#the phrase can be quite harmful!

[wyrm-with-a-why]

What if we all stopped using the phrase “the intrusive thoughts won” and said something like “hyped myself up so hard to this” or “had to do it” or “sorry -insert friends name who doesn’t like the thing-“ or something idk. I vote we stop using phrases about intrusive thoughts winning about like dying your hair or drawing the horny

[lettersiarrange]

Since I just checked my ask box for the first time in a hot minute:

Just a note that tumblr doesn't tell me when I have new asks or messages and I rarely check my notifications. Helpful corrections of misinformation/any messages in good faith are appreciated (though it's possible I won't see them until weeks later, sorry), but if something I reblog angers you enough you feel the need to get hostile in my askbox on anon, I reccomend the unfollow button.

I'm also not comfortable posting asks asking for any sort of donations/directing people to your blog for donation purposes, sorry :// I just don't have time to vet asks like that

[jymwahuwu]

anon who got beaten by covid coming through with more Capitano thoughts.. (no thirsts..yet. I need to coach myself with scenario building..Capitano talks you through every climax. There. That is the most I can write 😭)

Capitano tried to be patient, he truly tried. But he only sighs softly when communication cannot work but force must.

He is a very broad man and it's quite easy for you to spot his looming shadow over you when you had fallen onto the ground, having tried to escape the cabin with only the moonlight as your guide.

"S- Sir.." You look up, tears welled up in your eyes as you try your best to calm your racing heart. You've seen how he has dealt with..most unsavory soldiers. What will he do to you? A lone soldier who has deserted their post?

The man doesn't say anything for a moment, the darkness of his helmet staring holes into you.

"Have I done wrong with you?" He finally speaks, crouching down to speak with you. Despite him trying to match your height..it only makes it more threatening. "I don't believe.. I've mistreated you?"

He's genuinely confused, he can't..register the fact that he's feared by a soldier that he has treated so gently and nicely. "I apologize if I have harmed you.." He tried to make amends anyways.

But then you go and ruin it by trying to run..tsk, tsk, and of course, he only needs to grab your wrist and you're completely immobile. You are a deserted soldier..and unfortunately it seems like you must treat you as the soldier you are.

Even if he wishes you were more than just a soldier.

Bingo. All he has to do is make your punishment..become his bride. He doesn't like phrasing it as a punishment but..perhaps a training session would be better?

You're still training..just..training to be his wife. (Also training to take his very impressive size that he always sighs as he coaxes you into taking every inch of..)

cw: dub-con, forced marriage, yandere, size kink, female reader

Thank you for sending me a story, I really enjoyed it😽💖 You posted it in two parts, and I replied to both here!! (part 1 of the story is here)

Like gentle giant and skittish darling trope! Frightened, awkward you.

Be informed that you have been chosen as a warrior, and that you have given it your all…but, maybe you don't have the talent here. The combat movements are a bit clunky and don't flow smoothly. The vision tied around your waist shines with the light of the elements, but your skills… (such as flowing out a small amount of water, like a spring spring, or just condensing some cheap gems, or electricity like a kitten claws, etc…). Those skills are just not suitable for fighting, you know? Will you use gentleness against Heavenly Principles, against enemies?

After training, failure and frustration have overwhelmed you, and the physical pain and exhaustion cannot be ignored. Not to mention that Capitano in his cape looks down at you like an unshakable mountain. You rubbed your cheek against his palm and couldn't help biting your lip, shedding tears like a little kitten. He pats your head gently and tells you how to improve your movements and use elemental powers. Easier said than done. You nodded, but there was still no way to improve next time.

He's not biased, really. In Capitano's eyes, everyone can fight, but you… may be able to put your talents in other areas, such as cooking and knitting. Your elements are just as gentle as yours. Maybe you can keep that water and food warm. His confession to you is formal and prepared. He asks you in serious terms if you can marry him and spend the rest of your life together.

You… look terrified, hyperventilating from shock. "Me-me?" You pointed at yourself, shaking. Captain wants to marry you? That first of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers? He was just joking, right? You refused and distanced yourself from him like he was a flood.

I like drama🫣😹 so I added some wind and snow. On a moonlit night, you planned an escape, only to fall on the snow and almost be washed away and submerged by the wind and snow. Looking back, I saw that familiar huge figure walking out of the falling snow. He grabbed your wrist a little too roughly, "Sir- Sir?" As always, you looked at him with tears, but fear gnawed at your heart even more.

"You might be dead." There was ice in his voice. He knelt down on one leg and looked down at you. "What are you doing? Did I… hurt you? If you feel that way, then I apologize."

"I-I'm sorry!" You cried, even the tears froze. You know he's right. He is worried about your safety. How is he going to treat you? Will he put you in jail? Capitano carries you in his arms and takes you back to his home. It's there to restore your body temperature and keep you warm. He immerses you in the warm water and towels you off.

If you don't plan an escape, you can still enjoy your options. Since you ran away… you can't return to Fatui, but as his wife stay with him and receive training. Starting from looking directly at his mask, you panicked, but now you can't. You have to look directly into his dark blue eyes, from the depths of your soul. A huge cock stood erect in the middle of his pubic hair and was leaking pre-cum. You stammered, placing your hands on his heated belly as you looked directly at the impressive size of his cock for the first time, "W-What is this? How does this work…!? Can you- can you be a little smaller…"

That's why you need to be trained to accommodate his size. Capitano knew it was unlikely to work the first time. His cock swells against your belly and rubs against your clit, or pushes deeper into you, opening up the tight folds of flesh. The pounding of pulses sends pleasure through your limbs, into your brain as flesh slaps and pops, until the warm cream spurts and rushes into you.

There will be another training next time.

[merakiui]

angel/angler.

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, stalking, non-con, non-consensual photography, chikan/groping (train molestation), obsession, kidnapping/captivity, drugging, violence, blood, death (or is it??), azul's insecurities and low self-esteem, azul’s not-so-subtle breeding kink, implied disordered eating, reader's height isn't described, but it's written that azul is taller note - to obsess is to hunger like an angler from the deep sea. living his entire life in pitch-black solitude, entranced by an angel's halo; his only purpose is to find the body that will become his lifeline and, one day, his cemetery.

entry 1: 18 April, 20XX.

For anonymity’s sake, I’ve chosen to write using a vague pronoun. Additionally, this diary will be a record of my thoughts so that I can keep my mind and senses intact. In my youth, I was prone to terrible fits of self-destructive rage, and as a result they suggested I write my feelings down to prevent any outbursts. I’m not very physical towards others. Rather, it was the harm I posed to myself that fostered concern.

But this space isn’t for my own views on myself. It’s about someone else. 

I have a confession: I’ve fallen in love with you from the train, and I’ve been in love with you for the four months I’ve come to know you.

You wear perfectly pressed suits, heels of a modest height, tights, and pencil skirts that cut just at your knees. I want to touch you, but if I do you might stop wearing skirts altogether and then I’ll never see your legs again. I suppose trousers aren’t so unattractive. They’re appealing in their own right. Everything looks good on you, though. (Nothing would look even better.)

You work in an office building. I’m not sure which floor, but I’ll know soon enough. I wanted to follow you inside, but there’s a security guard in the lobby. He always greets you, and you always smile and chat with him. You’re a kind person, so I let this pass without incident. But I can’t lie to these pages and say it’s not troublesome when I watch his gaze linger longer than it needs to. 

I’d kill him, but then they’d employ a new guard and you’d make friends with him because you’re so kind. I don’t admire kind people. Rather, I find kindness to be a double-edged blade (Is that the correct phrasing? It’s different in my hometown. We say kindness is like pufferfish—harmless until it’s provoked and then it becomes poisonous). It’s not that I look down on kind people. I just think you shouldn’t be so quick to befriend the world in its entirety.

After plenty of observation, I’ve learned that you often leave your building to get lunch by yourself. This is what you’ve eaten in the week:

Monday - A salad at a popular café. Iced tea because it was a sunny day. A tiny cheesecake for dessert. It was blueberry.

Tuesday - A wrap of some kind. Chicken? Or was it vegetarian? Sweet potato fries. Water.

Wednesday - You didn’t leave your building. Were you at work today? 

Thursday - Another salad. Water. Same café. No tiny cheesecake.

Friday - You went to lunch with that guard. I only remember my irritation and so I’m afraid I can’t make note of your meal for today. He looks at you like an obsessed puppy waiting for its owner to give it attention. I want to pluck his eyes from his sockets so he’ll never look at you in that way again.

You lead a healthy lifestyle, but I can’t help wondering if you’re eating well. Did someone say something about your figure? I’ll eviscerate them for you and then they can see how much it hurts when unnecessary scrutiny is thrown around.

It’s quite late. I want to sleep, but thinking about you has my body wide-awake. I wonder if your mouth tastes like the moonlight shining in through my window. I wonder if your body is soft like mine… Of course it is. A silly, irrational thought. You’re much warmer than me. This is just a theory. I’ve yet to feel and confirm for myself. I will in the foreseeable future.

Before we part ways, I want you to know that I’m not very good at cooking. I’ve picked up a few books and hope to learn. I’m going to practice so that I can feed you better meals one day. Salads are the worst. Fried chicken is the true meal of heaven. I’m certain you would share this sentiment.

If I were to be condemned to a last meal like those serial killers on death row, I’d ask for fried chicken. Knowing you, you’re too good to kill anyone. In this hypothetical, supposing you’re a heinous criminal, your last meal would be something healthy. Do you even like those salads, or are you forcing yourself because you must? I understand calorie-counting well enough, but if there’s one thing to enjoy in life it should be food.

I suppose that makes me a hypocrite. I ought to take my own advice.

Oh. I’m starting to grip my pen with more force and the lines have become shaky. I usually break my writing utensils if my focus strays. I’ll stop here for today. Ink is a pain to clean.

AA.

The morning rush is your greatest enemy.

Jack Howl, the lobby’s security, has suggested giving you a ride on numerous occasions. “It’s part of the reason I got my license,” he explained once, “so that I can protect those who work in this building from the rush. Not like you have to accept my offer. It’s just…convenient for both of us. Again, I don’t care what you do.”

(He does. You see through his gruff surface.)

According to him, the morning and night rushes bring out the worst kinds of characters.

But isn’t that everywhere? you think as you peer out the window, watching the city come into clarity.

Like every morning, the train car is more crowded than a sardine tin. You’re used to being pressed up against other commuters, pinned to the window or between people. You’re flattered to know someone’s concerned, but nothing has happened yet. And why would it? It’s bright outside. No one would dare do something during the day. At least, not in a crowded area where anyone could see and hear.

I wonder what I should have for dinner. I still need to go shopping. My fridge is way too empty, you think, sighing. And I need to follow up with that one author. They’ve yet to get back to me about my edits. Perhaps we should meet in the office instead of through video call… And I also need to finalize that other style sheet after the last round of editing. And then another conference… There was something else. Was I scheduled to have lunch with an author? Or was that next week? I should check before—

The train shudders as it slides into the station. Someone brushes against you from behind. Their hand is pressed against the window just near your head. They steady themselves, their body so close to yours you can hear their staggered breathing.

“Ah. S-Sorry…”

It’s next week, right? I really should check once I get to my stop. This is going to eat me alive all day.

“Mhm,” you hum, waving dismissively.

The stranger standing behind you peels his hand away from the window. A sweaty palm print is left in its wake.

“We will be approaching the next stop shortly.”

Just one more and you’ll be getting off.

A pair of bright eyes blinks back at you in the reflection, watching the city just as you are.

entry 5: 22 April, 20XX.

I’m not a social person by any means. If I can avoid crowds, I usually do. An introvert’s paradise is best spent in the comfort of their own room, after all. But if you prefer outdoor dates I can become extroverted for your sake. There are lots of things I’m willing to do for your sake.

Which is why I’ve forced myself to tolerate the train. I loathe it. It’s cramped and uncomfortable. Most days I’m not even near you, and so all I can do is stare longingly from afar. I content myself with imaginary scenarios like in the books you edit. I’ve mentioned it sparsely in this diary, but you’re a brilliant editor. Most of the novels you work on aren’t exactly my taste, but there’s something to appreciate about them. Reading through them knowing your very eyes pored over these pages dozens of times before publication… I admire your work. Immense time and effort goes into all professions, especially ones that involve meticulous touches. 

With this discussion of careers, you might wonder what I do for a living. I manage my own restaurant chain off-site. It must be shocking news for you to realize: your secret admirer is actually quite successful.

If I’m not able to provide an adequate life—no, more than that. If I cannot drown you in all of life’s luxuries, I should sooner throw myself on the beach and let this soft, wriggling body of mine dry out than settle for the barest of minimums. You deserve only the finest.

In fact, I have a room in my home dedicated to you. A private office in which you can write and edit in peace. It’s furnished with everything you’d ever need. I hope to gift it to you one day.

Remote work is very relaxing. (You’ll know this once you try it here.) When you’re boss, you work your own schedule. That’s why I’m able to fit our secret meetings into my weekly itinerary.

Today’s meeting was quite fortuitous. I felt like I’d won the lottery. Mostly because I was finally given the opportunity to be close to you. So close, in fact, that you didn’t even notice when I slid my phone under your skirt to take a few photos. Your undergarments are unexpectedly plain. Truthfully, I’m somewhat disappointed. I was hoping to learn your lingerie preferences. At the very least, I know your tights are sheer enough to show me the color of your panties.

I consider myself a connoisseur of many things, and I’ve done enough interior decorating in my time to become well-accustomed to color palettes. A fool would say your panties are red, but they’re actually maroon.

That same fool wouldn’t take another breath after glimpsing such a private side of you.

If you must know, my dear, I am excessively avaricious when it comes to the things I like. I have always been this way. I am a collector. A hoarder of secrets. I refuse to let others touch or take the things that belong to me, especially when they are wholly undeserving…

I’ve broken another pen. Thankfully, the mess wasn’t so extreme. Not-so-thankfully, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Ah. Right. Trains.

