#to just let go and not think about your body or your weight that someone else is supporting fully

[phovaries]

IMAGINE:

It’s your first time climbing Mount Everest and you’re super nervous. You’ve spent years training for it. Practically a lifetime spent navigating every horrible what-if scenario that could only have been fathomed in the depths of your worst nightmares. But, it hardens you. Shields you from the fear that wracks your body the second you crane your neck to look up, up, up, into the stratosphere. You take a deep breath, the weight of your gear grounding you as you start your descent to the heavens.

The beginning goes just as planned. One foot in front of the other while following the hordes of others around you. They too are on the same journey as you. Comrades in fighting against your own biology to complete an impossible task thought to only have been reserved for gods. The wind howls around you, tightening its grip on your lungs as you start to struggle to breathe.

It’s okay, I’m just panicking. You think to yourself, knowing that you’ve already trained your lungs to handle the low atmospheric pressure.

It doesn’t get better, though. And like a ship thrown off course by a singular degree, you find yourself dreadfully alone.

It’s okay, you tell yourself. You just need to get to the next checkpoint in time before your fingers start to really hurt. The wind laughs at you as you struggle under its weight, uselessly grunting as your heavy boots slam against the powdery snow.

You can’t cry, not yet. You crane your neck in front of you again, knowing that as long as you could still go up, there was always hope. Only a coward would climb back down at this point, and you refuse to let your worst fears come true. Of never reaching the top. Of spending a lifetime sticking feathers to wax only to have been shot down by the very sun you wished to see.

Cold fingers grow damp in your gloves, and clammy feet start to throb. You whimper softly, closing your eyes to focus, dammit, focus.

Bits of white stick to your clothes, the mountain calling out to you. Pulling you into its eternal emptiness.

You refuse to let it speak.

With a grimace and one last burst of energy, you pull yourself together enough to give just a little more hope.

It doesn’t last long.

Those fears come back, only different this time. Imagining that instead of coming home a coward, you don’t come home at all.

No, you refuse to see it. Can’t imagine how long it would take before your family starts to worry about you. The looks on their faces, god what would they say?

The cold soothes you, now, because you know that once the heat comes fierce and swift that it truly is all over for you.

It’s in that moment, when all tangible hope has been lost, that you see it. A shining beacon in the distance, a swatch of black marring the blank canvas that enveloped you. You’re shivering and cold, but the flames of hope snake their way through your weary bones and you crumble. A person. There’s someone else up here and you found them.

You want to scream. In agony or in joy? You’re not sure. But, it all changes when you get close enough to see the still figure trapped in a layer of snow. Heavy boots lumber towards the figure, and you can’t help but fall to your knees.

No.

Thick, gloved hands shakily reach for the dark material. Cold. Just like everything else on this god forsaken piece of land. Your blood like molasses, the amount of effort needed to take a small shovel out of your bag and dig into the ground around you. You carefully pull off the stranger’s goggles. An omen. A sign from god.

“OMG is that danisnotonfire? Haha wow I love your videos and wow this is-“ you stop, realizing that you are indeed speaking to a dead man. “Damn. Didn’t realize they were planning to tour on Everest.” You look around you at the barren mountainside. “Oh… well I guess that didn’t work out. Anyways nice to meet you.”

It’s then, standing beside a frozen danisnotonfire, that you feel yourself come alive again. You never got to see them on the Terrible Influence Tour because you spent all your time training on Everest, but the universe gifted you with Dan’s last TIT meet and greet.

Thinking about tits, you find the courage and embrace the white void, climb higher and higher until you finally reach that flag and scream. First, a garbled string of sounds that have built up in your chest since the day you decided to climb this mountain, and ending on one great sob.

You’ve done it.

You’ve gotten your TIT meet and greet for the phEverest show.

the mosquito i killed in the middle of the night stuck to my wall:

[woozinhos]

hi hiii I really really love your works MUAHAHSH

can you make a story where Jeonghan and Yn are making out in Jeonghans office and they get too into it.. and uh someone walks in (most preferably Mingyu)

HAHSHSHSHSHS U LOVE YOUR ACC 🦅🦅🦅🦅

Notes: I’m back gang time to start writing Wooo wooooppp

╭────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╮

Smut below the cut

╰────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╯

Jeonghan's hands roamed over your body as he kissed you deeply, his lips hungry and demanding. He pressed you against the wall of his office, his body flush against yours as he claimed your mouth. You responded eagerly, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with equal fervor. You were lost in the moment, completely consumed by the passion between the two of you.

Jeonghan's tongue darted into your mouth, tangling with yours as he explored every inch of you. He tasted sweet, like honey and cinnamon, and you couldn't get enough of him. His hands moved lower, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips possessively. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing a path down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.

"You're so beautiful," Jeonghan murmured against your skin, his voice filled with desire. "I can't get enough of you." He continued to kiss and nibble at your neck, his hands wandering lower until they were gripping the backs of your thighs. You let out a soft moan as Jeonghan lifted you up, his hands supporting your weight as he carried you over to his desk. He set you down on the edge, his body pressing between your legs as he kissed you again. "I've been thinking about this all day," he whispered, his lips moving to your ear. "I've been thinking about you."

"I've been thinking about you too," you whispered back, your voice shaky with need. "I've been wanting you all day." Jeonghan smiled against your skin, his hands roaming up and down your thighs. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his eyes dark with desire.

"You're all mine," he said, his voice low and possessive. "And I'm going to make sure you never forget it." You pulled Jeonghan closer, your bodies pressed together as you kissed him hungrily. Your hands roamed over his back, pulling him as close as possible as your tongues tangled together. Jeonghan's hands slid under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin as he deepened the kiss. He pushed you back onto the desk, his body pinning you down as he continued to kiss you senseless.

Mingyu knocked on the door to Jeonghan's office, but there was no answer. He frowned and pushed the door open, stepping inside without waiting for a response.

His eyes widened in shock as he took in the sight before him - you and Jeonghan, completely lost in each other, making out on his desk. Mingyu stood frozen in the doorway, his jaw dropping as he stared at the two of you. He couldn't believe what he was seeing - his best friend and you, tangled together on the desk, completely unaware of his presence. Jeonghan was the first to notice him, breaking the kiss and looking up with a mixture of surprise and irritation.

"What the hell, Mingyu?" he exclaimed, his voice rough with annoyance. You let out a surprised yelp and quickly began fixing your clothes, feeling a rush of embarrassment and shame at being caught in such a compromising position. Mingyu's eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression a mix of anger and disbelief. "What the hell is going on here?" he repeated, his voice rising. "You two are supposed to be professional." Jeonghan rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself.

"We are professional," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But sometimes, we like to take a break and indulge in some personal time." Mingyu's jaw clenched as he glared at Jeonghan, clearly not buying his excuse. "This is a workplace," he snapped. "You can't just use your office for...this." Jeonghan shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Says who? We're not hurting anyone, are we?" Mingyu let out a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is inappropriate," he said firmly. "And completely unprofessional. You both need to learn some self-control." Mingyu shook his head in annoyance and walked over to the desk, handing Jeonghan a stack of papers.

"Here's those papers you needed," he said gruffly, avoiding eye contact with you. "And I expect you to keep things professional from now on." Jeonghan took the papers with a nod, still looking unbothered by Mingyu's lecture. Mingyu's eyes lingered on the marks on your neck, his expression unreadable. He tried to keep his face impassive, but you could tell he was struggling to hide his emotions. Jeonghan noticed the way Mingyu was looking at you and smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on his friend.

"What's wrong, Mingyu?" he asked innocently. "Something bothering you?" Mingyu clenched his jaw, his eyes flicking back to Jeonghan. "Nothing," he said tersely. "Just trying to wrap my head around your complete lack of professionalism." Jeonghan chuckled and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're just jealous," he teased. "You wish you had someone to mark up like that." Mingyu's face darkened with anger as Jeonghan's words hit a nerve. He flipped him off and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Jeonghan laughed and shook his head, amused by the whole situation.

"I think we got under his skin," he said, turning his attention back to you.

[therightbeaches]

𝐬𝐮𝐛-𝐳𝐞𝐫𝐨 ⋆ 𝐚. 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

synopsis: you grapple with the weight of your position in the bau (and, worse, your feelings for your boss.) [3.2k] contents: bau!reader, angst, PINING. basically this entire fic is pining No Joke and reader is not nonchalant about it, brief bed sharing, sort of ambiguous ending? there is no resolution of aforementioned pining, reader is lowkey sulking the whole time a/n: i'm definitely still trying to get comfortable writing for hotch so again, the characterization probably isn't perfect 🙂‍↕️

Hotch is very likely the nicest person you know. The smartest one, too (actually, the second smartest if you think about it, because Spencer has an IQ of, what, 190? But, well, in the emotional intelligence department he sometimes lacks — you still like him bunches but the truth is the truth.)

You know the rest of the team might disagree with the statement Hotch is nice, but there’s an unspoken bond between you and him that’s been present since the day you joined the Bureau, and he doesn’t play favorites but if he did you’re sure you’d be it.

Regardless, meeting Hotch was like scoring a really nice vintage Coach purse at the thrift and opening it to find a crumpled twenty dollar bill stuffed into one of the inside pockets. Lovely on the outside and even nicer on the inside.

Really, you could go on a whole tangent about how sweet and passionate and generous and thoughtful he is. For your birthday, he’d showed up to the office with a four-pack of cupcakes and held your shoulder while you blew out the candles. On Christmas, he’d appeared on your doorstep in the snow to give you a copy of his favorite novel with his annotations scrawled into the margins.

