#I think there’s something so tenderly raw in letting the person you love see you at your most vulnerable moment and loving them through it

[shiggybrainr0t]

softly loving you

warnings: mha spoilers regarding aizawa

aizawa is asleep on your couch.

that fact in itself isn’t a big deal- he sleeps everywhere. it isn’t rare to see him curled up in his sleeping bag on the floor of his classroom. his students have long gotten used to it, stepping over him if need be. it’s very endearing to those who know and love him. but you know better.

aizawa is constantly tired because he never truly rests.

he never fully lets himself sink into a true slumber, one ear always listening in case something happens, in case someone needs him. (there have too many times where he wasn’t with his students when they needed him-and he’s determined to never fail them again.)

so there’s few times that aizawa actually sleeps. this is one of those times. he’s slumped over on your couch, mouth hanging open and snoring. his eye patch has half fallen off because he’s buried his head into the cute throw pillow with a black cat on it that you got because it reminded you of him. (he acted like he didn’t think that was funny, but he pulled you into a kiss just after you held it up and showed it to him.)

you hate to do it, but you know his back is going to kill him the next morning if you let him sleep like that any longer. so you walk over and perch on the edge of the couch by his waist and begin to gently run your fingers through his hair, twisting it lightly when you get to the ends of the inky strands. over the years you’ve learned how to wake him up without startling him. he is a hero after all, and when he’s startled his first thought is defense, which ended up with your arms in a strong hold before he realized it was you. (you’ll never forget the look on his face whenever he realized that it was you.)

it shows how deep in sleep he is by how it take you calling his name a couple of times to get him to stir. one dark eye slowly blinks open to look at you, and a small smile appears on his face when he sees that’s it you.

“hi.” you whisper, a grin of your own showing on your face.

“hi.” his voice is deeper than normal, a gravely quality to it that only appears whenever he first wakes up. “what time is is?”

“almost midnight. c’mon hero, let’s go to bed.”

he lets you pull him up, not helping and making you do all the work, smiling at you in a sleepy, goofy way whenever you huff at him. the click of his prosthetic hitting your hardwood floors is jarring in the otherwise silent apartment, but you both ignore it. when you get to your bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed to start taking his leg off but pauses whenever you get on your knees before him.

“let me do it.” is what you murmur, but you don’t get to before he cups your face in one large, calloused hand, engulfing the side of your face. his eyes are deep as they stare at you nuzzling into his palm and kissing the center. he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip before letting go and leaning back, leaving you to it.

after you take it off, you place it gently beside the nightstand and crawl onto your own side of the bed, beside aizawa who was already under the covers and waiting for you. he pulls you close with one arm, so that you’re facing each other and holding hands in the middle by your chests. he had taken his eye patch off while waiting for you, and you gaze at him, quietly marveling at the rough, gorgeousness he posses so quietly.

he leans forward to press a solid kiss to your forehead, then your lips. it’s a slow, lazy kiss, both of you tired from the day yet still wanting to show each other your love. the two of you fall asleep like that, foreheads pressed together, hands held between your hearts that have long since matched beats.

[st-el-la-luna]

Task Force 141 + König when you have a subtle panic attack

Thanks for being my first request (and my 69th follower)

Did this headcanon style, just testing things out, y'know?

Captain John Price

° Price is probably the best choice, honestly

° He’s older, worked with soldiers, he’s no stranger to panic attacks

° “You alright, love?” he asks, tenderly, his eyes soft with affection

° He’ll take your hand and rub gentle circles on the back of your hand

° If you’re in a big crowd, say at a party or something, or even just walking through a busy street, and become unsettled, Price is the type to gently herd you towards the nearest wall

° He’ll put himself between you and the crowd, leaning in close to whisper in your ear

° “Hey, it’s okay darling. Just breathe. I’m here.”

° He takes your hand and sets it over his heart so you can feel his heartbeat

° Tells you to focus on him, his breathing as he rests his forehead against yours

° Once you’ve calmed, he presses a little kiss to the tip of your nose and offers you a smile

° “Come on, let’s go, yeah?”

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley

° If you think Ghost doesn’t know immediately when something puts you on edge, then what do you know? Because you must be a stupid fuck to be blind to the fact that this man would be the most observant, intuitive person when it comes to you

° He notices everything, reads you like a book

° A children’s book. Easily and with a gentle sort of fondness

° He won’t say anything outwardly, he’s not one for words (he doesn’t want anyone knowing he cares)

° Everyone knows

° He’ll stand right behind you, arms crossed over his chest, as he stares at whoever's making you uncomfortable

° If you’re in a conversation that’s making you uncomfortable or a situation that you’re easily able to leave, he will lead you away, making an excuse for you if he must

° His excuses are complete bullshit, but no one’s going to call him out on that

° “Yeah, sorry. We have to go. Need to walk the dog.”

“You have a cat”

“Yeah, and the cat’s name is The Dog. Problem?”

“No.”

“Yeah, ‘s what I thought.”

Sergeant Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

° No offense to Soap, but he wouldn’t be… great?

° It’s not that he wouldn’t care, no, no, he cares. Soap cares a lot. Too much, even

° But Johnny is, at his core, a people person, so he can't quite understand your position

° He’s likely not to notice your discomfort at first, excited to meet and talk to new people

° Once he does notice though, oh boy is he going to make up for it

° If you’re chewing your lip, he’s quick to put an end to that with a kiss; “Och, don’t you know? 'tis my job to bite those lips raw, love.”

° If you’re picking at your nails, tugging at your hair, he’ll take your hand in his; “Aye, if you want something to do with your hands… I’m right here.”

° Despite being a people-loving extrovert, he is absolutely willing to leave if you really can’t be there any more

° He’ll treat you nice and soft, make you forget all about all of your worries

° He’s the type to cross the room if he sees you getting uncomfortable. One second you can barely see him through the crowd. The next, he’s standing right behind you, arms around your middle

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

° Aside from Price, Gaz is your next best bet

° Gentle and sympathetic, he’ll take your hand and give it a little kiss

° “Alright?”

° His rich eyes empathetic as he meets your gaze, and just like that everything but Gaz fades from your mind

° Gaz will set her hand on your knee, not to get it to stop bouncing, no, he recognizes that it calms you. His hand on your knee is more of a gentle, wordless, reminder of his presence

° If you’re in a situation you can’t just leave, one where physical touch isn’t an option, he’ll shoot you a knowing look

° Speaking with his eyes, “it’s okay. You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay”

° He’ll take you away from the situation if he can, back home or to a different room or a park

° Someplace quiet and safe

° He’ll cater to you, bringing you a blanket, snacks and a drink. Then, he’ll cuddle with you

° And don’t you dare try to apoloigize, he won’t hear any of it

Colonel Konig

° Simultaneously the best and the worst

° He has anxiety, he has experience with panic attacks!

° And while don't think his anxiety is the sort of "uwu shy bean" kind some people portray him with (see my thoughts on his anxiety/behaviour here!) He does still have anxiety- crowds and new people freak him out too! Though he may show it in a different way

° In situations of stress, his military training kicks in- the anxiety borne adrenaline making him on edge and attentive

° He keys into your discomfort very quick. Doesn't mean he knows what to do about it Will probably stress a bit about wanting to something to help, but not knowing what The best thing to do is probably for you two to comfort each other

° He's not big on PDA (He's a grown man, a Colonel, he's above those things {secretly it makes him melt}) but an easy way for both of you to calm is to link pinkies, or for you to hold his pinky

° It's not in your face but it's enough to know that you're both there, that you're going to be okay

° He'll let you to play with his sleeve, or his gloves, or his bracelet or his watch

° He may start, once he’s comfortable enough, or if he’s nervous enough, he may do the same. Most commonly, he will pinch one of your fingers between two of his and sort of just wiggle it around

° Think someone waving out those metal sheets to make a whomplewoomblewoom sound

° He’ll do his best to get you out of the situation, not afraid to throw his rank around, or use his imposing stature to do so

Please reblog to support my writing!

Masterlist

[earlgreydream]

tame.

| zemo x reader | smut |

anon requested. bratamer!Zemo or something with Zemo and spanking

cw: spanking, whipping, degradation, gagging

“Turn it down, draga!” Zemo snapped, throwing his office door open to reprimand you.

You were stretched out on the couch, starburst candy in your mouth as you kicked your feet to the beat of loud bubblegum pop music.

You’d already been told twice to turn it down, and Zemo was at his wits end with your obnoxious behavior. He was in meetings, the underlying bass of the songs interrupting his important business.

“I did turn it down.” You rolled your eyes, practically sneering at Zemo.

“You keep up this attitude, and you’re on your way to my wrath,” he warned.

“Whatever,” you turned onto your back, draping your head off of the side of the couch.

He stared at you, trying to let his fury simmer down. He finally pulled the plug on your stereo, plunging the room into silence.

Zemo ignored your glare, unable to put up with your bratty behavior any longer. He returned to his office, apologizing to his client. They finished the meeting, and Zemo had his secretary cancel the rest of his schedule.

.

Meanwhile, you were tanning on the deck, completely bare. His clients got an eyeful as they passed your nude body on their way out, making Zemo seethe.

Before you could say something coy, Zemo’s hand wrapped around your bicep, dragging you inside.

“Helmut-”

“I don’t want to hear it. You’ve disrespected me, and yourself, and I’ve had enough!” Zemo snapped.

You dug your heels in, putting up a fight against his manhandling. You were in a mood, and you wanted to rile the stoic sokovian. Household staff avoided looking at your body as they passed, each person who got a glimpse of you— of what was his— only angered Zemo further.