Today I rode the train, and I was standing right behind you. You were looking out the window, lost in your thoughts, and so you didn’t notice me. You must have seen my reflection, but I wear a mask and a hooded sweatshirt when I go outside. Perhaps it’s a touch embarrassing to admit, but I am very self-conscious of the way I look. Firstly, my eyes are too tired. I’ve read that many people are not fond of eyes with dark circles under them. Secondly, my face is average—unworthy of your love by my lofty standards. My hair never cooperates. My smiles never fit properly. My skin is too pale. My eyes are too blue and my pupils are abnormal. My weight is just a few kilograms above the average. I will work hard to bring it back down for your sake and for my own so that it won’t show. I prefer a slim waist, so I must stomach all manner of healthy foods for the weekend. What a pity… Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could eat whatever you wanted without having to worry about caloric intake and numbers on a scale?

That aside, there are times in which my glasses sit crooked on my face and it’s a horrifying thought to imagine I walk around looking like that! As if I’ve rolled right out of bed with no regard for my appearance whatsoever!

Perhaps the both of us share one similarity. We are vain creatures who care too much about how we present ourselves to others.

Thus, I conceal myself so that you won’t judge me harshly should you look upon me. Not like you’d do that. You were so immersed in your head that you hardly paid any attention to your surroundings. You should be more careful. What if something were to happen and I wasn’t there to protect you?

The train stuttered to a halt at the first stop, and some fool bumped into me. I should thank them because I got to brush against you. You gasped softly. I watched your breath fog the window. I placed my hand just above your head and apologized softly, and you weren’t bothered in the slightest. Oh, how I envy your carefree nature.

As a result of that stranger’s mishap, I’ve learned something new. You wear perfume. Even with my mask, I could smell it. Strong and flowery, overwhelmingly sweet. Maybe you prefer these scents? I’m more partial to mature scents, but I admit there’s a certain charm to the scents you wear. I wish I knew the exact brand. There are dozens of perfumes with the same notes as the ones I picked up, but none can compare to the one you use. I want to be able to hold the bottle knowing it’s your favorite.

I’ve prattled enough. With the length of my entries, you’d assume I was this chatty beyond the page. I’m not. I only say as much as I think is necessary.

Once again, I’m having trouble falling asleep. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m looking through the photos I snapped and the outline of your lips against your panties is lovely. I’m sure you’re just as soft and sweet inside as you are on the outside. If only I could experience it right now. My hand can’t replicate the softness or the wetness or the way you’ll probably clamp down when we finally make love.

I can only fantasize for now. What a pain. 

AA.

“It’s going to rain today,” Jack tells you the minute you step through the lift doors into the lobby. He stands straight like a soldier, his shoulders squared and features set into something serious.

“Looks like it, huh?” You glance at the darkening sky outside, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Hopefully it rains after I get home. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“I’ll drive you.” He falls into step beside you. “It’s dark out and the station is—”

“It’s only five minutes away. I’ll be fine. I take this way all the time.”

Jack’s lip twitches into a grim frown. The beginnings of a sharp, pearly-white canine flashes at you as his mouth curls. “Fine,” he concedes with a huff. Awkwardly, he scratches the back of his neck and looks elsewhere. “Do what you want. I’m not forcing you or anything.”

You smile at him. “You’re very considerate, Jack. I appreciate the concern.”

He’s like a puppy. It’s really sweet.

“W-Wha—who said anything about concern?” His face is growing warmer by the second, thawing his external ice.

“I’ll be okay. It’s not even that dark out either.”

“Still…” He sighs and cards his hand through his hair. “You haven’t noticed anything weird lately, have you?”

“Anything weird?” You furrow your brows, suddenly confused.

“On your way home. Nothing out of the ordinary? It’s the same every day?”

“Mostly, yeah. Why? Did something happen?”

“No. Just wondering…” Jack looks past you then, searching for something you can’t seem to see. “You sure you don’t want a ride? I can walk you to the station. Protect you if anything or anyone—”

You force yourself to laugh. “Come on. You’re trying to scare me on purpose. This is because I told you I’m editing a horror novel, isn’t it?”

Jack doesn’t share in your humor. Instead, his frown tightens on his face.

“While I’m grateful you want to help, I really don’t want to put that on you. It’s not your job to chauffeur me around. I’d feel bad if I made you do that. So thank you, but I’ll have to decline.”

You turn swiftly on your heel before he can protest, striding out the door into the gloomy night.

When is it going to be summer? It’s way too chilly.

You burrow into your jacket as you beeline for the station. A brisk breeze blows through busy city streets. Even though there are still people out and about, it feels strangely desolate.

Jack’s heart was in the right place, but did he really have to phrase it like that? 

You wrap your arms around yourself and hurry along. Your steps are in time with your pounding heart. A cold sweat beads along your forehead. 

Relax. It’s nothing to get worked up over. I’m fine.

Crunch.

You whirl around, clutching your bag between your arms. There’s no one in sight. The city seems eerily quiet tonight.

Stop scaring yourself. Nothing’s there.

No, it’s not something that could make that sound—a noise akin to a footstep. That belongs to someone.

Is someone following you?

You aren’t going to wait around and find out. Now you’re jogging the rest of the way, your heels clicking against the pavement. Your breath comes in shaky heaves, and by the time you finally step into the station’s blinding fluorescents, adrenaline still vibrating through your veins, you notice the time.

My train—it’s already here! Thank you. Oh, thank you so much!

You rush through the station in a flurry, and the relief is tangible once you’re safe and sound inside the train car. You squirm through the throng of late-night commuters towards the window.

“Sorry. Excuse me. Pardon me,” you murmur as you navigate the crowded space.

You make it to the window just as the doors slide shut. Moments later, the train squeaks into motion.

I worked up such a sweat. I can’t believe I got so frazzled over something as small as a snapped twig…or whatever that was. It wasn’t a footstep. And if it was, it was probably my own.

You shake your head at your reflection.

Look at me, losing my mind all because I let someone’s words get to my head. 

The stranger standing behind you sighs alongside you. You’re about to turn around, but it’s their hands on your waist that stop you. Your blood freezes. Your spine goes rigid.

“Excuse me? Um… C-Can I help you?”

You gasp, horrified, as the hands creep higher until they’re wrapped around your chest. The stranger squeezes almost curiously. Their breath catches on an eager hitch. You peer helplessly at the window. Two blue eyes blink back.

“Wait… Hold on—”

“It’s okay.” A man’s voice. Sweet and silky-smooth. A reassuring whisper. Only you can hear it with this invasively close proximity. It might as well be a drop in the ocean that is the rickety din of the train on the rails. You reach to grab his arms, hoping to pry him off. “I’m not going to hurt you. As long as you’re quiet…”

“No, you can’t. Please, sir. S-Stop… Don’t touch there.” Your fingers curl around his wrists. You squirm against him, your brain blanking.

This can’t be happening… There’s just no way…

Something stiff prods at your ass from behind. You yelp softly when he rubs himself against you. You try to catch sight of his features when you crane your neck, but all you get is a faceful of a dark hoodie. He’s tall enough to block you from the other passengers, his body caging yours against the window. One hand slides away from your chest to slip under your skirt. He gropes at your inner thigh; his fingers draw dangerously close to private territory.

“Sir—”

He inhales a dreamy breath. “Perfect,” he babbles, his words muffled by his mask. “So perfect. Warm… And soft. Just as I thought.”

There’s nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to hide. You’re trapped here with this fiend until you get off at your stop.

“We will be approaching the stop shortly,” the woman on the intercom says, but it doesn’t give you the relief you’re after.

Three more stops and then you’ll be at yours. Three more. Three. Your stop might as well be years away.

Two fingers trace the outline of your pussy through your panties. You’re grateful you’re wearing tights.

His breathing is heavy. He’s mumbling filth in your ear. You hardly register it over the static in your brain.

Gross. So gross. Stop it. Please stop. I don’t want this.

A whine bubbles low in your throat when he presses down against your clit. He caresses you through the fabric of your panties. You slump against the window with your palms on the glass. Your heart is in your throat. You feel sick and dizzy. It’s too hot in here. Everything is spinning. Your heart is picking up its pace. Your hands are starting to shake. 

And there’s nowhere to go. No amount of begging will stop him. He’s all over you, pressed impossibly close—so close you think he��s trying to fuse his body to yours, becoming one mutual unit.

You want to scream, but you can’t find your voice. You can’t do anything. You can’t even think.

“Don’t be scared,” he murmurs, twining his fingers around your trembling ones. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Mmh, no… No—stop. P-Please, sir, please stop.” You shudder against him, and a choked, broken sob rattles through your ribs. 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand. His other circles your tender, sensitive clit, and the contact elicits a whimper from you. “Even though you’re making the cutest sounds? Aah, I wanna be inside you so badly… I’m sure it’s even softer there.”

You bite down on your bottom lip so hard that your teeth pierce the skin. A thin ribbon of blood dribbles down your chin. You refuse to give him that satisfaction. Even though your attempt to snuff your voice is successful, your body doesn’t seem to agree. It shakes in fear and arousal. When he presses against your panties next, he feels the growing damp spot. 

That’s just a natural reaction, right? I’m not actually aroused by this. There’s no way!

Just when you think he might pursue further, he pulls back. His hips are still flush to your ass. You can feel his cock straining against the fabric. It’s gross and demoralizing. You’re nothing but a doll for him to get off to. Less than a person.

The train glides to a halt and the doors open. People exit and enter in a busy fashion. You stare out the window at your blurred surroundings.

When the train eases back into motion, you realize tears are welling in your eyes. They don’t fall. Not yet.

It isn’t until you get off at your stop, sprint the rest of the way home, hurry up into your apartment, and lock the door that the horror of it all finally catches up to you. You collapse to your knees and wail like you’ve just lost something precious—something you’ll never be able to get back.

You’ve never felt more dirty before.

entry 36: 4 May, 20XX.

I did it. I finally did it.

My hand is shaking; I’m so happy. No, I’m more than happy. I’m absolutely overjoyed!

You don’t know this about me yet, but I’m terribly envious. I suppose that’s why I could muster the confidence to touch you and hold you… Your body is so soft against mine. Every inch of you is beautiful. I wish I could have felt beneath your shirt, lifted your bra to see your bare breasts in the window’s reflection. This is quite the shameless admission. Even I, despite admiring you for so long, am loath to admit it.

You mesmerize me. I’m already flustered just thinking about the way your hand fit in mine when I held it… And you were aroused! I was so close to such a precious area, and you were wet for me and only me. I feel so overwhelmed. It’s a dream come true. You’re such an angel. My angel.

My dear, darling angel, I’m sorry for startling you. That was the only way, you see, and certain circumstances led me to that point. You must understand.

To be unfiltered about it, it was annoying seeing that security guard pester you. I had the strongest urge to kill him, but that’s not something you can do on a whim. Murder is like running a business, in a way. One misstep, a bad investment or a sliver of evidence left behind, and it might spell the end.

That’s besides the point. It’s hardly worth the time. 

Regrettably, while on the train into the city, I noticed you were wearing trousers today. I was right. Last night was a once-in-a-lifetime event. A pity. Your legs in those sheer tights is a vision to behold. Luckily, I have enough pictures to satisfy the craving to see you in them. When you live with me, I’ll buy plenty of tights for you to wear around the house. That way you won’t have to worry if I rip them.

That aside, you’ve started looking over your shoulder more. You talked to that security guard longer than you normally do. It’s irritating. Quite frankly, it pisses me off.

I don’t want to be childish. I understand you’re stressed and nervous. Anyone would be. That’s normal. But I’m not going to hurt you. I even told you those exact words! I’m certain you would have calmed down if you could see my face. Unfortunately, I’m not very blessed in that department. I assure you my personality is far prettier…despite the ugly truths I’ve penned here.

But then those don’t matter when it comes to love. Even in love, couples are supposed to recognize and accept each other’s flaws. So it’s fine if I’m an ugly person. It’s fine if I’m a devil or something grotesque from the deepest trench in the sea. At least, in spite of such darkness, your halo will continue to light the way and I will always be lured in by your luminosity.

I can’t do much of anything right now and that has led me to feel increasingly itchy. I want to feel you again. Smell you. Touch you. I’d like to taste you next time. Part your legs or tear your skirt off and indulge in the space you keep hidden from me. I want to sink into your depths and know the shape of you just as you twist yourself to take the shape of me. 

It’s just not enough. I desire more of you. 

AA.

entry 40: 8 May, 20XX.

It’s been a few days. You haven’t taken the train since. Now you’re driven to and from work by that pest. I was overcome with such frustration yesterday that I slammed my hands down upon my desk and fractured my wrist. For the time being, until my wrist heals, I must wear this unsightly stabilizer-brace-thing and write carefully with my non-dominant hand. I like to consider myself ambidextrous, if only because it’s a talent I’m sure will impress you, as you seem to surround yourself with successful, talented people, but I must admit my lettering is rather…subpar.

It’s not as neat as I hoped it would be. Something to practice while my wrist heals, I suppose.

There’s only so much strain I can take, my angel. Are you really so afraid of me that you’ve chosen to rely on someone else to protect you? If it was funny, I’d laugh. But it’s not. It’s annoying. Must I chain you up by the throat so that you won’t run away? Must I cuff our wrists together so that neither of us can part ways? What must I do to ensure you’ll never leave me?

Every day I spend in solitude, you grow closer to everyone but me. It’s infuriating.

However, there are always silvers of hope to be found and exploited in misfortune. As a businessman, I know this well enough.

I can plan around this. I’ve taken a few photos of your house at every angle. It’s important to think ahead when making a calculated risk.

When you go to kidnap the love of your life, you must dress appropriately, no? Now should I wear a formal suit or something casual?

I have some time and plenty to look forward to.

AA.

Like always, early as usual, Jack is waiting for you below your apartment. You see his car from the window and light up at once.

