salem was never a place where witches faced injustice. So creating a whole tourist industry and witch identity out of this idea has maybe lead to the land cursing these community leaders for building a name for themselves of the backs of these innocent dead.

Another theory I have heard thrown around is the land under Salem will reject anyone who attempts to settle here and use it for their gain. As the early European settlers of Salem had no claim to this land. This area was home to the Naumkeag branch of the Massachusett tribe, and the Naumkeag were a nomadic group. So when settlers arrived they saw the empty homes the Naumkeag left and wrongfully thought the place to be abandoned and took up residence in these structures. Conditions between these groups started off predominantly peaceful, but quickly soured as the settlers spread illness and continued to take up residence in structures and spaces the Naumkeag used seasonally for fishing and gathering. Leading to increased tension, but some treaties and land deeds were signed (tho there is debate on if they were intended to be permanent or temporary. As well as if the Massachusett intended to sell the land or just allow occupancy of it. [More about these land deeds can be found here]). So all this trauma has lead to the land pushing back against anyone moving here to extract value from it.

This history of European settlers moving here to use this land for its resources and their gain on top of the community trauma that was Salem's witch hysteria seems to have effected this place in such a away that it rejects people, especially witches, moving into town to capitalize on this history. Creating a Salem Witch Sickness of the mind that ruins their reputation and sometimes more.

Some people sense it and know to move away, but others try to stay and persist with mixed results. Others who open shops, I see this particularly with those born here or the surrounding areas, know that silence seems to the best policy here in Salem to avoid these types of situations. Practicing in the quiet corners of the city, or sticking to yourself leads to some of the longest lasting establishments with the most untarnished records. As Salem's Witch Sickness seems to target the boisterous and hungry.