“You think you’re earning yourself a good fuck, yes? That’s what you want?” Zemo snapped, practically throwing your body up against the wall, getting in your face.

You glared at him, caught in the truth. That was exactly what you wanted— Zemo to fuck you thoroughly. He made a noise of disdain, as if your very existence disgusted him.

“You selfish little brat.”

The blood in your veins turned to ice, and you started to panic, realizing you hadn’t earned the reaction you’d hoped for. His dark gaze frightened you, and you dreaded everything that was beginning to unfold.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” you tried to backtrack, tears welling in your eyes.

“You will be sorry,” Zemo hissed, his chest heaving with labored breaths.

He offered no sympathy at the sight of your tears, knowing it was a ploy to get him to lighten your punishment. He wasn’t falling for it, not after how you’d repeatedly pushed his buttons and been disobedient.

“Don’t cry. I haven’t even hurt you yet,” he held your jaw in his hand.

A pathetic whimper escaped your lips, and he dragged you down a side hall in his extensive mansion, to a room you detested. Both of your wrists stayed trapped in one of his hands, while the other pulled a key from the top of the doorframe.

“No, I don’t want to go in the playroom,” you shook your head, struggling against his grip on your wrists.

He said your name in an eerily calm tone, dark eyes boring into you.

“Stop struggling.”

A strained whine caught in your throat, and he pushed you into the room ahead of him. The lock clicked behind you on the door, and your arms went around your naked body. The black marble floor was cold under your feet, contradicting the shame and dread that burned through your skin. Your eyes danced along dark walls, covered in instruments and toys hanging from hooks, to a large bed in the corner.

His hand pressed against your lower back, leading you to the middle of the room, under a honeycomb structure attached to the ceiling. He threaded red cords through it, barely looking at you as he did so.

“Give me your hand.”

You miserably placed your hand in his. Red cord was bound around both of your wrists, tied to the ceiling with just enough pressure to leave your muscles straining, and your feet unsteady.

“Zemo-”

“I don’t want to hear a word out of your slutty mouth unless it’s red.”

You pulled your lower lip between your teeth, falling silent. He walked over to a chest of drawers, pulling out tiny clamps from one of them. You squirmed even before he approached you, the chords rattling against the grate.

You couldn’t escape him, you could barely move even a few centimeters. Your lips were parted, shallow, anxious breaths being exhaled softly. Zemo carefully monitored your reactions, listening to the pained squeak that came as he closed the clamps around your nipples, the sharp pinch biting into your hypersensitive skin. A chain hung between them, and he tugged lightly on it, just to see your toes curl in pain.

You gave Zemo a wounded look, struggling to stay quiet. You knew the rules, making noise and protesting would only land you in deeper trouble. Zemo was angry, and it was not the time to test him. He traced his fingers up your side, smoothing over the curve of your body.

He broke away from you, walking over the wall where different paddles were hanging from hooks. You squirmed in dread as he took a woden one off of the wall, tiny holes in it because he knew it was the one you found the most painful. He reserved it for when you were particularly bratty, or just downright disobedient.

“Stand still,” Zemo broke you out of your spiral of pity.

You exhaled, letting your feet settle on the ground. You didn’t need to be told to count, a quiet “one” falling from your lips as he struck your ass with the wood. Your numbers got progressively more strained until you were sobbing them out, trying not to lose count as your ass burned completely raw. 

Your arms ached, held above your head as you struggled not to teeter, your feet unsteady on the cold floor. Zemo had ceased spanking you, letting you hang there. A cracked whine slipped out when he roughly pulled the nipple clamps off of you, sending a split second of blinding pain through your chest. 

“You don’t have to count these,” Zemo’s voice broke the silence, making you open your eyes. 

You shook your head, another round of tears slipping down your cheeks as he pulled a brown leather whip down. He waited for your safeword, but you didn’t speak, crying silently and turning your face into your arm. 

The leather cord cracked against your already painful skin, welts raising and making you scream into the gag Zemo had placed in your mouth. You bit down on the fabric, sobbing as he whipped you for what felt like hours, though in reality it was likely only a few minutes.

He said your name, calling out to you, but you hardly heard him over your heart pounding in your ears. Zemo pried the gag out of your mouth, tilting your head up with both hands. You blinked slowly, gasping as he released your wrists from the restraints. You collapsed, but he caught you easily, ready for it.

You were shaking in his arms as he carried you to your bedroom, gently laying you down on the bed, easing you to rest on your stomach. He kissed down your spine, laying his hand on your side. You turned your face into the pillow, ashamed of your behavior, and him seeing you so vulnerable. 

“Draga, it’s alright,” his voice soothed your insecurities, and you relaxed as he tenderly massaged cream into your burning skin. 

You sniffed softly, wincing as he gently pulled some silk shorts up over your bum. He buttoned the matching top around you, earning your thanks. You twisted to look at him, pulling him to lay down in front of you, still fully dressed in his suit.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, and he pulled you into his chest, letting you snuggle against him.

“I know, my love. It’s perfectly okay. All is forgiven,” he promised, kissing your head. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly for as long as he let you. He kissed the protests off of your lips when he stood up, promising he was just changing and then coming back. 

You laid in the white sheets, waiting for your lover to return. He slid into bed next to you, watching the way your eyes lit up at his arrival. He pressed a kiss against your mouth, smiling as you curled up to rest under his arm. 

“My darling.”

.

“Zemo?” you called, walking with a slight limp into the kitchen. 

“I’m here. You didn’t need to be up so early,” he said, looking out the window before kissing your cheek. 

“I wanted to see you,” you answered, happy you’d caught him before a day of meetings.

“See me? Why wouldn’t you?”

“Work...” you answered, looking up at him as if he’d forgotten. 

“I’m off today. What would you like to do?” he asked, turning around and placing a plate of pancakes in your hands. 

You gazed up at him, his smile reaching his dark eyes. He’d felt guilty with how much time he’d spent working. He knew that was the real reason for you acting out, and all he wanted was to make up for it and spend some extra time with you. 

“Would it be wasteful to watch films? And eat these?” You asked.

“That would be perfect,” he helped you onto the couch, making sure you were able to sit comfortably. 

You giggled as he forked a piece of pancake into your mouth, kissing the syrup off of your lips. You ate and watched the movie, gasping at the scary parts and laughing as Zemo covered your eyes. 

“I love you, you know?”

[chainofclovers]

Ted Lasso 2x10 thoughts

GOOD GOD.

“No Weddings and a Funeral” is like being hungover but also coming out of a hangover. Having a terrible cold but also feeling better and appreciating every breath that comes through your nose. Embarking on an organizational project and accidentally falling into a photo album and crying about the pictures and organizing almost nothing tangible but making a few things more clear in your brain.

So much of this episode is about the AWFUL POINTLESSNESS OF DECORUM. How loud is too loud when you’re drinking stolen wine and shrieking about sex in a church right before your father’s funeral? How should you feel--thirty years later, as an accommodating, anger-averse person--about having been too angry to attend the funeral for your father who killed himself? What expression should you make when you show up really late to a different funeral? Why must you wear uncomfortable shoes just because someone died? What happens in your mind between standing up to give a eulogy for a man you’re still angry with and choosing to Rick Roll your mom and everyone else as an act of complicated love, humiliatingly incomplete until someone else starts to sing? Should you worry about your therapist seeing your normally tidy flat in a full-on state of depression mess? Is it okay to be offended that your boyfriend is so uncomfortable about death that he can’t stop making morbid jokes? Should you care about other people caring that you’re crunching an apple in church or squealing with joy to be reunited with a friend you’ve not seen in awhile? Are you obligated to explain your behavior if your kid doesn’t understand how you could stay with someone unfaithful? How far behind the counter should you sink when your [undefined relationship person]’s mother has just let you know she can see your dick through your underwear? Is a funeral reception an okay place to find a hookup? Is a funeral reception a decent spot for a break-up? Is a funeral reception a good time for a love confession when you know the person you’re confessing to is happy with someone else? And who do you make eye contact with when you can’t look directly at the person asking you if you’re okay when there’s so, so much about you she doesn’t know yet? Even if--for this tiny little moment within a vast swath of many okay and not-okay moments--you’re honest when you tell her that you are?

I fucking adored this episode because it answers all these questions very simply: Show up. Show up for yourself. Show up for your friends. Try not to harm yourself. Try not to harm your friends.

I love that this episode is about the messiness of adulthood and the things we bring with us from childhood and that it takes place partially in Rebecca’s childhood bedroom, and in Ted’s childhood memories. Dwelling in those places (whether physically or mentally) isn’t an automatic recipe for regression, but it does get everyone closer to the things that made them who they are, to the unresolved and half-buried parts of them that still make them tick today.

Forever obsessed with every single detail about Rebecca’s childhood bedroom.

Forever obsessed with Deborah’s decision to Rick Roll herself every single morning of her life.

Forever obsessed with Rebecca’s decision to Rick Roll her father’s funeral as a way to not have to make up a single word about her father and to do something very vulnerable and kind for herself and her mother and everyone.

Forever obsessed with Ted’s decision to Rick Roll Rebecca Rick Rolling her father’s funeral.

Forever obsessed with an entire found family backing it up.

I love that it is Isaac’s leadership that ensures every single member of the team attends the service for Paul.

I am very, very interested in Jamie’s love confession to Keeley because I do think it will spark some reflection in Keeley but I do not think it’ll go the cliched love triangle route.