It’s been two months since the incident on the train. Jack insisted you go to the police when you confided in him a week after the fact. But what could they do? A story isn’t evidence. Evidence is evidence. So to combat that, you’ve avoided public transport altogether. Jack drives you to and from work and anywhere else you need to go. You never knew him very well before this mess, and you regret not starting a friendship sooner. He’s everything you need right now: a friend, a listener, and someone you can trust and rely on.

Like always, he unlocks the door so you can put your things in the back. “It’s my turn to treat for lunch today, so let’s go somewhere you like.”

You shut the door and open the passenger side, sliding in seamlessly.

“There’s no need for that.”

Your heart skips. Your breath stumbles in your lungs. Your body tenses.

You finally look at the driver.

He’s wearing what appears to be an expensive collared shirt with a tie, but the top half is covered by the soft hoodie he’s thrown on over it. He has a mask like before, but there’s no denying his eyes. Bright and blue, deep and deceptive like the ocean, they blink back at you.

The door locks with a click.

You throw yourself at it in a useless effort to escape. The masked stranger seizes your wrist. You scream.

“There’s no need to be afraid. I-It’s only me! I won’t hurt you.” He tugs his mask down to his chin so that you can see the wobbly smile on his face. “Please don’t be scared…”

“Let go of me, you pervert!” You rip your arm free and reach for the door once more. “What the hell are you doing here?! W-Where’s Jack? Why are you—”

You choke around the rest of your words when he wraps his arms around you and yanks you over the seat towards him. You kick out like a deranged animal, breathing heavy and frantic, your eyes darting to and fro. The stranger manages to manhandle you into a chokehold despite the struggle. With his arm wrapped around your neck, he grabs a plastic water bottle with his free hand. Clumsily, he unscrews the cap and presses the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

“I’m sorry for being so rough, but I need you to drink this. Can you do that for me? Drink all of it.” As he says this, he tips the bottle and the strange liquid fills your mouth. You fight against his hold, doing everything you can to resist. He tightens his grip on you, dragging your body closer to his. “Swallow it, or I’ll slit your throat.”

Against your will, very shakily, you gulp down the solution. It tastes bitter and vile like medicine. A little salty.

“I didn’t want to frighten you, my angel, but this is the only way you’ll listen.” He swipes the tear threatening to spill from your eye. “You don’t have to cry. I’ll take you home and keep you safe. Just drink the rest of this and take a nap until we get there. That’s it. You’re almost done. I know it’s disgusting, but you have to drink it all, my love.”

“Why…” you sputter, coughing. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” He blinks at you as if the answer is obvious. “Because I love you.”

You can’t understand the logic there. You don’t want to.

Slumping against the seat, boneless and disturbed, you tremble when he leans over to buckle you in. And you continue to do so until you’re pulled into sleep. 

Two blue eyes follow you in your dreams, sticking to your body like old gum under a school desk. In sleep, you feel his hands on you—clinging and cloying like tentacles and the stench of brine, all-enveloping.

entry 179: 24 September, 20XX.

Summer is winding to a close. The last few vestiges of warmth are slipping away. Today’s weather was crisp. Autumn is approaching. 

It’s been a difficult few months. I’ve catalogued my process in the time you’ve spent with me, locked away in our bedroom. I must keep you chained to the bed for the time being. It’s long enough to lead into the bathroom. Until I can trust you, this is the arrangement at present.

They’re still searching for you, albeit not as frantically and frequently. I hope they assume you’ve met some grisly end so that I can finally shelve that anxiety and move on with my life. While I’m relieved it wasn’t as messy as I thought it’d be, I’m just a touch disheartened. I would have loved to watch the light fade from that guard’s eyes.

But that just wasn’t feasible or smart. Besides, what else am I to use my current fortune for, if not the props needed for that day? You call it kidnapping, and while that term is technically true I prefer something sweeter. A reunion of sorts. 

There’s nothing of note to discuss. You haven’t accepted your new home or me yet, so I will continue to wait. I can be patient. I must be if this relationship is going to work (and it will). 

I don’t particularly believe in soulmates. Rather, I find the concept to be foolish. Fate does not dictate an entire life. It is the decisions you make along the way that shape your paths. Just like in my favorite board game. I’d like to play it with you. Although I must admit I already know how our life goes. I have a few routes in mind.

You look at me with such scalding contempt when I imply we ought to start a family, and even though I’ve been victim to that look so many times it doesn’t burn any less. You just can’t see how good this is for you yet.

What else are we to do with our time if not use it to fill quiet halls with the pitter-patter of tiny feet? I have a few names in mind, but for now we’ll take it one day at a time. I’m a patient man despite my temper.

AA.

entry 257: 11 December, 20XX.

Exciting news! Though it may seem small, we’ve reached an understanding. Or so I suspect. You’re not so averse to me anymore. In fact, we take baths together, eat meals together, watch TV together, play board games together… There are so many things we do together as a couple and so, despite the encroaching winter frost, my days have become warmer! Just last night you allowed me to sleep beside you on our bed, and I held you close and you kissed me and I felt like the luckiest man alive.

Finally! Genuine progress!

I won’t delude myself and say that you may finally love me in the way I love you, but a start is a start. I admit I couldn’t help myself. I returned your kiss tenfold, all over your face, down the column of your throat to your collarbone. I was gentle and careful. I didn’t rush.

I like to play experienced in all fields, but even I can’t act perfectly. How should I describe our first time without all of the shameless vulgarity? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Sex is sex no matter how you try to embellish it. Filthy and imperfect, sweaty and sticky, more effort and exercise than I realized.

You pulled me in close, pursued my mouth with the same want in mine, and it was more cathartic than anything I’ve ever known. Oh, to be kissed by the love of your life! I wasn’t aware such joy existed.

You palmed me through my pajamas and told me you wanted a family—that the idea of raising a little one was perfectly charming. I admit it’s an alluring thought I’ve had long before you lived with me. I’ve always thought you would look very enchanting while pregnant. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself. Even though it isn’t official yet, it doesn’t hurt to call myself your husband. In my mind and heart, we’re married. It may not seem so to you yet, but it will be.

Back to the matter at hand. Hearing that you wanted a child with me made me happy. I can’t remember if I cried. I must have because you pulled me in close and you, lying beneath me, wiped at my face and told me you wanted me to give you a child. And who am I if not the most doting, most benevolent husband? I’d do anything for you.

This must be what a predator feels when they tear into prey: a rapture so absolute and all-consuming that it covers their brain like a cotton shroud and renders every other action a hazy instinct.

It was a blur even though I was sure I moved slowly. Clothes weren’t exactly shucked. They were in the way and we had a singular goal, far too focused to remove them completely. Thus, they were pulled up, down, to the side, in whichever way provided easiest access. I closed my hands around your breasts and they feel so much softer without the obstruction of clothes.

Perhaps, rather than humans, we’re just anglerfish. Hungry for each other, using the other, a voracious relationship full of mutual benefits. If I could, I’d love to live inside you. I want nothing more than to press myself close enough to feel your heart beat alongside mine. To feel rushing blood. To turn myself inside-out just to satisfy you. Give you every little thing I can offer—brain and body—and we’d cleave through sunless waters as one, together forever.

The word ‘love’ is not large enough to truly encapsulate all that I feel for you.

My forehead pressed to yours. You kissed me once. I felt sloppy. I was sloppy. Inexperienced. We both are. Your hand wrapped around me. I told you it was okay, to do it at your own pace, to tell me if it hurts. But you kissed my every anxiety away, and in just a few strokes we were connected. Perhaps I died then and I’m still dead now.

Maybe I’m writing this from the moon or the deep, dark sea. Maybe all of this is just a long dream and I’m not even human. Maybe I’m the anglerfish stuck to your side, latched on with my sharp teeth, our lives forever intertwined. You taste of fruit and blood and every beautifully painful thing in this world.

For the first time in the many months we’ve lived together, you called me by my name. You gasped it as you curled your legs around my waist and clung to my chest, your arms draped over my neck, nails in my back. You chanted it like a song. I must have done the same with yours.

However, no amount of carnal euphoria can change the fact that I still have my reservations about unchaining you.

A deliberation for another day. It’s time to cook dinner. I’ve improved lots in the time we’ve known each other. You help around the kitchen as well. Harmless things like stirring batter or mixing a salad. I can’t trust you with actual food prep for reasons I’m sure are obvious and understandable. I try to create balanced meal plans. Now that I’m no longer eating alone and surviving off of misery, I want to show you that I’m both a great chef and a conscientious eater.

AA.

You watch the seasons shift outside the bedroom window and there’s nothing you can do.

You live life chained like a prisoner and there’s nothing you can do.

You eat off paper plates with the same utensils made for toddlers and there’s nothing you can do.

You let the same man whose touch was once so covetous pet you all over with his hands and mouth and there’s nothing you can do.

You’re stuck here forever and there’s nothing you can do.

There are highs higher than the clouds and then there are lows lower than the sea. You oscillate between these temperaments, a body thrown around on rocky waves. How you’ve yet to sink and drown for good, you’re not sure.

Today’s low has brought Azul to his knees. You stand over him, gripping the knife in a shaky hold. Chopped vegetables scatter in a rainbow on the floor. He had been chopping them so methodically, so wrapped up in pleasant conversation with you, that he hadn’t been expecting the retaliation. The blade is freshly sharpened. The perfect weapon. The perfect opportunity. Freedom just after this final hurdle.

Freedom that comes with its burdens—with a child and the law and the media and… And then what? A life of loneliness. A life spent working through mountains of trauma. A life in which you can never look at the train again.

Two blue eyes blink up at you. For the first time, Azul looks scared and weak—a small, pitiful thing. For the first time, you have him trapped beneath your thumb.

You want to bring the knife down and put an end to these cyclical days. You want to crush his spirits in the same way he crushed yours. You want him to know pain so brutal it rots him from the inside.

But you can’t. You want to and in an ideal scenario devoid of fear you would. But you can’t.

You dig your heel palms into your eyes and sob. “I can’t! I’m sorry. I… I can’t do it!”

Azul deflates with a deep sigh. “Oh… Oh, my angel, it’s all right. I forgive you. You’re just a little confused. A little emotional—I get it. We all have emotional moments. I’m not upset.”

“But I—I almost… I was going to—”

“You didn’t. You didn’t, my love, and that’s what matters.” 

He beckons you to his height; you lower to your knees. The knife is still clutched in your hands. He looks between it and you, as if weighing which is more dangerous. Volatile emotions or a blade. Maybe both.

Azul wraps his arms around you and rubs your back consolingly. “It’s okay. I’m not angry.”

You sniffle, but the tears won’t stop flowing. “Still… I almost did such a horrible thing to you. I could’ve hurt you—k-killed you!”

“My dear, it’s okay.” He kisses the top of your head, tucking you beneath his chin. “I forgive you.”

Your fingers tighten around the handle. “You do?”

“I do. I always will.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Angel—”

You turn the sharpened point inwards and slam it into his side, just below his rib. It pierces through soft flesh. You pull away just in time to see hurt and betrayal flash across his face, hot like the tears you’re now drying.

Shakily, his movements unsteady, he reaches for the handle. His fingers dance across it, assessing the reality of the situation. You stabbed him. You did it.

He hisses through his teeth when he tears it out. Blood spatters the kitchen floor in a brilliant, vermillion arc. Azul, knife in hand, staggers to his feet and lunges.

You stumble away in a blind panic. 

“How dare you…” He clutches his side with one hand while the other slashes through the air. You narrowly dodge before the knife can slice your arm. Blood seeps through Azul’s shirt, staining his palm red. His expression is twisted in a dark concoction of agony and anger. “I’ve shown you nothing but love and care… I’ve been nothing but patient. I’ve done everything! You were beginning to warm up to me—to this life—our life! I was wrong to trust you. Get back here—”

“You’re crazy! You assaulted me, kidnapped me, threatened me! Do you really think I’d love you after all of that?!” You yelp when his slick, blood-stained fingers wrap around your wrist to drag you down. “Stop! Let go of me!”

You elbow him in the ribs, which causes a shockwave of pain to travel through him, and it gives you enough time to wriggle free. Ripping your arm from his hold, you try to get away when he, aiming to subdue you, grabs hold of your ankle next. You feel the blade sink into your calf before you see it. A terrible cry frays your throat, torn from the depths of your chest like a flower pried from the soil.

“If I’m going to die…” He flops to his knees, wheezing. “If I’m going to die, you’ll die with me.”

“Like hell I will!” you hiss through your teeth, thrashing wildly.

Stupidly, you pull the knife from where it’s wedged in. Blood spurts from the wound, trickling down your leg in a thick, steady stream. You wince and limp towards the door. Closer… You’re almost there.

Azul reaches out with a bloodied hand, his expression utterly shattered. “Wait… Don’t go any further. Please… I need you. We need each other. My angel, my love, please don’t go!”

You tear your eyes away. He’s a monster. You’ll never sympathize with him.

Just before you can get to the front door, Azul picks himself up and wraps his arms around your waist. He pulls you down and your head hits the floor with a harsh smack. You see stars. The ceiling spins above you. You try to get up, crawl away, escape—whatever it takes to lose him—but he clings to your side, holding tight. His blood is warm and wet against your shirt. The pain in your calf is sparking up your leg, joining the ache at the back of your head in duet.

Pressed so closely, the flow of blood slows. Your shirt soaks up what the rest of his already drenched shirt can’t hold.

You watch the ceiling. The light looks like a halo; it shines brightly. Azul blinks up at you, hopelessly, sickly enthralled. The tip of the knife prods at your stomach. If it pierces, you don’t feel it. You’re sore all over. Bruises are already beginning to bloom.

At the bottom of the sea, clothed in frigid darkness, there is no sense of direction.

That’s the sweetest relief while you wade into unconsciousness with a parasitic angler.

[mattyriddlesbitch]

Hiiiii! So, I'm Arab and I was wondering is you could do a y/n x Mattheo riddle(cuz y/n is so badass) where they're fighting about the girls that go to Mattheo. y/n goes into Arabic and mattheo goes hard and then. . . you can determine what you want to do with it. BTW I LOVE UUUUU

ps can u make them in a secret relationship?

