#speaking to the void hehe ..

[iluknights]

honestly speaking this feels like my main blog more

[fairie-bread]

flops around on the ground.. i need to make…. tennis player ocs…….

[hanaasbananas]

been having SO MANY kanthony fic ideas while I'm at work, thinking up lines of dialogue and scenes for this completely self indulgent fic but goddamn it's like all my ability to write evaporates as soon as I get home what is thissss

[navxry]

Somewhat hilarious (to me) question:

When EBG ends, would y'all be interested to see a story explained when I'm done with Ruler of Love?

[realmforged]

what if 'a date with death' mc.....

[dreamrcven]

my brain yelling at me that while i love masuyo and her tragic love for miles, i want her to find love again and learn to move on... cough cough aka please ship with me cough

[rhaenyraeri]

Null and Void - Robert Reynolds x Reader

minors dni, 18+!!

Pairing: Robert Reynolds x Reader, technically if you squint Void x Reader? in the slightest way

Summary: After coming home from a delayed mission, you find Bob fighting with the Void. Taunted by his words, he decides to show Void just how much he doesn’t have you.

Warnings: Cucking the Void(!!!), so much dirty talk, fingering, minor choking, rough sex, reader tears up from the fucking lol

Word Count: 2.5k

first time writing a smut for our dear bob hehe

It started with silence— it always does. When Bob gets lost in his thoughts, thinking too deep into his insecurities. You noticed he was off during your last call with him, but he never mentioned it, so you didn’t pry. You’d gone on a mission with some of the New Avengers, and what was supposed to be a couple of days turned to almost a week. You’d called him one last time before the team went off the grid, telling him you’d be a day late. But here you were, five days later, just now getting to have contact with him.

As soon as you entered the apartment, you could tell something was off. It’s a deep silence. One that makes the air feel thick as it seeps into the room— almost suffocating. The living room was dark, the low hum of the fan kept the quiet from being deafening, and the only small source of light came from Bob’s bedroom. He always left at least a lamp on, just in case of nights like this when you’d come over during the later hours. But tonight, the gesture had been overlooked. A small voice slid through the crack of the door, indistinctly Bob’s. You slowly made your way farther into his apartment, shutting the door before quietly stepping towards his room.

“Bob?,” you spoke, voice low as not to disturb him. He was muttering, harsh but quick responses to a voice you couldn’t hear.

He’s sat on the edge of his bed, the lamp in the far corner being the only light to illuminate him. His elbows are bent on his knees, holding his head in his hands. His fingers tangled into his curls, the distress causing him to grip tight. He felt your presence, the calming aura you gave him radiated towards his unsettled one. He wanted to look up at you, to greet you and pull you close.

But he was here.

“Don’t look at her. Don’t speak to her,” he harshly whispered, his voice low and deep. You closed the door behind you, slowly making your way over to him.

“I said, don’t speak to her. She’s not yours, she isn’t for you.”

“Bob? Who’re you talking to?”

His head moved, almost looking in your direction before turning the other way and looking behind him. He was listening to something— or someone— that you couldn’t hear, couldn’t see.

Then it hit you.

The last time you’d seen him act this way was months ago, the last time that Void came around. You’d thought Bob made progress; he seemed happier now, more in control of his abilities and strength. Your heart broke for him, the feeling of remorse tightening in your chest.

“Is… is he back?” Your voice was small, but clear to him. He finally looked up at you. The usual warmth his eyes held for you was almost gone; like it was fighting to stay in his orbs.

“He never really left, I think. He started to show up a few days ago, but I shrugged it off. He only comes to me when I’m starting to feel safe again. Sometimes I think he’s right. He says I’m not good enough for you, that I’ll never deserve you… but he does. He thinks you should belong to him, not me.”

Your heart broke for him. Bob had always been nothing short of the best for you. There was no one else in this world that you’d rather call yours. You stepped closer to him, his eyes never leaving you as you approached him.

“Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t get to make that decision.”

She’ll grow bored of you. Too nice, too soft. Let me show her what power really feels like.

He stood up, stepping towards you suddenly. His taller stature towered over you as he cornered you against the wall you stood in front of. You could tell whatever Void just said to him pissed him off; his breathing intensified and the look in his eyes darkened, jaw clenched.

“I… I feel him,” he began, voice low and spoken through gritted teeth, “He’s just watching. Listening. It’s… He’s… getting off on this.”

The second you let your guard down, she’s mine.

He shook his head, still trying to fight Void’s comments about you.

You take a hand and run it through his hair, pulling his head down closer to you. Nothing more than a whisper, you lean into his ear and say, “Let him suffer. You’re the only one who can touch me, Bob. I’m yours.”

“Say it again, I don’t think he heard you clearly.”

“I’m yours, Robert. Only yours.”

It’s like a switch flipped in him. He kissed you harshly; it was sudden, probably bruising; it was dominant. One unfamiliar to you. He’s only ever kissed you with tenderness, like you were made of porcelain. Now, you felt his anger, his frustration. Not with you, never with you, but for him. His hands moved quickly, determined to get your clothes off as fast as he could, hands slightly trembling. It wasn’t just the lust now coursing through his veins, but it was possession… dominance.

His hand slid down your body tantalizingly slow— like he’s showing Void exactly what he can’t have. You whimpered as his fingers rubbed circles around your core, moving around you expertly. He made sure Void knew that he knew your body, not him.

“Already so wet for me,” he muttered against your neck, kissing right under your ear. “Always for me, isn’t it? Never for him.”

You nodded, whimpering a small little ‘hmm’ as a response. He slid two fingers into you— no warning, no slow ease, just rough desire. His other hand held the back of your neck, keeping you stable.

“He… sees this, doesn’t he?” you say through moans, panting as he stared down between your legs.

Bob nods, his fingers picking up the pace. “Yeah… Yeah, he does.”

Your voice dropped lower, whispering into his ear, “Let’s show him how good you make me feel. Let him suffer knowing he’s not the one sinking into me… he doesn’t get to feel me like this.”

He growls a low moan from deep in his chest. He crashes his mouth back onto yours, tongue slipping into your mouth, desperate to kiss you as deep as he could. His fingers were quick, ruthless, like he was showing Void just how real you were… how deep he could reach inside you. He could never— would never.

“You’re so wet… so desperate for me. Not him. Never, ever him.”

“Mmm, only you… Only for you,” you whimpered, nodding your head quickly. Your hands grip his shoulders as he doesn’t let up, his relentless pace making your legs start to tremble. Your orgasm is chasing you, running up behind you ready to push you over.

“Show him, baby. Show him how you fall apart for me. How much you need me,” he begged. You clench over his fingers, knowing you’re at the edge. He grinned— a dark, powerful grin. He took pride in making Void suffer.

“Go ahead, baby. Come for me, all over my hand… let him fucking watch you.”

You did as you were told, his fingers coated in your warm slick as you shook before him. Your hips jerked against his hand, trying to get him ever deeper inside you.

“Yeah… that’s it. Look at you… such a mess for me.” He whispered, taking his fingers out of your pulsing core. He rubbed your pussy, collecting more of your slick before bringing his fingers to his mouth. A small gasp escaped you as you watched him lick your come from his hand, savoring the flavor of your arousal like you were his dessert. Taking his fingers out, he muttered something. It was unintelligible, but harsh— he’d spoken to Void directly. He pulled you away from the wall just enough to slide his arms around your waist, throwing you over his shoulder. Bob was always so gentle with you, so polite with his touches— so much so that you forgot his abilities… his inhuman strength.

He tossed you onto the bed, making quick work of his own clothing.

You’re weak, Robert. Your body could never please her.

“Shut the fuck up,” Bob spoke, his voice louder and stern. His jaw tightened, scanning your body. “Just look at her. You’re torturing yourself knowing you’ll never feel how warm she is, how nice she takes me.”

He strokes his cock a couple of times and slams into you without warning, one deep and punishing thrust. You cry out, clutching his broad shoulders.

“Gonna fuck her until there’s nothing left for you. I’ll ruin her— oh, fuuuuck,” he moans, almost a growl as pleasure and anger course through him. His thrusts are deep, like he’s trying to bury himself so far into you that Void could never pull him out— showing him just how much he gets to have of you. You can tell when Void speaks to him; his thrusts hit harder and he snarls, almost like he’s holding back from verbally destroying him.

You look up at him, his eyes glowing gold just the tiniest bit, just as he shakes his head.

“You’re mine. Mine. Not his, you’ll never be his. He doesn’t get to have you like this, all warm and tight around me.”

You’ll fuck up and lose her. You know it.

Bob snaps, his hips slamming even faster into you. A hand wraps around your throat, the pressure making you close your eyes in bliss. The grip is tight, firm but still gentle. You weren’t sure of what he said to Bob, but you knew it pissed him off. His hand grounded you as he let his anger out, tightening just a little more.

“She’s so tight around me, gripping me like she doesn’t want to let go.” His other hand now gripped the headboard. “She’s. Still. Here,” he growls through his gritted teeth, a hard thrust of his hips hitting yours with each word.

Your body arched off the bed, hips moving to meet his. Your eyes began to fill with tears, the pleasure becoming almost enough to push you to your orgasm.

“Robert…” You moan loudly, using some force to push out a sound that wasn’t a whimper.

“Mmm, that’s right, baby. Say it again. Louder, make sure he hears you.”

This time, you screamed his name, with one of your hands gripping his upper arm and the other raising to touch his face. The hand he placed on the headboard came down to meet your hip, and he held onto you so tight you felt the bruising start to form.

“Good girl,” his voice is lower, cracking at the end. He wasn’t tired as his pace has yet to falter, but it was something deeper, more personal. It’s almost like he said it in a way where he’s in disbelief, stunned that you’re underneath him, and that you’re real. Something Void told him he’d never have— something real, someone real. To love forever, to be with until the end of his days.

“Oh, baby, you’re so fucking perfect. So goddamn perfect and you’re mine. Not his. You’ve always been mine.” His words come out strong, like he’s beating the idea into Void even harder.

The darkness started to fade from the room— you didn’t realize it, but it wasn’t just dark in the apartment, it was Void. He’d caused the apartment to become engulfed by his darkness, his evil.

Void began to silence himself. Bob wasn’t feeling that shiver creep up his back like he was there, watching as he made you unravel before him. It was just the two of you, finally.

But, Bob wasn’t finished.

He pulled out of you in one quick, solid movement and flipped you around onto the bed. His hand pressed into your back to hold you down onto the bed. Your fists grip the white sheets as his thrusts pick back up, causing your body to shake.

“I need the fucker to see this before he goes back to whatever shit hole he came from. I need him to understand that you want me like this. Need him to watch you take it— take all of me in that pretty pussy.”

His hand slides up your back, now placing his forearms on each side of you. Your loud, whiny moans mixed with his needy, gravelly ones as they filled the room, echoing off the walls and holding the two of you. He leans over you, his mouth at your ear as his breath sends chills up your spine.

“Tell me you love me, baby. Tell him that you love me, before the fucker leaves. Say my name.”

“Fuck, Robert, I love you so fucking much— mhmmm— there’s no man better for me than you.” Your voice sounds more like a prayer, sobbing the words to him as you whimper through the moans.

That’s what breaks him.

He groans into your neck, his hand reaching up to hold yours as his hips thrust a few more times, spilling inside you. It’s deep and hot, like he’s pouring everything he is into you— his body, his soul, his darkness. Almost as if he had finally exorcised the evil from himself, finally at ease.

You’d come with him, crying his name out into the pillow, your core clenching around him.

It’s silent now— the room, the Void.

He pulls out to lie beside you, pulling your exhausted body into his.

“I’m sorry if I was..”

“Don’t be,” you cut him off, knowing his next words, “You needed that, baby. I needed you.”

“He just.. he got back into my head. He was so loud this time. Just constantly telling me how I’d never be good enough for you, how I’d never deserve someone like you. I just wanted to disappear again.”

You turned so that your chest pressed against his, tilting your head up to look at him. The gold sheen in his eyes was now gone, leaving you to look into these beautiful brown eyes you’d fallen in love with.

“I know, my love.. I know. But you didn’t.”

“It’s.. it’s weird. I heard him fade away this time. That’s.. never happened before. I could feel him sinking away from me. Like each time you said my name he pushed him back into his own void. I hate him. I hate that he’s always here, just waiting to come for me again.”

You caressed his face, using your thumb to wipe at a tear starting to roll down his face.

“I know,” you whispered, leaning up to kiss his jaw, “but I’m here, too. And I always will be.”

He looked down at you, eyes filling up with more tears, “Don’t let go of me tonight.. need to keep feeling you.. how you’re real.”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He grabbed down at the blanket that was almost off the bed, unraveling it the best he could with one hand and pulled it over the two of you. It was quiet after that— a good kind of quiet.

He muttered your name once, in a whisper, like he just admired you— like a thank you. Like a lifeline. Like a forever.

[neunnnnnnn]

I SHIFTED!!!!

Y'all I shifted to my kpop GG reality!!! Which is funny because I don't even focus on it anymore 😭

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Storytime

So yesterday I was having an internal crisis and was literally questioning everything from why I'm I alive and what's the purpose of being here. And I was feeling really down. I journaled like 10 pages, cried then I decided to clean my room because it apparently clears out negative energy. I did all that meditated then went to sleep.