Each scene with Rebecca and Sam struck (for me, a human being sharing a subjective perspective on the internet) the tender-awkward-beautiful-stressful chord I was hoping it would. I think it’s wonderful that Sam is honest with Rebecca about how difficult it is to keep their relationship a secret, and I love that Rebecca has a million mostly-unarticulated reasons for why she’d much prefer the secret to continue. I like that Sassy, Keeley, and Nora respond to the revelation as friends; they might be tempering their judgments in part because they’ve all gathered to bury Rebecca’s dad, but I don’t think their reactions would’ve been that different even on a happier occasion.

While there are a million and one different reasons why a continued relationship between Rebecca and Sam could cause serious ethical problems, I really love that when people share big news on this show, the people who care about them generally react by trying to see why the person is doing what they’re doing. Doesn’t mean they shouldn’t also hold each other accountable, but in my book it’s OK that Keeley’s first reaction was to feel happy that her friend is having some fun.

Also everyone has been making weird judgment calls this season, and this episode felt like a moment of real breakthroughs in terms of people telling the truth about things that happened to them and leaving themselves open to honest responses from others.

September 13, 1991. It’s so tenderly, beautifully, overwhelmingly meaningful that there’s still so much Ted and Rebecca don’t know about the things they have in common in these parallel lives they’re leading. The scene between Sarah Niles and Jason Sudeikis is so beautifully acted, and so is the scene between Hannah Waddingham and Harriet Walter. The way they intertwine to communicate that Ted and Rebecca basically lost the ability to trust their fathers simultaneously, from an ocean away? In the hands of lesser storytellers, it would feel too perfect a mirroring, but here it feels heartbreakingly imperfect. All the things they still don’t know. All the questions they try to ask each other. All the things they don’t dare ask yet. And then the storytellers are holding a candle up to all of it and letting the audience bask in the glow of this connection even if Ted and Rebecca can’t fully understand it yet.

I am so proud that Rebecca and Deborah were able to embark on the beginnings of a conversation about the ways Deborah and Paul’s relationship might have resembled or not resembled Rebecca and Rupert’s. It feels possible that they could get to a point where Rebecca truly internalizes her mother’s pride that she broke a cycle by leaving Rupert, and could maybe even understand why her mother made the choices she made. I love that in the final scene, they’re still relying on their old mother-daughter conversational patterns—the frustrations, the snippy shorthand, the passive-aggression. Mothers and daughters!

I am also proud that Ted—albeit via a joke about Sharon charging him for the house call—indicates that he understands the value of Sharon’s work. He’s changed a lot, all in realistic ways for someone who loves learning and really does want to meet people where they are and appreciate them. I’m very moved that instead of putting himself in a real harmful situation by showing up to the funeral on time at any cost, he did what he needed to do to take care of himself and accept care from someone else. And then Sharon’s suggestion that he think about things he loved about his father? And the way he’s able to share a positive memory of Rebecca’s own father at a time when she really needed it? Gosh.

Awkward, undecorous transition from 1991 to present-day incoming...but SASSY! She’s just, like, a whirling dervish of loyal friendship and not giving a fuck and penis size discussions and being casually, delightfully cruel to Rupert, who so deserves it. Rebecca was going on a real face journey when Sassy goes off with Ted at the end, and I’m sort of *eyes emoji* about all of that, but I continue to feel like Sassy is the most imperfectly wonderful friend-from-the-past kind of person and I love everything she and Nora get to do in this episode.

Keeley saying “That baby is whack” might be my favorite line in the episode? Maybe the whole show? Not really but really.

FUCK YOU, RUPERT. Bex and Diane, y’all are fine. And I truly feel for Nate...whatever scheme he’s getting suckered into. Whatever insecurity Rupert is preying on. I want Nate to go to therapy, too.

I feel like it was an unpopular opinion at the time, but I loved Rebecca’s 2x1 revelation about vulnerability and fear of getting hurt and needing to let someone love her. Sassy doesn’t always word things in the most nuanced way, but I think there’s a real possibility that she did ask Rebecca to really consider what it means to feel either safe or unsafe with a person but to know that in either circumstance, that person could end up causing her pain. Standing in that closet with Sam, managing to make it clear that she’s not asking for a break because she knows he will hurt her but because she has to figure out how to be with a wonderful person who could cause her pain...the growth, man. Makes me emotional.

I emerged from this episode feeling, of course, stunned by all the amazing parallels and revelations and beautiful acting and Rick Rolls and just, everything. I also emerged feeling sad/raw/tender because messiness and decorum and growth and coping mechanisms and death and dramatic irony and not knowing things about people and not knowing what you don’t know...it’s a sad, raw, tender place to be.

To quote a guy who got a whole sitcom (lol) named after him, life is real hard.

[drabsyo]

I was wondering...I was always confused about Narcissa’s hair. It’s been a while since I read the books. Did she color it blonde to show her now belonging to House Malfoys. Or was it naturally blonde? Movies confused me a bit I guess.

Yes, this had me confused too! I've agonized and toiled over it, more than I probably should, about how I should draw her hair because people have generally different views, which is totally understandable! 💕

And I've always wanted to discuss it, so now that I've been given a reason to... Well.

If you take a look at some of my Narcissa fanart, you'll notice the different ways I'd color her hair. I was so confused. Is she a light blonde? Dark blonde? A mix of raven hair and blonde hair? If she has blonde hair then why does her family have (mostly) dark hair? And WHY does she have blue eyes?! This woman is absolutely confusing! (Which is kind of, you know, fitting because Narcissa always loves to be a mystery to literally anyone lol)

So I did my homework, asked around, and scoured every bit of information, canon or otherwise, that I could find about her. It led me to this:

In canon, this is what the Black sisters look like. You can find the page here. Narcissa is a child here, and already has blonde hair. So we can go ahead and safely assume that she was born with natural blonde hair. But in the films, Narcissa has black and blonde hair. I don't actually know why they gave her that hair color, maybe so that the audiences wouldn't question her blood relations with the Blacks--I don't know. I really don't. But now we have a book version Narcissa, one who has full blonde hair. And a movie version Narcissa, one who has raven and blonde hair. At least, that's how the different hair colors started: a movie version, and a book version.

So... here's where it gets confusing.

To my knowledge, it isn't actually explained why her hair color is the way it is in both the movies and the books. Having blonde hair does raise many questions, how is she the "only" blonde in a family of dark hair and dark eyes? To top it all off, it gets even more confusing, because fanon writes and draws her either as a full blonde or a mix of raven and blonde hair. We just have this large pile to sift through of her having either hair color. No one actually explains anything. She's just... infuriatingly there. She's either blonde or raven haired and blonde. BUT fanfiction writers, as I've observed, give their own reasons why Narcissa's hair color is the way it is in their respective stories. And it's actually pretty creative and interesting! It adds even greater depth to her character, and it fits the narrative of the story even better. Remember, the character we're dealing with is Narcissa Black. One of her main traits is "she won't do anything unless there is a clear purpose behind it." This character is deliberate, meticulous, and she makes sure to plan ahead at all times. And so, some fanfiction writers decide to play on that.

You can skip this part if you want to avoid spoilers but I've compiled a small list of instances in (Cissamione) fanfiction where Narcissa's hair is mentioned.

🔹 In Extinction by rubikanon in Chapter 10: Build and Break, Hermione asks Narcissa about it. Here, Narcissa has black and blonde hair. She explains that she only decided to dye it blonde to "fit in with the Malfoys." We can gather two things from that alone, which resonates with her character perfectly: 1.) Narcissa is loyal and 2.) Narcissa purposefully wants to show the rest of the world how loyal she is by committing to having blonde hair. The woman has some serious commitment, and it shows. But now, the way that it's slowly growing back into her natural black hair color, hints that perhaps Narcissa no longer wishes to fit in with the Malfoys. However, if we take an even closer look, we can safely assume that Narcissa isn't the kind of person to just leave her hair color "unattended" like that. Remember, she's meticulous. And this is a big deal for her, the fact that she's just kind of letting it grow back instead of either fully dyeing it back to black, or dyeing it back to blonde. It suggests that perhaps she's a little unsure this time, perhaps it is her uncertainty that is the reason why it's now a mix of both. Another grey area? Or maybe it's actually something more deliberate? Maybe now, she likes that it's a mix of both. That other half now being solely for Draco, and not to fit in (completely) with the Malfoys any longer. Who knows why Narcissa does things the way she does? We can speculate to the ends of the earth, or be as smart as Hermione Granger (or with the case of Extinction, see Hermione's thoughts), but something tells me we'd still be a good step behind.

"Which one is your natural hair color?" I wondered aloud.

(Narcissa) She glanced up at the unexpected question. I was relieved she hadn't sensed my attention yet. It's not like I meant anything by it, I told myself. She was so beautiful, one couldn't help but notice. And feel physically drawn to her. And want to see her two-toned hair fanned across her back, slipping over the bare skin, silky beneath my fingers...

"Why do you ask?" Her query brought me back to reality, and I hurriedly corrected my imagination to include a pretty dress covering the rest of her.

"I don't know." I chewed the inside of my cheek, suppressing my other thoughts. "I'm just curious."

Her gaze returned to the fire. "You've seen enough of my relatives to guess which color is genetic. The blond is something I added to fit in with the Malfoys, after Draco was born." She was quiet for a moment. "He looks so much like his father. I suppose I wanted to share some resemblance."

🔹 In Killing Me Softly by Looktotheedges in Chapter 4: Nagging, Hermione suggests that perhaps Narcissa is part Veela because of her blonde hair and very attractive features, like Fleur. Which is this whole other theory/plot that's very interesting, but won't be discussed in this post. Narcissa tells Hermione that Sirius has always been blonde, and that it isn't out of the question for her to be blonde either. Sirius Black. A blonde. I know! Maybe it's there because it's funny that Sirius is actually blonde like Narcissa. Prissy, haughty, lady-like Narcissa. Arguably the 'girliest' cousin that he has. No, no, no. He doesn't want to be anything like Narcissa. Anyway, if that's the reason, I think that's hilarious and cute.