I LOVE UUUUU TOO AAAA THANK YOU! Sorry this took so long!

All Yours

Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader

Warnings: Oral(female receiving), fingering, unprotected sec, cream pie, cussing.

18+ Minors DNI!

There he was again. Your secret boyfriend. Mattheo Riddle. Surrounded by girls at one of the Slytherin parties. There were quite a few reasons to keep your relationship secret. His father. Your parents. His friends. Even your friends. He didn’t want you to be used against him as a weakness either.

Whatever the reasons, you were still fuming about how he spoke with the girls. Granted, he never did touch them or reciprocate their flirtations. But he didn’t push them away either or reject them outright.

He spotted you across the room, locking eyes with you and giving you his wicked smile that normally made you melt. When he got met with your crossed arms and eye roll, he knew you were mad and the smile dropped.

He was able to get away from the girls, redirecting them to his friends before he slipped away. He was pulling you away from everyone, skirting around the party to avoid anyone’s attention as he pulled you up to his dorm.

He closed the door behind you two before speaking. “Alright. What’s wrong, sweet girl?”

“Don’t call me that.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest again.

He sighed. “Fine. What’s wrong?”

You weren’t sure what to say, trying to figure out how to phrase it. You weren’t exactly prepared for this confrontation.

“Is it the girls?” He asked, stepping closer.

“Of course it is!” You nearly yelled. How can he be so stupid?

“Come on, princess. You know I can’t do anything about it.” He tried speaking softly as he touched your arm.

All that did though was piss you off even more. You pulled your arm from him and started yelling. “Yes, you can! You can tell them to back off! You can tell them you’re not interested!”

“I can’t do that. It’ll be suspicious. I don’t want people catching on that I have a girlfriend.” He said, keeping his voice calm.

You knew what he meant. He meant he didn’t want people to find out so they can use you against him or harm you. But you were mad, so of course the words were falling from your mouth faster than you were even thinking. “Oh, it’s so bad to have a girlfriend now? I’m that embarrassing to you?”

“No-” He tried interjecting, but you cut him off.

You were slipping into Arabic without even realizing it. You were just yelling and he was staring at you, stunned. It was the first time he’d heard you speak Arabic, let alone yelling it.

You stopped yelling after a few moments, looking at him to respond. “What?”

“That was so hot.” He said and his mouth was on yours.

The anger that you had was turning into desire for him as you guided you two towards the bed, lips pressed together still as you took off what clothes you could without breaking the kiss. He pushed you back onto the bed once you reached it and helped you out of your clothes, wasting no time to sink between your thighs and start licking and sucking like a starved man.

“Keep going. Talk to me.” He said, pushing two fingers inside you.

It took you a moment to start talking, rambling something about how good it feels and whatever else came to mind. It’s not like he knew what you were saying anyways.

“Fucking hot.” He groaned before licking at your clit again.

You kept your rambling, only breaking with moans and whimpers. His name falling from your mouth every few sentences as he was desperately trying to make you fall apart on his tongue and fingers.

“That’s fucking it. You gonna cum, princess? I wanna see you cum on my fingers. Look so pretty screaming my name.” He said, staring up at you between your legs.

You couldn’t deny him what he was craving, nearly begging for. You were falling apart for him only moments later, tugging his hair, trembling, crying out his name.

He flipped you over after riding out your orgasm, gripping your hips to pull back towards him. He slowly eased the head of his dick in, groaning as you moaned.

“You’re fucking hot when you’re mad.” He said with a slight struggle as he kept pushing inside you.

“My yelling turns you on?” You asked, gripping at the sheets.

“More than it should, probably.” He started thrusting, no longer being gentle, he gripped your hips with bruising force and fucking you fast and deep. “You can keep going if you’d like. Or would you rather scream my name?” He asked, leaning over to grab your hair, lifting your head from the bed.

“Fuck, Mattheo! I-fuck!” You cried out, finding it difficult to think with his cock hitting so deep inside you.

“Guess that’s my answer, huh?” He teased.

“Shut up!” You tried for an irritated tone, but it was hardly even halfhearted.

“Oh, but you love when I talk to you like this. Can feel how wet you get, love.” He leaned down so his chest was pressing against your back. 

He was fucking into you so deep, he moved his hand from your hair to rub at your clit, making you whimper from how sensitive it was.

“Maybe you just needed to be reminded that I’m all yours in another way to get rid of that anger, hm?” He mused, pressing kisses along your upper back. “Fucking clenching me, princess, you gonna cum again already?”

All you could do was nod in response, your voice occupied with moaning and crying out with his thrusts.

“That’s it. Be a good girl then and cum for me.” He said softly. “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.”

And you were trembling again, crying out his name and you gripped at the sheets.

He cursed as he came from the feeling of your pussy trying to milk him, filling you with his cum.

“I’m all yours, sweet girl. You’re all mine, too.” He said reassuringly as he pressed kisses where he could reach as your body relaxed.

[vexingwoman]

Hello, I'm a trans person(I consider myself a trans woman but I assume you'd make some sort of objection to that term) and I think that defining woman without the female body is quite easy and does not depend on stereotypes. The two similarly worded ways I think are good is "a woman is an adult with a gender identity typically associated with those born female" and "a woman is an adult with a female gender identity." Now I think the term gender identity isn't the best term, but I use it in these definitions because people probably haven't heard of an older synonym like "psychological sex" that Harry Benjamin used or using phrases like "people with estrogen signaling pathways of the brain typical of females" based on the article I link to.

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2020/02/200205084203.htm

You know the next step here is for me to ask what exactly a female gender identity is. So we are still left with the underlying question: what are you actually identifying with? In my experience, gender ideologues usually define a female gender identity in one of the following ways:

1. “A female gender identity is a deep, internal sense or feeling of being female.” And to this I ask what feeling like a female means. Can you define this female feeling we all allegedly have without alluding to bio-essentialism or feminine stereotypes? And if such a feeling exists, how could a male ever know what that feeling is? What reference point does a male have to determine that his feelings are those of a female? None of these questions have ever been answered, because there is no deep, internal feeling to being female any more than there is to having red hair or freckles or brown eyes.

2. “A female gender identity is an identity which cannot be defined, because it is different for everyone.” Useless, but to this I ask by what metric are these identities all categorized as “female,” if they cannot be defined and have no common denominator among each other? Have you considered that what you’re referring to is not a gender identity, but simply a personality?

3. “A female gender identity is the identity of someone who conforms to the norms, behaviors, and roles associated with females.” And to this, I thank the responder for finally admitting that gender and gender identities hinge on nothing but sexist stereotypes and sex-based roles.

It’s that simple. Any definition of woman that isn’t “an adult female human” is either meaningless, or relies on sexist stereotypes, or relies on neurosexist myths. What’s most mind blowing to me, is how so many gender ideologues will openly admit that gender is a harmful, made up, and regressive social construct which ascribes certain roles and expectations to females, and others to males—but they still insist on defining women and men by this outdated, misogynistic construct rather than defining them by their sex. Insead of removing the stereotypes from the sex, they have removed the sex from the stereotypes—and somehow this is considered progressive. Revolutionary, even.

[certainlynotasimp]

OH MY GOD. THE WAY I JUST SCREAMED IN MY PILLOW BECAUSE OF YOUR NEW SUNNY FIC AGDGJAEGAJAVSG ITS SOSOSOS CUTE I CANT BREATHEHEHEHEHE. it got me thinking…sunny and miggy are perfect for the one bed trope 😭😭😭😭😭 just imagine miggy acting like it doesn’t effect him, sleeping in the same bad as sunny. i’m already giggling thinking about it. PLEASE WRITE A FIC ABOUT IT WHEN YOU HAVE THE TIME 😭🙏

As Warm As You.

Miguel O’Hara x Female! Reader

A/N: OMG! Thank you so much for the love and the request! 💕🤍 I personally never read anything from this trope, but I think I made something that can satisfy your fluffy craving😅. But I added some Sunny lore, so maybe this will make up for my ignorance. I’m also sorry it’s kinda short.

A/N: I haven’t seen the movie yet, but this shouldn’t be harmed by it maybe. Also I would like to say that I am using Google Translate for the Spanish phrases I use, so if you are fluent in Mexican Spanish (I think that’s what you call phrases and sayings more common in Mexico.), please comment some criticism my way. Thank you!🤍

Warnings: Trauma, Nightmares, comfort, fluffy bits, One Bed, Miguel is a secret softie, No Use of YN ((Sunny is her nickname, not her name name)), Female pronouns, Google Translate Spanish, Established relationship?

——————-

“Ben?…Ben!”

The little spider’s scream cuts through the screeching sirens. The smog hung around the air as the dying flames stained the sky. Too many flames…Too many places to be at once.

The red staining the dark costume caused bile to build up as the search becomes more desperate.

I have to find him.

The dull pain from nails bending and breaking as the rumble falls around her shaking frame. The choked panting caused the Doctor to find his friend quite easily. His friend desperately searching for something. Someone.

Why can’t I find him?

The question is answered with a patch of dark hair appears under a pile of rumble, the tips stained in red. There was so much…why is there so much…

A howl of pain rings out of the young woman’s throat as she clings to the body, her mentor just steps behind her, helpless as to how he can help her.

No one can help her. Like how no one helped her Ben.

——

A faint flash of orange alerts the sleeping man out of his endless dream. He looks around and doesn’t notice anyone at first. Miguel sighs, his paranoia running wild as he almost thought an enemy broke into his apartment, not that it would be a first. As he lays back down to sleep, a slight drag against the floor brings the hairs on the back of his neck to life.

He may not have a spider-sense, but he certain knew when someone was watching him. His talons burrow at as the sound patters closer to his bed. With out hesitation, he lunges towards the noise, his hands catching the form of an invisible figure as he rams them into the wall. A yelp with a whiff of vanilla and lavender stops him from ripping the invisible person’s throat out.

“Cariño?…” Miguel whispers as he retracts his claws. A faint whimpering emerges from the solid unseen being in front of him as her body materializes in the moonlight. The lines of her spider suit glowing an ethereal green as her mask disintegrates, revealing her tear stained face.

“What are you doing?” His eyebrows furrow as he looks at her suspiciously, despite knowing that she was the only one he knows wouldn’t hurt him. His mind blurs his confusion and frustration as he steps back to allow her to recover from being slammed into the wall. Certainly there wasn’t a big enough emergency that the beloved residential ray of sunshine would leave her room at The Lobby to break into his dimension, and bedroom to come get him.

“You know better than to use the gizmo to…” His scolding comes to a halt when the young woman hugs his figure, burning her head into his firm chest.

His shirt becomes wet with her tears as she sobs. The realization hits him as she whimpers into his touch.

She had the dream again.

No. She had the memory again.

His arms wrapped around her short frame as he buried his nose into her hair. Her scent filled the hole of sorrow her cries burned into him. As he rubs her back, her cries eventually stopped as she pulls away from him, an apology already waiting on her lips.

“I’m sorry, Miggy…it was really bad this time…” She mutters as she tries wiping her tears away as she forces a shy smile.

She felt ashamed for bothering him. Miguel was a busy man and she could have just stayed in her room at The Lobby, but the screams were too much.

His screams were too much.

Miguel doesn’t respond as he heads over to his dresser, pulling open a drawer. His face remaining emotionless as he retrieves a sweatshirt that sparked her familiarity.

The old gray crew neck sweatshirt with a fraying collar and mysterious stains along the sleeves. The old golden initials of NYU were cracked and picked apart due to many trips in the wash and anxious tendencies. A faint blush appears as she remembers the first time she ever saw that sweatshirt, the memory being one of her favorite…it was the first time she felt so warm since that day…

Miguel attracts her attention again when he rolls up the fabric in his hands and forces the neck over her head. Her hair sticking awkwardly as she peers up at Miguel in awe at how caring he was despite his annoyed expression.

“Brazos arriba, Sunshine.” He whispers as he helps her arms through the sleeves. She blindly follows him like a student being instructed. The taller spider stands back as he raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“I appreciate that you enjoy the suit I made you, mi luz.” Miguel states with a slight teasing smile. “But you probably wanna be more comfortable for bed.”

“Oh yea…” The small spider blushes in embarrassment as she disintegrates her suit back into her gizmo device. A shiver travels up her spine as the cold air on her legs, leaving her almost exposed except for the old sweatshirt.

“Now then,” Miguel sighs as he walks back over to his bed and crawls back under the covers. “I have several meetings in the morning, so I need to sleep.”

The little spider shuffles in her spot for a few moments as Miguel closes his eyes, getting ready to sleep again. With a nail between her teeth, the girl heads for the door to go find the couch when Miguel clears his throat. She turns back to look at him when she sees the covers beside him pulled back. Miguel’s open eye glaring at her as he groans. “It would be a lot easier for me to leave in the morning if you are in here and not in my way.”

A warm smile forms on her face as she excitedly comes into his bed. Miguel’s front facing her as his burgundy gaze burns with false annoyance and exhaustion. Miguel sighs as he feels the smaller being’s weight snuggles into his broad chest as expected.

“Thank you, Miggy.” She whispers. Her eyes peering up at him with gratitude and an emotion that only shines for him, his own secret that he will die to keep to himself.

Miguel rolls his eyes as his eyes meet hers, his warm cheeks hidden by the darkness. “Go to sleep, Cariño. You’re gonna need it for training.”

She giggles as she wraps her arms around his waist like a teddy bear. “Sweet Dreams, mi bonita araña..” She mumbles as she closes her eyes. His warmth fills the coldness of her nightmares as sleep draws her to peaceful breaths. Miguel remains frozen for a few moments as he makes sure she is deep in REM sleep before his gaze softens.

His rapidly beating heart acts as her lullaby as he places a kiss on her crown.