You’ve found yourself in Alaska again. This time, thankfully, there’s a substantial lack of bodies. Rossi had ushered you and Hotch away to participate in a college guest lecture on criminal psychology for aspiring FBI agents — just don’t tell mention the janky coffee makers, he had instructed half-heartedly while seeing you off on the tarmac.

It was strange. Given, the seminar went off without a hitch, but leaving the lecture hall you’d had this horrible sense of unease. Hotch had the good conscience not to ask you what was troubling you when the imaginary bruise that your lecture pressed down on was aching. More a festering rot that eats through skin and fat and muscle than a bruise, in fact, if you don’t seek to sugarcoat it.

The lobby of your hotel is luxurious but empty. There’s a big window overlooking the expanse of nothingness beyond the hill, squishy velvet couches of emerald green, high-backed armchairs, scratchy wool throw blankets with tassels dangling to the ground. A big fire crackles in the hearth into the silence. The spillage of lamplight outside through the glass only stretches a few feet till it tapers off into the void, an endless pit of tar dotted by twinkling city lights miles away.

You exhale through your mouth and it turns into a smear of fog against the window. This job destroys people. Whittles them down till their bones are so brittle that they collapse under their own weight. You think of Elle, of Gideon, of Jordan, even, how it had eaten them alive inside-out until they had nothing left. You think of Hotch’s torn-apart family and his late wife, of his son who’d lost his mother, and the weight of Spencer’s abduction, his addiction, how it still affects him so deeply today. You think of JJ’s face when there’s a case involving a baby close to home (in a slightly altered timeline, it could just as easily have been hers), of the tough-guy façade Derek puts on, because what else can he do, let the work tear him apart?

There’s only so much someone can bear, only so many back-to-back days of another child missing, another dead body gutted and dismembered and dumped like garbage, another grieving family who lost a son, a daughter, a sister or a brother, a parent. And it’s difficult, more difficult than anyone can articulate, to know that it will never end. So, what’s the reason? Why are you still here, letting this job take and take and take everything you have to give?

Because you’re helping people, argues one half of your mind. You’re changing lives. In turn, the other half: but while you can help in one place, in a thousand others there are countless people getting hurt by cruel hands. What then? What makes one life more valuable, more worth helping than another? There isn’t a good answer (and it’s the reason that you think JJ needs a raise.)

Then, amidst the quiet, there’s the tap of shoes against mahogany floorboards, and Hotch’s distorted reflection materializes behind you. Your own is one you hardly recognize. Worn down to the bone, self-loathing, lonely. Drowning in a three-foot deep pool because you can’t get your legs straightened out beneath you.

“I thought you went to bed,” you say to the window.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He tracks your gaze to the outside. “I thought you went to bed.”

“I couldn’t either.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Profilers, you think mournfully. Hotch can read body language accurately to a scary extent, and maybe now it’s because you wanted him, wanted someone, to notice. Notice my struggle. Notice that something is wrong.

You rub a stiff hand over your jaw. Self-soothing. “I don’t know. This job is just hard. And of course I understand the appeal, but...”

“…But you don’t know why bright college students would want to commit to something so macabre.”

It’s an extension of yourself, really. Why did you want to commit to something so macabre to begin with? He gives you a look in the reflection that says talk to me. He’s your boss but he’s your best friend too. You tend to suffer in silence rather than burden a friend with personal qualms, and it’s why you don’t respond.

You wait with bated breath for something, anything, maybe searching for an answer that he can’t offer. This is one of the few things out of his field of expertise. He won’t give you some bullshit non-answer to make you feel better because that isn’t what you need.

Honestly, what you do need to do is take some time off, spend it somewhere tropical, and he’d give you the time off if you asked, but it’s the easy solution that you don’t truly want because it won’t fix anything. You can fly away in a luxury jet and drink a piña colada out of a coconut on a sunny beach somewhere on the other side of the globe and there will still be people dying while you sunbathe.

“If you had a do-over, would you still join the BAU?” Hotch asks suddenly.

He words it like this but it isn’t what he means. He’s asking if you can continue doing this. If, when you go home, he’ll find your gun and credentials on his desk. If the job is still worth it to you.

“I thought you didn’t really like hypotheticals.”

“In the right contexts I’ll… indulge.”

“And is this the right context?” you ask and turn to face him. The window is cold against the skin of your back.

“It’s something that’s making you upset, so I think it is.”

A beat, in which he levels his steady gaze at you and look down towards your feet as if your shoes can tell you the right thing to say. And, yes, you know that the right thing to say is the truth and it’s the truth that he wants to hear, but to tell the truth is to admit defeat in the face of struggle. You’re not the first agent to be ripped to shreds by the work you do and you won’t be the last but that knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

All withstanding, there’s nowhere else in the world you can imagine yourself working at aside from the BAU. Never, not in a million years, not for a million dollars, would you wish to be apart from your family.

Never would you wish to be apart from Hotch, who’s changed your life in a million ways, all of which are for the better.

“I would,” you say, then bid him a despondent goodnight before retreating to your room.

The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 12:03 a.m. into the dark and you’re wide awake.

During the seminar, you’d touched on a few cases you’d worked and how the art of profiling directly correlated with catching your bad guy. The fundamentals: this is why we’re looking for a person fitting this exact description, and this is how we know, these are the classifications of serial killers. Oh also, once, three cops walked straight into a trap and I was the one who had to tell their families that we gave them the green light to breach the premises.

Of course, the last part isn’t what you said. It’s not a thing you can say because the FBI is always searching for bright-eyed, bushy-tailed applicants, but it’s the harsh reality that comes with doing this job that goes unsaid until rookie agents learn it themselves in the field. You still remember it. The first case you were on. The first time someone got killed in front of you. The first family you had to inform. The first videotape sent to the cops, the first letter addressed to you personally. The terror, the dread, the constant need to look over your shoulder, the ever-present fear of shadowy corners and what could hide within their tenebrosity.

It’s really fucking cold in your room. The radiator has to be busted, you think. It’s no better in here beneath your thick quilt than if you were bare naked outside in the blizzard, and there’s no way you’ll be getting a wink of sleep tonight unless… well. It wouldn’t be the first time you slept in the same room as Hotch. Two summers ago or so the coordinator had royally screwed up your reservations and booked doubles instead of singles and you’d roomed with him for the entirety of five agonizing days, in which you ate together and watched TV together and sat shoulder-to-shoulder on his bed over chow mein and case files.

He lets you in when you knock. Sets up the pullout couch for you but offers you the bed and relents with little resistance when you shake your head no. He gets you situated and turns the lamp off and it’s just you and him in the stagnant, suffocating silence.

“Do you want to know why I decided to hire you after the first round of interviews?” he finally asks, a low murmur so quiet that you can barely hear it.

You turn over onto your side, a curled palm sandwiched beneath your head and the pillow. “Why’s that?”

“Because I saw in you what I wanted to be when I first joined the BAU. Passionate. Dedicated. I know I made the right choice in hiring you and you reaffirmed it even more today during the seminar. I can’t think of a singular time you’ve let the team — let me — down.”

You roll back over, squint at the ceiling, trace the water damage stains turning white to brown with your eyes in the dim light from the window. You’re able to grab the tails of the curtains and tug them closed. Hotch is speaking with some secret, underlying, cryptic meaning to his words; he doesn’t sing praise just for the sake of singing praise. He must’ve forgotten you’re a profiler too, though it wouldn’t take a genius to decipher just what he means. I don’t want you to leave the team.

“Hotch, I-”

“People like you are what the Bureau needs,” he says sagely, as if you needed confirmation for his invisible meaning.

You sit up, pressing your back against the cushioned bottom panel of the couch. “People like you are. I mean, you’re such a good leader, Hotch, and I know how much you care. You always handle everything with so much grace and honesty, I think you’re great and so kind, you know, and…”

There’s the scrunching sound of fabric against fabric and the squeak of springs in the mattress as he props himself up too to stare at your silhouette in the dark, and you most certainly have given you and your stupid feelings away.

Your elbow bumps into the cotton upholstery behind you as you lift an arm to rub your eye. Your cheek squishes against the hill of your shoulder self-consciously. There are worse things in the world than you taking the bait (truthfully, there was no bait to tempt you in, but you think wanted to say it; it’s been a weight on your shoulders for too long now) and spilling your guts to the object of your affection, aren’t there? Not in this moment, you think, dejected, because you can feel his heavy gaze on you even in the pitch-black of night.

There’s a drawn-out pause, filled only by the sound of your shallow breathing.

His voice scratches when he speaks. “Is it cold down there, on the pullout?”

“What?”

“There’s still a lot of space in the bed.”

𑄻𑄾 ᵎᵎ.

The snowstorm outside has escalated overnight and has reduced visibility to zero. This means no plane travel until the storm wanes, and this also means you’re trapped in your lodging with Hotch for the short-term foreseeable future.

He finds you in the east-facing solarium the following morning sitting on a porch chair. Dressed in thin pajamas against the lesser insulation typical of a sunroom, you’re curled in on yourself with your knees to your chest, socked feet crossed in front of the backs of your thighs, chin atop your forearm.

Your conversation from the hotel lobby the prior evening weighs on you heavily. You would choose the BAU again and again if it came down to it, and when it did, you have chosen the BAU again and again. If anyone asked how much you like your job you might tell them how it’s saved you, how it’s given you so much of what you have. Your closest friends, your home, and selfishly, it’s brought you him.