Narcissa turns away. 'I am aware my appearance is frightfully drab. Work has been…'

Hermione holds back a disbelieving scoff. 'Narcissa. You always look beautiful. And you’re talking to the witch with grass in her hair who practically lives in her office all week.'

Narcissa just leans further over the crib. 'A blonde little boy. It has been so long since… I can almost imagine…'

Hermione stands next to her. Looks down at the peacefully sleeping Louis. He does look remarkably like Draco. 'Are you sure there’s no Veela blood in you? You weren’t secretly switched at birth?'

'Like a changeling?'

'It would explain your blonde hair.'

'Sirius was also blonde, it is not completely out of the question for us Blacks.'

What?!

(...) 'I know. But it is the truth. He was blond until he was about seven… then it began to darken. Mousy. Dull. He wanted to look cool and brooding instead, so he got his hands on some kind of charm right before he set off for Hogwarts. A new, edgy Sirius. It was around then he forbade us from calling him Siri. Said it sounded too girly.'

🔹 In Fixed in Time by TheWorldsaBeastofBurden in Chapter 9: Sisters and Saviors, it's also tackled a little humorously. Andromeda let's a little comment slip while they're in the middle of trying to heal Hermione. Something funny, something that suggests Andromeda and Bella, when they were children, have always wondered why Narcissa is blonde unlike them.

The first words spoken occurred after they’d risen and attempted their casting. Andromeda’s preparedness to take on their task had been clear in her mind so Narcissa rose with her sister, wrapped an arm around her waist and held her near as the woman raised her wand to draw up the rest of the injury she’d dropped, half a slash across Hermione’s hip bone…

That remained half, as Andromeda growled out, “...it isn’t working.” she looked to Narcissa, “Why aren’t you powering me?”

What nonsense? “I am!” she insisted. She was! Or “I- I am trying to!” Her magic was active and alive, pulsing to rise from her skin and transfer into Andromeda’s but it- it wasn’t working! “Could...could it be that you were disowned?”

“Disowning doesn’t take away the fact that we share blood, our magic is directly related. Ugh, Bella always said you were adopted!”

“Oh ha- oh.”

“...oh?” Andromeda returned.

“...it’s not an issue of power. It is what I intend to aid in casting,” Narcissa slowly worked out. Oh, it was most blessed Mister Goyle could be brought to assist the present Hermione. If her present self had been brought to aid Andromeda? “...I cannot harm Hermione.”

Andromeda sighed with some frustration. “I understand you are so tenderly in love-”

“It isn’t- I’m avowed! I- when we arrived from the future we had to escape Malfoy Manor, I couldn’t bring Hermione through the wards without...I couldn’t add her directly, that would be visible. I had to...attach her permission to mine.”

🔹 In Glass Silence by Zarrene Moss (Menzosarres), which probably gives one of the most interesting backstories for Narcissa's hair, for why it's blonde. I can't put a clip of the scene here without hogging up a huge chunk of space on your dash, so I'll try to explain it as best I can instead.

Understand that these come with serious 🛑spoilers🛑 so please do read it at your own risk.

In Glass Silence, Narcissa's hair and eye color was black at birth. But after an accident with raw magic, something Bellatrix wasn't able to control when they were children, Narcissa almost dies. Bellatrix, using even more raw magic, tries desperately to pull Narcissa's "life force" back, but at the cost of losing the eumelanin that made Narcissa's eyes and hair black. Narcissa survived, but now has very little eumelanin left, which is why she's so pale, blonde, and has blue eyes. Every time Narcissa looks at a mirror, her reflection is a reminder of the day she almost died. Bella, on the other hand, is reminded of that day every single time she looks at Narcissa.

So! These are only a few fanfictions I could think of at the top of my head that tackles the issue of Narcissa's hair. In the books, to my knowledge, she is described as having blonde hair and very pale skin.

But let's take another deep dive, if you're up for it.

These are mostly theories, which are largely unconfirmed, but I think they're interesting to think about.

There's this description in the wiki:

"Narcissa Malfoy is described as tall, slim, "nice looking", and very pale, with blue eyes, long blonde hair, and a clear, cold voice. Her hair colouring thus differs from most of the House of Black, who generally have dark hair, though Narcissa does possess the arrogant good looks characteristic of her family."

There's also this pinterest photo of the Black sisters being compared to each other side by side, descriptively and physically. I'm so sorry, I don't know who drew it, but here's a link to the post on pinterest.

"Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale she seemed to shine in the darkness... long blonde hair streaming down her back."

Which is interesting because this hints that she's... different. It's a bit literal in this sense--she comes from a pureblood family, arguably the most influential and notorious one, the Blacks, who mostly have dark hair and eyes, and yet her physical appearance directly contrast that. There's also the matter of her namesake. She's the only Black to be named after a flower instead of a galaxy or a star. We aren't really given any explanation why she's the only one who's different. Even Sirius, who fought and died for the side of the Light, is named after the brightest star in the sky. Even Andromeda. It's been said that this is actually meant to be a parallel of some sort to Lily Evans. Narcissa and Lily are both named after flowers, even Petunia (Lily's sister). And I know there's this thing where it's a tie up to how Harry was ultimately saved by a mother's love: Harry lived at the beginning because of his mother's love, and Harry lives once again at the end of the books because Narcissa, a mother who wanted to save her own son, saved him.

If you read that scene in the books where Harry is saved by Narcissa, the whole scene is actually... pretty soft? There's that sort of disarming softness about Narcissa in that moment, where Harry expected to be callously dragged and prodded for a heartbeat. Instead, he gets a surprisingly gentle touch, a curtain of long blonde hair shielding him from the darkness, and the kind of tenderness he wouldn't expect from his enemies, "Is Draco alive?"

It's almost like Narcissa's appearance is something of a "tell". With Andromeda, she's described to have kind eyes, open, unguarded. She inherited her family's dark eyes and dark hair, and she even looks like Bellatrix's twin. I suppose we could say, Andromeda wants to fight that in any way she can by being openly kind. Narcissa is quite literally the opposite--guarded eyes, stoic expressions, cool and calculated emotions. We're veering into this fine line between fanon and canon in terms of their characterization (but only due to lack of canon materials) but personally, I think Narcissa having blonde hair and blue eyes is somewhat more fitting for her character. Again, this line:

"Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale she seemed to shine in the darkness... long blonde hair streaming down her back."

It's like that one glaringly obvious hint that everyone overlooks simply because... because it's the most obvious one. "Me! I'm different! I'm the last person you'd expect, but it really is me!"

Anyway. I've rambled on long enough. Hope this clears up some of that confusion, anon. Hoping it didn't ADD even more confusion... 😂 At the end of the day, this is just me speculating, gushing, and being One Big Fool™. So.

But either way, blonde hair, dark hair, mix of both, I adore her. Pretty much.

[loveofafangirl]

Unexpected

[Baron Zemo Masterlist] [Marvel Masterlist]

Pairing: Baron Zemo x Fem!Reader/You

Synopsis: Life with Zemo had been going well until you got some unexpected news that you worried would destroy everything. *Angst + Fluff/Comfort*

Rating/Warnings: General; mentions of previous character death

Word Count: ~1,150

Author’s Note: Thank you for all the support and love these past few days. I’ve loved writing Zemo and am so grateful to all of you who have interacted with my posts. I can’t thank you enough.

You look down, overwhelmed with emotion with what you see. You had convinced yourself that you didn’t want this—you didn’t need it—being with him was enough. But now, with your eyes glued to the test in your hands, you want this more than you could have ever imagined. 

Your smile is dulled by the tears silently cascading down your features. You didn't know how to tell him.

He loved you and the life you built together. He loved children. He doted and spoiled every child that had crossed your paths in the time you had been with him; but, he didn't want one of his own.

The loss of his son had broken a part of him that he couldn't move on from. He loved you, and he loved children, but the idea of being a father again wasn't something he could bear. The pain that crossed his face any time the two of you had discussed it was more than you could ever hope to understand. He had suffered the most significant loss a person could—the loss of a child. The world is too dangerous, he would say. You understood what he meant and the concerns he had. 

For days you try and fail to work up the courage to tell him. Every time you got close, you found an excuse to keep your secret. As long as he didn't know, you could still be happy. As long as he didn't know, you wouldn't cause him any undue pain.

One day, it becomes too much. The feelings you had attempted to bottle up reach their pressure point. Tears begin streaming, and you can't stop them. 

"I'm sorry." The words barely slip from your lips as you run off to the bedroom, hoping he won't follow you, even though you know better than that. You bury your face in the pillow as you try to muffle your cries.

"Y/N?" The bed shifts as he takes a seat beside you. He tenderly strokes your back, whispering softly to you.

His gentle, worried touch pushes you over. Sobbing, your body shakes uncontrollably. 

"Liebling, come." He gently lifts your head. His loving eyes fill with concern as he guides you into his arms. 

You want to resist because you know what you have to do, but you don't have the strength to fight it. You fall into his chest, hiding your tears. The safety of his arms around you gives you a flicker of confidence as you work up the nerve to say what you've been avoiding for the past week.

"Whatever this is, we will get through it," he offers, stroking your hair.

 You shake your head. "I don't know how it happened. We had been so careful." Your words are choppy through your sobs. 

"Tell me what has you this troubled." His warm hands rub your back. "There is nothing you must fear with me. You know the worst of who I was, and you chose to see the good. No matter what has happened, it changes nothing. I love you." 