“Sweet dreams, mi vida…” He whispers into her scalp as his arms loom around her, acting as her shield before he slips into a sweet slumber in his light’s embrace.

[familyabolisher]

I don’t want to sound like I’m asking this in bad-faith but could you please explain why criticising certain kinks like cnc, ageplay and incest-play is specifically transmisogynistic? I keep seeing posts defending ‘taboo’ kinks like that with the claim that thinking it’s gross is such and I don’t really get it?

Many people I’ve been mutuals with who’ve criticised it in the past both as IRL kink-practice and as fanfic are trans (both TMA and TME) or queer in some other way but I’ve seen this argument quite a lot recently. It’s just the implication that trans women are more likely to be into those things that bothers me if you get me when most of the criticism surrounding them usually point to white daddy dom types instead. Apologies as I’m bad at phrasing things.

it's because trans women are disproportionately targeted in "callouts," which in turn can be linked back to the fact that trans women/TMA people are already culturally perceived as sexual predators/sexual degenerates/etc even by other queer + trans people. certain articulations of a kink are able to fly under the radar when articulated by demographics for whom a socially unacceptable sexual degeneration is not already presumed -- as many others have noted, the only difference between a cishet woman calling her boyfriend "daddy" and trans girls calling one another "sisters" sexually (or similar, ygwim) is that the latter are operating within a discourse that already casts them as sexually predatory, and all sexual expression thereafter merely functions as confirmation bias. the "callouts" which circulate on this website and the scale of vitriol that they attract (doxxing, sexual harassment, social murder) are almost always for trans women (i'm not going to name names but think back on some of the biggest ones!) and almost always rely on significant actual violation of consent and boundaries -- digging out and circulating screenshots of people's private nsfw sideblogs, for example, is unambiguously sexual harassment, but never gets regarded as such, and the people who make + spread the callouts are never called to account for their participation in said sexual harassment.

"criticising [x] kink" is a bit of a rhetorical sleight of hand here, because that's not really what's happening -- there's no "critique" of a kink actually taking place, only calls to action predicated on a presumed shared assumption that xyz kink is a) morally wrong and b) indicative of harm being committed. if you said "incest kinks are wrong because x, y, and z," irrespective of whether i agreed or disagreed with you, you would be making a fundamentally different statement to that of "x person has an incest kink, and i am sharing this information on the assumption that we all agree what should be done with it." i think this distinction is necessary because it's easy to let online sexual harassment fly under the radar under the guise of "criticising," being "critical," having "critical thinking," etc etc.

[txttletale]

hi i have an embarrassingly stupid question. ive seen the word "ontologically" used a lot in your general space online (you,mutuals,mutuals-in-law) and i have absolutely no idea what it means. i looked it up in the dictionary AND on simple english wikipedia and i still have no clue what it means. i am ashamed. specific contexts ive seen have been "ontologically perfect/online/evil/incapable/pure"

can ypou please help me Understand thank you

lol this isn't a stupid question at all it is not exactly a common turn of phrase dw. so, yknow, 'ontology' is used here in 'a state of being'. an 'ontological evil' is something that is evil simply because it exists, separate from any harm done to anyone. an evil way of being, rather than something or someone that acts evilly. it's a position held genuinely by e.g. a lot of religious conservatives and people with adjacent ideologies -- a trans person is bad even if a trans person isn't hurting anyone because being trans is an evil way of being. i think usually people in my mutualsphere mostly use it quite flippantly to poke fun at viewpoints or value systems which prediscursively ascribe traits to objects or people for being, as some external-to-causality-necessity-for-their-existence, rather in those objects and people's actions and circumstances

[colourstreakgryffin]

This may be a rather weird ask/request to attempt but I love how you write and figured I'd tried!

If you can, may I request an Alastor x reader (your choice on romantic or platonic) based around the whole concept of "an unstoppable force meets an immovable object". Basically always smiling Alastor meets a sinner who self proclaims that they can't smile and Alastor does everything in his power to make them smile once.

If you can't do it, I completely understand!

Oooh! Okay. Okaaay! I can try this out. It may be a bit odd and I can see whatcha mean. Reader/Leitora doesn’t smile, Alastor tries to make them smile but it just doesn’t work. If that’s what you mean, I get it! And it’ll be platonic since you know, easy for this situation! Sorry but I can’t write a lot here so it’s kinda short…

Alastor- Smile, my Dear

Alastor has never felt so stunted yet so interested in the same time… you don’t smile, he has never seen a single bit of a grin on you. A brand new Hotel client that has even admitted openly you don’t smile. He has only ever seen such a neutral deadpan or a straight-up scowl

And he doesn’t like that at all… he doesn’t like it

“Come now, darling. Why always the frown? You’d look so much better with a smile”

You just ignore his ‘request’ and continue frowning… how wonderful. Not only does he have one annoying non-smiler, he now has two and that drives him up the wall…

Alastor does subtle but obvious tricks to make you smile, making you say specific phrases that’d always illicit a smile upon saying, giving out bad dad jokes when least suspected. Many things and all fail, which frustrates him but he is too much of a stubborn prideful man to quit

Alastor wonders why you even decline smiling. What’s wrong with smiling? Did somebody suck all the happiness out of you or something. There has be a reason behind it and he’ll dig it out of you one day

Alastor always does things for you. He gives you food, he gets you unimportant items, he does all of this to see he can draw out, even the smallest grin and whilst, he is confident he’ll succeed everytime… he doesn’t and it drives him mad

Alastor is enamoured just by your lack of grins. He doesn’t love you but he is in love with the challenge and the work of making you smile. Even threatening does nothing, you don’t respond to even him threatening to harm you if you don’t smile

How is even it possible?

Nevertheless, Alastor won’t give up and he will keep trying until he wins but he is unaware that you’re not budging against his attempts

“Look, my dear. Isn’t that funny? Hmm… you’re laughing but you’re not smiling… that’s so odd”

[bipanicoverthegravessiblings]

We can have Andrew and Ashley (separately) dating reader who is a singer/guitarist in a Punk rock band, who has a somewhat cynical, indifferent personality but is quite kind when you get to know her.

But there is a problem, she is possessed by a demon and needs to kill or drink human blood to survive (just like that movie Jennifer Body feat. Megan Fox)

Friggin love Jennifer’s Body- hell yeah anon!

Ashley and Andrew Graves x Possessed Punk Rock!Reader

Andrew Graves

You met Andrew after he went to watch your band play. He came up to you after the show and started up a conversation with you.

You were the best part of the band in his personal opinion

You’d heard this all before, and like always you went along to get on his good graces

Honestly- you had full intention of eating him until he started some playful banter with you

You both just bounced off of each other so well

“Alright, so- it’s the zombie apocalypse and you have to team up with 2 other people at this bar.” Andrew was leaning against the bar, he phrased it like such a serious question, “Who you picking?”

“Hmmmm…” you hummed, turning your attention to the cluster of people, “Probably that guy-“ you nod towards one muscly frat dude chatting with his equally muscular friends, “He looks like he could punch some zombies. Dumb and fearless, ya know?”

Andrew chuckled, “Ahhh, so you’re into beefy dudes, huh?”

You gave him a deadpan stare before rolling your eyes and smirking a little, “Nah, if anything he’d be a sacrifice to the undead horde. I’m more into sickly looking emo dudes.”

A small blush painted Andrew’s cheeks, he turned to look at the crowd, “Soooo- does that mean I’m on your apocalypse team?”

“Not in the slightest,” you leant back on the bar stool, “It’s about survival, and no offense hun- but you’re usually the first to die in those kinds of movies.”

Andrew dramatically clutched his chest, giving a faux harmed expression. You playfully shove him to wipe the look off his face. He laughed a little as he sat back up in his stool.

“Alright, alright-“ you wave your hand towards him, “You can join my apocalypse team. We’ll team up to sacrifice the big dude.”

“You’re too kind.”

He was fun to talk to, what can ya say?

You ended up feasting on that frat bro after Andrew left- but not without giving you his number

You two hung out a bit after that- and Andrew became a regular at your shows

You even started inviting him to rehearsals to sit and watch

You make him a shirt with the band’s name on it as a joke- but he wears it constantly.

He’s a dork, but soon enough…he becomes your dork <3

Which is why you were nervous to tell him the truth about you

“….I’m sorry you’re what?”

You winced at his words. There- was no easy way of telling him this, but- you don’t know. It feels like the right thing to inform your partner you’re actually possessed by a demon and crave human flesh and blood.

“I’m possessed by a demon,” You turn away from his, rubbing your arm anxiously, “It- happened when I was 17. Some fucks tried to offer me as a sacrifice to a demon to make them famous and- well, now we know the reason virgins are sacrificed for demon deals.”

Andrew blinked, and a silence fell between you two. He turned away from you, his eyes fixed on the ground,

“….you know my sister is friends with a demon.”

You scrunched up your nose in confusion, turning to give him a look of “What the fuck?”

He held his hands up defensively, “Hey I don’t know! What else was I supposed to say?!”

“I don’t know!” You threw a throw pillow at him, “You’re the first person I’ve told!”

Andrew caught the pillow, placing it gingerly on his lap, “Well- I’m not a stranger to this whole…demon stuff. Can’t say I’ve dated one though…”

Your eyes widened. You looked at him in disbelief, “You- still want to date me?”

“Well- yeah.” He shrugged as if it wasn’t obvious, “You’re not gonna eat me- I’d assume at least.”

“Nah,” you gave him a small smirk, “Not enough meat on ya.”

You received a pillow to the face in response to that. You broke out into soft laughter, Andrew shortly joining in. This…went better than you thought it would.

From then on Andrew helped you with finding food. He’d scan for potential meals at your shows and direct you to them after.

He seems way too experienced in this sort of thing

Ashley Graves

That relatable moment when you’re about to feast on this guy, but this cute goth chick was about to sacrifice him to a whole other demon <3

After a show you had planned on following this couple and devouring them both- you were really hungry

Low and behold- the girl led her date into the woods and summoned a whole ass demon to take his soul

She noticed your presence as she was getting ready to move the body and-

“….sup.”

She said that as if trying to move the soulless body of a grown ass man in the middle of the woods was the most normal thing in the world. You were- dumbfounded honestly. Apparently you were staring for too long, as the woman dropped the corpse’s arms and crossed her own,

“You gonna scream- or are we going to be chill about this?” She tapped her foot as she glared at you, “Don’t make me offer another soul to my friend.”

“Ha! Good luck with that-“ you stepped out of the bushes, shaking off any leaves that stuck to your pants, “Your friend would just be confused why you’re offering them their own kind.”

She looked you up and down, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Yeah- look. I’m possessed- and I was following you and that boy toy of yours to have some dinner.” You pointed to the corpse between you two, “So I’ll do you a favor and get rid of this body for you.”

The woman rubbed her chin, looking down at the body. She then grinned deviously, “Hmmm…you mind if I join you?”

Your eyes widened. Was- she being serious? Did she want to chow down on this guy with you?

Apparently she could notice your confusion and shrugged, “Well I was going to eat him anyway. Was thinking of grilling him- some salt, oregano, paprika as seasoning. Help me carry him and you’ve got yourself a 5 star meal.”

This has to be the most insane woman you’ve ever met. Is this what love feels like?

“Sure thing-“ you reach down, hoisting the man’s arm around your shoulder, “Names Y/N.”

“Ashley Graves.” Ashley made no effort to help you carry the body, just leading you along as your struggled.

And thus started a beautiful friendship!

Ashley sacrifices a soul, you two eat the soulless body. Win-Win!

As you hang out more outside of your hunts, Ashley learns about your band

She’s not happy that you have friends outside of her, but she goes to your show anyway

She claimed that everyone sucked except for you

“We should just eat them,” Ashley suggested, her chin rested on your shoulder.

You glance at her before speaking, “No can do- I’m not eating my band mates.”

“Fine-“ she huffed, shoving you away from her, “Then I will!”

“Ashley- No-“ you groan, turning around to look at the currently pouting woman, “Look, I have a life outside of you ya know- don’t like it, don’t come to the shows. Nothing wrong with keeping things professional between us.”

Ashley went quiet at that. She hugged herself, turning away from you.

“…what if I don’t want to be professional?” She muttered, just loud enough for you to catch.

You blinked down at her, “You- what?”

“We get each other! I want to keep doing this, and I don’t want those ‘bandmates’ getting in the way.” She glared up at you, “You…You like me too, right?”

You did. You’d be lying if you didn’t find her general unhinged-ness hot, but you couldn’t kill your band.

“Hey, look-“ your voice went soft as you took Ashley’s hands into your own, “I…like you too Ashley, but we’re not eating my band. If I’ve been ignoring you for them, I’ll- cancel rehearsal tomorrow so we can go do something. Just us. Sound good?”

A small smile formed on Ashley’s face as she nodded, “Yeah…that’d be great.”

You may be the possessed one here, but Ashley Graves is a whole other level

[stardust-and-snickerdoodles]

fall asleep, close my eyes, and disappear pt. 2

part 1

fandom: X-Men

pairing: Charles Xavier x Reader

summary: Charles Xavier is familiar with the weight of his students' past traumas, including yours. At least that's what he thinks, until a mission-related injury prompts him to delve into your mind, uncovering a deep-seated trauma you've repressed. Fearing he's caused more harm, Charles works with you to reveal this forgotten memory and heal from your past experiences.

tags/warnings: injury, rape aftermath/recovery (implied), anxiety, panic attacks, emotional hurt/comfort, charles xavier trying his very best not to invade someone else's privacy

word count: 3256

When you wake in the morning, Charles is gone. But that is the least of your worries. You sit up quickly as the feeling hits you all of a sudden – like something is sitting on your chest. You gasp for oxygen, feeling as though the very air is crushing you. You place a hand on your chest to settle your nerves, but you can’t seem to calm down. It feels like you’re dying. Your mind starts to race ��� Oh god, I’m going to die alone. I’m going to die here, and no one will know; I’m going to die-

While still heaving in desperate breaths, you hear a gentle knock.