How obtuse is it to weigh an individual at the same level as the comfort of your own space, as those you value most? Surely very, but he’s everything. He gives you everything you could ever ask for, he’s done the most to make sure you’re doing well, he’s held your head above the surface of your terrible, shallow pool until you could find your footing more times than you can count.

And, sure, it’s his job to do these things, his duty as your supervisor to act in the team’s best interest, but it isn’t his job to walk you to your car in the garage every evening. It isn’t his job to bring takeout to your front door after a hard case, and it isn’t his job to hold your hand in a big crowd so you don’t get separated, or button up your coat for you when you can’t get the button aligned with the opposing slit, or call you each morning to ask how you slept.

You know he’s behind you before you turn. An itchy blanket is draped over your lap from over your head.

“Where’s your jacket?” Hotch asks, neither kindly nor unkindly.

“It’s in my luggage.”

“I meant, why aren’t you wearing it?” A broad, warm hand smooths over the outer expanse of your upper arm to try and rub some heat back into your skin. “You’re going to get sick. It’s cold in here.”

“I don’t know,” you respond, saturnine, with words sticky like taffy in your mouth.

He settles into the chair beside you, passing over a plate with a still-warm scone from the buffet room across the lobby. Twin mugs of tea are placed on the glass patio table between you. The legs of the chair screech in protest as he turns it so his body angles towards yours, his elbows on his knees and his palms pressed flat together. His voice, when it comes, bleeds with the gentleness, the softness, he might use with a small, skittish animal that will startle and flee if he’s too loud.

“Look, I’ve been thinking, and if you want to put in a request for a transfer, I can have it processed by the time we get back to Quantico. I don’t want you to be unhappy, don’t say that you’re not, I know you are. You don’t need to keep suffering because you think you have some obligation or loyalty to the team.”

“Who says I’m suffering?” It comes out thickly, tone teasing the edge of wounded. You recoil at yourself and shake your head. “I’m not. I’m not unhappy, either. I love the team. I love…” You blink and suck in a breath. “I stay because I want to.”

“You must consider me to be—” he sighs and takes your hand into his own, brings your knuckles to his mouth, a ghost of his lips against your skin, “so bad at my job if you think I can’t read my own team.”

“I didn’t say that, Hotch,” you murmur.

He laughs. Your mood brightens marginally with the sound. “You didn’t say it, but you must’ve thought it.”

It’s hard to not want it. He’s done everything right. He’s hooked his kind claws into your tender, wanting flesh and you’ve no desire to get away, even if it hurts, even if it means the puncture wounds will have you bleeding to death right here in front of him. Or, a hand reaching into the gaping cavity of your chest, latching onto your heart and tugging and tugging and tugging till fibers stretch and fray and split, and what else can you do but sit still and let it happen?

The same hand opens doors for you and makes your coffee just the way you like it and touches you with reverence. And is that what this is, reverence? Love? To seek to dissect bit by bit, to pull you apart till but your innermost pieces are left? To flay and open you up with a neat incision, and force a loving hand between the gaps in your ribs and lay a gentle head upon your raw chest to hear, to feel his name thrumming in time with your heartbeat?

No, that is not love, but you love him still. Indubitably, irrevocably, impossibly so. It’s a harsh, mocking finger jabbed into your sternum, and it’s not something that you think you can come to terms with.

[mikanotes]

heavenly way to,

hyunju x gn!reader

genre: angst comfort, established relationship. » warnings: death, blood, mentions of injuries, murder, firearms, canon divergence. » note: yes i’m back to writing for the series that basically started this blog. hello! i love her.

synopsis: Is sacrifice for your lover a gift to be grateful for, or a burden worth being cursed for? The thought grows heavy on your mind the longer you spend in the games.

“Why?”

Hyunju’s voice has never sounded so broken. She’s too astounded to even think of not letting her guard down, simply weak and vulnerable as she stares up at you. The shake in that one word, the sickening concern in her eyes— It almost makes you regret what just happened.

Almost.

“Because I care about you more than—”

“Nevermind…” she scoffs, eyes widening. She presses her lips together but it doesn’t stop the tremble of a sob waiting to escape her throat. Her gaze averts to a wall in the dormitory, silently putting a stop to whatever you were going to say.

You decide to give her space.

The bathrooms are empty, leaving you silence and space for thinking. You look at your reflection in the mirror, the blood on your face and neck. You did not kill anyone. You assured your safety. You did not kill someone. They were a problem. The thought repeats steadily in your mind as you turn on the faucet, letting water flow into your palms.

It’s as if you can see the overflowing blood on your hands, still. That player you fought to throw out of that room, the sight of the bullet shooting through their head once the door finally locked, the weight of their grip of the other the side of the handle loosening until a thud confirmed the end of a life. But they were in the spot she needed. You could not risk it. What if she had died? It was only right.

The blood washes off. The thought remains. You aren’t sure how long you spend staring at the mirror, barely even really looking at your reflection. You just know you’re asked to return to the dormitory, and that you go to bed, then the lights turn off.

You think Hyunju hates you.

You thought she would come to hate you here over trying to protect her, maybe. Now you realize, now that the blood is there, that she could simply hate you for taking away someone’s life— Even if indirectly. It makes sense to hate a now-murderer.

Yes.

Then, if she hates you, you’ll be able to sacrifice yourself for her sake if need be without wondering how well she’ll take the loss—

“Don’t just disappear.” A familiar soft voice speaks behind you. Hyunju’s arms circle around your waist and her head presses gently into your nape. She’s so warm. You almost forget your train of thoughts.

Once it comes back to you, your expression pulls into confusion. “Sorry,” you whisper, “I didn’t think you would mind.”

“Were you trying to give me space?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs, but hugs you tighter. “Because I was angry? Angry that you got yourself in so much unnecessary danger for my sake? Try making some sense.”

Your body relaxes into her hold before you even realize it, and soon, you’re turning over to look at her. She just seems a bit sad. Your hand slowly moves to her face and cradles her cheek, caressing the skin with care. “I pushed someone straight to their death and you’re telling me you were mad because I was in danger?”

She doesn’t respond, simply pursing her lips. A silent yeah. Exactly that.

“In danger? Me?”

“One second off and they could’ve switched you out of the room. And then I would have been alone with someone who practically killed you. And that would have been it. No more you at all,” she explains, and her voice begins shaking, “No more— I wouldn’t see your face anymore, wouldn’t have you with me, wouldn’t have the knowledge you’re there for me when life fucks me over— Think about it, come on.”

She’s trying so hard not to cry and stay quiet you wonder how much it must hurt. So you were wrong. It isn’t at all that person’s death that made her look at you this way. It’s somehow even worse.

You turn fully to return her embrace, hugging her firmly and kissing her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t risk dying for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She hides her face in your neck. “I love you.”

She says it with every single fiber of her being. After all, her touch, her tears, her words before this— They’re all marks of love. You feel her hand brushing over your arm, an injury you earned yourself during that game. She traces it gently and you think you could never promise her not to die for her.

“I love you too.”

[the-witty-pen-name]

Electric Touch (1)

Steve Harrington x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Synopsis: Inspired by "Electric Touch" by Taylor Swift ft. Fall Out Boy

Steve has not had the best time in recent history when it comes to love. He knows he shouldn’t put all this weight on a first date, but he can’t help it. His mind is overrun with thoughts of you- with him, being the one. Maybe this time, he’ll have finally gotten it right.

A/N: Can be read read as a follow-up to "The Love Triangle from Hell" or can be read as something entirely separate. This reader is not the same as the one in that series- but it's the same Steve in my head (if that makes sense??)

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI; smut (not overly explicit); piv; oral (f) receving; kissing; cursing

Steve never used to be anxious leading up to a date. He’d be calm and collected- confident. He was charismatic… once. Now, a terrible dry spell and terrible heartaches later, he’s met someone. And he so wants tonight to go well that he’s been pacing since getting ready a whole hour early. Eddie joked Steve was going to set sparks on the carpet from the friction. Steve couldn’t help it- he’s desperately trying to rid his body of this nervous energy. He needed to get it out of his system before you arrived. It was just hanging out, he tried to calm his nerves. Just breathe. He just so desperately wanted this to go well. 

He didn’t want to put too much pressure on this. It’s just the first date he’s had in a while. Not that you were calling it a date- no one has officially said date, but fuck- Steve wishes tonight is a date with you. He hasn’t been able to get you out of his head since he met you- completely by happenstance. It’s always when it happens- just when you decide you’re done- giving up completely on dating, you meet the person who you’re willing to get yourself hurt again over. 

“It’s just watching a movie, Steve,” Eddie tries to calm his friend’s nerves. He’s sitting at the little bench they have by their front door- leaving soon for a date of his own tonight. “You’re still King Steve,” he teases and in his frustration, Steve flips him off. “You just need to channel that lady killer energy- not all of it, but the good parts,” Eddie offers advice and Steve shrugs. Steve goes over to the window, peeking outside to see if your car is pulling up yet. 

“I really, really like this girl,” he groans, flopping onto the couch dramatically. “I can’t keep fucking up.”

“You’re going to if you don’t stop overthinking this,” Eddie points out. He shrugs on his jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve says with his hands over his face. He waves Eddie away dramatically. With an unintentional slam of the front door, Eddie is gone- leaving Steve to his own devices as he tries to pull himself together. 

Steve has not had the best time in recent history when it comes to love. He just wants what everyone else seems to have- all of his friends managing to have love figured out at this moment. He feels like he’s being left behind- and he knows he’s missing out. He knows he shouldn’t put all this weight on a first date, but he can’t help it. His mind is overrun with thoughts of you- with him, being the one. Maybe this time, he’ll have finally gotten it right. 