You pull back enough to meet his gaze. "I'm pregnant." Your confession breaks in your raw throat. You wince, trying again. "I'm pregnant, Helm." 

You feel his body grow rigid at your words. His arms fall away from you, leaving you with only your fears. Your hands instinctively cradle your stomach, holding on to the part of him you have left. 

His normally warm brown eyes are distant, his face unreadable with conflicting emotions. 

The two of you sit in silence for what feels like an eternity until you can't take it another second. "Please! Say something," you plead. "Anything."

Your voice pulls him back. "Is this true? Are you certain?"

You nod, tears falling quietly. "I had my doctor verify the results," you answer weakly. 

His eyes close as he nods in understanding. 

"I don't want to lose the baby," you admit with as much strength as you can muster. "I know I said I didn't need this, but now that it's here, I want this. I want this for us."

His hand reaches for yours as his eyes open once more. There was still pain, but there was something new there, too—a flicker of light.

Neither of you has words to articulate the depth of all the emotions flooding through you. 

He leans forward, resting his forehead on yours. His free hand brushes away the tears, although new ones replace them almost immediately. He kisses you sweetly. His thumb caresses your cheek as he keeps you close.

You lean into his touch, needing to hear him say that it was going to be okay.

Instead of the words you were waiting to hear, he slides to his knees, his face parallel with your yet unchanged stomach. He gently lifts your top and peppers your skin with the softest kisses you could imagine.

You hear his quiet cries and know how much conflict there is in him. He leans against you and whispers a silent prayer. You can't hear the words but understand the sentiment.

Your fingers weave through his hair, hoping to bring him some comfort. You weren't even a parent yet, and the thought of losing your child was too much to imagine. You know you could never understand the weight of his loss and how terrifying the thought of suffering that loss a second time must be.

His head rests in your lap as he holds your hand, letting the unexpected news sink in.

Your own tears quiet to a trickle as your focus shifts from your worries to him.

"I feared this moment," he begins, looking up at you. His eyes are swollen with tears of his own. "I did not think I could stand the idea of being a father again." You tense as his voice wavers, but he continues. "This news—" He nods willing himself to continue. "I love you, y/n. And our child will know nothing but love."

You inhale deeply, letting your worries fade at his words. The stress in your body evaporates, and you feel you can breathe for the first time in days.

His eyes glisten with tears, but for the first time, you see the joy behind them.

You sniffle back your tears. "I love you, too."

He envelops you into his arms, keeping you safe as the two of you let your newfound joy wash over you.

The future may be uncertain, but as long as you had each other, you knew you would get through it. There was nothing either of you wouldn't do to protect your child. Neither of you could have anticipated how much healing and love that child would bring to your life or how this unexpected news could bring you closer than before.

Perma(til the end of the line): @the-soot-sprite​​; @fandomxreaders

Zemo tags: @montypythonsholysnail​​ ; @killsandthrills​​ ; @noavengers​​ ; ​

Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. I truly appreciate your support!

[bitchassbucky]

.raw

Word count: 1.3k

Warning/s: this chapter is pretty tame ngl. very toxic relationship dynamics, bit spicy, references to sex, dark!bucky x dark! reader, obsessive/manipulative tendencies, cyber and irl stalking (usage of tracking device), food and eating were mentioned several times

A/N: thank you @unsaltedalmonds for the idea of IT!Bucky wearing this shirt lmfao

follow the CTRL series:

i - .exe

ii - .avi

iii - .raw

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v - .zip

CTRL playlist CTRL moodboard

The lunch rush is starting to pick up when you came into the restaurant Bucky had told you. The chitter-chatter of the patrons along with the live acoustic band drones on as you sit by the bar waiting for him.

It’s nice. The mood is casual and the atmosphere is light. Maybe if the al-fresco dining area isn’t too crowded, you’d pick a sunny spot.

Catching your reflection on a glassy surface, you fix your appearance, hoping that it isn’t too much or too little.

“You look great, don’t worry.” A voice behind you perks up and you turn—Bucky.

A genuine smile finds itself on your lips, “thanks, Bucky. How long have you been here?” You let your eyes gaze upon his form. Black bomber jacket, zipped up all the way, tight skinny jeans, and scruffy boots. He swapped his dress shirt with something casual and it’s somehow driving you nuts already.

He gestures backward to a free table a few feet away, “long enough to get a seat for us.”

Bucky then sees your eyes flick outside by the restaurant’s patio, “unless you wanna go al-fresco?”

“Oh my gosh,” you almost even give yourself an eye roll for that, “no—no, it’s okay. We can stay here.”

“C’mon, it’s okay. I’m sure someone would be willing to switch with us.”

Before you could protest further, Bucky already flagged down the hostess. Giving his best smile and a minuscule head tilt, he speaks, “Do you think we could get a seat out there? I think fresh air would do us good.”

Like any other woman—hell, even men—wouldn’t be able to resist Bucky and his charm, “yeah! Of course, anything for you and your girlfriend.” The hostess looks at you and beams, prompting you to smile back.

Do you even try to dismiss that claim when you caught how Bucky reacted?

—

Peals of laughter slip past your lips as Bucky unzips his jacket, revealing a tasteful shirt underneath, “Bucky, oh my god!”

He throws an apologetic look around as you keep laughing, your hands hitting the table repeatedly.

“Can you keep it down?” Even he was chuckling a bunch, “in my defense, I need to do my laundry.”

You calmed yourself down only to laugh again, happy tears springing to the sides of your eyes.

Bucky wants to relive this is forever. Making you laugh and cry from laughing too much.

Is this what love feels like?

Your presence to him is like ecstasy.

He never wants to leave your light.

Everything about you is addicting.

And the way you didn’t even try to dismiss when the hostess called you his girlfriend—you want him as much as he wants you.

—

Lunch turned into afternoon snacks and snacks turned to dinner.

You and Bucky almost went and turned every food place upside down, the waistbands of your pants getting snug as the sun sets by the avenue.

“I’m so full, oh my god.” You jokingly rubbed your tummy, sipping boba as you walked side by side.

“Says the person drinking boba tea?” Bucky smirks, his hair fashioned into a low bun, showing off his side profile, much to the delight of people passing by.

He’s a walking Greek statue and you’re with him.

Bucky makes you feel loved. Enough. Seen. Validated.

Is this what love feels like?

You in his presence feel like a warm hug.

Bucky changed you forever.

A rather rushing pedestrian knocked shoulders with Bucky, causing him to stumble back and you to hold him steady, “you good?”

He seemed pissed, the crease between his eyebrows prominent, “yeah. Sorry, I’m okay.”

And then there it was: the tug of something unknown yet strangely familiar. The sound of the traffic ceases as you and Bucky both gaze upon each other’s eyes, only drifting to the other’s lips.

The moment has never been this perfect. Fuck all your romantic comedies starring Kate Hudson, this is your story now.

“Can I kiss you?” Bucky asks tenderly. His hand brushing your hair away from your face.

“Yes.”

Without a moment’s notice, your lips met.

—

Hand in hand, you walked the streets feeling like you’re on the clouds. Sweet smiles, bashful giggles. Normally, you would protest against stealing kisses but not when it’s him.

“This is my place,” Bucky says, pointing towards a mid-rise apartment complex. The neighborhood wasn’t new to you; you often find yourself walking these very streets early in the mornings.

You haven’t had the moment to appreciate his art pieces when Bucky suddenly pinned you against the door, shutting it roughly as soon as you stepped into his apartment threshold.

His lips finding yours, nibbling. The kiss was anything but sweet—all teeth and tongues.

“You have no idea how much I’ve waited to do that.”

“Like a month?” You quipped, tugging the collar of his tee. Your arms draping past his shoulders as his hands rest on your hips.

“Yeah, sure, let’s say a month.”

Having you in his studio apartment was meant to be. You in his space was written in the stars. He can almost see you waking up on his bed with him cooking you breakfast. Making you a cup of coffee now that he knows how you like it: with cream and two sugars.

You took a seat on his large office chair and a vision of you riding him suddenly floods his brain. Hey, now’s not the time.

Him shaking his head into resetting sent the wrong message, “oh. I can’t sit there, or…?” You pull yourself up, metaphorically hitting yourself in the head for making such a presumption.

Maybe he’s that kind of person who doesn’t like someone all up in their space. Then why would he take you here?

“No, no, it’s fine. I just—don’t you think it’s a bit late?” Bucky forces a smile, rubbing his palm across his nape. The warm feeling was suddenly pulled out of him. Now he’s just standing in his house with an acquaintance.

You suddenly felt small, minuscule, and very, very stupid. “Oh. Yeah, uh, I should probably get going.”

“What about a drink?” Bucky’s internally panicking now, he didn’t mean to insinuate the intent of leaving.

You shook your head, straightening your posture as you gathered your thoughts. “I can call a ride, it’s no worries. Got tons of stuff to do anyway.”

“I’m sorry.” Is all Bucky said. He wasn’t really sure why he’s apologizing or what it is for.

—

The door clicked closed and Bucky bolts to his workspace, closing down the applications that will implicate him.

He closes all applications but one, a tracking dot. He installed one on your work phone just in case you needed his help and can’t reach out. You’d never know who’s a sick fuck in these days.

Bucky shoots you a text but instead, he got a phone call.

Hey.

Hey.

The sound of the road was muffled on your end, but nonetheless, the car was moving in the right direction.

I’m so sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to...intrude. I just—I really like you, Bucky. I’m sorry I was too forward.

I… Bucky tries to play with time as he chooses his next words carefully, I like you too but I think we’re going too fast.