I was trying the distraction method by (@luckykiwiii101o1) but since it's a entering the void method I decided to try and shift with it. Long story short I fell asleep in the middle of it😂.

Next thing I know is I'm waking up in a room on my back and I can feel one of my band mates talk right next to me, she was sitted down next to the couch I was on. I looked around and I looked down at myself and I was wearing performing clothes. I got up and asked her if we were about to perform because there's was no way in HELL was I going to perform right after I've shifted 😭 and worst of all I didn't remember the script that I wrote for it , so I was a bit nervous. She told me it was all good and that we were actually done performing and we were heading home.

We changed and I was heading home and I remember finding it funny that I shifted when I was questioning existence.

We reached our shared dorms and I saw my KITTYYYY omfg 😭 she was so smalllll and cute!! Anyway I was looking around because like I said I haven't touched my script in a while so I forgot what I even wrote. One of my band mates was talking to me about how we had to travel to another city the next day because we were currently on tour and she was explaining to me how I had been sick the last week but since I was now okay I was going to be the first to have my solo performance😃🔪 hehe I said no.

But yeah, I spent like a week there before I wanted to come back just because I wanted to. To come back I went to sleep then I just said that when I go to sleep I'll wake up back in my cr and yeah I woke up🤷🏽‍♀️.

It was a fun week , I didn't get to see my s/o because he was also on tour in Europe and I was in south Korea, that honestly made me so mad and sad, I'll be scripting that I wake up next to him next time😭.

Oh and I forgot to mention we were speaking in Korean and I obv don't speak Korean. It was weird because when my s/o spoke to me I could hear him speak it but it was being translated in my head like idk how to explain it. He's talking in Korean,I can hear that but in my head I'm hearing it in English and I'm normally speaking back in Korean to him😂

Anyways Happy Shifting Y'all🩷

[moon-ttokki-x]

HIII MY LOVE

i was just wondering if you could do something with a foreigner!reader, who doesn’t speak korean, with han?? where they have a hard time communicating but they still wanna be together??

(btw if you have anons can i be 🪻??)

hi, love~ this was so cute, really interesting to write . this took a while but it was so worth it hehe . yes you can, my first emoji anon yayy . here you go~~

i want to understand you - (han jisung x female!reader)

pairing: idol!han jisung x female!reader

summary: the language barrier between you and jisung stops your true feelings from being communicated.

genre: angsty but happy ending, idol!au, reader is a stylist, mentions of injuries, blood, cuts, bandages, antiseptics, broken glass, jisung doesn't like being injured, chan's iconic smirk comeback, hints to chanlix and minsung, mentions of wrestling, kissing, nothing too intense i promise

a/n: this is one of my fav fics that i've written tbh . everything in bold + italic is spoken in korean. just a note !

skz masterlist

"How long have you been watching him?" Felix whispers into your ear.

"Huh?"

He smirks, nodding his head towards Jisung, who's currently messing about on set with Minho. "You've been watching him."

You scoff and push him away. "No, I haven't."

"Yes, you have."

Groaning, you brush past Felix and wander past the cameras to the other side of the MV set. It's almost midday; the sun beats down relentlessly on the pavements outside, bathing everything in a bright glow, but inside the warehouse, the lights are dimmed in shades of red, green and white, casting an eerie palette over the broken glass and haphazard items scattered about the dusty floor.

Your eyes wander to one of the camera tripods; 'ESCAPE FILMING' is written on a piece of masking tape and stuck to the side. Your gaze flits to Chan and Hyunjin; both of them are raggedy, slender figures in heavy coats and coarse clothing. They're busy talking to their manager; you duck off to the side and run straight into Felix again.

You groan. "Go away."

"Come on," he murmurs. "Go talk to him."

It's been almost a month since you took the job as a stylist with JYPE; it had been interesting, to say the least. The members took to you immediately, teasing and friendly within a couple of days. You were in awe; they were such professionals you'd been assigned to work around, but one of them had caught your eye.

Jisung.

You feel your cheeks warm as you watch him; Felix is motionless beside you, no doubt smirking, but your heart sinks as you hear the distant lilt of excitable Korean floating over the set to your ears.

"Y/n, go," Felix insists. "Talk to him."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" You whip around to face him. "I don't speak Korean, and he doesn't know enough English to be fluent in a conversation with me."

"He sings in English," Felix points out, adjusting the cuff of his hoodie. His black cap- Chan's cap- sits low on his head.

"That's because he has you and Chan to help him." You groan.

This would be so much easier if the rest of the members weren't here. You wonder what they're here for, anyway; they said they came to support Chan and Hyunjin while they filmed their music video, but you have a sneaking suspicion it was just to get out of an extra dance practice Chan scheduled for the remaining members while he was away. No doubt the maknaes' idea.

You'd fought to stay focused on doing Hyunjin's makeup that same morning; he hadn't missed the way your hand shook around your eyeshadow brush when Jisung had breezed in with a cheerful shout. If Hyunjin had noticed, he hadn't said anything, and the resulting makeup look had thankfully turned out just fine.

"Y/n."

You whip around so fast your neck hurts, and you almost trip over your own feet as you come face-to-face with Jisung. He's dressed casually, as most of the members are; his grey zip hoodie is slightly dusty, loose black jeans showing a peek of startingly white shoes beneath their hems.

His face is bare, void of makeup, and you can see the healthy pink flush on his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. His lashes blink away strands of un-styled, dark hair falling into his face; he sweeps it back effortlessly with two fingers, and his wide eyes fix themselves onto your own, a cheerful grin painting his lips.

You look around wildly for Felix to save you; he's conveniently disappeared into thin air, and you curse inwardly as you're forced to face Jisung once more. There's nowhere to run.

"Hi." Your voice sounds thin and awkward.

"Hi." He replies, an equally awkward but adorable smile curving his mouth further. Even the simple syllable sounds odd and unfamiliar to him, it seems. Tinged with his accent, the sound coming out of his mouth looks like he tasted something unusual; new and curious, but strange.

Foreign.

You stutter, unable to comprise a singular sentence. Even if you were able to at the moment, it's unlikely Jisung will understand. The past few interactions with him have shown you that.

You try anyway. "Did you need something?"

He blinks. Takes apart each word in his mind, turns his cognitive gears, and a dawning sense of confusion appears on his face despite the effort to understand. "Chan-hyung ruined his makeup again. He's busy with his outfit, but he sent me to ask you if you could quickly touch it up for him? If you're not busy..."

You're running, sprinting even, to keep up with Jisung's rapid pace of speaking. Korean tumbles out of his mouth in a smooth waterfall, each word naturally clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle.

For you, though, it's like looking at the completed picture upside down. It just doesn't make sense, and you can't tell what's he's asking by his tone like you have before.

"Chan?" You say, questioning. It was the only word you caught.

He nods once, then faster. "His makeup." He points to his leader, a distance away, who is redoing his belt and pulling on his coarse jacket for the next scene.

Jisung points to Chan again, then to his own face. He points to the crossbody bag across your waist, full of your stylist tools, and mimes swiping a brush across his cheeks.

"Oh," you say. "His makeup?"

Jisung nods frantically. You fight a smile; makeup and snacks are the only English words he seems to understand at the moment. Couldn't say you wouldn't have been the same way.

You nod once to him and awkwardly brush past him to go to Chan.

Jisung watches you go.

Chan turns round as you approach, bowing sheepishly as you pull several brushes and a chrome palette from your bag.

"Sorry for ruining it," he says as he closes his eyes. You chuckle and redo the look with a few simple strokes, and step back to make sure it's neat. You swipe a pinky across his cheekbone to remove any excess. "I saw you and Jisung talking."

You sigh. "Wasn't really talking. More..."

"Confusion?" Chan offers with a smile.

You poke him in the side and he shies away, grinning. "How long were you watching us?"

He shrugs casually, looking away. "The whole time."

You groan, cheeks flushing as he laughs. "I wish I could speak Korean fluently... Learning it takes so long, and there aren't any translating apps I can use on a day-to-day basis."

Chan does look at you then, expression empathetic. "I know it's inconvenient, Y/n, but you're making progress. Just keep at it, and while you and Jisung are both learning each other's languages, it'll become easier to communicate over time."

You look towards Jisung, who's currently reenacting the wrestling scene with Seungmin. Rapid, unfamiliar words tumble from the members' mouths at the speed of light as they laugh and clap, and you smile as Jisung emerges from underneath Seungmin with his dark hair covered in feathers.

You sigh. "I hope so."

Chan sighs, touching your shoulder in reassurance. Looking past you, he gazes fondly over the seven members, unaware of you both watching them, and chuckles. "I thought Hyunjin and I were gonna get this music video filming done fast, but... apparently not."

You smile. "I don't think they were too fond of having to do extra practice while you were away."

Chan rolls his eyes and you laugh as he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further. There's a yelp from behind you, and Chan whips around, faster than lightning. The members have gone silent.

You're both just in time to see Jisung fall off the mattress. His hand scrapes awkwardly along the floor, where tiny fragments of glass from the stunt filming earlier scatter throughout the dust. A deep red line opens up along his forearm, and Chan swears before dashing to his side.

You come up behind Felix, calling to one of the crew members to find a tissue and water as Chan sits Jisung down properly on the mattress, brushing aside feathers.

"Are you okay?" Chan asks in worry, cradling his member's hand.

Jisung winces as a wet rivulet of blood drops onto the floor. The rest of the boys burst into concerned murmurs, jostling to see. You push past Minho with a pack of tissues, handing them to Chan. Cracking open the top of a water bottle, you dampen the centre of a folded piece of tissue and dab it gently along Jisung's forearm. He groans and attempts to pull away, but his leader holds his arm firmly, murmuring reassurance.

"There's a spare room down one of the warehouse corridors," you say to Chan. "I went there earlier to set my things up. There's a first aid kit in there."

"Is there no one on set with one already?" He says, strained. You bite your lip and look to the crew, who all look away, seemingly distracted.

Chan actually growls then, making you recoil, and mutters something that might have either been a string of expletives or a complaint about crew disorganisation.

You suppose his reaction is justified either way.

Folding the water-damp, bloodied tissue, you tuck it into your pocket and stand up. "I can take him to the room there and clean the cut," you offer. "Might be easier without all the glass around."

Chan nods, holding a hand to Jisung to stand up. "I can come with both of you-"

"No," you say firmly. "Focus on filming with Hyunjin. It's getting late and I know both of you want to be done with it. I'll take care of him."

Chan bites his lip in anxiety, clearly struggling to make the decision between staying on set and going with Jisung, but Hyunjin puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's get the rest of the shots done, Chan-hyung," he says. "Y/n is more than capable of taking care of the injury."

You blink, not understanding, but it seems to be enough to reassure Chan, who nods and turns away. Hyunjin follows him, and the rest of the members meekly disperse behind the cameras, far quieter than before.

You wind between crew members and filming equipment before heading down the main back corridor of the warehouse, where a spare room splits off into four smaller rooms down the way. Heading into the second door on the right, you hold the door open for Jisung before pulling out the first aid kit from a duffel bag.

You point to a chair as he closes the door. The metal of the knob is scarlet as he lets go. "Sit."

He sits and you place the kit on the cabinet, unzipping a pouch and pulling out a bandage, an antiseptic wipe, and another pack of tissues. Trying to ignore your hands shaking as you do so, you feel your cheeks warm as Jisung shuffles on the chair, a muffled disturbance in the sudden stillness of the room.

You're alone with him.

Biting your lip in an all-too-aware consciousness of the situation, you pull a chair to sit next to him, setting down the items on the plastic table. He rests his arm on the surface as you rip open the antiseptic packet, and then pause.

Gingerly, you place a light hand on his wrist and pull his forearm closer to you, beginning to gently swipe the wet wipe across the cut. A faint smell of chemical rises in the air, and Jisung discreetly exhales, making you crack a tiny smile.

His forearm is tense; you can see the stress of the situation, visible in his body language. The wipe clearly stings him, becoming redder by the minute. He lets out a tiny start, obviously fighting to keep quiet.

You can see him beginning to squirm, his bottom lip caught flush between his teeth as he chews on it in distress.

"Jisung," you say softly, pausing the cleaning to give him a break. "It's okay. You're doing well."

He doesn't respond, focused on the wound. Then, taking a deep breath, his wide eyes meet yours and he gives a tiny nod, signalling for you to continue.

You've cleaned about half of the injury's surrounding area; feeling unbelievably bold, you stroke a gentle thumb across the inside of his wrist as you swipe scarlet off his bare skin, attempting to calm him. He relaxes suddenly, and the exhale of a deeply-held breath fans lightly across your face, stirring your hair. It does nothing to cool the tension building between the both of you.

You fumble to stuff the used, damp wipe back into the packet. Jisung's eyes follow you intently; he seems to have recovered from the initial shock of injury.

He watches curiously as you tilt your head to the side, inspecting the cut, before unravelling a length of a clean rolled bandage. You lay it flat on the clean table before unwrapping four sheets of fluffy gauze, laying it on top. You undo the top off of a small tube of ointment.