“Help,” you manage to gasp as you raise your hand toward the door. It takes all your strength to turn the handle, your powers seeming to diminish without adequate oxygen.

Charles enters slowly at first, then at a rush as he realizes your predicament. “Calm yourself,” he urges. “Calm your mind. Breathe. I’m here.”

“What’s happening to me?” you pant as tears roll down your cheeks.

Charles rests a hand on your knee soothingly. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re going to be alright. Just keep breathing. In and out.”

You grab his hand in your own, holding it in a crushing grip as you try to suck in more air. The edges of your vision begin to darken and blur. You narrow your focus onto Charles who is still whispering reassuring words to you.

Slowly, the darkness recedes, along with the panic, and your breaths become stronger. Charles’s other hand has moved to your head, running over your hair lightly. His touch is gentle and grounding, a welcome distraction from the panic that overtook you.

“That’s it. Good girl,” Charles murmurs, running his fingers across your cheek to wipe away tears. “Keep breathing.”

You tear your eyes away from his. “That’s… that’s never happened before,” you tremble. “Is something wrong with me?”

Charles’s face falls. “No, darling. Sometimes these things happen. It’s alright. I’m sure you’re still recovering from the stress of yesterday.”

You nod and notice how clammy your hands are. You pull away from Charles’s grasp and wipe them on your comforter. “I’m sorry,” the phrase spills out before you can stop yourself. You aren’t quite sure why you’re apologizing.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Charles assures.

The two of you sit silently for a few moments. The world comes into sharper and sharper focus and before long the panic attack is but a blip in your mind.

Charles speaks your name softly. You look at him once more. “Last night I… I saw something. In your mind.”

Your heart stutters for a moment and you focus on steadying your breathing once more. “Did the accident do something?”

Charles shakes his head. You notice the lines on his face – by his eyes, above his brows. He suddenly looks very old and weary. All at once, he ages a hundred years. The weight of all those voices in his mind seem to be taking their toll. “No, this was something different.” He goes quiet again. You can see his thoughts warring as he chooses his words. You remain silent, waiting for him to speak. “I believe you have a… memory hidden in your subconscious. Something you don’t remember.”

You startle a bit, leaning away from him. “What? What does that mean?”

Charles sighs and gestures to the bed. “May I?” You shrug and he maneuvers himself so he’s sitting on the edge next to you. “Sometimes, our minds build barriers around certain memories. It’s a way to protect us, from trauma or harmful experiences. It’s perfectly natural. Unfortunately, it can become a hindrance later on in life. Those barriers may break down over time, revealing the memory. It can be, perhaps, more traumatic to discover the memory than to just have it in the first place.”

“Charles,” you interrupt, growing impatient with his beating around the bush, “what are you saying?”

Charles meets your gaze steadily. “Something happened to you. When you were a teenager or a young adult, I believe. And your mind has blocked it out, but the memory is beginning to… escape.”

You suck in a quick breath. “Something… like what?” You narrow your eyes at him. “Do you know? Do you know what happened to me?”

The professor breaks eye contact for a brief moment, giving himself away.

“Tell me!” you demand, and the force of your emotions causes your powers to flare. The door rattles in its frame.

Charles frowns and his next words come out more harshly than he plans. “No. Your mind protected you from this for a reason. To learn of it all at once…” He whispers your name. “It would break you.”

“So that’s it then?” Your voice is angry, but you don’t feel angry. You feel scared, and that fear is expressing itself in the easiest way it knows. The light beside your bed flickers, the nightstand shaking. “You’re just going to hide this from me? I have a right to my own memories, Charles! Don’t you remember Jean?”

“Of course I remember Jean,” Charles snaps, and instantly you know you’ve gone too far. Charles never snaps at you. He takes a deep breath and his tone is more even when he speaks. “I don’t want to hide anything from you. You do have a right to know. In fact, it is in your best interest to know before those walls break down. But we must proceed carefully, and slowly. The mind is a fragile thing, my dear.” He extends a hand to you, palm upright, but doesn’t touch you.

You stare at him for a moment, digesting his words. Eventually, you rest your hand in his. “Alright,” you murmur. “But Charles... I don’t know... I don’t want to do this alone.”

Charles leans toward you and squeezes your hand, clasping it in both of his. “Never, dear. We’ll uncover this together.” He gives you one final squeeze before letting you go and maneuvering himself back into his chair. “But first, you need breakfast. Especially after your accident yesterday.”

…

After you’ve eaten with the rest of the team, Charles leads you to a room off the main hallway. You’ve never even noticed it before, haven’t given a second thought to the door that is always closed. As he opens the door, it reveals a small, cozy room, similar to Charles’s office. This room, however, is furnished with a wide couch and an armchair. It’s not unlike a therapist’s office, and immediately you feel a wave of anxiety.

Charles must be able to tell, because he turns to you with a gentle smile. “Where would you like to sit? I want you to be comfortable.”

You wring your hands together before seating gingerly on the edge of the couch. Charles transfers to the armchair, expression still soft and reassuring. “Would you like to lie down? It might be easier to recall the memory if you relax.”

You chuckle nervously, patting the couch beside you. “Not sure I’m going to be able to relax at all... But I’ll try.” You lie down and settle your arms across your stomach to soothe yourself.

Charles nods with approval. “Good. Now, let me explain how we’ll do this, provided it all goes well. I’m going to guide you through your mind to uncover this memory. I don’t want to enter your mind if it’s not necessary. I would like you to try and discover this on your own. I’m here with you for support of course, but these walls were built by your own subconscious. I don’t want to interfere if I don’t have to.”

You mirror his nod, staring up at the ceiling. “What do I... do?”

“Close your eyes, to start.” Charles’s voice goes soft, softer than you’ve ever heard it, and you immediately follow his instruction. “Now, I want you to find a strong memory. Something that you remember fondly, something happy.”

You think for a moment, trying to find something that sticks out in your mind. Once you’ve finally grasped it, you smile to yourself. It’s a good memory, one that always makes you laugh, even through dark circumstances.

“Do you have the memory? Make sure it’s a powerful one.” You nod in response to his question and he continues. “Good. This will be your anchor. If anything becomes overwhelming, find this memory again. It will ground you and keep you safe.”

“Safe from my own mind... in my mind?” You question, peeking at him from one squinted eye.

Charles huffs out a laugh. “Yes, I suppose. Close your eyes.” You obey and he speaks again. “Now, we’re going to seek out the hidden memory.” Immediately you tense on the couch, but Charles reassures you. “It’s alright; I’m right here with you. I want you to pretend your mind is a house. This happy memory, your anchor, is the kitchen. The heart of the home. It’s in the center of everything, and easily accessible. Can you see it?”

“Yes,” you murmur, envisioning the house in your mind.

“Good. Now, the other rooms on this floor of the house are other memories. Perhaps from your childhood, or more recent. We’re not going to visit those memories, but they are all a part of the house. Maybe there’s an upstairs to your house, for unclear memories that are harder to access. All these pieces of your mind make up the home. But you’re going to stay in the kitchen for now.”

You wander around the mindscape that he’s guided you through, staying in the kitchen but peeking through doorways at other memories. It’s an odd sensation, to be imagining your memories so vividly and in depth, but you trust Charles.

“Now, I want you to find a door in the kitchen. One you haven’t looked through yet. It’s closed. This is the door to the stairs that lead to the basement, to the hidden memory. Can you tell me what the door looks like?”

You swallow hard, looking at the door in your mind. “It’s... wooden. Dark wood, like... like it’s burnt or something. It’s tall and narrow... there’s smoke coming out from under it.”

Charles sighs softly to himself. This exercise usually has similar results, but the detail of the smoke concerns him. He realizes this is likely a result of his meddling last night. “Good, that’s good. You’re doing well.” He isn’t sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself now. “I want you to walk toward the door. Tell me how you’re feeling, what you’re experiencing.”

“I feel... scared. Small. When I get closer to the door, it’s like it gets... taller.” Your breath hitches at the mental image, fear coursing through you.

Charles shushes you gently. “Turn away from the door, now. Look back at the kitchen. Find your anchor.”

You back away from the door, focusing again on your grounding memory. Slowly, the panic ebbs and you feel your breathing slow. “Okay... I’m okay.”

“Would you like to continue?”

You nod firmly, feeling like you can’t turn back now that you’re here.

Charles inhales deeply before speaking again. “Slowly, face the door again. But remember that your kitchen is there. You are safe; you’re still with me. As you’re looking at the door, I want you to remember that even though this basement is a part of your house, it was built long ago. It does not control you, and whatever this memory contains, it cannot hurt you now.”

A creeping wave of anxiety rolls through you. What does Charles know that he feels the need to say this to you?

“I want you to approach the door. Even if it feels like the door is getting bigger, remember that you are the owner of this house. Nothing in here is out of your control. Even the basement.” He says the last words firmly, trying to get them cemented into your mind. “As you get to the door, I want you to reach for the handle. Don’t turn it yet, just lay your hand on it if you’re able. What are you feeling?”

You swallow past the lump in your throat and your voice comes out quiet. “Afraid… not as much as before, but it feels… heavy. I don’t… I don’t know if I could even turn the handle.”

Charles’s voice comes back, soothing and soft. “You can. You will. You are strong enough to do this. Remember your anchor is right there, and I am here with you. I want you to turn the handle now.”

In your mind, you tighten your grip on the doorknob, bracing yourself for whatever waits in this mental basement. You turn it slightly, and it almost feels like it’s stuck. You remember Charles’s words and turn it a little harder. The door pops open with a “click” and smoke rushes out at you. There’s a voice in the thick smog, but you can’t quite make it out. Anxiety and fear wash over you, both from your present feelings, and from whatever exists in this memory.

Charles hears you gasp and suppresses the urge to take a peek in your head. He can tell that you’ve accessed the hidden memory, but haven’t seen it all yet. “Now, I want you to slowly back away from the door. Keep it open, but step back into your kitchen. Take a breath, remember that happy memory. The basement is there, yes, but it cannot hurt you.”

You follow his direction, sucking in cleansing breaths. Although the smoke only exists in your mind, you still feel as though you’re choking.

Charles mimics your deep breath, needing to prepare himself too. “Now… whenever you’re ready. I want you to go down the stairs into the basement.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you continue along with the mental image of the house. The smoke has begun to fade, and you can see the descending steps into the basement. They grow darker the further down they go. A chill passes through you. You take one hesitant step forward, then another.

“As you go down, I want you to tell me what you experience. What do you hear, smell, see, feel?”

You clear your throat and shift a bit on the couch, then take your first step down the stairs. “It’s… cold. There’s a voice… I can’t make it out, but it sounds like someone crying. It smells damp and musty.” You continue stepping down the stairs, the sensations growing stronger. “There’s another voice, a man. Everything’s fuzzy though; I can’t hear what they’re saying.” You continue and Charles gives you small hums and words of encouragement. The bottom of the steps gets closer, and brighter. “I don’t see anything… all I can hear is the two voices. There’s… it smells like blood now.”

As you finally complete your descent down the steps, you’re suddenly assaulted by the beginning of the memory. A choked sob escapes you and Charles stiffens in his chair. “What do you see?” he asks gently, keeping the tension out of his voice as he watches tears leak out of your closed eyes.

“I’m alone… with a strange man. This was when I was homeless. I’m in an alley with him, at night, it’s…” You whimper quietly. “He’s trying to… to…”

Charles shushes you lightly. “You can go back up the stairs; find your anchor.”

But you’re too far into the memory now to even remember the fake house you created with Charles. You can barely speak, the images and sounds and smells attacking you from every angle. “I don’t… I don’t want to see this! Please, no!” You curl up on the couch, trying to make yourself small, as if it will make the memory go away.

Charles, alarmed now, leans forward in his chair and says your name firmly. “Go to the kitchen. You’re safe; he can’t hurt you now.” His words seem to have minimal effect, as you continue crying and whimpering on the couch. He can’t let this go any further; you’re going to… you’re going to traumatize yourself all over again if he doesn’t step in.

He places a hand on his temple and closes his eyes, seeking out the mental space you’d created together.

He finally finds it, but the house is in ruin. The smoke from the basement clouds the air, making it difficult to find where you actually are. He can hear your cries of anguish, both in person and in the memory. He calls out for you, eventually managing to find the stairs to the basement. He heads down them as quick as he can.

He nearly stumbles over the mental image of yourself, curled up at the bottom of the stairs. Charles lets out a small noise of concern, crouching beside you. He rests a hand on your hand, hating how you flinch even in this cerebral landscape. He shushes you, speaking reassuring words. “It’s over now. You’re safe; you’re here with me. It’s Charles. Come back to me now…”

He continues to speak softly, trying to pull you back to the present. Your sobs grow quieter. Charles works quickly to unweave you from the memory. He doesn’t replace the walls, but he pulls your consciousness away from it. Once he finally feels you calming, he withdraws from your mind, opening his eyes again. He sees how exhausted you look; how red and puffy your eyes are from crying.

When you speak, your voice is hoarse and quiet. “Charles…”

 “Yes dear?”

You swallow hard and sit up, slumping against the back of the couch. “I don’t… I don’t want that to be a part of me.”

Pity and guilt strike him right through the heart. He makes a small noise of recognition. “I know. But… it is only one part. One memory. It is not all of you. It is not what makes you.”

You stare down at your hands, a haunted look in your gaze. “I feel… damaged.”

Charles leans forward in his chair, eyes fixed on you. “Look at me.” He waits until you do before speaking again. “You are not damaged. Do you understand? You are not damaged. This does not make you broken, or less than, or unworthy. This is one piece of a bigger picture. What happened to you was a terrible violation, a wrong that should never have occurred. But it does not define who you are. You are not the things that have been done to you. You are the choices you make, the love you give. You are still you, whole and complete, and nothing can change that.”

You look away for a brief moment, his words sinking in. “But how do I… how do I even go on now? How do I… heal?”