Your end was quiet, save from the ambient noises.

I guess so. Let’s keep things professional and friendly first, okay?

Okay.

I gotta go, I’m at my place.

The line went dead without as much as a goodbye.

Liar. Why would you lie to him? You have at least fifteen minutes more to go.

Why would you lie to him? Didn't you just say that you liked him? The way you said it was so casual—like it didn’t bother you that you were lying to him. Raised like a liar, die like a thief.

[blitheringmcgonagall]

Congrats on the 2k followers! 🖤✨

For the prompt: Remus,black and lovestruck? 🥺

@diabolicaenobilitas thank you 🖤! I’m presuming you wanted some sad Remus by the 🥺...

“Fuck!” Remus bit down hard on his lip to stop himself screaming with the pain.

“Merlin, fuck!” the dark haired boy looked down at him with a worried frown. “Did I hurt you?”

Remus shook his head. He had woken up in the Forbidden Forest a few moments ago, vague memories of the previous night still in his mind - racing through trees, tearing through undergrowth and jostling with his friends, a frenzied, too optimistic jump over a wide ditch, and then blackout.

He had woken up to Sirius Black leaning over him, muttering complicated healing spells. The pain in his leg excruciating. But Sirius has his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, silky hair blowing in the stiff breeze.

Stiff-

Don’t even think about that, oh fuck, not now, please gods not like this-

“Can you get me some clothes, now, please?” He croaked, the panic seeping into his voice.

“Relax Moony,” said James, opening up a backpack on the ground beside them and pulling out his stuff. “It’s not like we’ve never seen you starkers before.”

He handed the clothes to Remus with a warm smile. Poor Prongs, trying to be nice, having no clue how unpredictable and cruel and mortifying his stupid body could be. Not when it was first thing in the morning and he was lying naked with the person he was secretly in love with caring to his wounds, tenderly touching his legs and arms and side and FUCK WHY DID HE HAVE TO BE SUCH A LOVESTRUCK FOOL!?

He threw his shirt over himself and breathed a sigh of relief, sinking back down against the mossy forest floor.

“Alright Moony?” James sounded worried. “Will we bring Poppy over?”

“No, m’fine,” he mumbled, hiding his face behind his arm.

“You’re not fine,” he heard Sirius say, voice strained as was his manner when he was trying to rein in strong emotions. “You’ve broken that leg in at least three places.”

“Could have been worse. Could have gotten one of you injured,” Remus replied, his tongue sticking to his raw palate. “I’ve been worse, don’t worry, Padfoot.”

Sirius bent down closer to him, elegant, long fingers carefully moving the curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were so alive, molten, like a grey sky before a thunderstorm. He left his hand in his hair, soothing.

“I am worried about you,” Sirius whispered, hushed, reverent.

Remus looked up at him, his pale face covered in dirt and pine needles, dark circles under his eyes, sunken, a new sheen of sweat brought on by the pain. He could feel a lump in his throat and tears threatening to spill out.

“It’s only... I’m used to it,” he whispered back.

He watched the other boy brush a hand over his own eyes, a swift movement, as though hiding something.

“I’ll help you dress,” Sirius said quietly. “We’ll carry you back.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Prongs. I want Prongs to help me dress,” he said, his face heating up, suddenly flushed.

Had he imagined the disappointment in Sirius’ face?

“Sure, no problem, Moony,” James said, clearing his throat and sharing a look with Sirius (why?), a pat on the back, as though helping Remus was something worth arguing about, as though consoling his friend.

Why?

“Please let me help you,” Sirius said, when Remus’ shirt and trousers were on. “Prongs did his back in falling off his broom at Quidditch practice on Sunday. Wormy’s too small.”

James looked unsure, eyes shifting between them, tense. Peter eye rolled but nodded his head. He felt suddenly cold, exhausted.

“Sorry,” he said, as Sirius bent down and with help from James lifted him into his arms.

It was pitiful. He was pitiful. He hissed with the pain, much worse now that they were moving, determined not to upset them by making too much of a fuss. He was in Sirius’ arms, slender but strong.

“I’ll ruin your clothes,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Moony,” Sirius’ voice seemed softer, calmer now, walking carefully back towards the castle in the pale, anaemic light of a clouded dawn.

“Roots coming up on your right... a rock on your left,” Peter giving Sirius unnecessary advice at regular intervals.

It was terribly sore. A few tears rolled down his face. He could see James’ face scrunched up with empathy, as though he’d rather break his own leg than watch Remus deal with his.

He closed his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” Sirius said, his lips so close to his ear.

He could feel the other boy’s pulse beating more quickly.

He shivered, a violent tremor, too exhausted and spent and weak from pain and wanting. For a second he had imagined longing and need in Sirius’ tone, in the way his breath hitched. But he knew it was ridiculous. Why would anyone like him like that? The state of him.

He closes his lips tightly, so nobody could see them trembling. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Let the others think he was crying because of the pain in his leg.

[whoreiaki-kakyoin]

Hi! From the kissing prompts, may I humbly request "being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward" with bruabba? Specifically, Bruno being the one unable to open his eyes? Thanks in advance!!!

I love kiss/romance scenes in general so I love these prompts, but I seriously love this one for Bruabba! My heart fluttered a lil when I got this ask :) This is uhhh clearly from a "nobody dies" au because Araki can't tell me what to do xoxo

Edit: mention of blood/serious injury but everyone lives 💕

Abbacchio would say it took a while for things to return to normal, except there really hadn't been a normal to return to in the first place. Maybe it was a word that should have been thrown out entirely, stricken from his personal lexicon when he got mixed up with stands and Passione and... and Bruno. Of course, the last item on that list had turned his life upside-down in a completely different way than the others. But, all that aside, the dust settled, and things shifted into place anew. Not normal. Not even Passione's old "normal." But it was a welcome reprieve from the constant danger the past couple months had thrown at them.

They had all healed physically, more or less, with Giorno's help. Abbacchio had bitched and complained, insisting that if the boy was going to heal Bucciarati's wounds, then he was going to stay and watch to ensure that Bruno was fine. He turned it over in his mind most nights before he fell asleep, almost as if he was trying to un-see the image of their trusted capo on death's doorstep, his body laying eerily still. Abbacchio's fingers gripped the cup of tea in front of him, wrapping around the warm porcelain as he attempted to anchor himself. They were all home. He was fine. Bruno was fine. He knew, but still—

"Abbacchio!" The young capo approaches the table with a broad, easy grin, and Leone's heart stutters. "I'm not late, am I?" "No, I just got here early."

"Ah." Bruno sits, blue eyes twinkling, and smiles at a passing waitress as he asks her for a cappuccino. The café is small, the outdoor patio pleasant as weather turned to the warm, gentle breezes of late spring, right on the cusp of summer. "What had you wanted to talk about? You sounded like it was important." Fuck. For as many times as he's rehearsed the conversation in his head, you would think Abbacchio would have a handle on this. Finally, he takes a breath before forcing out, "I almost fucking lost you, you know. When we went after Diavolo." Maybe it's the last thing Bruno had expected, his mouth parting and his eyebrows arching in surprise.

"I... Well, I'm all right, now. It does touch me that you worried that much..."

"Bucciarati, I don't think you understand." His own words sound strained to his own ears, pinched out as his throat tightens with frustration. "I don't say it as your subordinate. You know that, so don't give me that shit."

"Abbacchio..."

"Every time I close my eyes, I see you laying there.... fucking... fucking drenched in blood. You have to promise you'll be careful." The other man sighs, slender fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I don't think I can make that promise, Abbacchio. You knew as well as I did what we were signing up for, joining Passione." Abbacchio stares for a moment, genuinely dumbfounded. Bruno was one of the smartest people he knew. And yet, how could he be this goddamn stupid?

"Don't you understand?" he repeated. His voice was a hoarse, urgent whisper, like he could impress to Bucciarati the terror he had felt. "Capo.... Bruno."

"L...Leone?" The other man falters at the shift, the drop in formailties, and there's such vulnerability, something so open and endearing in the questioning look on his face, his blue eyes searching Abbacchio's. With a sigh, Leone reaches a hand out to tangle in Bruno's hair, cradling the back of his head as he pulls him in suddenly to crush his lips to the other man's. It's desperate, but it's soft. More honest, more raw, perhaps, than anything either of them have done or said in quite some time. Abbacchio can feel this in the way that Bruno tenses in surprise and then melts, can hear it in the soft sigh the capo gives against his lips.

For the first time in... he's not even sure when, Leone allows himself to want, and to want openly, messily... completely unguarded. The pads of his fingers tease the baby hairs on the nape of Bruno's neck, circling gently. Leone Abbacchio isn't the best with words— usually doesn't see the need for many— but he hopes that this will suffice to tell Bruno everything he doesn't know how to say.

When he allows himself to pull away from the young capo, his breath catches in his chest. Bruno sighs softly, not opening his eyes just yet, allowing Abbacchio to hold his face gently as he leans forward, touching their foreheads together.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and Leone feels something in his chest leap and ache at the same time. "I'm so sorry, Leone..." He squeezes his eyes closed even tighter for a moment, bringing his hand up to grasp the one that cups his face so tenderly. "I almost let you lose me. I didn't... I didn't realize that you might feel the same way I did. I will be careful, okay? You have my word." He exhales softly, and Abbacchio smiles in spite of himself as he rubs his thumb over Bucciarati's cheek.

"Bruno. Look at me. Open your eyes."

"One more second?" Abbacchio laughs softly at the request.

"Oh? Why's that?" The capo blinks open deep blue eyes, fixing them on his partner with a brilliant smile.