"What's that?" He says.

There's a clear question in his tone; taking a wild guess, you hold up the tube. He nods.

"This? Ointment. It's to keep the wound moist," you reply. You're not sure why you bothered; he doesn't understand it anyway, and he just nods politely before continuing to gaze at the tube, most likely attempting to piece its use together in his head.

You let out a tiny sigh, almost fuming at the inconvenience of it all. You want to talk to him, understand him. But you keep quiet, clamp it down, and continue to smear the cream gently across the wound edges with a finger.

He's no longer watching the application of the cream, though; his gaze is fixed intently on your face, as if he's trying to see through you to the other side of the room. You know he's watching; you can feel his eyes burning into you, and you bite the inside of your cheek, attempting to keep composure.

"Y/n," he says softly.

You gulp and look up, pausing your ministrations. He tilts his head to the side, a strange look taking over his features. It's no secret to either of you that you can't understand the other; it seemed to you that Jisung was just never as bothered by the language barrier as you were.

Apparently not.

"Thank you for taking care of me," he says simply. Taking a deep breath, he hopes inwardly that you haven't learnt too much Korean yet, and continues to talk. "I wish I could speak more English, enough for us to communicate. I'm sorry I never told you that before. I know it makes you sad."

Silence.

"I don't know what you're saying," you murmur softly, a look of longing and resignation taking over your expression.

"I don't understand you."

You lean one hand under your head. "I wish we could communicate."

"I wish we could talk properly... This is so frustrating."

Sighing and giving up completely, you tap his wrist, and he brings it closer to you so you can wrap the injury. Delicately placing the gauze sheets along the cut, you begin to firmly wrap the bandage around his forearm, taking care not to cut off his circulation in the process. Securing the bandage with a clip, you stand and begin to dispose of the packets and tissues.

Jisung stands too, unsure, like he's waiting for direction. He opens his mouth to say something, but your thoughts are beginning to run away with you, and you speak them aloud before he has a chance to say anything.

"I wonder what things would have been like if we both spoke the same language." You throw the packets in the bin.

Jisung seems to be lost in his own thoughts too. "Maybe I could ask one of my hyungs to teach me English... or Hyunjin! He knows English too! He might be able to help..."

Yet again, the names of one of his members is the only word you can recognise amongst his rapid-fire speech.

"Hyunjin?" You say. "What about him? Did- should I go get him?" You groan in exasperation and throw your hands out, knocking the ointment off the cabinet from where you've just set it down. "What are you asking for?"

"Sorry, I don't know what you're upset about, but maybe I can ask Chan-hyung and Hyunjin for advice on what to do... Unless you've already talked to them..."

"I bet you'd sound so different talking in English," you're beginning to fume, and you feel bad, because none of this is Jisung's fault. He's Korean, he speaks it, so why are you getting so upset about not being able to communicate through the same language?

Both of you are practically talking to yourselves now; Jisung is clearly lost on another planet, seemingly recovered from the injury. You're beginning to feel yourself sink, no longer nervous around him. Now, you just feel a desperate longing.

To talk. Actually talk.

"Changbin-hyung told me that you don't speak much Korean, but maybe I could teach you? Ah, that wouldn't work, because I'd have to teach you in English first..."

You bite your lip. A dangerous thought crosses your conscience; you could just tell him. About how you feel. He might not even know what you're talking about. He probably won't.

Hopefully.

You decide to risk it. Even if he does understand, you can easily play it off as a translating mistake on his part. No worries.

"Jisung," you say cautiously.

He snaps out of his endless train of thought, and locks his gaze with yours. Like a soldier called to attention.

"Y/n," he says cheekily, though you can see his confident demeanour faltering.

"I really want to be able to talk with you," you continue. "Properly. But maybe it's a good thing we can't understand each other. I can say I love you without you understanding... Gosh, Hyunjin would have a field day making fun of us idiots. Not being able to communicate..."

Jisung blinks. Once. Twice. You see the flutter of his lashes, the cogs turning in his head, and then, very hesitantly, he steps closer. Like you're a wild animal he's trying not to spook.

You take a step back. He takes another forward.

So you step back again. Your back hits the cabinet.

Shit.

Jisung cocks his head; he looks exactly like his quokka counterpart. You blink as he frowns suddenly, then presses his hands together, slipping his fingers in a pattern over the newly wrapped bandage on his forearm.

Around and around and around. And then-

"You love Hyunjin?" Even without understanding, his tone is incredulous. Disbelieving.

"What about Hyunjin?" You say in confusion. "Clearly I've done something wrong, as your tone is telling me, but what does he have to do with it?"

Jisung groans, frustrated. "All this time. I was so happy you came to help me... I thought there might have been something between you and me, but you were just being helpful. Hyunjin, of all people."

You huff. "You keep saying 'Hyunjin' and yet, I still have no idea what you're saying."

Jisung scoffs. "Okay, relax! You don't need to keep talking about how much you love him! I get it... Damn, I'm stupid."

"...Well, you stopped saying his name, but I still don't know what you're talking about, Jisung."

"I wish I could understand you, Y/n."

"I wish you loved me."

"I want to know you. I would never let anyone hurt you, ever... But clearly, I'm not fit for it... I can't even put together a sentence in your language. How am I supposed to love you when I can't even do that?"

Your voices are rising at this point, swelling to fit the room. They mix in the air and rain down in shards, sparkling shards of glass that seem to hurt more than Jisung's forearm injury did.

Every glittering remnant makes your eyes sting until you feel a salty wetness coating your cheeks. The frustration is spilling out of you, the unfairness and utter inconvenience of it all drowning you in tumultuous, crashing waves until you are swept under the dark, powerful current, falling and falling and clawing upwards to air, to breathe, to him, but it doesn't work.

"Why can't things just be easy for once?" You cry out at him. He jolts, taken aback. "I just want to love someone, and here you are, yet I can't even tell you that I love you. I love you, Jisung, and you'll never, ever understand, and it's all my fault because I don't know any Korean enough to talk to you."

He's frozen. Pale as a ghost. And then the colour rises so fast to his face that you step forward, afraid that he might collapse or pass out or experience some other type of wildly unexpected medical occurrence that would probably make your current situation even more upsetting than it already is. If that's even possible.

"Me?" He says. His voice is shaky, strained. "You love me? Not Hyunjin?"

"Fuck, Jisung, this has nothing to do with Hyunjin. Forget about him, I'm talking about you. You might as well know since we can't fucking communicate. Do you even know what I just said, or do I just sound like an angry chicken?"

A look of understanding begins to dawn incredibly slowly on his face. He points to himself, in disbelief but still rather unsure about what you're saying. "Me?"

"Yes, you, you absolute idiot. Shit."

Jisung looks at his hands, then points to himself. He cups his hands and shakily rearranges his fingers, making a comical depiction of a heart. "You?"

"That is the most shit heart I've ever seen you make," you huff. You point to yourself, dramatically enunciating as if he was a child unable to understand anything more than the colour of the sky.

"I." You jab a finger repetitively into your chest.

"Love.." You make a heart, bending your index fingers and pushing your hands towards him. Like he could just take your love the way something might take a glass of water offered to them.

"You," you stab a finger in the air again and again, pointing to him. There's no way he's confused now.

He's still standing there, eyebrows raised, confused and in disbelief. Your mind whirrs.

How can I possibly make this any clearer? I don't know what else I'm supposed to do now... Maybe I should just brush it off and give up. The others must be wondering where we are. Hey, I bet Chan and Hyunjin are finally done filming-

Jisung's mouth crashes desperately onto yours.

Your back throbs as it's pressed against the cabinet; his chest bumps yours and your hands fly to his shoulders, clutching him as if you're drowning. A gasp slips out of your mouth before it's swallowed up; Jisung tilts his head and it's all you can do not to let your knees buckle under him.

You can feel his hair tickling your forehead as he gulps in half a breath of air, so soft, so impossibly soft, like pinfeathers under your fingers just as you'd imagined it to be. You tug him back in, gripping the neckline of his hoodie, trying to make him realise, trying to communicate everything you've been saying without saying anything at all.

He doesn't seem to care about the injury on his arm anymore, and one hand moves to cradle the back of your head, pulling you impossibly closer. He's not just kissing you, he's pouring thousands upon thousands of words into you, words he can't ever hope to tell you and words you won't ever understand.

But you do understand.

He pulls back, gasping. Your foreheads bump clumsily against each other's and he holds you fast, panting.

"Jisung," you gasp.

"Y/n," he replies breathlessly. "I love you. I love you."

You finally have some clue as to what he's saying. "I love you too."

He nods frantically, his nose brushing your cheek as he nuzzles into your neck, so hard it almost hurts. But you can't find it in yourself to care, returning the crushing affection with as much strength as you can muster, fuelled by relief and love and irrevocable joy and Jisung.

The hasty explanation of your feelings all this time evaporates off your tongue, burning into ash. You sweep it into a corner of your mind and dust the rest off Jisung's shoulders.

Chan clears his throat.

Both you and Jisung spring apart as if burned. Chan stands in the doorway, arms crossed as he leans against the frame. There's a delighted smirk painted across his face, the remainder of his dark, raw makeup smudged and faded. There's a feather in his hair, and he regards the two of you with a cool stare.

"So," he says slowly, clearly fighting the urge to tease. He speaks in English and Korean, so that both of you can understand.

Chan adjusts his coarse jacket. "Did you two finally manage to communicate? Did you finally manage to talk properly?"

Jisung grins.

a/n: div by @aquazero

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[avocado-writing]

being the worst wolverine’s wife and one day you get zapped by the TVA for whatever reason, and it looks like you completely disappeared, this is what leads logan to become depressed, start drinking and ultimately ignore the x men when they die etc etc

he goes with wade purely bc he would if you were alive- he couldn’t give less of a shit about wade’s universe but he can feel you over his shoulder like an angel telling him he needs to do this (i imagine it’s like the jean hallucinations he had in the wolverine movie)

what if you’re in the void and he finds you with the rest of the group, like being unable to believe you’re really here?

hehe i love angst and ily avo <3

I already did a “Logan meets you in the void” fic here so I didn’t wanna make this too long or I’d just end up hitting the same beats!

1.4k. rated m for excessive use of the word “fuck”

The day you disappeared you took his fucking soul with him. 

You had been out shopping. Nothing weird about that, he wasn’t some overbearing husband who demanded to know your location every single hour. But then afternoon had turned into evening had turned into night and nobody had heard from you. The unfamiliar sensation of panic had risen, queasy, from his stomach into his chest. They sent out a search party and looked for days. Not a trace of you to be found. Logan couldn’t smell you. Fuck, he’d never not been able to smell you before.

He would hunt for you every day, hoping to find you alive but trying to level with the idea of you being cold and dead because at least then he’d have closure; he’d stay awake for hours on end until he collapsed from exhaustion… then he’d wake up and repeat the whole horrible affair. Nothing. After weeks of searching, Charles had laid a hand on his arm. Logan can still remember the look of pity on his face, like a bomb to the gut. 

“I’m so sorry, Logan.”

They had to assume you were abducted and killed. Your body never turned up. And Logan just had to… keep going. How was he meant to keep going? You were his entire fucking life and then you were just…

Gone. 

To say he was left empty was the biggest understatement of his fucking life. He was a shell of the man he once was. He never laughed any more, never smiled, always trying to plug the hole your absence left in him with whatever alcohol he could get his hands on. Drink himself to a place where he could forget you.

It never really worked. At least it made him numb to the pain though. 

When he staggers home one evening, eyes bleary and head spinning, and finds the whole mansion torched? Everyone left that he loved fucking dead? Well, it takes the last vestiges of his existence and crushes them into dust. 

Oh, Logan, he hears in the back of his mind. Your voice. It breaks him. He falls to his knees, hands buried in the burning timbers, and wails. 

He survives. He does not live. Thinking about everyone he’s lost, with you haunting the corners of his consciousness, always reaching out to comfort him - but when he goes to nuzzle into the warmth of your palm he is overcome with rage and bitterness to find it’s just his own imagination playing tricks on him. 

Then a fucking idiot in red dragged him away from the shambles which was his life and forced him to be functional again, if only barely. He’s angry, so angry all of the goddamn time, even when in the back of his mind he can hear you speaking sweet, calming words to him. 

And then he hears your voice for real. 

Sees you standing across the base this pathetic resistance has made. You look older, sure, he does too - but there’s no mistaking the fire in those eyes. You’re even wearing the same fucking shirt you went missing in, he remembers it, it has a picture of your favourite band. 

His heart stops dead in his chest as you whisper his name. 

“Logan?”

“Oh shit!” says Wade, and Logan has never wanted to kill him more, “Oh shit! Is this your refrigeratored wife, coming back to throw in a third act character arc?”

Logan finishes the bourbon bottle and throws the empty at Wade’s head, where it shatters and knocks him flat. You wince at the violence and he feels like pure shit. 

“I’m fine,” Wade calls from the ground, sticking a thumbs-up into the air. 

“Logan, I…” you clearly want to say something, but you have not been met with the Logan you knew. That Logan would have spent no time running to pick you up and hold you in his arms. This one half-snarls at the man he bloodied on the floor. 