You’ll show up, and you'll be just as shy as he feels- because maybe, just maybe you’re feeling the same way as him. You’ve been thinking about him just as much as he’s been thinking about you. You want him. It’s finally that fucking simple. He wants you to want him, to crave his company as much as he hopes for yours. You’re perfect for him, and maybe he’ll be perfect for you. Fate finally lets him have someone who wants him- he wants his soulmate. Maybe you’re her. Maybe tonight will go well and it’s the start of something wonderful. 

He imagines how it will feel to have you so close, sitting flush against his side. Your perfume will smell so good, and your skin against his will feel so soft. He wants to wrap his arm around your shoulders, and pull you in closer. He imagines what the weight of your head will feel like on his shoulder and if your hair will be ticklish as you rest in the crook of his neck. He wants to experience what it would be like to be close to you like that. 

He wonders if you’ll be as nervous as he feels, or maybe you’re so much braver than him and make the first move. Maybe you’ll kiss him, leaning up as the credits roll and your lips taste so sweet from your lip gloss. Would you kiss him slowly? Would it be one of those chaste, perfect first kisses? Or would you be more needy, more desperate? Just overwhelmed with the feeling of being close to him like how he would feel. Maybe you’ll climb into his lap to let him know you want to go further- you need to be closer, and he’ll happily oblige. Whatever you want. 

How would it feel if you pressed against him? He imagines how beautiful you’ll look in the dark, the TV light making a halo around your body he so badly wants to know. How perfect would your legs rest around his waist? Would he be able to feel the heat between your legs through your clothes? Would you moan? God, he wants to know your pretty sounds. Would you want to take things further? Would you ask between fevered kisses which bedroom was his? 

If you wanted, he’d lay you down and just worship your body if you’d let him. Would you? He imagines how you’d look- your hair played out across his pillow. He can see you in his bed like you were always meant to be there. It’s a space he wants to have completely taken over by you. He’ll be so gentle, if that's what you’re needing. He’ll take his time, pull back your layers as you let him. Maybe you’ll be more impatient, wiggling under his touch until he gives you exactly what you’re craving- what he’s craving to give to you. 

He wonders what you’re wearing- if maybe you picked out any of it just for him? He won’t ask, but he’ll imagine you doing just that. You want to look your best, the same way he does. He wants to put in the effort for you- he’ll spend hours to make his hair the perfect messy, he’ll overthink every sweater and shirt in his closet and he hopes that you did the same. Maybe you left your apartment with clothes strewn everywhere because you also couldn’t settle on what you wanted to wear. Maybe you’ll practice conversations in the mirror as you do your makeup like he did as he ran product through his hair. He’ll make sure to appreciate your efforts. 

Would you let him take it off? After all your hard work, would you let him get underneath it all? God, he knows you’d be so perfect. Would you let him kiss you absolutely everywhere? He imagines kissing your ankles, up the length of your gorgeous legs, before he settles your thighs- your beautiful thighs- on his shoulders. He wants to roll his tongue into you and kiss your wetness, and spend hours there if you’d only let him. He knows he could make you feel so good if you just give him a chance. 

He wants to know the feeling of your hands tangling in his hair. He wants to feel you tug him closer, and he wants to feel you coming apart for him. He imagines the grip of his hands on your thighs to keep you steady when the feeling starts to become too much. He’s got you. He wants you to know it’s okay to just let go. He wants to know how you feel in every sense. He wants to feel your body shake and hear your pretty moans for him if he makes you cum with his tongue. 

He wants to feel your skin, he wants to feel the sheen of sweat between your bodies. He wants to kiss your salty skin and whisper how much he loves you as he pushes into you for the first time. He knows you’ll feel so good. He knows you’ll take him so well. He just wants to stretch you out, and he knows you’ll look so pretty on his cock. He wants to kiss your pretty tits, and squeeze them and lick your hardened nipples. Anything- absolutely anything that would make his girl feel good. He wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to worship you the way he wants to. The way you deserve. 

He’s let his mind wander too far, and he knows he needs to reign himself in. He sits up, and goes back to the window again- perfect timing. He sees the headlights of your car as you pull into the driveway. He takes a few deep breaths, shaking the thoughts he should not be thinking about right now. He fluffs the pillows and fixes the blanket on the back of the couch, trying to think of anything not sexy to calm himself down. 

Hair in the shower drain, double shifts at work, dirty dishes…

Buzz

His thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of the intercom. 

“Hey, Steve, it’s me!” he hears your cheerful voice through the speaker. He can’t help but smile and it melts his heart. He has a good feeling that this is going to be the start of something really great. 

“Come on up,” he says, pushing the button to buzz you in.

TAGLIST:@sunshinepeachx@downbear@fanlifeaamt@exploding-bonbon@losingmygrasponreality@skiddypiddy@andvys@djodirt@moonlightsolo@kyga01@sheisjoeschateau@melaninjhs@v3lv3tf0x@purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles@sunshine-mrk@danymunsonharrington@mrsjellymunson@fanficfantik@the-unforgivenn@punkrockmlchael

[joelmillerisapunk]

OH MY GOD??? The intensity here is unreal. This fic punches you in the gut and refuses to let go, it’s suffocating in the best way. The tension between the reader and Javier is so raw, so visceral, it feels like you’re standing in the room with them, choking on the unbearable weight of heartbreak and desire. The intricate web of emotions is just chef's kiss—anger, betrayal, obsession, need—it’s all laid bare, tangled in this messy, intoxicating relationship.

The prose is so vivid and detailed that you can practically feel the damp heat of the shower, the sharp sting of the reader’s heartbreak, and the way Javier’s presence overwhelms everything like a tidal wave. The moral ambiguity is written so perfectly—it’s masochistic, it’s destructive, but it’s also undeniably human.

The way the story captures Javier’s complexity—his arrogance, his fragility—is pure poetry. And the reader’s inner turmoil? That delicate balance of anger and longing, her refusal to let go even when she knows she should? It’s painfully relatable in the best (and worst) way.

The sex isn’t just sex—it’s this volatile, emotional battleground where their love and hate collide. It’s messy, flawed, and oh-so-human. The power dynamics, the desperation, the unspoken confessions buried in every kiss, every thrust—this is messy, it’s painful, it’s addictive. You’ve written something that just lingers with you long after reading. Freckles!!!! You’ve wrecked me, and I’m thanking you for it. Honestly, I need a cigarette (I don't smoke), a drink, and maybe therapy after this. Some of my fave lines cause the entire thing is my favorite <3

You think you're so mysterious and complicated?! Well,  news flash, I've seen plenty like you. You’re just another man. You're not even that, you're a child. A child who's afraid of his own shadow when it comes to relationship Raven, angry and fearful. He knows you can read him like an open book and this unleashes an awareness upon him that crushes him to the ground. His voice sounded softer when he talked about you. You lulled yourself into that feeling You allowed yourself to hide it in a part of your brain where you never looked-that was a mistake. Making the hunch barely a firefly when it was supposed to be a bright neon sign.

Javier approaches, bending slightly to reach your mouth, his mustache brushes against your cupid’s bow and you don't even have the strength to turn your face away anymore. 

When your lips collide you let it happen. It’s like when you drink too much Tequila. It burns on your tongue, leaving you almost anesthetized as soon as you down it, and then an aromatic taste wafts into your mouth; it is lysergic, unusual, unmistakable. You love it, so you keep doing it.

Javier is the same. He's sharp, stiff at the edges, burns like fire, but he has an aura that you won’t mistake for anything and he hypnotizes you. He’s not like anyone else, despite what you told him. There is an underlying despair in him, a cry dying in his throat, “How can you love someone like me?” He says it only with his eyes but you hear it clearly.

Just put it in there. You think. I just need to feel your flesh against mine, inside me, claiming me like the rag doll that I am now. Stupid bitch trying to have you when you’re damaged like a shattered glass, when you can bring nothing than heat to my body and freezing ice to my heart You come, weeping. Grasping to him like your last shred of hope.But there’s no hope anymore. You know you can’t go on like that.

You leave him there, wondering, lost as he makes you feel. There will be two broken hearts.  You wait for the elevator, still hoping to see his ruffled raven hair poking out the door, his voice calling to you, his hand tightening on your wrist. None of this happens. The only ones who will follow you are your ghosts.

How could you love somebody like me?

Pairing: f!reader x Javier Peña Words count: 3032 Rating: + 18, NSFW, MDNI. Summary: Javi is under protection and has asked you to join him in the hotel room where he is confined. When you discover his secrets and lies, however, that room will become too small. Too small for both of you. Tags/warnings: POV second person, no use of y/n, Javi is still a DEA agent but it's a modern setting so the man has a smartphone. Reader is described having female genitalia and breasts, no other description of her is given, she doesn't blush and her hair is not described. Mention of alcohol, mention of cheating, Javi is a cheater, no happy ending, we will go through the man's phone (you're not supposed to do that but I never said my reader could do no wrong, right?), use of pet names (gatita which means kitten in Spanish, baby, darling), smut, angry sex, unprotected p in v (do better irl), cream pie, of course a little nipple play ‘cause it’s still my fic, toxic relationship, self doubt, mention of Steve, a huge pile of lies, Javi is bad at feelings, some reader’s thoughts marked in italics. I think it's all, let me know if I forgot something and I'll add it right away. A/N: Written for @jolapeno 's "Dear-uary" challenge. This was my prompt, I struggled a little bit at first but I ended up having a blast writing this ❤︎ Heavily inspired by this song (from which the fic also takes its title), I heard it randomly on Spotify one day and I thought "wait, this is perfect for Javi!" and I ended up being obsessed with two more songs by the same artist. LOL Many thanks to: - @aurorawritestoescape , my beta, for her help and advice, she will probably dream of elephants because of me tonight hahaha Kate I own you a big one, thanks baby so much, I love you ❤️ - The person who basically pulled this out of my brain and supported me throughout the process, my precious, my peanut @joelmillerisapunk. 🥰 Love you so much it's ridiculous🥹 - @milla-frenchy for letting me blather about this thing some days ago. Love you, bb ❤︎ English is not my first language, every single mistake is still on me, I deeply apologize if you find any.