Charles takes a deep breath, his expression gentle but resolute. “There’s no right way. There’s not a timeline. Grief is not a one-time occurrence; it is a collection of moments. It is good days and bad days, sadness and joy. It will not be easy. I wish it could be, to spare you more pain… but it will be long and difficult. There will be days it feels overwhelming, but these are the times when you must remember – you are never alone. There are certain things you must do by yourself – I cannot experience the pain for you, I cannot take it all away. But I will always be beside you.”

[crownmemes]

General Sentences, Vol. 20

(Assorted original sentences. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Take me to your leader."

"Am I under arrest?"

"If you think about it, this is quite the honour!"

"Since when did you develop emotional intelligence?"

"I've dreamt about this moment for so many years..."

"Do me one last favour, for old time's sake?"

"Nobody is untouchable."

"You can't protect me from everything."

"This reminds me of a horror movie I saw..."

"Are you in love with him?"

"Do you want a tattoo?"

"Is that a grey hair?"

"I suppose this could have gone a lot worse."

"It's probably better if you don't ask what I'm doing."

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

"Does anybody care what I think?"

"There really aren't any normal days in this job, are there?"

"Do you really think you can win?"

"Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"

"I heard you were looking for me?"

"There are some things that man should not know."

"What am I supposed to call you?"

"Why don't I tell you a story?"

"You know me; I'm always careful!"

"This was the best day of my life!"

"Do me one last favour, for old time's sake?"

"Nothing ever changes with you, does it?"

"Apology not accepted."

"For a moment there, I thought you were an angel."

"Not everything is as it seems."

"What's the harm in letting me try?"

"Are you willing to make a bargain?"

"What? Have I got something in my teeth?"

"I'm sorry, does that hurt?"

"Do you want to talk about it, or should we just pretend like we already did?"

"I really don't want to have this conversation right now."

"I think you've had enough to drink."

"Do you have nothing better to do?"

"How come you always make fun of me?"

[calmcoldevening]

Can i request slashers x male!reader who really obsessed with them? Not in a scary yandere way more in a he's constantly talking about how much he loves them and he's a blushing mess whenever they're there and like he practically deactivates when they're gone. He makes it his entire personality y'know? Sorry if this doesn't make any sense lol 🫠 thank you!

(⁠っ⁠.⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)⁠っ Hugs! ♡⁠

Slashers x obsessed!male!reader

Michael Myers

• At first, Michael was a little annoyed at how clingy you could be towards him. Michael is basically not a relationship person, it's quite difficult for him to open up to a person or let someone come to him. But you seemed different to him, special.

• It took a while before Michael fully accepted you as his boyfriend and your clinginess. If it annoyed him at first, it has now become a routine. It annoyed Michael when he didn't get your attention.

• When you were very busy with work and, purely due to lack of time, you did not pay the usual amount of attention to Michael, he began to get angry. You were sitting at your computer and working when Michael came up behind you. He knelt down and wrapped his arms around your waist, squeezing tightly. God, that puppy missed you.

• He needs time to accept the fact that sometimes you need to work, and after that you can pay attention to him. Michael was jealous of your job.

• After that, he usually went to work for a long time to relieve stress. When he returned home, he found you crying on the bed in the bedroom. Michael climbed into bed behind you, wrapping his arm around your waist. You turned to face him in surprise. Matted hair, tear-stained eyes and swollen lips. Michael's heart fluttered at the sight of you in such a state, but after that, this slight pride was replaced by an unusual pain for him. He didn't want to bring you to this.

• Michael lifts the edge of his mask, exposing his chin with light stubble, and leans towards you. His dry lips touch yours in a sweet, gentle kiss. His actions are still inept, but filled with feelings, a slight longing. He pulls away after a couple of minutes, his hand on your cheek gently stroking your skin. "Mine. My boy. Only mine."

•Over time, Michael realizes that his presence directly affects your emotional state. This subconsciously pleases him. That's why he decides to provide some kind of emotional support and attention towards you, he just doesn't like to see tears on your face. If someone makes you cry, Michael will personally strangle them with his own hands.

Jason Voorhees

• Jason loves you completely and completely, so he doesn't really care about your behavior as long as you love him back.

• He likes to see your blushing face. If he says anything to you in sign language, you immediately blush. Jason specially taught you simple phrases like "I love you" or "You're my beautiful boy" so that you can see your cute blushing cheeks more often.

• Jason likes the fact that you love him and worry about him, but sometimes it bothers him. In those moments when he should be hunting victims. You either follow their footsteps, footprints, so that no creature harms your boyfriend, or you sit at home and feel sad because he's gone. Jason doesn't want you to get hurt, but he doesn't want you to be sad either.

• Over time, you will have a lot of plush toys so that you can hug them when Jason is not at home. Surprisingly, the toys smell like his scent. It calms you down.

• Jason loves hugging, so in his free time he will give you as much attention as you need. He will hold you tightly in his arms, stroking your back, and humming some soothing song. He likes to take care of you when you're depressed, so he knows for sure that you need him.

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba really liked that you were his boyfriend. At first, he was very shy and insecure about himself, especially about his body and mask, after all, he didn't have the sweetest life. But with your appearance, it's like new colors have appeared in his life. You loved him, you took care of him, Bubba was just happy.

• There were days when he stayed in the basement for a long time to butcher the victims. At such moments, you would lock yourself in your room and be sad. Bubba would find you later on the bed, his heart aching. All evening and all night after that, Bubba didn't leave your side and tried to make amends. He will hug you, kiss you and squeeze you in his arms.

• He loves those sweet moments when you try to protect him or warn him about a possible victim strike. You're so caring. One of your passionate and loving looks makes Bubba's face turn red like a scarlet rose, and her heart starts beating wildly in her chest.

• He absolutely gives you flowers. Bubba has no experience of relationships with anyone, but it seems to him that flowers can always cheer up. They are so beautiful, besides, this flower highlights your charming eyes.

• Bubba is very proud to be called your boyfriend, he always tries to hold your hand when you are together. He loves to put you on his lap. And he also likes it when you hug him and he can nuzzle your chest. You smell so good, your scent calms him down.

• Sometimes Bubba has sad thoughts that you might leave him for someone better, but you always prove the opposite to him. Bubba's heart feels so good. You're his favorite boy.

Bo Sinclair

• This gorgeous man is extremely glad that you are obsessed with him. The truth is, he's obsessed with you too. He likes everything about you, your face, your body, your voice.

• Extremely jealous. Even if you tell him a million times that you only need him and you can't see your life without him, he's still jealous of you. Bo is really afraid that a handsome man like you will be taken away from him. But you're just his boy, right?

• He's flattered that sometimes you act like a devoted puppy around him, so cute. He can feel the tension growing in the air. At such moments, he can pin you to any nearby surface, squeezing your ass with his hands and kissing you passionately. His every action is filled with burning emotions and desire.

• Bo is extremely narcissistic, so he can deliberately lead you to jealousy. Did you see him chatting with that power girl at the gas station? Come on, it's not true. Bo watches with a grin as you frown with reddened ears. He likes to see you so possessive. He wraps his arm around your waist and showers kisses on your neck. "Silly, I only need you."

• If he does not receive proper attention from you (for example, you are very busy working or helping his brothers), he feels strangely incomplete, an unpleasant longing corrodes his heart. He would even be ready to go to you with something and drag you into your bedroom, forcing you to think only of him, but his pride simply does not allow him to do this. Bo doesn't want you to think that he's addicted to you too. You're his personal drug.

Brahms Heelshire

• Brahms is crazy about your attention. He loves hugging, kissing you and he just needs you so much.

• Calls you Daddy. With his low, husky voice, it sounds damn hot, which gives you goosebumps. He gently takes your hands and interlaces your fingers. "Night kiss?" He mumbles, and you can see the gleam of pleasure in his eyes on the other side of the mask.

• Brahms is a very clingy boy, so he likes that you spend so much time with him. Hug him, kiss him, touch him, just don't leave. He loves it when you cook for him and basically take care of him.

• But he is sad from his tears, so he tries not to make you sad for nothing. He's a good boy. Your good boy.

• He is a very loyal and obedient partner, he will do whatever you tell him to do. But he's going to get a reward for it, right? Brahms likes to belong to you, he feels needed and loved. His favorite activity is when you leave bright red hickeys on his neck as a sign that he belongs to you

[escapingrealtiylovinginsanity]

Jay Halstead: To Be Continued 

This was the requested part 2 of Sensatory Overload 

You hear the door open, but the automatic lights are turned off, so the room stays relatively dark. You are sitting on the floor, arms resting on your knees, back pressed against the cool wall. You know who it is before he even says your name. There is only one person who would think to look for you here. And it was only because you had dragged him to help calm him down a month prior.  

 You didn’t hear him walk into the room after the door closed but you did feel the heat from his body as he came to stand in front of you. “That was a rough one.” His voice was soft as he knelt in front of you. He sounded as emotionally drained as you felt. You could just make out his shape in the darkness and see his hand only a moment before it touched your skin. His hand was warm as it cupped your jaw. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, his fingertips curving gently around your head and into the hair at the nape of your neck. 

You hum your agreement as you try not to lean into his touch. You hadn’t spoken much since the kiss. All of it had been work-related. You found yourself wondering if you had made the whole encounter up. But you could still feel the heat of it on your lips. The slight brush of his stubble as he kisses you. You couldn’t make up the sensations that had lingered long after the kiss had ended. Maybe he regretted kissing you. And that was why he had been so distant. “You don’t have to do that.” You whisper back. 

“Do what?” His thumb catches a stray lock of hair as it continues brushing your cheek and uses his finger to tuck it behind your ear. “Check on you? I just want to make sure you are okay.” The silence is just a second or two too long and you can tell he catches the change in the air even as you answer. 

“I’m okay. Just needed a minute.” You lean your head back against the wall and away from his palm. You immediately miss the warmth and feel your thoughts start to spiral. His hand drops and he sits next to you.  

“Is this about that kiss?” His words are blunt and to the point in a very Jay fashion. The abruptness makes the air get stuck in your chest. Did he really have to bring it up? For what purpose? You both could have just ignored the fact that it had ever happened. You start talking to try to defuse the situation. 

“It’s completely normal to do rash things when you're coming down from adrenaline like that. Things you wouldn’t normally think of doing. No harm, no foul. What happens behind closed doors and all that right?” You wished that you hadn’t said anything. You felt pathetic and hoped that you hadn’t made the situation worse by offending him by implying that kissing him wouldn’t be out of the realm of normal. After all, you couldn’t think of a single person who wouldn’t jump at the chance to kiss Jay Halstead. But the two of you kissing? That wasn’t something that should ever be considered normal.  

“Is that your way of telling me to back off?” You turn to look at him, or the best you can in the dark. It was a strange way to phrase that. 

“I’m just saying... In high-tension situations... You should be held to the actions you take.” You wince and continue blabbering on, “I mean you punched Adam. That is pretty-” 

“Are you comparing our kiss to me punching Ruzek?” There is disbelief and maybe a touch of frustration in his tone. 

“Well not exactly-” 

“Because those situations were different. I was in a completely different headspace, thanks to you, during that kiss. And quite frankly I think Ruzek deserved that. He gets too cocky and needs to be knocked down a few pegs here and there.” You can hear the change in his tone. “So, if you are regretting that kiss-.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” It is the only thing that you can get out of your mouth. Then there is another pause that is just a little too long. You hear Jay mutter something that sounds like fuck it before a hand is on your cheek pulling you into a rough open-mouthed kiss. Your gasp turns into a moan. His hand grips your hip and yanks you to straddle his lap. You feel the gun on his hip dig into your left thigh. You shift sitting more firmly in his lap. You pull back from the kiss to catch your breath. Your lips barely graze each other with each breath.  

“Sometimes you make no sense to me.” He whispered against your lips. You breathed out a laugh, leaning in to steal another kiss. You feel bold by his touch. His hands moved from your hips down to the back of your thighs before trailing back up to your ass and squeezing firmly. You hadn’t touched Jay during your first kiss. Not really. 

You don’t waste this opportunity. You let your hands wander as you kiss him, touching all the places you had only ever dreamed about. You stroke up his biceps, shoulders, and down his back. You feel the lean muscles ripple under your fingertips.  

A loud ringing makes you jump back. You sigh and pull your phone out of your jacket pocket. A text from your boss demands your return. You look at Jay, his face illuminated by your phone. “To be continued.” You lean forward to peck one more kiss on his lips before you regretfully get back to your feet.    

 @sdddoobydoobydoo you said you wanted to be tagged.

[forestdeath1]

Canon Sirius through quotes

Part 4. How Sirius shows care towards people and animals.

Sirius has a trait that often seems like irresponsibility or excessive harshness.

Sirius really respects another person's free will and choice and even treats teenagers as adults with their own minds. It's a deeply rooted idea of respecting others as agents of free will.

That's why he has no pity for those who make mistakes, including himself. To him, any mistake is always a person's free choice. Sirius will never forgive Peter because, regardless of Peter's circumstances for betrayal, it ultimately was a CHOICE. He even refuses to forgive the Ministry (as if the Ministry cares, oh Sirius):

‘Don’t worry about Percy,’ said Sirius abruptly. ‘He’ll come round. It’s only a matter of time before Voldemort moves into the open; once he does, the whole Ministry’s going to be begging us to forgive them. And I’m not sure I’ll be accepting their apology,’ he added bitterly.

He tells this to Molly after she encounters a boggart. Contrary to popular belief, in this scene, he doesn't really comfort her after their argument. Lupin does most of the work. Sirius just adds this phrase. He's still angry at Molly for what she said, just acting more maturely and not escalating the conflict further. He's angry because he understands Molly said exactly what she meant. Molly is also angry at him, they generally love to get angry at each other because they don't really understand each other.

They were both speaking in carefully light, polite voices that told Harry quite plainly that neither had forgotten their disagreement of the night before.

He even considers Kreacher an agent of free will. 