There is an agonising silence, both of you wanting to speak but not being sure how. You take a hesitant step forward. 

“I never thought I’d…”

“How do I know it’s you?”

You recoil like he’s stabbed you with his claws, confusion and hurt flooding your face. Goddamn. He is the worst man alive. He’s not sure if he’s saying it because he just wants to lash out at the nearest person, or…

… or if, because he gets his hopes up, it might just kill him to have them crash down again. 

“What?”

“All these fuckin’ timelines. How do I know? How can I be sure that you’re you?”

The sadness in your face melts away into anger. When you step forward this time, you’re on the warpath. He sees the others in the room cringe, trapped now in this caustic reunion. 

“How can you be sure it’s me? Fuck, Logan, I knew it was you, didn’t I? What do you want? You want me to show you the shitty tattoo I got after we first started dating and we were both drunk?” You lift your sleeve to reveal a little design on your shoulder. “Want me to tell you how an eighteen-year-old Marie was my bridesmaid and she cried because she didn’t think anyone would ever be that kind to her after living as a mutant again? Want me to fucking remind you that in my vows I said I would be by your side, for fucking ever, no matter what - and how when that TVA agent zapped me when I was out for the day and I ended up here, it was only the thought of fulfilling those vows which kept me going? How about all that, or do I fucking need to humiliate myself more?” At this, you gesture to the others who have lined up at the side of the room, trying to look scarce but utterly failing. 

Your shoulders are heaving with emotions, tears hot and heavy in your eyes but not yet spilling over. Logan grits his jaw. Yeah. It’s you. 

“I…” he starts, but trails off when he realises there’s nothing he can say. You shake your head, numb. 

“Fuck you, Logan Howlett,” you spit, words you’ve never ever thrown his way before, and run out of the room. 

“Wow. Aced that one, peanut,” says Wade, and Logan rips off one of his legs. 

He finds you several hours later at a campfire outside the rundown building which makes up headquarters. LeBeau has clearly been kind enough to part with some of his liquor, because you’re gulping down whiskey like it’s air. You stare at him, embers dancing in bitter eyes. 

“What do you want?” you snap. He grunts as he sits down opposite you, either from age or exertion. Stares into the flames. 

“I never stopped looking,” he manages. 

You blink. 

“What?”

“I never…” he shifts uncomfortably. It’s been a long time since he bared this much of his soul. “I never stopped. Even when the others told me to give up, that I would only make it worse for myself, I’d still search. Couldn’t face the idea you weren’t there any more.”

It’s true. If he was twelve bottles deep he’d be looking, if he was hungover as a dog he’d be looking. When the rest of the X-Men were still there and even after they weren’t. If he wasn’t sitting at a bar he was on the streets, ever a bloodhound trying to catch your scent again. 

For the first time you soften. 

“Oh.”

“So… when I asked if it was you… ah, fuck. I didn’t mean to come off as an asshole. Just couldn’t live with it if it wasn't true. Wasn’t real.”

When you stand he expects a slap. He deserves it. What he doesn’t count on is you sitting down - not on the log next to him, but in his lap. He hasn’t felt you do that for so long, and it’s so good. Your warmth on his thigh. You grab one of his hands, still larger than yours, and press it to your chest so he can feel your beating heart. 

“I’m real, Logan. I’m right here, baby,” you whisper, eyes dewy. Fuck. His are as well; he can’t help it. He’s overwhelmed by you, your feel, your gaze, your smell. He’d forgotten how much he loved it. 

Logan noses upwards against you, searching for your lips, and you let him find them. When you stroke his hair he can feel the wedding ring on your left hand. The kiss is desperate, longing, and the best one he’s ever had. 

“Right here,” you repeat, forehead against his. He grips you so tightly that it’s possible he’ll never let go again. 

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Without you." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

Summary: As the two of you navigate the mysterious and sometimes turbulent waters of falling in love, a devil in angel's clothing threatens your life, managing to keep you quiet. Until Daryl finds out...

@gunnerblue21: So cool! I just found your content yesterday and so far im loving what im reading so youre amazing in my books lol so, for my request, i was wondering if you could write a story where back in the prison era, daryls girl best friend is secretly being harassed by one of the guys from woodbury, he knows that reader and daryl have a friends with benefits relationship secretly and threatens to out the reader to everyone about their secret if she tells anyone about about his harassment. When the dude from woodbury takes it too far one day and beats up the reader for trying to run from his abuse, daryl finds out and finds reader, he deals with the harassment his own daryl way lol im sorry if its long, i just really love protective daryl energy especially when its someone he really loves.

A/N: I felt some nice things with this imagine, hehe Promise it's not THAT boring, but I do hope the person who asked for this like it at least a little. Sorry for saying your name! I generally don't like the "she's mine" thing, but with Daryl I can break that rule. A warning about the sexual harassment theme in this story! although it's not very explicit. To everyone who has been harassed in any way, I'm so sorry. I still don't know why we keep silent, feeling guilty about our weakness to speak up and defend ourselves, ultimately feeling like we deserve that experience. I hope everyone can recover from that. There are surely mistakes, but it's 3 am and I have a baptism tomorrow, so I'll correct them as soon as possible. Thanks as always!

Your breathing is soft, but almost nonexistent in the void of the silent prison after the night swallows the sun, so silent that it forces Daryl to slide an arm around your waist, breaking the distance he promised himself to keep with you, searching for your warm skin beneath your short–sleeved shirt, fingers tickling your flesh with just a touch to elicit a slight movement from you, always accompanied by a sigh, a proof that you're still alive.

Sleeping together was not part of the deal, but a rule he broke long ago when, amid a world fractured by thunderous noises (guns, screams, curses), the gentle sound of your breathing helped him sleep.

Far from being a romance, the bittersweet story between the two of you began when you appeared that sweltering afternoon in the city alley next to Glenn, aimless walkers wandering the world, ruling it, and yet, his petulant, sarcastic, and judgmental, though always alert gaze, matched his condescension and hopeless and even somewhat dark comments that day—real, you couldn't deny it—but unnecessary, until it all ended in an argument between the two of you (the first of several along the way), with his true belief that he knew best shining brighter than the scorching sun.

Blue eyes like an ocean too dangerous to swim in stared at you relentlessly, a clear warning not to come closer, infested with trauma like sharks in the water.

“Ya wanna die, woman?”

That was his response to your desire to rescue Glenn when he was kidnapped, underestimating the only thing you had at hand and within you: a weapon you barely knew how to use, and an insatiable desire to live and help people. Daryl wasn't selfish, you could see it in his deep gaze—along with a somewhat terrifying intensity—it was just his own fervent wish not to die with that sharp pain under the hands and teeth of the undead, and yet, that didn't prevent the feeling inside you. You hated Daryl so deeply you could taste it on the tip of your tongue, an almost metallic taste.

“There are worse fates than death.”

Your words echoed in him the entire time it took you all to return to the camp outside Atlanta, everyone finally safe, momentarily.

Losing his brother made him withdraw from the back—and—forth conversations, sometimes empty, never deep because everyone wanted to leave the past in the back of their heads when the present and future felt like stepping into a minefield, but Daryl was always ready for the hunt and feed the people, bringing in small animals (after losing that deer and taking out his frustration on that already–finished walker) leaving them quietly near Carol or Lori, before retreating to the solitude of his tent.

Yet you always ran into each other in that small space, by chance or when Rick started to lead the camp in his endless attempt to keep everyone alive. Arguments between such different people became normal, something routine, but you were one of the few who let him go off the deep end, with the annoying and loud way Daryl used to snap at others, highlighting their lack of survival skills, with you ending the pointless conversation with a whatever, leaving him incredulous, with a frown so deep it hurt and the incandescent desire to throw a curse at you that he swallowed.

A new life had begun when that new world arose, stained with the blood of those who perished along the way, and although Daryl was always calm and ready to survive—amid his short temper that sometimes put him at risk as well—the annoyance that settled in his chest when he saw you, laughed in his face, turning the table where his cold apathy rested.

You were beautiful to look at, and the way you wrinkled your nose before smiling caught him like a poor rabbit in a trap, falling into his own trap, turning him into a prey, pathetic, vulnerable, and weak, and Daryl hated you even more for it. He hated you because you made that gesture especially with Glenn, as if you could destroy all your walls around yourself when you were with the Chinese boy (even though Daryl knew he was Korean) only to build them up again when you were with him. Daryl didn't recognize it as jealousy, even though it was, in all its splendor.

Daryl Dixon wasn't used to calling people with sweet names (they were a punch to his masculinity), but he found himself calling you lil' bunny, using that false sweetness that carried all his sarcasm in that moment. And those words were a mockery of your entire existence, you knew it, as if you were weak. But with what would happen later, you managed to convince yourself that you were.

But your sass almost matched his own, turning you into a dream Daryl dreamed at night and a nightmare during the day, and yet, he began to look for you with his eyes when the day began, always making sure you were somewhere safe, always making sure you were in his line of sight. And maybe it was staring at you too much that made him think of you differently, almost sinfully, thoughts so shameless and impure that they made him blush or feel the heat on the tips of his ears and inside his pants.

Sometimes, just seeing you exist there in the middle of the woods made him feel things that were warm, and unpleasant, and totally foreign to him. Life had been a bitch to Daryl, so unfair that it was hard to believe those things had happened to a kid (like something out of fiction, out of the most twisted mind), but they were real and they happened, and all the experiences he'd lived through built who he was—though he'd eventually put it all behind him. Daryl was hurt, both physically and emotionally, so battered and broken that he was unable to feel big, good things, keeping the wounds of war in the shadows after he'd barely escaped from that hostile place alive: his own home, ironically.

The iron blows of his parents' fists sank into his body and played cruel tricks on his mind until that little angel with blond hair and blue eyes had his tiny wings ripped off and he was convinced that heaven never existed, and that he deserved hell. So for Daryl, this new world was just a new kind of hell he knew how to live in.

Although he had also managed to chuckle a few times, a short, harsh sound, always accompanied by his usual sarcasm, like that day you two had to find a car to get back to camp when night fell, too dark and dangerous to walk.

The damned engine resisted, stubborner than a mule.

“Go ahead, give it some gas. Jus' a lil'.” You turned the key that was connected to the car, hearing a dry, harsh sound that Daryl tried to stop with a rap on the hood, his eyes finding yours between the slits. “Stop! I said a lil'!”

“That was a little.”

“No, that was too much.”

“How am I supposed to know when too much is too much, Daryl?”

“Ya listen, and if it sounds like too much, then s' too much.”

You frowned, confused and irritated.

“You're too much.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What?”

A moment later, the car decided to cooperate, but when Daryl got in, slamming the door with a little too much force than necessary, your body tensed in the seat as he drove back, opening his stupid mouth to just snarl at you like a child. And as always, you let him talk until he shut up.

“Bite me, asshole.”

Though with all the dirty thoughts about you piling up in his mind, a pile so high he could no longer see the end of it, Daryl didn't know if that was an insult or an invitation.

His temper was a roller coaster that went up and down so violently that a crash seemed imminent, with you always feeling like it would all be over in a second, catastrophic, making you feel unstable. But among the things that could be salvaged about Daryl, it was his undeniable, indelible desire to protect people—his people. Behind his apparent apathy, there was a need to make sure everyone was safe.

You had seen it, you had felt it. Between the unspoken words and the stares that trapped each other, even between the layers of his false hatred for you, he would often stand in front of you at any sign of danger, when things felt deadly, one arm extended in the air to guide you behind him while Daryl used his own body as a shield for you at the same time.

By the time you all arrived at the CDC, the fake place that seemed like a fairy tale (too perfect to be real) gave you a false sense of security, and beneath four walls that promised a safe and even promising future, Daryl dared to do what he never thought he'd be capable of.

That night, when there was no one left, not a soul wandering the world, there was only him and you, and his hand that closed around your waist in the kitchen. With your back to him, your body tensed, his heat invading your senses until you were drunker, even after all the wine at dinner, but when you felt his breath on your hair and recognized his full presence, the confusion of pulling away and pressing yourself against his body, which was already too close, was so great that the line between them blurred.

“Tell me to stop. Please.” You closed your eyes as his calloused fingers, the result of a lifetime of working with them, pressed against your stomach, and it contracted every muscle in your body, awakening a scorching heat inside, right where he was touching and a little lower. “Can I keep goin'?”

You nodded. And the rest was history.

Daryl just needed to get you out of his system, give his body the answers to that question in his head: what would it feel like to touch you, to feel you pressed against him, naked? Part of him hoped to feel in his own body that your time together would be a disaster so he could move on, but the problem was, it wasn't at all.

Shit, you were passionate even in intimacy, your hands pressing his body against yours the entire time that night lasted. And like becoming addicted to the most dangerous drug in the world, he and you started looking for each other again after that, even after the explosion of that place, during the time at the farm. Being between your legs, doing something other than thinking, blocked out the outside world and all the dangers and sadness it brought. Daryl always started there, especially when the whole dysfunctional but close–knit family arrived at the prison and that gave you two a kinda decent bed instead of the floor of a tent, when time gave you all a break.