Edited - because I forgot to change the most important detail, of course. I’m not myself if I’m not doing a mess. Yay. It’s okay now.

“Why the hell am I here? Was I the only available hole this week?”

“No,” he whispers. 

“So what?” 

Javier came back and found you in the middle of the room.

You were brandishing his phone like a sword in the air, the banner of everything that was wrong.

His face went pale when he saw you like that. 

Eyes wide open. 

Mouth agape. 

He tried to say something but you immediately hit him with a vomit of words.

“I know what you’re doing,” you hiss under your breath, feeling your eyes sting.

Javier is a marble statue in front of you, his lips pressed together, his absent eyes not even looking at you, staring at a spot behind your shoulders, his arms abandoned along his sides. 

He seems anchored to the ground. 

His last words to you still burn on your skin like a fire you cannot extinguish.

A heavy silence between you fills the air of the room and makes it unbreathable. 

“Fuck, Javier, talk to me,” you whisper angrily.

You clutch his phone in your hands, so tightly that your knuckles are white from exertion, as if you were clinging to it to keep yourself from falling off a cliff. 

“You knew I was no good,” he says sternly.

You have been in this room for two days. 

Officially, Javier has to stay here because henchmen of one of the new drug lords in town are set on taking him out. 

Unofficially, he has you infiltrating the room. 

Typical Javier, spending his time under protection fucking someone. 

You foolishly almost believed it was romantic, until this morning. 

“So you’re trying to say that it’s my fault? Is that what you want to say? It’s my fault that as soon as I turn my back you go and stick your cock in someone else's pussy?” You don’t even have the strength to scream right now. Your voice comes out rancorous but low, hoarse, like a blown growl. 

Oh, you’re not going to accept being lectured by him, fuck no.

“No, I’m just saying -” he tries to explain and you glare at him, making the words die in his mouth.  

"What?" 

“Fuck, I'll never change,” he shrugs as if it were a truism that only you can't grasp.

His eyes shift to the ground, dull and absent.

“You don't change because you are convinced that you can't,” you admonish him, feeling anger rising from your chest. 

"That's not true," he murmurs, keeping his gaze on the crimson and gold carpet that lies at your feet.

“Yes, it is,” you insist, ”and you seem to like to think of yourself as an incurable asshole.”

He still fails to see the real problem, the elephant in the room that lives and thrives among you. 

"Then you tell me, if you think you know me so well,” he asks with defiance. 

“You bet I fucking know you,” you lash out. “You think you're so mysterious and complicated?! Well,  news flash, I've seen plenty like you. You’re just another man. You're not even that, you're a child. A child who's afraid of his own shadow when it comes to relationships.”

“Don’t fucking analyze me,” he hisses, finally setting his eyes back on you. 

Raven, angry and fearful. He knows you can read him like an open book and this unleashes an awareness upon him that crushes him to the ground.

You bitterly laugh, “Truth hurts, huh? I know something about it”. 

The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens, his nostrils flare, and his mouth tightens into a line so thin you think he’s about to burst. He stays quiet instead, eyes back on the damask carpet decoration. 

_____________

“Yes, Steve, I'm fine. That jerk won't find me here, and anyway it's full of police outside the door.” 

A pause and a sigh. 

”No, no one followed her, they don't know who she is.”

You stood behind the half-closed bathroom door listening. 

You smiled. 

His voice sounded softer when he talked about you. You lulled yourself into that feeling. 

Until you heard something else. 

A booming laugh. 

Water ran in the shower, tiny droplets coated the wall as the mirror fogged up.

“Whatever. Of course I'm still screwing around. At least, I was doing it before that asshole started chasing me,” his voice suddenly lowered so you took a chance and opened the door a little more. You wanted to make sure you heard right. 

Your hand trembled against the doorknob, you grabbed your wrist to hold it steady. 

“You idiot,” he scoffed. “Yeah, we'll be in touch.”

Suspicion. The black wing of a crow that had been wrapped around your heart for a long time.

But then why did it hurt so much? 

You allowed yourself to hide it in a part of your brain where you never looked-that was a mistake. Making the hunch barely a firefly when it was supposed to be a bright neon sign.

He always places the phone with its screen down when you go out to dinner, softly smiling at it when he checks it after a few vibrations, telling you “it’s Steve” when you ask. 

But you know that crooked smile. 

He dodges when you ask him about his day "oh work, you know, just work." 

He tells you he is with Steve but you hear female voices in the background. 

Every time you try to confront him it always ends the same way, him telling you, “you’re paranoid, there’s no one else, just you, baby. You’re the only one I want.”

And then he fucks your doubts into oblivion.

You heard the thud of the phone on the blankets. And then Javier calling you. 

You swallowed the gall rising from the walls of your stomach and just smiled when he joined you in the bathroom and suggested that you shower together.

You wanted some proof before you charged him. 

If there was anything you had learned from being with him, it was that hard evidence was the key. So you played cool. 

He fucked you against the shower wall and you moaned into his neck. 

He licked your pussy like a man starved and you just bit your lips until you felt iron on your tongue.

He kissed you with that liar's mouth, and you let him.

And you fell asleep beside him, on the unmade bed of your uncertainties. 

This morning someone from outside called him into the hallway to report the latest movements of the guy who was looking for him. 

His phone was on the bedside table.

It was like a magnet, pulling your hand to it.

You were almost sure you knew his unlock code ‘cause you had watched the movements of his finger many times. 

You tried twice without success. 

The third time you let out a long sigh, visualized in your mind the movement one more time and unlocked it. 

You were in. 

Your heart was beating wildly in your chest as your fingers swiped and clicked on the screen. 

And there they were.

Dozens and dozens of messages and pics exchanged with 4 different women.

You scrolled through one of the chats with a certain Maria, who regularly sent him pictures of her tits and her legs spread wide, her pussy in the shot.

There was sexting, arranged dates, same promises he gave to you, things you never asked for but he kept repeating like a broken record. Even the same pet name. Gatita. 

Blood simmered in your veins, a jolt in your heart, throat dry. 

Your finger furiously scrolled through the chat, finding tons of messages he had sent her while he was with you.

You switched to another one and you found pretty much the same. And yet another, message after message containing flirting and explicit sex.  

“Oh Javi, you keep getting better and better with that cock of yours”

“My pussy needs you, darling, can you come over?”

“I can’t stop thinking about your huge cock dripping on me”

And the more you scrolled, the more a question formed in your brain, rumbling through your temples like a deafening drum. 

Was he ever sincere with you?

________

When he looks up at you again, you see it. A veil of fragility in the dense blackness of his gaze.

He looks almost helpless. “I know you tried,” he admits, ”You tried harder than anyone else.”

“Apparently it was no use,” you chastise him.

He doesn’t reply. 

Instead he comes closer and closer. 

You pull back, responding to his every step forward with a backward one. 

“Please,” he whispers. 

“No.” 

“Don't do that.”

“You have no right to tell me what to do,” you bark.

”I know...” 

“Fuck off, Javier, leave me alone.”

You pull back until you hit the wall behind you. 

Javier approaches, bending slightly to reach your mouth, his mustache brushes against your cupid’s bow and you don't even have the strength to turn your face away anymore. 

When your lips collide you let it happen. 

It’s like when you drink too much Tequila. 

It burns on your tongue, leaving you almost anesthetized as soon as you down it, and then an aromatic taste wafts into your mouth; it is lysergic, unusual, unmistakable.

You love it, so you keep doing it.

Javier is the same. 

He's sharp, stiff at the edges, burns like fire, but he has an aura that you won’t mistake for anything and he hypnotizes you. He’s not like anyone else, despite what you told him. There is an underlying despair in him, a cry dying in his throat, “How can you love someone like me?” 

He says it only with his eyes but you hear it clearly.

He is a time bomb that explodes in your heart every time he touches you. So you keep doing it.

“Fuck,” you whisper against his lips. 

“Yeah…I know. I’m not worthy.”

And yet, you’re still here.

You let him peel off your every layer of clothing, to leave you naked and vulnerable in front of him. 

You do nothing when he undresses too. Hastily taking off his shirt, fumbling with the button of his jeans, nervous hands and short breaths.

It is like some mind fuck game, intoxicating, dangerous, capable of leaving permanent marks.

He lowers his jeans just enough to free his cock, no boxers. Always ready.

His hands run over your hips and you groan. 

His tongue slides over your neck, his eyes closed, his breath heavy and warm on your skin. 

He makes you cry, but you don't say no.

His lips latch onto your nipple and adrenaline rushes through your veins up into your head, hitting hard like a jackhammer.

You don’t pull back anymore, you push your tit into his mouth so eagerly you feel his teeth closing on your bud and you whine in pleasure. 

His growing erection leaks against your center. You are trapped. Not so much because you are between him and the wall but because you no longer know how to get him out of your head. 