‘You’d be surprised what Kreacher can manage when he wants to, Hermione,’ said Sirius.

As they say - where there's a will, there's a way. When people say that Kreacher was lower in the hierarchy than Sirius (as any house-elf would be), Sirius himself did not see it that way, and it’s truly paradoxical. He argued with Kreacher, kicked him, engaged in verbal battles, though he could have just given direct orders. Kreacher's insults towards Sirius were similar in style to Walburga's  (otherwise, where would Kreacher learn those insults?), and Sirius... Sirius, instead of direct orders, just yells back or kicks him. When Harry gives Kreacher a direct order to shut up, Kreacher obeys instantly. A house-elf must obey the direct orders of their master. But Sirius doesn't give direct orders. Because for him, Kreacher is also an agent of free will (and also some ‘‘member‘‘ of his beloved and hated family, as Sirius is much more attached to the Blacks than he would like to admit).

Because of his attitude towards equals, Sirius fights for Harry to get the information he needs. For Sirius, Harry is an adult, not a five-year-old child who needs to be looked after in the style of Molly. Molly deprives Harry of his agency, his choice, and his own opinion with her overprotection. We have to understand Molly; she really worries for all of them, as half her family is in the Order and can die. She doesn't want to lose Harry, so she tries to protect him in every way. Plus, they all have orders from Dumbledore. Isn't Molly right? Molly has her point, she works for the Order and thinks Sirius could harm with his too "independent" behaviour, and teach Harry this excessive independence. And what does independence from Dumbledore lead to? Molly knows well (and so does Sirius) – last time such "independence" from Dumbledore cost the Potters their lives. I don't want to judge Molly. She's a member of the newer incarnation of the Order of the Phoenix, and a good one at that. Sirius, however, is still mentally in the era of the Order's original incarnation (as is Lupin, though he is more conforming and softer), a time when the rules of engagement were harsher, with much more focus on the grim realities of war. The newer version of the Order operates with different tactics – emphasizing manipulation, cunning, and caution.

Molly and Sirius have different approaches. Molly is about caution. Sirius is about action.

Sirius treats Harry as a subject, not an object to be shielded from information.

Sirius knows where his area of responsibility is and what he can influence, and where he should not interfere:

‘Not just yet, Molly,’ said Sirius, pushing away his empty plate and turning to look at Harry. ‘You know, I’m surprised at you. I thought the first thing you’d do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort.’

‘I did!’ said Harry indignantly. ‘I asked Ron and Hermione but they said we’re not allowed in the Order, so –’

‘And they’re quite right,’ said Mrs Weasley. ‘You’re too young.’

‘Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions?’ asked Sirius. ‘Harry’s been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He’s got the right to know what’s been happen—’

‘How come Harry gets his questions answered?’ said Fred angrily. ‘We’ve been trying to get stuff out of you for a month and you haven’t told us a single stinking thing!’ said George.

‘It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the Order’s doing,’ said Sirius calmly, ‘that’s your parents’ decision. Harry, on the other hand –’

He doesn't tell the twins anything because it's not his responsibility. But Harry – that's his responsibility. And Sirius believes it's up to him to decide what Harry is allowed to know and what not (considering Dumbledore's instructions "I don’t intend to tell him more than he needs to know, Molly").

‘He’s not your son,’ said Sirius quietly.

‘He’s as good as,’ said Mrs Weasley fiercely. ‘Who else has he got?’

‘He’s got me!’

In the situation with Molly, you see two opposing views clash. Molly, with the archetype of a guardian, wants to shelter everyone with her care. Sirius, with the archetype of a rebel, respects Harry's wishes and wants to open up new knowledge and opportunities for him to fight.

‘He’s not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!’ said Mrs Weasley. ‘He’s only fifteen and –’

‘And he’s dealt with as much as most in the Order,’ said Sirius, ‘and more than some.’

‘No one’s denying what he’s done!’ said Mrs Weasley, her voice rising, her fists trembling on the arms of her chair. ‘But he’s still –’

‘He’s not a child!’ said Sirius impatiently.

Sirius probably stopped considering himself a child very early on. Maybe it came from his conservative family, where children were expected to grow up earlier, not walk around as "little children" until they were 18. They think about marriage, duty to the family, responsibility early on. Plus, wizards come of age earlier – at 17. So, for Sirius, 15 years old is not a child anymore.

That's why Sirius defends Harry's right "to know".

‘Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions?’ asked Sirius. ‘Harry’s been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He’s got the right to know what’s been happen—’

-

‘But as he was the one who saw Voldemort come back’ (again, there was a collective shudder around the table at the name) ‘he has more right than most to –’

Sirius really encourages taking action. His way of caring isn't about coddling. It's about giving knowledge, opportunities, resources, and supporting in the right direction. For Sirius, to live is to act; he can't be without action, doesn't understand life without it:

‘Personally, I’d have welcomed a Dementor attack. A deadly struggle for my soul would have broken the monotony nicely. You think you’ve had it bad, at least you’ve been able to get out and about, stretch your legs, get into a few fights ... I’ve been stuck inside for a month.’

Sirius can't not act and he doesn't understand how you could do otherwise. He knows Harry is the same because Harry is like his dad, meaning James was the same – always acting.

And he encourages this in Harry. But he always teaches to act with thought, not just charging in. In the 4th book, Sirius was telling Harry not to stick his neck out, but in the 5th, it's the opposite. Sirius has his own logic, which he shows here:

‘So, you want me to say I’m not going to take part in the Defence group?’ he muttered finally.

‘Me? Certainly not!’ said Sirius, looking surprised. ‘I think it’s an excellent idea!’

‘You do?’ said Harry, his heart lifting.

‘Of course I do!’ said Sirius. ‘D’you think your father and I would’ve lain down and taken orders from an old hag like Umbridge?’

‘But – last term all you did was tell me to be careful and not take risks –’

‘Last year, all the evidence was that someone inside Hogwarts was trying to kill you, Harry!’ said Sirius impatiently. ‘This year, we know there’s someone outside Hogwarts who’d like to kill us all, so I think learning to defend yourselves properly is a very good idea!’

‘And if we do get expelled?’ Hermione asked, a quizzical look on her face.

‘Well, better expelled and able to defend yourselves than sitting safely in school without a clue,’ said Sirius.

That's Sirius through and through. A true Gryffindor, who won't just sit around when there's danger afoot. You might argue that he shouldn't have encouraged Harry in this way. But what else was he to do? Hand Harry over to Umbridge? Of course not. He trusts Harry, believes in his potential. He treats Harry as an equal, not as a child, and that's why Harry feels so connected to Sirius – at last, someone sees him as mature enough, respects him as a free person. Throughout the series, Harry has been shielded from the truth, kept in the dark, yet Sirius shows him a different kind of respect – he sees Harry as someone who can act, in whom he places his trust and belief. Is Sirius right? When it comes to Harry – absolutely. As for the war, the Order, and following Dumbledore's orders – Molly would definitely disapprove.

He even passes Molly's words on to Ron. In his sarcastic manner, but still:

… anyway ... first of all, Ron – I’ve sworn to pass on a message from your mother.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Ron, sounding apprehensive.

‘She says on no account whatsoever are you to take part in an illegal secret Defence Against the Dark Arts group. She says you’ll be expelled for sure and your future will be ruined. She says there will be plenty of time to learn how to defend yourself later and that you are too young to be worrying about that right now. She also’ (Sirius’s eyes turned to the other two) ‘advises Harry and Hermione not to proceed with the group, though she accepts that she has no authority over either of them and simply begs them to remember that she has their best interests at heart. She would have written all this to you, but if the owl had been intercepted you’d all have been in real trouble, and she can’t say it for herself because she’s on duty tonight.’

Again – a striking difference between what Molly understands by care and what Sirius understands by it.

Sirius lets Harry feel that he's believed in, respected, that his actions are encouraged. Sometimes Sirius criticises them, because as much as he encourages action, he believes all actions should be reasoned. Act according to logic, not thoughtlessly.

For instance, Sirius sternly reprimands him in the 4th book when Harry, in his opinion, does something foolish. And notice his communication style. Sirius is often blunt in conversation, in his way of talking, he doesn't sugarcoat. And Harry's okay with that. Sirius isn't one for mushiness.

Harry – what do you think you are playing at, walking off into the Forest with Viktor Krum? I want you to swear, by return owl, that you are not going to go walking with anyone else at night. There is somebody highly dangerous at Hogwarts. It is clear to me that they wanted to stop Crouch seeing Dumbledore and you were probably feet away from them in the dark. You could have been killed.

Your name didn’t get into the Goblet of Fire by accident. If someone’s trying to attack you, they’re on their last chance. Stay close to Ron and Hermione, do not leave Gryffindor Tower after hours, and arm yourself for the third task. Practise Stunning and Disarming. A few hexes wouldn’t go amiss either. There’s nothing you can do about Crouch. Keep your head down and look after yourself. I’m waiting for your letter giving me your word you won’t stray out of bounds again.

That's what care means to Sirius. Not forbidding him from knowing information. But actively helping him so Harry is ready to stand up to challenges.

Or like this:

‘Now, listen ...’ he looked particularly hard at Harry – ‘I don’t want you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still want to hear about anything odd. But you’re not to go leaving Hogwarts without permission, it would be an ideal opportunity for someone to attack you.’

‘No one’s tried to attack me so far, except a dragon and a couple of Grindylows,’ Harry said.

But Sirius scowled at him. ‘I don’t care ... I’ll breathe freely again when this Tournament’s over, and that’s not until June. And don’t forget, if you’re talking about me among yourselves, call me Snuffles, OK?’

At the same time, he provides Harry with emotional support. Just without the mushiness. There's a sort of rough tenderness about it, making these signs of attention and love seem even more important and pleasant.

‘What’re you doing here, Sirius?’ he said.

‘Fulfilling my duty as godfather,’ said Sirius, gnawing on the chicken bone in a very dog-like way. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m pretending to be a loveable stray.’

-

The post owls appeared, bringing Harry a good-luck card from Sirius. It was only a piece of parchment, folded over and bearing a muddy paw print on its front, but Harry appreciated it all the same.

He also provides Harry with real resources that can help him:

‘I want you to take this,’ he said quietly, thrusting a badly wrapped package roughly the size of a paperback book into Harry’s hands.

‘What is it?’ Harry asked.

‘A way of letting me know if Snape’s giving you a hard time. No, don’t open it in here!’ said Sirius, with a wary look at Mrs Weasley, who was trying to persuade the twins to wear hand-knitted mittens. ‘I doubt Molly would approve – but I want you to use it if you need me, all right?’

-

‘Sirius’s knife,’ he said. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Christmas before last Sirius gave me a knife that’ll open any lock,’ said Harry. ‘So even if she’s bewitched the door so Alohomora won’t work, which I bet she has –’

Sirius isn't inclined to pity. He respects the choices of others. His care is expressed in this – he knows people's strengths and trusts them to do their job. He thinks Hagrid will be okay because Hagrid is tough. Why worry?

‘Listen, don’t go asking too many questions about Hagrid,’ said Sirius hastily, ‘it’ll just draw even more attention to the fact that he’s not back and I know Dumbledore doesn’t want that. Hagrid’s tough, he’ll be OK.’

And he respects the choice of the twins' father, though many find Sirius's words harsh:

‘We don’t care about the dumb Order!’ shouted Fred.

‘It’s our dad dying we’re talking about!’ yelled George.

‘Your father knew what he was getting into and he won’t thank you for messing things up for the Order!’ said Sirius, equally angry. ‘This is how it is – this is why you’re not in the Order – you don’t understand – there are things worth dying for!’

But it's not cruelty or indifference, it's respect for their father's choice, as an agent of free will.

Sirius even treats animals this way. Look how he got on with the cat. And yet he understands that animals are defenceless and need support. He doesn't expect danger from them and often finds comfort in their company.

‘This cat isn’t mad,’ said Black hoarsely. He reached out a bony hand and stroked Crookshanks’s fluffy head. ‘He’s the most intelligent of his kind I’ve ever met. He recognised Peter for what he was straight away. And when he met me, he knew I was no dog. It was a while before he trusted me. Finally, I managed to communicate to him what I was after, and he’s been helping me ...’

-

Kreacher injured Buckbeak the Hippogriff yesterday, and, at the moment when you made your appearance in the fire, Sirius was upstairs tending to him.’

-

Crookshanks, Hermione’s bandy-legged ginger cat, who wound himself once around Harry’s legs, purring, then jumped on to Sirius’s lap and curled up. Sirius scratched him absent-mindedly behind the ears as he turned, still grim-faced, to Harry.

-

Sirius, who had just entered the room carrying a bloodstained bag of what appeared to be dead rats. ‘I’ve just been feeding Buckbeak,’ he added, in reply to Harry’s enquiring look. ‘I keep him upstairs in my mother’s bedroom

-

Soon, however, he was moodier and surlier than before, talking less to everybody, even Harry, and spending increasing amounts of time shut up in his mother’s room with Buckbeak.

-

He became more and more prone to what Mrs Weasley called ‘fits of the sullens’, in which he would become taciturn and grumpy, often withdrawing to Buckbeak’s room for hours at a time.

Sirius befriended the cat, treated it as an intelligent being, and constantly cared for the hippogriff. Sirius is very closed off from people (after Azkaban, he only opens up to Harry and Remus), he builds a tough armour, but easily opens up to animals and easily cares for them in a nurturing manner – and they love him back.

In conclusion, Sirius respects the free choice of others. For him, pity towards another is demeaning. Sirius hates pity – neither for himself nor for others. To pity = to demean, to pity means to acknowledge the other as incapable and weak. And Sirius doesn't meddle in others' relationships, he well separates his zone of responsibility, and care for him is to give resources and information so the person can act. And he's good with animals, and to animals, he can show a different attitude – nurturing, because acknowledging animals as weaker doesn't demean them, because animals truly are weaker.

This character trait of Sirius isn't for moral judgement, just that's how he is, and it's important to understand that.