Then you started to think that the more you cared for someone, the more vulnerable you were to a broken heart. But between the way you started wrinkling your nose when Daryl actually said something that might have been funny (sometimes unintentionally because he had no sense of humor) he started to let his interest in you show, though only one person outside of the original group seemed to notice.

Among the people of Woodbury, existed someone who hid his empty heart beneath the facade of being a good boy, always willing to lend a hand. Like new lives in a new environment, everyone struggled to adapt to that kind of normalcy, trying to collaborate to ensure the well–being of others. You among them, because you were kind or tried to be, eager to build a true future for the adults and especially the children, until that person mistook your good wishes for weakness.

One night, dressed again and breathing more calmly, Daryl and you existed in silence because life was simpler that way, less lonely, side by side in bed, but not touching, leaving a small space between you two, until he took a small rock from his pants that seemed even smaller in his large hands. It had no sharp corners, only smooth, smoothed edges.

It seemed polished, soft against your fingers, a reminder that not all that is hard is rough.

He handed it to you silently.

“Are you proposing to me penguin–style?” You joked with him, laughing when Daryl scoffed to mask the feelings he’d genuinely tried to keep from growing too much, but that were already spilling over the edge of his soul.

And as you inspected the stone under the dim light of the candle on a nearby table, Daryl took in the profile of your face, the tip of your nose, the edge of your lips, the ones he used to press against his, a demanding hand on the back of your head to keep you in place, and that sparkle in your eyes that seemed to glimmer with the power of a star.

“Thank you.” You meant it, but when you turned your head to look at him, Daryl looked away again, his eyes lost in the space between the cracks in the ceiling. “I’m truly grateful for this, so I apologize for all the times I cursed you too loud.”

Daryl frowned, his gaze searching yours, brave enough to do anything when it wasn't about feelings.

"Yer not loud, yer quiet as shit."

"In my head, I've cursed you in every way possible, very loudly. So I’m sorry.”

Again, a scoff, almost accompanied by a roll of his eyes as he settled back onto the uncomfortable mattress, closing his eyes as the weight of sleep began to overcome him, an arm draped over his face.

"Whatever. Now shut up, I wanna sleep."

Confused, and slightly offended by his sweet personality, your eyebrows tried to knit together.

"Are you going to sleep here?"

There was no annoyance in your voice—so you weren't chasing him away.

"I don' wanna walk back to ma cell."

And even with his eyes closed, you could see a new kind of ocean in his eyes, safe, peaceful.

You shrugged even though he wasn't looking at you, putting the rock in your pocket for safekeeping before closing your eyes as well. But when reason stumbled for an instant, you knew it was stupid to fall for Daryl—the person at your side who could be as much of a jerk as he was handsome—with his long hair now and those damned arms exposed, clearly hard to the eye even when he wasn't flexing them.

Daryl was intimidating, walking silently with his steely gaze that made people fear and respect him at the same time. His imposing figure was scary, but none of that mattered when everyone noticed that he genuinely cared for all and for you, in a selfless way.

And all of that made someone truly hate him.

Sean was charming, the opposite of Daryl's exterior: smiling, falsely warm, so kind at first glance that he offered to entertain the children in the library to distract them a little from the reality on the other side of the gates. And that's when it happened for the first time: his hand pressed against your backside in the solitude of that hellish place, empty after everyone left, so violent it froze you there, like a little rabbit that knows it will be devoured in the cruelest way possible.

“What are you—?”

Your stuttering made him smile, laughing at your fear, which crushed you cruelly, like a blow to the stomach that knocked all the wind out of your body. You knew there were still bad, unscrupulous people, but you didn't expect to find one in that place. A sick desire shone in his green eyes, a feline that played with the mouse's body even after it was dead, because deep down, he enjoyed that macabre and perverse pleasure of knowing he'd ended a life and could continue to amuse himself with the remains, of knowing he could do whatever he wanted with his victim.

You were never a victim, but he turned you into one in a single second, silently, taking away pieces of your will to live little by little.

And the harassment began that night, and not gradually, but escalated with such brutality that it made you vomit. Why didn't you say anything? Maybe you knew, maybe you didn't; maybe it was all the reasons, and because you couldn't find any that made sense. The fear of speaking up and made him being kicked out of security burned in your stomach, a new kind of hell that screamed at you with anger and mockery how stupid you were being. Telling Daryl would be like unleashing the lion from its cage, the beast that would end everything, though you knew Sean's expulsion would be a godsend considering what Daryl would do to him.

There were no labels between the two of you; you were nothing more than a piece of silence when the world became heartbreaking, but there was something about Daryl that everyone knew, a truth they spoke only with their eyes. The difference between Daryl and Rick, or Glenn, or the rest, was that Rick seemed to be guided in his decision–making by the shadow of his morals that still lingered within him, a memory of his past life, a compass to stay on track, while Daryl seemed willing to have no morals at all if it ensured the safety of his family.

And his anger could easily overcome his morals, or make them disappear in an instant.

Unbridled, such was his love and his anger. Daryl fought, hurt, and even killed, and you didn't want another body to fall lifeless because of you and become another scar on his mind, another reason to feel guilty about still being alive.

Sean's harassment was just words piercing your insides, calling you names others would call you if they found out you were Daryl's whore, words that were just that, nothing more: a terrifying touch that, like the wind, came and went, until one night, his hand pressed so hard into your flesh it almost felt like a bone of your ribs would break.

And when all that torture of a few minutes was over, you sat in the prison's backyard, asking for some kind of guidance from whoever or whatever was on the other end of the call. A sign, a hint of what to do, how to stop keeping quiet, how to stop suffering and fearing, but with no answer, just the devastating emptiness that seemed to swallow you alive—only shining to tell you that maybe the only way out was a bullet in the head, in his or yours.

But shit, the beast was dragging you down to hell with him, and you let him do it.

“Shit.” You cursed under your breath when someone sat behind you, but like the first time his body landed behind yours, it only took you a second to recognize him as you glanced over your shoulder. “You scared me.”

Daryl chuckled, his legs on either side of you.

“Whatcha doin' here? S' cold.”

Always hiding your feelings, you chuckled back.

“I was waiting for you.”

“Shut up.” He scoffed, wishing with all his might that it were true, that your feelings for him were as strong as his, but silently, always avoiding speaking about them, Daryl leaned forward until his chest was so close to your back that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, even under his poncho. “Did ya have fun with the kids?”

He cared for everyone, without measure or any condition.

“Yeah. We read a lot today. I know it’s not your strong suit, so I won’t bore you with the details.”

“I can read, woman. I jus’ don’ like it.”

“Can you? Tell me the truth; I won’t tell anyone.”

It was an attack, but not an offense, and Daryl chuckled once more, that signature sound of his, before pressing himself against you, his hand cupping the spot where Sean had touched you without a hint of kindness, hand holding you with affection and a hint of teasing, his fingers almost cupping your breast.

"Hey." The tickle of his touch made you try to escape, but there was no way out when his other hand held you in place. "At least ask me out first."

He's screwed, always had been since that first afternoon together in the city, and now Daryl knew it clearly as he smiled softly against your hair, ignoring your fake protest as he tried to hide from his own feelings.

"Missed ya, bunny."

That same night, when he buried himself in you, you held him even closer, wanting to erase every touch Sean left on you, which still felt like fire burning your skin. But trauma, guilt, or shame—everything made you keep silent for the weeks that followed, which brought more damage, leaving you feeling more worn down every day, making your self–loathing grow, and even your desire to end it all.

And one day, it all turned into just pain, physical in every fiber of your being.

Sean had an unstable temper, quicker to anger and lose control than a little boy who didn't know how to manage his emotions, and hell, he did just that. In one moment, one of those distant moments now because you'd stopped going to the library alone, the devil disguised as an angel caught you in the emptiness of a hallway, his claws closing so tightly around your arm that it was easy for him to push you into an uninhabited room.

Don't cry, don't give him that pleasure. The only thing he won't be able to take away from you is that. Not one tear, not because of him. Fight, or at least die trying to be free, but he didn't give you the chance when his fist slammed into your belly, destabilizing your whole world, breaking something inside, just because in his eyes, as if you belonged to him, you dared not to listen to him, to try to run away from him. And when he felt he had nothing left to lose, Sean took advantage of every second of it. His anger was like those natural disasters that sweep away houses and people in their wake, leaving a stain of mud so big that covered the essence of your life and the hope to live that you always knew how to keep alive.

He didn't make a sound, and your body screamed without making the slightest sound either.

But life and pain became one when you were told it was your turn to go on a supply run, just you and Daryl because the chosen neighborhood was remote and small, enough territory for only two people to go. You were good, you were careful, meticulous about not letting walkers see you, but Sean had exposed you to so much pain that your vision blurred at the edges of your eyes, obscuring your gaze to the point where you didn't see the walker who pushed you against the wall of that kitchen in that abandoned house.

Maybe it was the sound of his fist in your ear that kept you from hearing death.

Life passed in a second, like the worst things that end quickly because they don't deserve to have freedom in the world, almost dying when you took too long to press the knife against his skull, the sharp edge finally sinking into what remained of his rotting flesh at the same time as an arrow.

The lifeless body fell to the ground, as heavy as your breath.

Every day that you had to leave the protection of the prison, it was like a blow to his chest, or so it felt to Daryl, with no air in his lungs until you finally returned, always worried that something would happen to you, that you wouldn't come back to wrinkle your nose in sarcasm or happiness, but in that moment, when death's hands truly almost closed around your body, Daryl could swear he saw life laughing at him as it played with yours.

You were there, but the next second you could not be.

And Daryl lost control.

"Are ya stupid?!"

Yes, you were, but not for the reasons he thought.

He shouted a few cruel words, and you listened silently, missing another chance to tell the truth, lowering your gaze for the first time in your life, but holding your head as high as you could, somewhat exhausted. For Daryl, the thought of you vanishing from his life was terrifying, but in that moment, that possibility became devastating and unbearable.

The drive back to the prison was so silent it stunned you.

The afternoon fell, heavy and lonely as you sank into your cell, lying on your side and face against the wall, wanting to disappear so far that not a trace of your existence would remain in the world. With your body aching, your muscles begging for mercy, and a mind screaming into the void to let it sleep until the end of days, you fell asleep. You had fought hard for the hope of living even in that world dictated by Sean's selfishness, always without conscience, eager to see blood, but not spilling it like the coward he was, enjoying sending you tumbling off the cliff only to catch you a second before hitting the ground, repeating the action over and over again.

Always on the verge, but never allowed to truly die.

That night, late when the icy wind chilled him to the bone and let him think, Daryl entered your cell, leaving dinner on a plastic plate on the only table.

“(Y/N)?” He sat on the edge of the bed, his heartbeat blocking his throat and any attempt at an apology Daryl was ready to utter. “Hey—”

“Leave me alone.”

“Bunny—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Your indifference hurt more than your anger, more than the blows he’d received in his childhood and in that life. So many years of abuse in the place that should have been the safest for him—his house, not a home—and yet, Daryl would much rather have to face that hell again, as a child, than have to feel the cold of your heart.

“M' sorry.”

“I don’t wanna hear you.”

Daryl swallowed, hard.

“Can I stay here at least?”

His voice was low, deep, but terrified, like the child silently begging his mother to love him, even after feeling her hatred.

“Do whatever you want.”

It felt like the entire prison was collapsing on his chest, crushing him underneath.

Daryl feigned courage, refusing to accept the idea that this was the end of both of you, and he lay down, on his side even though his view of you was your back, the space between you feeling wider than an abyss. And again, as the minutes or a couple of hours passed, your breathing slowed, hiding behind the silence of the place. You had forbidden him any access to your body, losing that right himself with his stupidity and his actions, with his outburst, with his fear of losing you that Daryl didn't know how to begin to explain, but the idea of ​​feeling your lifeless body, in any sense, in the most brutal or the simplest way (like simply stopping breathing, an unnecessary fact that Hershel had dropped one afternoon long ago) made him cross the boundaries you silently drew, reaching out his nervous hand to tickle you as he had been doing so many times that he had lost count.

Just a touch, so light you wouldn't feel it. Yet when his fingers lifted a fraction of your long–sleeved shirt, a whimper of pain seeped between your closed lips. Daryl frowned, for you'd never done that in your life together, and then, a red bruise glowed almost imperceptibly in the light of the candle that was a few nights away from burning out.

His calloused fingers slid over your skin to expose you even more, just as the pain made you wake with a gasp.

"Stop."

"The fuck happened to ya?"

Your words and his collided, a mess scattering around the room as you turned, sitting up with a pain you held prisoner between your still closed lips as he sat up as well, and your confused, dazed, and anger–filled expressions met, face to face. There was no place to hide your surprise anymore.

“Daryl—”

“Who?” His voice grew thicker, more dangerous with the full weight of his rage. “Ain't gonna ask ya again, (Y/N). But m' gonna beat the shit outta every single person in this whole fuckin’ place 'til I find out who it was if ya don’ tell me who did that to ya.”

He was threatening you… not you, but there it was, the moment looming when he would lose control, reaching the point of no return. Your throat was so dry it hurt to swallow, feeling the fear in every corner of your being, as if you were made of nothing but that.