Right now it doesn't matter how much it hurts. 

He slides his hands down your thighs and you know what he wants, without needing to speak. You wrap your legs around his waist. He kneels on the bed with you still clinging to him, you lie back on the soft blankets that smell of you both, arch your back and press against his cock. You folds splayed and dripping for him.

His fingers go up your rib cage, stop under your breasts and grasp there, he draws you back to him and your mouths collide again.

You let his tongue enter. You let the fleeting pleasure of this instant take over all the no's you know you have to say.

There’s no right kind of love here, this room is drowned in angry sex.

Angry at how you can never say no to him, angry at how he makes you feel, angry because you know that no one has ever fucked you the way he did, invading your body with a pleasure so addictive that it makes you sick. Angry because maybe he's right, he can't change. 

You break the kiss and bite on his shoulder, a small act of revenge that really does no harm compared to your bleeding heart. 

Your hands grasp on the golden skin of his back, leaving marks with your nails digging into it, your miserable attempt to leave marks on him in return.

You moan convulsively under his touch, your mouth wide open against his, your tongue desperately seeking him out. 

His hands tighten on your ass, lifting you slightly, his cock slides over your wet opening, a guttural sound comes out of the back of your throat without you being able to hold it back. 

You want him inside you. 

You need him inside you.

And it’s wrong, and desperate. It’s masochistic.

You don’t even care for his jeans’s zip scraping your skin.

The thin line between pain and pleasure is so blurred now.

It’s a pathetic shit show of need and urgency. 

You’d walk away from any other guy but Javier is the person you can never have just for yourself and at the same time he is the only one you want. 

He is the knife and the wound at the same time.  

When he asks “Whose pussy is this?” in his deep groaning voice that fucks directly with your brain, you can only reply “yours.”

Digging your nails deeper, biting more, wailing louder but just pleading with him.

You take his shaft in your hand and rub it against you in blind desperation, wetting it with your juices. 

He groans into your ears while his hand reaches for your nipple and his big strong arm holds you close.

You are sitting on his thighs, your legs crossed behind his back.

His fingers pinch your nipple as you don't stop stroking his big throbbing cock.

Just put it in there. You think. I just need to feel your flesh against mine, inside me, claiming me like the rag doll that I am now. 

Stupid bitch trying to have you when you’re damaged like a shattered glass, when you can bring nothing than heat to my body and freezing ice to my heart. 

“Fuck me,” you groan. 

He pushes against your core, entering you with one deep thrust.

Your pussy is weeping so much it doesn’t even hurt.

You clench on him with all the strength you have, chocking his cock with your walls.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re gripping me so hard, baby. There’s nothing you want more than this, huh? Me fucking you raw?” 

“Shut up,” you hiss. 

He starts moving, pumping into you as his hand reaches for your clit, brushing it in circles.

You whine, clinging onto his back, your face hidden in the crook of his neck.

You can’t look him in the eye, you can’t face your own shameful reflection in his pupils, you can’t think of anything else than this pleasure firing your body, your limbs, your mind.

Your pussy never gets the memo when it comes to him. She just clenches, and cries and asks for more.

At the verge of your brink, when you’re so utterly overwhelmed you could swear, you’re about to jump out of your skin, you hear it.

It’s the softest whisper on your skin, so low you barely catch the words, “I love you” 

You cry a single tear that slides down the column of his neck, it could be mistaken for a bead of sweat so easily and Javier doesn’t notice it. But it’s there. You’re crying again.

You come, weeping.

Grasping to him like your last shred of hope.

But there’s no hope anymore.

You know you can’t go on like that.

You cried before. You argued before. It’s all useless.

A devastating orgasm shoots through you, leaving you without defense.

It’s the last thing you want but you need to get it over with. 

You lie on the bed, feeling his last twitches inside you, his cum dripping onto your walls, his cock pressing against that spot that belongs only to him.

He lies down on you, gently crushing you with his weight, his sweaty skin against yours, the smell of your orgasm filling your nostrils.

You’re hopeless and breathless. 

He's still inside you, like he doesn't want to leave. 

You know you have to. 

Eventually he shifts, lying on the other side of the bed muttering, “god, you really are something else.” He takes the pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and lights one, taking a long drag.

“I'm not enough,” you want to scream looking at him through the cloud of smoke enveloping him. “Or maybe you're not, for me.”

When he is about to fall asleep, you get up. You pick up your clothes off the floor and put them on silently.

“Where are you going, gatita?” he grunts. 

Does he think he has solved it? Does he think you will forgive him as you did the other times? 

You don’t reply.

"You only ever tell me the truth when you think I won't hear it,” you type on your phone and send it to him, before coming out of the door without turning your back.

You leave him there, wondering, lost as he makes you feel.

There will be two broken hearts. 

You know he loves you and you love him.

He is convinced that he doesn’t deserve you and pushes you away every time you get close to his soul. 

He knows that you see him clearly; that scares him.

You are tired of fighting for the both of you.

You push the elevator button under the gaze of an unsuspecting policeman who urges, “Where are you going, miss?”

“I'm leaving.”

“Do you need someone to accompany you?” 

“No, thank you.”

“Someone could follow you,” he counters.

“No one knows me, you don't have to worry.”

You wait for the elevator, still hoping to see his ruffled raven hair poking out the door, his voice calling to you, his hand tightening on your wrist. 

None of this happens.

The only ones who will follow you are your ghosts.

Tag list: @baronessvonglitter , @almostempty , @probablyreadinsmut , @thundermartini , @gothcsz , @cas-readsandwrites , @harriedandharassed

Archive tag: @pedrostories

If you want to be added or removed just let me know! Thank you very much for reading❤︎

[darthwhorecrux]

TW: fluffy smut <3 MINORS DNI

Having your first time with Satoru, and he's diffusing the tension by acting goofy, looking for ways to make you giggle while he undresses you and kisses along your body, all until he's sinking his big cock into your tight cunt. But you can hardly laugh when you feel the stretch and foreign pressure from the way he fills you up. You're whimpering brokenly and screwing your eyes shut, but Gojo knows when to get serious, grabbing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him.

"You have to breathe, sweetheart," he reminds you gently, smiling as he stills his movement. "Can you do that for me?"

"Mhm." You nod. He slowly starts to push into you again, and you're inhaling and exhaling, letting yourself feel all of him, however overwhelming and painful it might be.

He's watching you carefully, smiling almost proudly at how well you take him. "That's it," he coos, "that's my good girl."

Your heart swells with adoration for this silly, all-powerful man and the way he acts so tender with you. You never understood how special this was, the intimacy, the fullness, the oneness with someone you are so head over heels for, until now. The pressure starts to become less painful and more pleasurable. There's heat swirling in the pit of your stomach and this confusing, overwhelming feeling of not being able to take anymore but needing it all at the exact same time.

Satoru keeps checking in with you, and when you're telling him how good it feels and how you need more, your legs are over his shoulders, and he's completely pressed into you, drilling deep each time he thrusts into you. It feels so lewd, letting him fold you like this, watching your tits bounce and thighs shake. The pressure keeps building and your core and skin are on fire and you can hardly think coherent thoughts. It was absolutely euphoric, being so present in the moment like this, so peaceful letting your mind and body melt beneath him.

Gojo's relentless despite how he's almost as love drunk as you are. He's pounding into you hard and rhythmically, speeding up the closer you both get. The sounds he's making have you clenching hard around him, and you're whining and crying out sounds of your own. The pressure building in your core feels as if it's about to snap, and you're trying to get the words out to Satoru.

"I - I'm," you attempt. "I think I'm going to-"

"You're gonna cum?" Gojo sounds hopeful. He's a sweaty, groaning mess, but your admission fuels him, and he's brutally slamming into you now, encouraging you to let go. "Go on, baby, cum on my cock. I'm right here. It's okay."

And so you do. The pressure explodes. Your mind goes blank, on another plane of existence. Satoru's still moving for a moment longer, but he's jerky, erratic, and whimpering. You're both twitching against one another before he's falling against you, half-hazardously holding himself up so as not to crush you with the full weight of his body.

Catching your breaths, Satoru rolls to your side, pulling you against him, skin to skin. Your eyes flutter shut on their own accord as you snuggle into Satoru's chest, greedily inhaling his scent.

"You going to sleep on me?" He asks teasingly, murmuring into the side of your head. He presses a kiss into your temple while he's there.

"Mhmm." You muster just enough energy to nod. "Thank you, Satoru," you whisper to him. "Thank you for everything."

"Thank you? You never have to thank me, princess." He runs his fingers through your hair. "Just love me. I love you."

"I love you too."

[mommybard]

Whats the matter? A bit distracted? Mind wandering a bit? Youre not thinking perverted thoughts again, are you?

No, not you. You're definently not thinking about feeling a hand running through your hair, just to stop and pull you forward. Forcing you right up against a sweaty cock, letting the scent fill your lungs, overwhelm your mind, leave you in a drunken stupor where all you can do is struggle to form the words to bet for permission to lick.

And you're absolutely not thinking about getting thrown down onto your stomach. Feeling someone else's hands squeezing your hips and spreading your cheeks, grabbing you and lifting your rear into the air. That sudden sensation when their tongue is dragged along the rim of your ass before pressing in, eating you out to get you ready to take their cock or strap. Getting those whines of pleasure to escape your lips no matter how hard you try to stay silent. That sudden shock when they pull away and the cool air hits, just to be replaced by the feeling of them forcing your hole wide as they sink that hard shaft into you.