"It seemed like a moment worth remembering. I wanted to savor it. Now... Kiss me again?" Abbacchio grins.

"Of course."

[avengerscompound]

Canvas

Canvas: A Captain America Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count:  1844

Warnings:  smut (vaginal sex, messy sex,)

Synopsis:  Steve has been painting you for a while.  In a lot of ways you’ve been his must.  This time, he has decided to use a whole different canvas to practice his art on.

Canvas

The brush was soft and tickled your skin.  Paired with the cool, wet paint, it set off a ripple of goosebumps in its wake.

Steve was an artist.  You hadn’t known that when you’d first started seeing each other.  The serious and stoic Steve Rogers who had devoted his life to protect the world as Captain America didn’t seem to be the soft artistic type.

He had surprised you though.  First with the fact he wasn’t as serious as he made himself seem when he was in uniform.  He was funny and snarky, and he cared deeply about people.

And he liked to paint.

You’d first discovered his artistic side when you’d woken up to find him sitting on the end of the bed sketching a picture of you sleeping.  There was a way about Steve - an open vulnerability - that meant he could get away with doing things like watching you sleep that didn’t feel creepy.  There was something romantic about the way that he wanted to capture the moment.  Not with a camera to show how it was, but with a pencil to show how it made him feel.

Since that day he’d gotten more and more into his art when he was around you.  Your place and his became littered with sketches and drawings, mostly of you, but sometimes just of things that made him feel real.  Not the symbol of America, but a real man who wanted a quiet life with someone he loved.

When the painting started, you would sit for him.  You were his muse and when you would sit for him, you’d find yourself holding all kinds of unlikely positions, in a variety of different states of undress.

It was a strange feeling being his life model.  Sexy.  Uncomfortable.  Flattering.  Safe.  The best part was seeing the finished product.  It was like getting to see yourself through the eyes of the person who loved you most and there was nothing more intimate than that.

Today Steve was interested in a different canvas.

You stood naked in his home office, a drop cloth below you to capture any stray drops of paint.  Steve had his shirt off too, and there were already a few smears of paint on his perfectly sculpted chest.  There was something sexy about the look.  Like the mess made him seem raw and unbridled in a way Steve rarely was outside of sex and battle.

The brush moved down and around the curve of our breast in a long sweeping motion.  You shivered as the cool of the paint sent a tingle up your spine.  Your nipples hardened and you weren’t sure if that was only because of the cold.  Steve’s eyes drifted from the line of his paint to your breasts and his cheeks turned slightly pink.  “Is it very cold?”  He asked.

“It’s cold, but I’m not sure that’s the whole problem,” you coyly answered.

The blush deepened in Steve’s cheeks and his tongue glided over his plump bottom lip.  “Mm… for me too,” he said and leaned down, pressing his mouth to your breast.  Your nipple fit perfectly between his soft lips, and as his tongue swirled over it, you let out a sharp breath.

“Steve…” you sighed, your hand going to his shoulder to steady yourself.  He sucked on your tender flesh, his tongue curling around your hardened nipple, and as he pulled back, his teeth grazed over it, making a buzz spiral out under your skin.

He returned his attention to his art, leaving you trembling slightly from the brief interlude.  You blinked and shook your head as you tried to focus on the art, rather than the heat building between your legs.

You watched as he added some black to the blue he was painting on your skin, darkening the shade as he filled in the color under your stomach.  “What are you painting?”  You asked.

“You’re just going to have to wait and see,” he said.

“It’s not a flag, is it?”  You asked.  “I don’t want you to paint me to look like a flag.”

Steve laughed softly and shook his head.  “No.  It’s not a flag.”

He dipped his thumb into the purple on his pallet and ran it down between the two shades of blue on your stomach.  It tickled and you squirmed away from him a little.

“I need you to try and stay still, sweetheart,” Steve said.

“You try it when someone’s doing this to you,” you teased, and poked him in the abs.  He jumped away with a laugh.

“That’s cheating,” he said, grabbing your wrist.

You giggled and he kissed your hand before letting your wrist go again.  His fingerprints remained on your skin.  Blue spots to mark where he’d held you.  You studied them as he returned to painting.  Admiring the way they marked how easily his large hands wrapped around your wrists.

You took one of Steve’s spare brushes and dipped it into the red paint.

“What are you doing?”  Steve asked, raising his eyebrow though he didn’t look away from his work.

“Thought I’d do a little bit of body painting too,” you said and pressed your red palm against his chest.  When your hand left his body, the perfect impression of your hand was left in scarlet against his pale milk skin.

Steve’s lips quirked at the side and he shook his head.  “Very pretty,” he said.  “Shall I give you one?”

“Won’t it mess up your design?”  You asked.

“I can paint over it,” he said as he began painting his palm with purple paint.  “Where should I put this?”  He teased, waving it in front of you.

You squealed but your body seemed to curve toward him like it was aching for his touch.  He hovered his hand over your breast.  “Here?”  he whispered and watched as you shivered slightly, pushing your chest out toward him.  He licked his lips and moved his hand up to your neck.  “Maybe here?”

You swallowed thickly.  “Please?”

He moved his hand down around your waist and smacked it down on your ass.  It was firm and made a sharp crack as his skin met yours, but it wasn’t painful.  You gasped and he dragged your forward, his fingers digging into your ass.  “Here?”  He said, bringing his lips to yours.

You kissed him hungrily, his other arm curling around your waist.  You moaned into his lips and pressed your body against him.  You could picture the mark on your ass.  His large palm staining your skin purple.  His hands slid around your waist, smearing the paint as he moved them, leaving a wet trail up to your ribs.  His fingers tightened and he pushed you back against the wall.  You submitted to him, melting under his touch.  His hands gripped your chest just under your breasts and he dragged them up, breaking the kiss so he could lean down and suck your breasts.  You let your head fall back against the wall and wrapped a leg around him, pulling your bare cunt against his clothed crotch.  His cock was hard and strained against the thick fabric of his khakis.  You cunt smeared your fluids on his jeans as the friction drew them from you, sending a hot tingle spiraling out through you.

He sucked and bit at your breasts like a hungry man.  Dutifully moving from one to the other and back again, sending a dull ache down to your core.

“Steve,” you moaned.  “I need you.”

He groaned and spun you guiding you back to the tarp and knocking his paints to the floor so they splattered over the drop cloth.  He lay you down, ignoring the paint as it pooled around your body.  You put your hands in the wet mess and watched as he hurriedly unfastened his pants.  As he positioned himself above you, you spread your legs wide and wrapped your arms around him, welcoming him in and marking him as your own.

He was kissing you again, hard and passionately.  You matched him, bringing your tongue to meet his and swirling it around.  He lined himself up and with a hard thrust, he was inside you.  You gasped arching up into him as an eclectic pulse passed through your body.  He didn’t wait for you to adjust, he just began thrusting into you again and again.  The head of his cock hitting your cervix and sending sharp jolts through you again and again.

You cried out and bunched your hands in his hair.  The paint on your hands clung to the strands, sticking them together and making them stick up in clumps.  You could feel your climax building, and you nudged him.  He took the hint flipping you over.

The paint you’d been lying in dripped down your back onto his thighs.  He smeared his hands through it and then used it to finger paint on your body as you rode him.  You started slowly, swirling your hips like you were doing a seated dance, his cock moving inside you and pressing against your walls.  You began to move faster, bouncing on his cock.  Steve groaned as he watched you, his hands caressing his body.  Faster and faster you moved, up and down, up and down.  Sweat mixed with the paint as you chased your orgasm.  Steve began to snap his hips up into you, your bodies slapping together each time you connected.

He pushed you back, first so you were seated face to face, you sitting in his lap, and then pushing you back on the floor again.  He pushed your legs up so they were pressed against your chest.  His cock penetrated you so deeply you thought it was going to split you in two.  You cried out and your orgasm hit, shuddering through you and making all your muscles seize up.  Steve kept thrusting, fucking you through it, and as he reached his own climax, he pulled out pumping his cock in his fist and releasing, spattering your stomach and chest with thick white ropes that stood out against the rainbow of paint.

You lay back panting as you came down from your orgasm high and Steve lay down beside you.  “God, you’re beautiful,” he sighed.

“We ruined your art,” you said, looking down at yourself.

“I think we made it better,” he said.  “I know I’m going to remember you like this for a long time.  My gorgeous artwork.”

He brought his lips to yours and kissed you deeply and tenderly.  You closed your eyes and hummed, relaxing into it.  When he pulled back he smiled at you.  “We really should go shower.”

You giggled and Steve helped you to stand.  He looked down at the drop sheet below him and smiled.  “I think I might frame that,” he said.

You looked down at the colors.  They swirled together, but you could see everywhere the two of you had touched.  You liked the idea of hanging it in the apartment.  A permanent reminder of what you and Steve had.

[polishksiezniczka]

Camerlengo Patrick McKenna Smut ABCs | Camerlengo x Female Reader

Some smut for our favorite priest ❤

As I was writing this, I couldn’t help but think that our favorite ~il camerlengo~ shares the trifecta of smut with Obi-Wan Kenobi: religious devotion, dramatic robes and pure, raw sexual energy. 🔥

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Patrick is oh so attentive and considerate. He strokes your body softly, listening as your heartbeats gradually slow and fall in sync together. He’ll softly whisper declarations of love to you in his luscious accent, making you flush even more.

Bonus: When you’re in each other’s arms bathing in the afterglow, he adores it when you carefully play with his crucifix necklace (you better believe he wears it during sex after you *accidentally* let slip how turned on you get when he wears it).