“Daryl—” His jaw was so tight it hurt, you could see it, every muscle that contracted, but he didn't ask again, true to his promise. “Please, no, it's not worth it.”

And then he saw it clearly, the pain in your eyes that hurt more than that bruise on your skin, the misguided idea that, somehow, you were the one who wasn't worth it, that the person who hurt you wasn't worth hurting. And that was more painful for him, for the man who took other people's pain as his own, especially if it came from the person he loved the most. And between the small spaces of his anger, Daryl felt his gaze water as he approached you as he could, pulling you close, until his demanding hand cupped the back of your head, once again to look you in the eyes.

“M'sorry, m' so sorry.” His deep voice cracked on the last word, but it was all or nothing, to love you completely or not to love you at all. “M'sorry I yelled at ya, m'sorry I was such a jerk. I swear I only did it 'cause m' terrified of losin' ya. I love ya so much that I know I can’t live in a world without ya. I’d die for ya, ya know that, but I hope I don’ have to 'cause I want a future with ya. An' to do that, I need to keep ya alive.”

Daryl pulled away, playing his part.

“Tell me the name. I’ll do the rest.”

Then, you said his name out loud, for the first time. And Daryl nodded, pressing his lips to yours in a hard, short kiss before he left, without another word. Unable to speak, you knew it was either you or Sean; you couldn’t save both of you: and he didn’t deserve to be saved either.

And it all made sense to Daryl in that moment, the way you stopped going to the library alone, the way you started jumping in fright whenever he touched you, an act that began when that boy came into his own home, daring to destroy it, not knowing how far someone like Daryl Dixon would go for you. Sanity faded into the shadows, terrified of fighting a nearly savage man, a man who lived so much in the wild that he adopted the instincts of an animal: fight to dead to live, to protect.

He clenched his fists, so tight the skin seemed to stretch to the point of breaking. Daryl needed nothing more than his own hands, hard and rough after using them to fight for his own life. And though his mind was clouded with only one murderous thought, his near–perfect memory led him seamlessly through the prison until he found Sean's cell.

The bars creaked slightly when he opened them, but the peacefully sleeping boy didn't feel it until Daryl's hand closed around his neck, with no trace of gentleness until he pushed Sean to the ground, though his fingers itched to break it right there. It was like forcing a dormant volcano to awaken, a force of nature that not human could stop.

Sean whined, scared, feeling the fear of being prey in his body. He looked so small compared to Daryl that Daryl felt a throb of pity, one that disappeared instantly.

"Out."

"What?"

“Get the fuck outta this prison 'fore I step on yer neck. An' if ya cry for help like the lil' bitch ya are, I'll break it 'fore ya say a word.”

He knew Daryl would do it, without any guilt. There was a blankness in his gaze, but somehow, all his composure was gathered there, and that was even more terrifying to Sean. Daryl wasn't completely blinded by his anger, but rather used it almost strategically, calculatingly. So he did it. Sean walked down death row in silence, feeling his heart pounding in his prickles, his mind so messed up that he couldn't even imagine how it would all end, but knowing it would.

The cold air hit him in the face, as hard as a punch.

"Listen, man, I don't know what's going on, but I swear you're wrong." Daryl's expression remained flat, emotionless, even though they were all over his body, noisy, buzzing in his ears, so loud that they blocked out the sound of the walkers' growling on the other side. And when Sean saw that his words didn't make even the slightest change on his face, he feigned dementia even more. "I don't know what (Y/N) told you, but she's crazy. She threw herself at me."

There it was, the typical excuse, absolving himself of all blame only to throw it at you.

Which only made his blood boil.

"Yeah, she kinda is. (Y/N) is wild, but she's good, one of the best people in this fuckin' place an' in this fuckin' world, an' ya dared to hurt what's mine even though ya knew I'd kill ya."

“I don’t—” Sean choked on his terror, so latent it made his body shake even more, like a tiny leaf. “I’m sorry, I swear. Please don’t kill me, I don’t want to die.”

And it was funny how Daryl remembered what you said to him that first day.

“There are worse fates than death, but by the time m' done with ya, yer gon' beg me to kill ya.”

Like fire on gunpowder, everything was strident even when there wasn’t a deafening sound. Time stretched each time Daryl gave him a break, a pause just to make him feel the pain of each blow more, for his body to register it even after his mind shut down when it could no longer take so much damage, his system shutting down as well, leaving Sean on the edge of the precipice until morning came.

The exact trace of time was lost long ago, but when Daryl returned to your cell, you were still there, sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath you, the other on the floor as if everything had frozen, until you looked up and your gaze regained a little life, a promise that everything would soon be all right.

“Lie down.”

You did, silently and painfully. Daryl lay down with you, closing the space between you for the first time, as if it had never existed.

[angelicoutcomes]

Everyone needs a someone ୭⋆

Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader

Summary: After a particularly draining case, Aaron is there to comfort you.

Warnings: Mentions of a case, talk of toxic family relationships, no use of Y/N, sad lonely reader, yummy comforting Hotch, friendly banter, first kiss hehe, blossoming friends to lovers, no existing relationship, pure fluff!

A/N: This is my third one shot of this reader/Hotch dynamic. I think I’ll leave it at this and pursue new aspects of Aaron Hotchner fics. I promise it’s a cute ending point. (Also rushed proofreading, sorry for any mistakes..)

Thank you for all the support since the start of my writing journey! I can’t to grow further and explore more characters, tropes etc..

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

It had been a weak case. A long gruelling week.

One with countless victims, grieving families and scarring hearts. All things that have unfortunately, become a normal occurrence in your field of work.

Still, this case stirred a new realisation upon you. You tried to not let it get the best of you. Hiding your emotions behind tight smiles and nods of assurance.

You masked it well, only letting it dwell in your chest like a heavy weight of pressure.

Normally when something brings you dread, guilt or utter loneliness, you feel it in your throat. Like it’s trying to burrow its way up into existence through the words you speak.

Sometimes these emotions dwell behind your eyes, as if tears are the only way you let yourself express.

To an untrained eye, your smile would be adequate, soft and bright. With a team of skilful profilers, this is not the case.

Normally, you’d find a way to keep a positive airiness to the space surrounding you. (Unless it’s a horrid crime scene, of course.) It’s a small coping mechanism you carry. There’s a void of darkness and you always push yourself with the need to be the light.

A rather simple action you carry out to achieve this would be bringing the “community comfort blanket” on the jet with you.

This is a fluffy blanket you make sure accompanies the team through every case. It’s left on the jet and funnily enough, always ends up being used by someone. Albeit, mostly yourself as you have unpredictable body temperature changes.

In your eyes, a must do to achieve this airiness is making sure everyone is heard. Even if this ends in you neglecting your own need to be heard.

Everytime the team would ask you if you were okay this case, your vague answers would never satisfy.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sparky?” Penelope asks you on the phone.

She’s not even here with the team this case. Giving you the conclusion that her and Derek have been gossiping. Yes technically it’s more of a wellbeing check on you than gossiping, but in your books they tie hand in hand.

“Yes Pen, I promise it’s okay.” You say through the phone, balancing it between your shoulder and ear as you pack back up your go bag in the hotel.

“Well as an extra precaution how about a bit of wine in mine this weekend, oh of course it can’t be on Saturdays though…” She replies, you see exactly where this is going.

Ladies and gentlemen here comes the fierce ring of Penelope Garcia banter. “I mean it’s unfair of me to cut into your weekly Aaron and Jack ice cream slash soccer dates.” She continues in a sly manner.

You try to extinguish this conversation by dismissing her in an unamused tone. “Very funny Penelope.”

“Well we technically could do Saturday night but any day now that fine like of ‘friendship’ you have with Papa Hotch will slip into something more.” She charges back strong.

“Excuse you, Ms Garcia! What on Earth is that supposed to mean.” You reply with faux shock.

“Oh no need to act innocent Sugarplum, if I was best friends with my boss in the way you and him are, I’d be fantasising for sure.” This makes you quirk an eyebrow.

At this point, it doesn’t shock you that she could say something so out of the box.

After successfully digging yourself out of that conversation, you realised that it was the happiest you’ve let yourself feel since the beginning of this case.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

From the drive to the airport, boarding the jet, and landing back in the office, you have been asked five times if you’re alright. Two by Emily, One by Hotch, Once by Spencer and Derek at the same time and one from JJ too.

Each time you replied with a small reassuring smile and the same sentance , “Yeah, it was just a hard case.” No one could really argue with this because it’s true. The case was exhausting on everyone.

In all honesty though, you’re not feeling alright. Shock horror.

This case just erupted something very raw in you. It hurt to see victims you relate to.

It’s even worse when you give them a listening ear in PD waiting areas with stale coffee, dying potted plants, bleach lighting and no ventilation.

Why? Because then you gain a personal connection with them and let yourself bask in the darkness of the reality they are facing.

Time was ticking slowly as you still sat at your desk, Go bag tucked neatly beside it. Others had left, as it was 6:03, time to clock out was technically an hour ago.

You’re still stuck at your desk staring into nothing. All work needing to be done was complete and up to date.

That’s not why you’re still here. It’s simply the fact you know that if you go home now, you’ll be dragging these consuming emotions with you. Normally you try leave them in the paperwork, and be content with the fact the case is solved and sorted.

“I’m heading home, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Rossi says as he rounds by your desk.

You give a passing goodbye, mind too preoccupied to manage more.

Stopping infront of you, he sighs. Pulling a chair over to sit beside you. “Whatever it is that’s got your mind tangled in this mess, you can’t bottle it up.” He says, with soft words, hoping they land gracefully and don’t crash.

“I’m fine Rossi, I promise it’s nothing.” You say with a hopeful smile, you know deep down that this is just a silly dramatic moment in the long run.

“Im sure you are, but all I urge of you is to find an outlet.” Rossi stops shortly before continuing, “I may not be able to be that outlet for you, but I think we both know someone who would be.”

He looks away from you, directing his view to a certain someone’s office. You open your mouth, ready to argue before he speaks ahead of you.

“You don’t need to say anything, just know that Aaron can be that person.” He finishes, getting up to carry on his original path of leaving the bullpen.

“Thank you.” Is all you seem to be able to say. As he nods and continues to walk.

With a weary sigh, you pull your head into your hands. Here comes the wave of unending thoughts.

A vulnerable part of you yearns for someone who understands you. After years of feeling isolated, like a drifting iceberg that seems to catch the wrong tide, maybe you do need someone.

You dismiss yourself, deflecting on how dramatic this sounds. It’s nothing more than the luteal phase blues. You’re an empathetic person by nature. You carry everyone else’s burdens on top of your own.

This is what you’re feeling. The exposure of others pain is carried through you subconsciously.

Always has been like this. When you were younger, a childhood friend would invite you to go fishing in a nearby lake with herself and her uncle. It was their weekly outing together.

You only attended once, because you bawled over the fish caught. Not because it died and would be that night’s supper.

You cried for the family of the fish, for its hypothetical children that would now have to grieve the disappearance of their mama fish.

You kept that fish family in your prayers at the next mass service you were forced to attend, one of many in your youth.

Shaking off the random thought, you found yourself nostalgic. Which is silly since your youth was home to mostly pain.

A sad, heavy sigh left your lips. Unburying your head from your hands, you look towards Aaron’s office. The light was on but blinds were closed.

With a grumble of defeat, you make way up the small set of steps to his door.

A moment of hesitation was had before you softly knocked. Hotch’s small grumble of approval could be heard.

You make your way through the door, and without looking up, Aaron says “I’m nearly finished up my work but if you need more time I can put on another pot of coffee.”

Feeling small, you don’t reply. A heavy silence weighs in the air, he finally looks up. You stand awkwardly at the door with nothing to say.

You’re not good at this whole someone as an outlet thing. Normally a tub of ice cream seems to do the trick.

Some sort of acknowledgment seems to cross him. Like a neon sign points towards you with the phrase ‘I’m not alright’ etched into it.

Must be quite obvious to be honest, with the look he’s giving you.

He’s about to say something but you jump the gun before him. “Please don’t ask me if I’m alright, Aaron.” You plead in a whisper of a voice.

“Would you like to talk about it?” He asks, dropping everything he was doing at his desk and standing up. Not one bit of this sentence sounds forceful or pushy as he voices it.

Not trusting your words in this moment, you slowly shake your head as to say yes. He approaches you, closing the door beside you swiftly before planting infront of you.

The close proximity of you two would have Penelope screaming ‘I told you so!’ in a boastful manner.

Your eyes close briefly as you push yourself to find the right words. “I’m not good at talking about stuff, and I’m not good at approaching people either..” You ramble, trying not to look up at him.

He radiates warmth, with a subtle of hint of cologne that you secretly love.

“Well, you got this far so that must be a good start.” Aaron replied, trying to lighten the mood.

In a passing moment of silence you try to reassure yourself. Aaron is a good man, he’s an excellent person, boss and dad. You can trust him.

“I like to leave my work worries and mindset in this building, I hate bringing it home with me.” You start, trying to explain your ways for him to understand. “But I can’t leave this here, I’ll bottle it and wrestle with it all night.”