And I just know that there's no way you're imagining getting pinned to the bed by someone much bigger than you. Feeling their weight pressing down on you, looking up at them towering over you. The fear and excitement that courses through your body when they slap their cock down against you. Seeing just how far up your body it reaches. Realizing that normally there's no way it could fit. No way could you take it all. But that look in their eye. They're not going to take no for an answer. Not going to stop or give mercy. They're going to make sure every bit of that bitchbreaker is buried inside you, even if it utterly ruins your body~

I mean, youd have to be an utter pervert to think any of that. Someone who felt themselves getting wet or hard as you read all that. Someone who's hand is already moving between their legs to touch themselves because you have no self control~

[bookloover35]

Strength in Vulnerability-Zoro x fem reader.

The scent of salt and blood clung to the air as you knelt beside the wounded swordsman. Zoro lay on the deck of the Going Merry, battered and broken after his duel with the world's greatest swordsman, Mihawk. His wounds were deep, jagged, and painted a grim picture of his tenacity.

"You're stubborn, you know that?" you muttered, dipping a cloth into a bowl of warm water. Your voice was soft, but the irritation in your tone couldn't be masked. You wrung out the cloth and pressed it against the gash across his chest, prompting a sharp inhale from Zoro.

His one good eye cracked open, fixing you with a defiant glare. "I didn't ask for your help."

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers. "No, but your captain did. And let me tell you, he has a way of convincing people."

Zoro let out a breath that might have been a laugh or just a grunt of pain—it was hard to tell with him. "Luffy can be... persistent."

Persistent wasn't the word you'd use. Overwhelming, maybe. But that was beside the point. Your focus was on Zoro now, and the sheer stubbornness that radiated from him.

"You're lucky Mihawk didn't kill you," you said, dipping the cloth again. Blood tinged the water pink, and your heart clenched at the sight. "If you keep throwing yourself into fights like that, you're going to die before you ever reach your goal."

"My goal's worth dying for," he replied without hesitation, his voice gravelly but steady.

Your hand froze mid-motion, your gaze meeting his. There was no bravado in his words, no arrogance. Just raw determination. It made your chest ache in a way you couldn't quite explain.

"You think that's what your crew wants? For you to throw your life away?" you challenged, setting the cloth aside to grab a roll of bandages.

Zoro's brow furrowed. He didn't answer immediately, but his silence spoke volumes.

"You're not alone in this, you know," you continued, your voice softening. "It's okay to rely on people sometimes."

"Not my style," he muttered, though his expression betrayed a flicker of doubt.

"Yeah, well," you said, carefully wrapping the bandage around his chest, "maybe it should be. You're no good to anyone dead, least of all yourself."

Zoro let out a long sigh, his body relaxing slightly under your touch. He still looked like a man carrying the weight of the world, but there was a sliver of something softer there now.

"You're stubborn, too," he said after a moment, his tone almost amused.

"Someone's gotta keep up with you," you shot back with a small smirk.

For a brief second, his lips twitched upward, but the smile was gone as quickly as it had come. "Thanks," he said quietly, the word gruff but sincere.

You nodded, finishing the bandage and securing it in place. "Don't thank me yet. You've still got a long way to go before you're back on your feet."

"I'll get there," he said, his voice steady despite his exhaustion.

"I don't doubt it," you replied, gathering your supplies. You paused before standing, looking down at him. "Just... try not to die before then, okay?"

Zoro's gaze met yours, and for a moment, the usual intensity in his eyes softened. "I'll try," he said, and you could tell he meant it.

As you stood and walked away, leaving him to rest, you couldn't help but glance back. Zoro was already closing his eye, but the faintest trace of a smile lingered on his lips.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd learned something about the strength it takes to let others in.

[reticent-fate]

part 11/26ish

anyone remember those scales with the springs in 'em? all i ever see these days are digital scales but those things made the best noises. i think i've seen some kitchen scales that still use spring mechanisms, but it's been a while.

technology is weird.

from the beginning

[johndonneswife]

[blackvahana]

Go figure I'm getting annoyed with linguistic unpopular opinions when Grey is prevalent in me. Hilarious stomping around in the astral being particular about coding shit and having to pause mentally to complain about things

[unwillingtoreachout]

janeil (Janie & Neil) bestfriendisms send tweet

[cuteniarose]

tell us abt the stuff on the wheel plz!

Okay tbh there isn’t really much to tell since it’s just a meme about how quickly my brain jumps between ideas but I can give some insight as to what those ideas are!!

Kuviren – Okay this is the one instance where I can’t tell you what these ideas are since Tumblr would nerf me immediately for voicing them. Classified information between Kat and me only, sorry. I am probably gonna keep working on my sapphic week prompts that I had to postpone bc some stuff came up though, most likely on Thursday when I’ll be bored at my grandma’s, but we’ll see

Sweet baby Ehuang – Ironically, less her and more her siblings who we’re in the process of finally creating properly. We still have names, exact ages and backstories to figure out, after which I can start on the designs, but we did finally settle on genders and a few tiny details here and there (including an idea that was immediately scrapped because Nia’s internalised fatphobia is a huge trigger now that won’t let them create fat characters, apparently 🫠 [/j, it's not that bad, I promise, the exact concept just hits way too close to home and I'm nowhere mentally stable enough to handle it])

Under the Oak’s Shade – Nothing much here, really, just a few passing concepts about Suiren growing up in the healing hut helping out her grandma, because I’m very, very soft for that idea and need more of it in my life (also I somehow ended up listening to parts of the Moana soundtrack today and there are VIBES there, okay?)

NWT Shenanigans – This is just pure unabashed escapism fantasy because Alasie might as well be my self insert lmao. One must imagine being gently taken care of by a beautiful older woman with no expectation of anything romantic or sexual, it’s good for the soul and definitely has nothing to do with my very prominent mommy issues

Zaheer’s fucked up family – Actually, Zaheer plays no part in this at all since he bailed on said fucked up family at age 12. Go away Zaheer no one likes you /hj. I’m currently going absolutely balls off the wall insane about one of his sisters finally hitting her lowest point and thus, as the quote goes, being open to the greatest change, and I am very much not exaggerating here, I am this close to actually physically screaming about it. Working on an art piece about her right now and it’s hitting right in the feels :(

Various other AUs – Now this just depends on my mood, really. Feeling very soft – Ultimate AU, angsty – Sacrifice AU, childhood obsession resurfaces – Mermaid AU, want giant spirit kite shenanigans – Avatar Suiren AU, etc etc. it’s called the multiverse of madness for a reason, you know?

[ghostsprincess]

I can't stop thinking about Ghost being a better boyfriend than your ex, even without establishing that title....

This is a continuation of part one.

warning: mention domestic abuse

💀

Simon was there every night you worked. You never gave him your schedule, but he'd show up and settle onto one of the stools like clockwork. Soap often joined him, and while they carried on like always, you knew Simon's gaze lingered on your body. You could practically feel the weight as you took drink orders and pulled pints. It wasn't unwelcome. In fact, it made everything easier knowing you weren't alone if your ex dared show his face.

When your shifts ended, Simon would walk you back to your new place. The one time you insisted he didn't need to do that, he grunted and said, "What if I want to?"

You didn't mention it again. Instead you got into a routine of giving him a fifteen minute warning when your shift was going to end, and you'd head out into the cold night with him at your side. He was mostly quiet while you chatted about whatever was on your mind. When you'd ask him about himself, he'd reroute the conversation back to you. Then he would wait while you unlocked your door and stepped inside.

You always had the urge to invite him in, but you were taking up so much of his time already. And what would you do with him anyway? This hulking military man with kind eyes? 

You thanked him and gave him a little wave before ducking inside, and you knew he always waited until he heard the sound of your door locking before he left. 

"Y' alright, love?" he asked one night when you were starting to feel particularly good about yourself again. Your split lip had healed which required less makeup. You felt stronger for having left your ex in the dust. You were wearing a new top that made you feel sexy.

"Yeah. I'm alright, Simon. I feel really good, actually."

You served him a drink and refused to let him pay. You really ought to make him stop tipping you at this rate. He was doing so much for you and getting nothing in return. He was doing all of the boyfriend duties just as he had promised, but he never so much as touched you other than the occasional hand hold.

What if you wanted more?

He broke into your thoughts as he said, "I can tell. Ya' been smiling more. Almost ready to go?"

Tonight you felt like you were floating along the dirty sidewalk with your hand tucked in Simon's massive paw. He was keeping you warm without doing anything, and he listened to your nervous rambling as you tried your best to work up your courage. But the two of you reached your front door all too quickly.

"Get inside," he said, voice deep and tender in spite of the command. "An' lock up."

When he started to pull his hand away, you didn't let him. And you didn't budge when one of his eyebrows inched higher. "Not quite yet," you whispered, toe tapping the cement step you were standing on which put you slightly closer to him in height. "I have to tell you something."

Simon's lips pressed together in a tight line, and his chin dipped in a slight nod. "I need to tell ya' something, too. Just don't want to."

"What?" you asked immediately, the lightness you'd been feeling instantly replaced with a lead brick inside you.

"I'm leaving. Late tomorrow night. Not until after I make sure ya' get home from the pub."

"Leaving?" you whispered, heart pounding faster. He was in the military. Some sort of special mission involvement. You knew that much. And you could read between the lines to know that someone who looked and behaved like he did was probably about to risk his life, not for the first time. "Simon, where are you going?" you asked with tears in your eyes even though you figured he wouldn't be able to tell you.