Aaron nods along supportively, urging you to continue as he guides you to the couch in his office.

Sitting down comfortably beside him, he places a reassuring hand on top of yours. You’re too caught up in thoughts to realise this action.

“It’s so silly Aaron, and I know I’m just being dramatic.” You sigh in defeat, flush with embarrassment.

“Don’t downplay your emotions, it’s not silly at all.” Aaron reassures, wanting you to continue.

This is hard for you, he gets that. This is another one of your high security walls crumbling before him willingly. It takes time.

“It’s just, when I was talking to one of the victims..” you start, huffing away the sentence before Aaron gives your hand a light squeeze of encouragement. “She’s so lonely, her family have shone her out and shes in such a time need.”

You feel a build up of emotions behind your eyes, trying to manifesting into tears. “Aaron, I was in her shoes, it’s so painful.” A tear or two finally slip, that sentence making it feel real.

Aaron knows you don’t want to be fed some sort of soothing comment along the lines of , ‘it’s okay, don’t worry.’ Simply because you wouldn’t believe it.

Gently, he pads his thumb across your cheek, wiping away your soft tears.

“You feel so much for so many people, and open your heart to anyone who is hurting.” He starts, “You might not realise, but the time you took to be with that girl in such a time of need shines light on this beautiful heart of yours.” His kind words bring another tear to fall.

Cradling your cheeks in his palms, he continues, “You take on the burdens of the world, but I want you to know, that girl will be okay. She has found people who support her and will love her because of the work you done.”

This wasn’t an exaggeration, you made sure she had someone to fall back on before leaving. Turns out her godmother living up the coast was more than welcome to take her in. She wouldn’t have been contacted if you didn’t address your concerns.

“Every part of me wishes you had someone like that when you were her age.” His palms still on your cheeks, “Please let me be here now.”

The part of you, blocking the inevitable cascade of tears, breaks down. You let out a small sob as you nod in agreement, trying to say ‘I’d like that.’ Aaron wraps his arms around you, bringing you to his chest.

This was all you needed before you broke down completely. You felt safe in Aaron’s arms. It had been a while since you had a proper cry, this felt like layers and layers of bottled pain finally being set free.

Hotch whispered small words in your ear, “Its okay to cry, let it all out.” and “I’m here, I’ll always be here.”

You don’t know how long you sat there, curled into the warmth of Aaron’s chest. Eventually you calmed down, letting out nothing but small hiccups instead.

Once again, Hotch cradled your face. “Never feel hesitant to come to me, whenever, at anytime, okay?” He wore a serious expression, urging you to agree.

You give a small faint nod, he wipes away the last few stray tears as they weave a path down your face.

Whispering quietly, “Let’s go, work can wait until tomorrow, I’ll drop you home.” Nothing in you fights his request. Probably because you’re mentally at your weakest right now, or because of the ever growing crush you have on this man.

Silently, you make your way to the elevator. Aaron keeps a hand on your shoulder, guiding you gently.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

The drive to your apartment is peaceful, no talking is needed to understand one another. The radio softly hums as you lean against the window. Hotch looks over at you a few times, making sure you’re okay.

Aaron sees the small shiver you give off, a dead giveaway that you’re cold. Silently, he turns up the heat.

“Aaron” you call out, looking towards him. He gives you a hum of acknowledgement, signalling to you that he’s listening.

“Will you..stay for a while.” You ask, not wanting to be alone right now. “Unless you have to get home to Jack or you don’t want to I understand that.” You ramble on.

“Don’t worry, Jacks in Jessica’s for the night since we are home a day earlier than expected, I’ll stay.” He says, giving you a smile.

Pulling up infront of your house, Aaron parks his car and climbs out as you do so. This would be the first time he steps foot past the entrance hallway of your home.

Walking through into the kitchen with Aaron hot on your tail, he asks “How would you feel about a bowl of ice cream right now?”

You’ve mentioned in passing in the past that you always have a tub of ice cream on hand, no matter the weather.

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” You smile lazily at him.

“Go get into something comfy and I’ll get the ice cream, sound like a plan?” Aaron asks, already edging towards the freezer.

You nod in agreement before trotting up the stairs.

When you come back down after getting into your go-to oversized worn out college T-shirt and tracksuit bottom combo, you see Aaron sitting on your couch.

He has taken off his blazer and was in the middle of rolling up his sleeves, his arms were flexing as he did so. It was so fucking hot, your brain was stuck in the gutter.

Waving off those thoughts, you plonked down beside him with a huff. Stretching out and getting comfy as you look over to him.

With no words, he hands you a bowl of gooey brownie ice cream. You give him a wide smile and a thank you.

You both fall into an amusing conversation, about anything and everything. The jokes shared are cheering you up immensely.

Some time later, seconds of ice cream are dished out as you sit on your kitchen counter. Aaron is stood beside you digging the spoon into the ice cream tub, getting every last ounce of the chocolate goodness.

You are letting out a chesty laugh from Aaron’s previous story. Once he had collected Jack from a play date, with terror as he found Jack and his friend covered in Chocolate.

Apparently they both had unsupervised fun melting left over chocolate in the microwave. Jacks friend’s mother is a baker and had just finished a big boxed order of rich double Belgium chocolate mousse.

“Safe to say he was Jack’s best friend from that day on.” He finished the story, handing you a bowl of ice cream.

Your hands touched briefly, a second longer than needed.

“I know this’ll sound cheesy Aaron, but you’re probably one of my best friends.” You slip casually.

Why on earth did you say that. Something inside of you shrivels up from embarrassment.

“Only one of them? Here I was thinking I was your ultimate best friend.” Aaron says jokingly, mocking hurt as he clutches his heart.

You let out a relieved laugh at his joke, a smile beaming on your face. He stands over closer to you now as you place your bowl back on the counter beside you.

“All jokes aside, I do treasure our friendship above most things.” He says, such simple words made a small blush creep onto your cheeks.

Not trusting your words, you stretch out your arms to give him a hug. He immediately accepts, stepping closer to you, between your legs from where they dangle off the kitchen counter.

Hugs you share with Aaron aren’t awkward or polite in any means. They hold warmth and trust. Unspoken words filter through the tight space you share when embracing each other. Hugs like these confirm that you are not alone.

You both stay like that for a long minute. Finding comfort in one and other. Finally, you both break away, still inches from eachother.

An invisible force of sorts lingers, urging you two to close the gap. Slowly Aaron tilts his head towards yours, foreheads almost touching.

Your breathing gets heavy as you can feel his hot breath. You only break eye contact when your eyes subconsciously flicker down to his lips.

Like a magnetic pull, you inch closer and closer to him. Until finally, you meet each other half way.

At first, as your lips touch, it was delicate. You both felt unsure. But as Aaron slowly took control, padding his tongue cautiously across your lower lip, you both melted into each other more.

One of his large hands tangles through your hair as he palms your cheek softly. His rough fingers cradling your jaw.

You break away gently, foreheads still touching as your breaths mingled. Looking into his eyes, you smile. “I guess best friends was an understatement.” You say with a small hearty laugh.

He laughs with you, a look of admiration in his eyes as his hand still lingers firmly on your cheek.

“I guess you could say that.” He replies before leaning back in for another kiss. You laugh into it.

The relationship between Aaron and you is growing before your very eyes, but of course, Penelope was right all along.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

[coupsalchemy]

Punishment

Summary - The one where you may or may not have bullied your boyfriend into watching a movie he hates.

Tags: Lee Jihoon x (dramatic) f.reader, fluff, established relationship au

Warnings: MDNI uhm heavily suggestive. you should have understood from the title by now

Word Count: 1.4k

A's Note: Read the first part here! Back again with the chaotic couple. I may have enjoyed writing it more than I should have hehe

The TV plays the movie you were dying to watch since last week. You may or may not have irritated Jihoon, your boyfriend, with how good the reviews are and how we are missing out—a stretch, but if not for all these exaggerations he isn’t going to sit through three hours of a chick flick movie(you totally bullied him into watching it if you put it honestly). 

The billion dollar question is why you can’t concentrate on the heroine going through hoops and hurdles to find happiness that you were dying to watch? Your eyes keep flickering to your boyfriend’s spread legs, the tight black tee stretching across his chest, and firm stomach. Not to forget to mention how hot his annoyed face is with the pinched eyebrows and little scoffs whenever the heroine delivers a dialogue. 

You press your thighs together, resting your hands underneath your thighs so you won’t do something stupid like pouncing on him. Jihoon did tell you he doesn’t mind you being in his personal space. You didn’t want to overstay your welcome because as much as he is accommodating you know it’s hard for people to love physical touch overnight. 

“The moment I think it won’t get any worse this movie surprises me.” Jihoon mutters under his breath. “Who gave this five stars? He must have been drunk.”

You shrug. Defending the movie isn’t your highest priority right now. Not when you are fighting for your life not to even look in his direction. Rein in your desires. 

“What?” Jihoon asks. 

“What?” Your eyes are on the screen as if the characters are going to crawl out of it anytime soon. 

Jihoon readjusts himself on the couch, now facing you instead of the TV. He leans back at the edge of the couch, eyes narrowing behind his black framed specs. You quickly avert your gaze to the screen, exhaling through your mouth. You can do this. He did just give you a toe-curling kiss before starting the movie. It’s enough, right? Right? 

The heroine is screaming from the top of a hill on how she can do it. Whatever it is, but you nod to yourself, imagining yourself in her place and screaming into void. The couch dips, your traitorous eyes snap to your boyfriend at the hint of minimum movement. So much for reining it in. 

Your mouth salivates watching him looking at you, gone the annoyed expression, now interested in whatever he finds in your face as his eyes trails down your stiff posture and locked hands underneath your thighs. He doesn’t know that you are restraining yourself, right? Jihoon isn’t that perceptive to your moods and feelings yet. You are doing an amazing job on being invested in the movie. You should try acting. 

Jihoon raises his eyebrow, a slow wicked grin on his lips. He slides down a little, almost in a lying down position, he spreads his legs wide, the grey track pants does justice in bringing the thickness of his thighs. You suppress the groan in your throat, letting your limbs loose to adjust your stray hair strands. You squeeze yourself into the other corner of the couch. 

“This movie is interesting.” Jihoon speaks up, grabbing the popcorn bowl from the coffee table. You nod. “The fight sequence is great.” You nod dumbly. He snickers. 

Your heart is telling you to fuck all the inhibitions and just pounce on him but your mind, ever the rational one, lists out how it might inconvenience him. He is already stretching most of his boundaries with all your need for his touch. So now you’ll sit prettily and wait for the night to come to an end and kiss him goodnight and go to sleep like a good girl. 

Minutes trickle by with no one speaking except from the movie characters and his occasional crunch on popcorn. Jihoon sets the bowl back on the table, stretching up his arms, the tee raises, a sliver of his pale skin sends you to a wreck. You clasp your hands in a prayer, chanting to yourself that you are one sophisticated woman. Attacking your boyfriend will negate it. 

“You look tiny crumpled up in the corner.” Jihoon slides next to you, you move away as much as you can, he scoffs before moving next to you, his thigh pressing into yours. “What’s this? Why are you running away? That’s out of character.” 

“What?” You squeak. The bastard he is, he laughs. 

He knows. 

“I-I like my personal—” he leans into your face, quirking up his eyebrow, sending your words into a jumble. 

“Personal what now?” His lips spread in a shit-eating grin. “I was thinking there was no word personal in your dictionary. But time and time you surprise me.” 

You should get offended, throw a tantrum and maybe start a war at his condescending comment. But with his hair falling onto his face, the bite mark on his lower lip from earlier reminds you of how fucking sexy he is. If anything you want him to grab you, throw you and, you sigh with a little moan slipping. 

Jihoon catches it, you see it clicking in him as his eyes stay on your parted lips for a second, his own mirroring yours. You press your thighs together, trying ways to hold yourself down and not, not.. 

His hand slips between your thighs, your eyebrows bunch together, your lips parting as his hand separates your legs. A moan escapes from the trenches of your neck as the edge of his palm presses into your core. 

“Fuck it.”

Jihoon pulls you onto his lap with one strong pull. You straddle on him, reaching for his shirt and backing away, “no, no.” You try to crawl down from his lap, he lets out a displeased grunt and tugs you back onto him. 

“I fucking swear,” his voice is low, threatening, and so sinful that it has you obeying, bobbing your head. “Sit right here.” He snaps his hips up once letting you know where exactly he wants you. 

You groan into his chest, circling your hands around his neck. Your left leg twitching from all the sensory overload. “Jihoon..” you kiss his neck, “please.” 

He snickers, “yeah?” His fingers dance at the edge of your shirt, barely touching your skin. You whine moving on his lap, he presses you down with a click of his tongue, “behave.”

“Jihoon,” you pout, coming out of his chest, “I really really need you.” 

His hands slip beneath your shirt, your eyes flutter, brain clocked on his fingertips casually roaming around, reaching to the edge of your bra. You look up at him expectantly, waiting on him to snap it open, and relieve you from this pain. 

His hooded eyes trail down your face, reading your expectations, the sweat drop trickling down the back of your ear, he, the evil incarnate, pulls out his arms, folding them behind his head as he leans back. 