Simon shook his head, his lips curling into a soft smile. It was a rare sight, and it made you dizzy. "Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be worried 'bout me." You wanted to tell him you would be. You'd worry nonstop until you saw him again. You'd come to rely on him, but mostly you liked how you felt when he was around. "There'll be someone to walk ya' home from work every night. I can promise that."

You wanted to lean in and kiss him, but instead you threw your arms around his neck. He was so solid and warm, and the scrape of his facial hair on your cheek was somehow comforting. "But I'll see you tomorrow, right?" you asked, voice breaking on a sob.

"I'll see ya' tomorrow, love."

He didn't move an inch as you extracted yourself, and the sound of his receding footsteps could only be heard once you'd locked yourself inside.

💀

Part three

[honey-tongued-devil]

Arcane preference reacting to a s/o with a mental health issues (eating)

My disclaimer, as someone with this issue, I’m sorry if this isn’t what you wanted. I’ve actually been thinking about it for a while, but I was a bit cowardly about doing it, so I’m taking the opportunity now. I don’t want to go out of character, so I’m sorry if some characters come across as harsher than others. Unfortunately, I know I should write the name of the illness, but if I post it that way, Tumblr will take it down.

Jayce:

- He’s academically intelligent, but it takes him far too long to notice that something’s wrong. But you can’t blame him, it’s something so far removed from him that he couldn’t have understood it sooner.

- When he does realize, his first reaction is panic.

- Jayce can’t feel like just a blade of grass; he feels emotions deeply, taking on any blame, especially if something happens to the people he loves. His first thought is that he did something to make you feel that way, inadequate.

- But once the panic phase ends, the responsibility phase begins.

- He does the grocery shopping, he cooks, and his workouts become more regular, where he has you climb onto his back while doing push-ups or holds you in his arms during other exercises.

- He doesn’t know why you do it, but the quickest way to show you that your weight isn’t a problem is by showing you how easily he lifts you.

- And maybe, if you feel up to it, he can hold you in his arms with one arm supporting you while he cooks, letting you taste various ingredients.

Viktor:

- Unlike Jayce, it only takes two suspicious behaviors in a row for him to understand what’s happening. It’s something far from his world, sure, but he recognizes it.

- And he confronts you. He doesn’t beat around the bush, doesn’t stammer; he might even sound angry because he doesn’t understand why you’d hurt yourself like this and willingly give up your well-being.

- I won’t lie, I doubt that an open discussion about something this delicate with him wouldn’t lead to at least one hysterical cry.

- But he’s not brutal for the sake of being brutal; his suffering and frustration turn into anger. It takes him a while to calm down, but he won’t accept compromises.

- You’ll have meals together at home, either returning to your rooms together or straight to the house, so no one can see you and you won’t feel bad.

- And he won’t force you, he tries to handle it with as much care as possible, but there’s no day that goes by without him getting up from the table if you haven’t eaten at least two food items per meal.

- He loves you too much to see you hurt yourself in that way, and knowing that he can't do anything about it makes him feel powerless.

Ekko:

- It takes him a week—not to understand, but to process it.

- Having grown up in total poverty, the idea of giving up food “for whim” makes him react in a way that is only human.

- And the whole thing is too distant for him: everyone’s skin is grayish, 90% of the population of the Lanes has missing limbs and monstrous prosthetics, and everyone’s goal is to survive as long as possible. What does it mean that you’re against your own survival??

- As unsupportive as he might be regarding the issue, he becomes incredibly vigilant and concerned.

- He’ll always make sure you’re warm enough, that you’re comfortable, and no matter how frustrated he is, he’ll always try to stay close to you, even just holding you in bed until you fall asleep.

- Every single comment you make about your body, he’ll respond with, “Don’t talk about my partner like that,” 

- no one can speak badly of you, not even you.

Vander:

- The most understanding: he was young once too, and although in his size meant an advantage, he and Silco snuck into various galas when they were younger, and there, even though he never had these problems, he would feel a strange sensation seeing that he was the biggest in the room or that it was hard to find someone to steal clothes from that would fit him.

- He doesn’t lecture you or anything like that, he doesn’t get angry despite how he grew up; he just feels sadness for you that you can’t see how little that complex matters and how beautiful you already are.

- His compromise is vegetables. If you don’t feel like eating every meal every day, it doesn’t matter, but at least four days a week, you have to have three meals.

- And for the rest, he’ll cook, making sure to prepare the best dishes made from vegetables so that you don’t feel guilty and your body doesn’t deteriorate.

- But he doesn’t support your illness, he simply ensures that you get everything you need and never go below the necessary intake without having you feeling guilty about it.

Silco:

- Hoping that the most attentive and watchful man in the lanes wouldn't notice how, suddenly, meals go from moments of lightness to something you try to avoid at all costs is a bit foolish, but he says nothing.

- He waits for as long as necessary, basically to see how long it lasts and how much you're not planning to talk to him.

- When he realizes you won’t, not anytime soon, he waits for you to be alone in his office, where you’ll find a slice of cake on his desk. Sure, it’s a low blow, but it’s also the fastest way to get you to confront the issue without too many escape routes.

- He’s a big fan of the saying “dirty laundry is washed in the family,” so if you act strange about meals in front of others, he won’t allow questions or jokes, but in private, he won’t accept “no” for an answer.

- He has enough problems already without you crying from hunger pains or having psychotic episodes due to sugar deficiency, so as long as you're under his watch, under Zaun's eye, he won't let you live with unhealthy standards.

- During meals, he becomes the strictest. He doesn’t say anything, but one look is enough to make you think twice about contradicting him. In the evening, though, when your mental health is most fragile, he becomes gentler, comforting you as much as you need.

Jinx:

- You find fertile ground, but like any good bearer of the same issue: she feels she can do it, but you cannot.

- Being with her or in her space becomes like a live-action version of Thumbelina: she’ll leave sweets, chocolates, things she knows you like to encourage you to eat so you can’t hurt yourself.

- She usually forgets to eat herself when she’s caught up in her studies and work, but if she has someone to care for, it doesn’t matter how, she’ll make sure to remember. Even if it means setting a few colorful bombs with timers.

- She feeds you. In the most visible, worst way. It’s easy that if you turn your head, you’ll find a cookie shoved in your mouth unceremoniously.

- And every single tight-fitting outfit disappears from her lair. Magically, whatever clothes you pick up from her pile fit loosely, but if you ask her about it, she’ll claim she doesn’t know what are you talking about.

Vi:

- Want to see Vi in a panic, becoming super protective and possessive in a way? Just wait for one episode, and you’ll see everything you haven’t seen.

- She’ll check on you at least three times a day, and in the evening, when you have pain or a crisis, she’ll run back and forth from the room, thinking about everything she can do to help you feel better without making you feel guilty.

- During meals, she’ll hold you in her arms and insist that you eat, but not aggressively—in a way that’s almost frightened: she’s always been used to fighting big, real monsters, but even when it came to her sister, she could never defeat the invisible ones, and the fear of failing or hurting someone she loved again terrifies her in an agonizing way.

Caitlyn:

- Like Jayce, she’ll also try a more physical way of reassuring you, like body worshipping when you’re alone or working out with you to show you that your weight doesn’t matter.

- She doesn’t know how to react; she realizes it quite quickly but fears that by acknowledging it, she might only make you feel worse.

- One day, she gathers the courage to ask if everything is okay and tells you that she’s noticed those behaviors. When you open up to her, telling her about the issues, she doesn’t respond right away and simply hugs you.

- She becomes more caring, making sure that you don’t have to attend banquets or dinners where you wouldn’t feel comfortable, bringing you food in your room to eat together, and sometimes even leaving the room so as not to put pressure on you.

- When you mention a craving, she immediately springs into action to get it for you, even if you complain that you weren’t serious. Once she understands how your condition works, she orders everything in three portions, so she can eat with you and then be the first to say that she wants more, asking if you want to share the third portion.

- If you have fat accumulated in any area, she’ll knead it with her hands while kissing you, to let you know that she loves every inch of you.

Mel:

- She notices you're having a crisis before you even realize it yourself.

- She’s a ruler, but what she learned from a young age is that a leader must appear reliable and look good, so even if unconsciously, she too sometimes experiences small crises when she feels like she isn’t looking perfect.

- No conversations, no lectures, just an increase in cuddles, moments of intimacy, and later, she brings home sweets.

- “They were a gift to me today at the council,” she lies, but sometimes she says she got them for both of you.

- She doesn’t want to make you feel like you’re in the wrong.

- She knows that when you’re ready and if you want to, you’ll bring up the issue with her, but for now, the best thing she can do is help you get through the episode with euphoria, love, and treats that encourage you to listen to your hunger rather than the illness.

Sevika:

- Like everyone in Zaun, the idea that someone would voluntarily give up food is simply incomprehensible to her.

- But she won’t comment on your problems. She doesn’t intend to invalidate them, but she also won’t encourage it.

- “Are you sure? That’s a bit too little,” will be her comment when you eat something ridiculously small, before making you a proper portion of food herself. If you try to argue, she’ll respond with a smug smile, saying that if you eat that little, you’ll end up breaking when you’re in bed together.

- If a crisis is particularly bad, she’ll try to finish her work as quickly as possible to be able to stay with you for the rest of the day and not leave you alone.

- As much as possible, she’ll try to get the best, freshest, and most natural food, to reassure you that you don’t need to worry, but she’ll never insist that you eat if you say you don’t feel up to it.

- She’ll gesture for you to come sit on her lap and keep you there, occasionally offering you things she knows you like, telling you that she’s really craving them, and if you want them too, she’ll go get them.