You glare at him, trying to pry his arms free and put them back in their rightful place—on your body. He grins, letting you put your best efforts. He is driving you crazy. You were fine on your own, controlling your want and planning to go to bed. All prior to knowing his touch, his games and his, he suddenly leans into your face. 

“Weren’t you saying something about personal space,” his lips brush yours with each word, the softness and warmth makes you lean closer, he shakes his head, denying your kiss. 

Hurt is written all over your face. His denial wakes you up from this sinking feeling of Jihoon, all consuming Jihoon. You crawl off his lap, go back to your apartment and send a well thought out text on how you need a break from him. 

He rolls his eyes, grabs your ankle, “can’t even take punishment. What should I do?” 

“I did nothing wrong.” You turn away from him, staring at the end credit scenes on the tv, resting your cheek on the soft sweatpants of his. 

He bunches your hair into his hand, pulling up. God. You roll your eyes, moaning his name. He grunts, “blackmailing me into watching a movie is punishment worth enough.” 

“Not really,” you trail off watching the storm brewing in his eyes. You gulp, “but,” you push yourself off him, getting down on your knees between his legs. “Can I repent my sin?” 

[claggorstuff]

I NEED a claggor x reader where the reader is sent to the other dimension with ekko, and like ekko and powder, claggor and that dimensions reader have an established relationship. What would his reaction to us acting weird, being that the last time we saw him was under a pile of rubble. Would he catch on, or would he only realize once we finally leave with ekko through the portal device? Thank you ❤️❤️❤️

Hehe, I have time to do this now

I can't make up a title for this so let's just go with what you said

I shot up, surroundings now entirely different from before, I was all of the sudden in a new room, new home, and surrounded by these odd gadgets, all growing some sort of flower or plant.. it smelt like lilacs, oddly. I stumbled through the home calling for jayce or ekko or even that little furry fellow, in stumbled... him. A face I could recognize but just barely, the memory of his eyes, void of light or life, it was stuck in me forever..

"Y/n.. are you good? 'Nother nightmare or...?"

"Y-You.." I felt sick to the stomach, his goggles were on a desk filled with petals and roots and liquids unkown

"Me...?" His voice was gruff and tired, full of natural confusion

I stared as if he were a stranger, but in my guilt and sorrow, I lunged into his arms as if he'd disappear before my eyes. He held me warmly, rubbing my back, ignoring the confusion he had about why I was acting in such a way. I looked up at him. He'd become so different, so beautiful, and clearly, he'd become an inventor, fitting for a mind as large as his.

"Any reason for all.. this?"

"..I uh.. you just.. looked tired."

"Ahh.. right.. sorry, I pulled another all-nighter. I just can't get them to absorb the-"

"It's ok.. don't apologize, I know how hard you work, claggor." The name left my mouth for the first time in ten years. It stung like a hornet to say it, but he just gave me a soft and appreciative smile.

"Thanks y/n, besides- I made a new flower just for you this time-! And it's my best yet, wanna see it?"

"Sure..sure.. but uhm.. where's ekko? I think I need to speak to him first."

"Well, he's probably back at benzos still, we can go there and then come back for the thing, c'mon let's go."

He took my hand, pulling me along the lanes, which were.. cleaner, than I remember. Not a brothel in sight, and when we got to benzos, I could see ekko stumbling out looking just as confused as I was. I ran over and yanked him out of sight before claggor could yell over at us to wait up, and he was in a state of disarray

"What the hell happened?!" I yelled, agitation in my voice as if it was he who brought us here

"How the hell would I know. JINX is in there, but she's not jinx shes- she's powder and benzos in there and.. nothing is right here.. I'm just glad I'm not crazy. That I'm not the only one who knows there's something wrong.. are you okay though..?"

"I'm just.. he's.. he's here, and it hurts. It hurts so damn bad.. but I'll be okay, we gotta figure out a way to get home." I crossed my arms, squeezing my wrists, holding back the tears that begged to come out.

"We'll figure this out.. I'll figure this out. You just go back to him.. enjoy the time you got with him." He gave me a nervous smile, I could tell he was worried for me. He knew this is what I longed for all these years that claggor has been gone. And I knew that too, but I can power through the pain. The longing. The grief.. he walked back out so that we didn't look so suspicious, claggor walked over and slung his arm around my shoulder chuckling

"What're you two up to now? You better not be telling him about my stuff so he wins the innovators comp!"

"No.. I'd never." I fake giggled, conveying my confusion about what he was even talking about. He kissed my cheek, sending fire through my face.

"So, I've been having trouble with the infusions of the grey clearing system the flowers have, any ideas?"

"Grey..clearing.. flowers..? Uhhh.. not a clue."

He stared seemingly bewildered by this answer, as if I tend to have all the answers, he chuckled and nodded

"Making me figure it out myself again I guess?"

"Yep."

I walked with him down to what used to be the room he, Mylo, powder, and vi slept in, it had been turned into a lab of sorts, you could tell they'd all moved out, but Vander always liked to have visitors I suppose, I guess that's why claggor converted it into a lab for him and powders little habits of invention. I saw many flowers, big and small, many colors, many beautiful forms.. but on his desk laid a great beauty of a flower. It shined with a spectrum of colors reflecting off each petal almost like oil, it's petals curved at the base and twisted at the tips into spirals. I stepped closer to it to investigate perhaps what he named this marvelous thing, only to see.. it shared my own name.

"Oh uh.. yeah, I forgot to show you my latest little project... your birthday was coming up and I couldn't just give you some boring necklace or flower.. so.." He put a hand over it and pulled the lever at the top emitting a gas onto it that it seemed to absorb and grow, it's petals curling as if to breathe.

"That's.. for me..? You made a whole new species of plant for..me..?"

"Well- you know I got a knack for these things n.. I really don't think its all that yet, it doesn't even compare.."

He stared down at it seeming disappointed, I've not the slightest clue how he could be, it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.. it had function in its beauty, one of his plants that live off of the carbon emissions of fossil fuels it looked like.

"...I think it's more than enough for me." I opened the little window to touch it, he sighed and shook his head

"Not possible, REALLY not possible." He murmured, smiling a little as he watched me play with the flowers spiraled outward petals, to think that this is what I could've had from him.. this is what I could've had if..

"...Are you.. crying..?" He quickly crouched to my level to put an arm around me as I wept. He doesn't know that I'm not the girl he loves or ever did love, it pains me to know I can't stay, that I have to go back to visiting his grave in the underground, the city full of smog and sewage that this version of him wouldn't stand for.. I could barely speak, unknowing of how to explain why I wept.

"I just.. I really love it, claggor. I do.." I croaked out, he rubbed my cheek, wiping away tears and picked me up gently

"Well, I'm not finished with it yet, so be patient!" He nervously spoke, I could tell he was trying to calm me down.

"Alright.. if I have to." The mask of this different me went back on as he carried me up to Ekko, Mylo, and Powder. We conversated for a while until powder and ekko left to visit vi, I'd wondered what she looked like here, but I was too reluctant to leave Claggor to go see. As the days went by, Ekko and Heimerdinger seemed to be finding a way back home, and it got harder to hide who I was. Claggor seemed to be catching on slowly to the fact I wasn't telling the full truth of why I would seem to be lost in his eyes, why I would just have fits of crying and grief late at night next to his sleeping body, he didn't know how much it looked like his cold corpse shining in the blue light of the moon.

The night of the innovators competition, Claggor danced with me to the music played at the celebration.. but I could tell something was off. Later on Ekko had taken me to where he'd been working on his stuff with Heimerdinger and Powder, Heimerdinger was tinkering with his machine excitedly as Powder and Ekko cautioned him. I knew it was time to go, and it was time to leave this world behind. Time to leave claggor behind. When I heard a call from the entrance.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

I swiveled around when suddenly it happened, me and Ekko were separated from the bodies of these different versions of ourselves. Heimerdinger had disappeared, Claggor rushed to hold the woman he loved, and I could only stare and smile. She was meant to be with him, not me. But before we left, he stared up at me. He stared up at me and gave me one last smile before he disappeared for the rest of my life.

Sigma Sigma on the wall.. who's the skibidiest of them all...

Freaky...

[s0ulryo]

Boyfriend Alastor Headcanons .♡ ⋆·˚.

[Alastor x Reader] Synopsis: Oddly specific (but also vague) boyfriend Alastor headcanons.  Tags: Soft, established relationship, typical violence  Notes: Probably ooc, not proofread, lowercase intended, feeding the void, i hope u enjoy hehe

(Reader is always gn unless specified otherwise.)

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who loves to be a pain in your ass—constantly saying that he won’t do the chores you asked him to do—but ends up doing everything you asked and everything you were supposed to do. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who will send out his shadow to mess with you when you guys are apart.

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who will attempt to bite you every chance he gets, forgive him; you just look so tasty!

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who uses your shampoo, conditioner, and body wash when (if) he takes a shower—he likes how you smell and can’t be bothered to buy his own.

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who loves to cook for you! he often cooks meals that his mother taught him to make; he also enjoys it when you add your spin to those recipes. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who takes all your things and hides them; there is no reason, sometimes he feels a bit silly. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who often asks you to dance with him. he likes spinning himself and spinning you till you’re dizzy. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who will attack anyone who disrespects you with no hesitation—they’re basically disrespecting him when they disrespect you. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who likes to cut you off, speaking or waiting in line, doesn’t matter to him; he really just wants to test your patience. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who head bumps you when he doesn’t know what to say. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who likes wearing your things that are easily concealable; jewelry, socks, nail polish even—it reminds him of you, usually smells like you, and it’s probably cleaner than his stuff. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who will sneak up behind you every chance he gets. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who likes staring at you; he’ll try to do it when you’re not paying attention to avoid having to talk about it. 

BOYFRIEND ALASTOR, who really does care for you; believe him, he’s trying his best to show his affection. 

[merakiui]

Oh my goshhhh speaking of Azul did u see that its confirmed he knows how to play piano in the new event??? Imagine creepy piano teacher Azul vibes *screams into the void*

I saw!!!! It’s one of my favorite tako facts. His aura increased tenfold the moment I learned he can play piano. <3 aaaa but creepy piano teacher Azul……. my first thought was that teacher from Little Nightmares 2 because she plays piano at one point in the game when you’re trying to sneak around her. That’s a different kind of horror, but I digress hehe.

Creepy piano teacher Azul who sits beside you on the seat and shows you proper hand placement, telling you to stretch your fingers to reach the keys for the chords. Gently correcting your placement, his hands ghosting over yours to move them into place. Mr. Ashengrotto who is suddenly sitting much closer than he was before, practically shoulder to shoulder with you, and you can smell his expensive cologne. He always gives you a challenge with every lesson. New sheet music to learn and practice, each one more complex than the last. He knows you can do it (just as he’s certain he knows you can take all of him).

He invites you to dinner when you do well in your recital, congratulating you on a job well done (not that he ever doubted you). You thought he’d invite the rest of his students as well, so it’s a little…odd that it’s just you and him. But you’re grateful he’s taught you so much. Without him, you wouldn’t have had such a successful recital! Mr. Ashengrotto got you that bouquet only to congratulate you. No other reason, you assure yourself.

But then he orders a bottle of some fancy, expensive wine for the two of you to share and tells you to get whatever you’d like because he’s paying. In fact, this restaurant is far more luxurious than what you’re used to. You would’ve been content with fast food. ^^;; actually, you’d prefer that over this. This feels too intimate. Too private. So is the conversation he strikes with you. Things about your personal life. None of it is related to academics or music.

You don’t want to disappoint your teacher, though!! >_< so you drink and eat and drink and eat and drink some more, drunkenly going on about how you’ve never had a boyfriend and you’ve never had sex and you think it’s so silly because isn’t everyone supposed to have had sex once they’re in college???? Mr. Ashengrotto just smiles and listens to your ramblings; his cold, calculating blue eyes are bright under crystalline light.

By the end of it all, you’re leaning on him, stupidly drunk, completely out of it, so warm and full of giggles. He can’t just send you on your way in this state. No, no. That’s much too unsafe. You’re better off staying with him for now. You’ve never been inside his house before. It’s so pleasant. Everything is neat and tidy. Oh, he’s helping you out of your shoes and coat. What a gentleman. Oh, he wants you out of everything? You think that’s weird, but it’s a distant, dizzy thought that disperses once you’re in nothing but your undergarments, pressed against the wall, your teacher’s leg slotted between your thighs, his mouth at your neck.

You’ve never been inside Mr. Ashengrotto’s bedroom before, laid bare on his bed. You’re not sure about this. You tell him you’re a virgin. That you’re nervous. You don’t know if you can do this.

Mr. Ashengrotto smiles, working you open with slick fingers. If you can wow an entire auditorium full of people, earn all of their praise and thunderous applause, then you can most certainly do this. If it soothes your nerves, just pay attention to him. You’re in good hands. See? Would he ever hurt you? Look—watch how tenderly he handles you, how he makes sure to go slowly, how sweet his kisses are. Open your mouth more, he says. Let him taste you.

Just like your lessons he teaches you what to do and somehow you do it.