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Patrick loves to hold you using his upper body strength—his arms are deliciously strong and toned, but not in an overly-muscular way. He can’t help but groan and roll his head back when you cling to them for dear life during the throes of passion, your nails lightly digging into his skin.  

It’s difficult for him to choose—you’re too perfect to pick just one element. If he had to, he’d choose your hair, your neck, or your breasts.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

Because he was brought up in the Church, he doesn’t really do that sort of thing. Not to mention he views the practice as somewhat degrading to you.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs).

Obviously, you. He’s a priest and supposed to be “married” to the Church!

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Patrick is somewhat experienced. While serving in the army he had a few exploits, but he’s still relatively inexperienced. Not that you could ever tell though—he’s the best lover you’ve ever had.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying.)

Missionary! (HAHAHA…I’m going to hell for this.)

Patrick loves any sort of position where he’s able to see you fully. He treats sex as if it were a sacred rite: he wants to be able to watch the desire cloud your eyes, thoroughly kiss your soft lips, devour the creamy flesh of your torso, and do nothing less than worship you.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

It depends on the situation. Patrick will usually take things pretty seriously—intensely pleasuring you, maintaining fervent eye contact, going slow and sensual—but sometimes you find yourselves in a giddy mood, especially after something good has happened to one of you. Then his playful side will come out: little nips at your ears and neck, gentle tickling of your sides, low chuckles, and a lot more teasing than normal. You delight in rendezvous like these, batting your eyes and telling him how much you want him.  

H = Hair (How well-groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

OH GOD. You know how well Patrick takes care of himself. His hair is impeccable, always neatly combed and styled. You adore running your fingers through it and lightly scratching his scalp, though you’re careful not to muss it up too much.

The sight of his bare chest makes your heart flutter every time you see it. You love to card your fingers through the lovely patch of curly ginger hair which grows there, a huge turn-on for Patrick. The same hair starts again just below his navel, creeping down his stomach and past his waistband. It’s another part of him that never fails to make you swoon and unconsciously lick your lips.  

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Patrick is so romantic. He constantly whispers you how much he loves you, how much you mean to him, and how he can never be without you. Despite the unimaginable pleasure he provides you, his words sometimes make you teary-eyed during the moment—something you find extremely embarrassing but he adores.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Patrick suffers from SERIOUS Catholic guiltiness when it comes to masturbation. He’s done it before (when he was younger especially) but would never admit so to you. He only resorts to pleasuring himself when you’re apart for extended periods of time and always feels the need to confess to his sins of “taking his flesh” afterward.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Praise: Patrick’s need to praise you is insatiable and he does it constantly when you’re together. He loves to tell you how good you feel, how perfect you are, how sweet you smell, or how well you respond to him as he leans close to your ear, kissing and sucking. Although he can be reticent to accept compliments himself, you can tell how much it affects him when you whisper how only he can bring you this amount of love, pleasure, and satisfaction.

Priest: Patrick goes mad when you play into your priest kink and loves it when you call him “Father,” especially because you don’t often do so. As gentle as he is, this drives him wild, animalistic almost.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

On the bed or couch, especially with your hair splayed out across a pillow. You recently introduced him to shower sex, something he enjoys far more than he expected to. And of course, always somewhere private.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Your soft, innocent touches that lead to lingering thoughts and desires. When you run your hands across his chest and through his hair. Whispering how much you love and want him.

Oddly enough, your modesty also makes him hot under the collar (literally). The idea that you conceal your beautiful figure to others and only allow him to see and adore it awakens a deep and primal lust in Patrick.  

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He doesn’t swear that often and never uses the Lord’s name in vain. He also would never do anything that could hurt you or in some way degrade you.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He strongly prefers to give. He loves to huskily tell you how much you taste like sin when he’s between your thighs and caressing you with his mouth.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and sensual—it’s called lovemaking for a reason.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

You and Patrick don’t really engage in these because of the nature of your relationship—there are few moments when you can spend time together during the day. Patrick doesn’t like the idea either, as he can’t properly worship your body as much as he believes you deserve and derives so much pleasure from taking his time with you. He is never one to complain about stolen kisses, though.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Again, due to his position and all the publicity, Patrick prefers to keep risks to a minimum. He never would demand anything of you, but he requests that your liaisons be kept private out of concern for you and your relationship.

Once, however, you admitted a shameful desire of yours, and he gave in. So, late one night you made love in a confessional. Although he felt like he would be cursed with eternal damnation, he couldn’t help but admit how arousing it was.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Patrick’s stamina is intense; he never seems to tire, even after the care and attention he puts into each and every round. You teasingly attribute this voraciousness to all his pent-up lust while in seminary. But when you’re exhausted, he completely respects this and would never push you beyond your physical limits.  

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

No; why would he defile perfection by using anything other than his body?

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

This side of Patrick really comes out when he’s feeling frisky or playful. He relishes that he can turn you into a puddle of goo with just one look—your eyes glaze over, your breath hitches, and you suddenly have difficulty maintaining eye contact. He’ll then begin to touch and kiss you slowly, almost chastely, until you’re a whimpering, sobbing mess beneath him.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Volume-wise Patrick tends to be on the softer side, though he can surprise you. What he sometimes lacks in volume he makes up for in quality. Patrick makes the most delicious and sinful sounds you can imagine: gasps at your expert ministrations, moans when you kiss him deeply. Your personal favorite? The sound of him purring into your ear as he showers you with praise and words of affection.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

The man’s scent alone makes you goddamn feral. It’s clean and masculine, with just a hint of spice. You love to bury your face in his neck and chest, inhaling him as you litter his skin with reminders of your devotion.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Patrick is incredibly well-endowed. In fact the first few times you were together, you were in slight pain (much to Patrick’s agony) and felt sore for days afterward. Oh but Patrick made it all better: drawing you warm baths, scooping you up, and tenderly massaging every inch of your body with his large hands. 😏

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

On the higher end, but it’s completely attached to you.  

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

When you’re in each other’s arms, he feels completely relaxed and can usually fall asleep within a few minutes, but he likes to wait for you drift off to sleep and then silently watch you in your most peaceful state. Your breathing steadies, your brow relaxes, and your hair softly falls about your face, still glowing from physical exertion. As sleep begins to take hold of him, he whispers that you look just like an angel.

Taglist: @seraferna @lemairepstuff

[chrstbll]

miracles and lucky days| ben hargreeves

(gif not mine) 

+tags: @lalisbitch @spaceclone-mom , @meowmeowrex23 @strangeyouthcrusade

plot: after coming back from the 60’s, instead of finding the sparrow academy, the group come face to face with a much more positive outcome of their actions.

                                                           -

The words of Klaus were diluted, inaudible and ringing loudly in your head. Your limbs could barely hold the weight of your body, and the nausea from jumping between timelines hitting your stomach didn’t quite put you at ease. All was blurry at first, not hearing nor seeing properly caused you to feel light-headed as well, but before your legs or your mind gave in, somebody strong arms held you up protectively.

- Are you good? – Diego’s gentle call for you brought you back to reality. He was always a little bit concerned about you. He didn’t show it in great actions, it was in the seemingly unimportant things he did for you. There wasn’t anything romantic involved between you two, instead of that it was a deep understanding of each another that made you appreciate the other significantly. You nodded to confirm that you were in fact all right, shrugging it off with a smile.

Klaus was right. After you successfully registered what he was saying, a wave of relief washed over your heart, mind, and soul. Your whole being. For once, all seven of you managed to successfully jump back to 2019 without any harm or mistake being done. It was quite unbelievable. A dreamlike scenario which proved itself to be nearly impossible to believe. Looking around the hall, everything seemed to be all right. It felt okay. The aura was intimately comforting, yet something was amiss. Different. Changed. It certainly was not a malicious ambiance that you discovered, but one new, something yet unexperienced thing. The others noticed it too, as all six of them were looking around suspiciously. Memories, feelings, and people rapidly invaded your mind, those you haven’t thought about a lot. Pogo? Grace? Are they okay now?

Luther suggested to enter the living room ahead of you, so that’s what you all mutually agreed to. Five was the one who went further on before you heroically and begged all of you to proceed with caution, because we don’t know what’s waiting for us there. The walk from the hall to the living room happened painfully slowly given that the feeling of uncertainty was sitting in one and all’s eyes and was at fault for your lack of speed. Upon realizing the academy was unnervingly noiseless, the anxiety birthed a huge lump in your throat, which you couldn’t swallow. Your heart was terrified from the possible negative outcome of this time jump. What if that moment of clarity and amenity was only a façade and was only felt because none of you faced reality in the short but drunk moment of arrival? Sometimes you thought about how nice it would be to just live without worry. To live in pure bliss, without a care in the world. Without a problem in the universe to solve. How astonishing it would be not to recall what loss, trauma, or sadness feels like. But then again, we would live in ignorance that way.

Turning towards the divans and sculptures in the living room, your attention automatically focused on the small moving figure, who was absentmindedly cleaning the shelves with dusting feathers. Recognition hit you like a truck, as the character of an ape appeared before you. Your breath hitched in your throat. Mercifully, it was a positive reaction, a sentiment you haven’t undergone in a long time.

- Pogo?! – Allison was the first one to call out their siblings’ friends’ name. Barely letting his name roll from her tongue, the sea of emotions instantly overthrew her, and tears stormed down her face. Their beloved guardian turned around in shock, he looked so puzzled, it was as he didn’t recognize the people in front of him. You feared that was the case. What if we screwed it up even more?

- Oh, children. I was waiting for you all to return – he’s spoken politely and gifted us with a kind smile, just like he always did. You almost forgot what a courteous and caring figure Pogo was. His scarce although deep voice reminded you of simpler times. A type of nostalgia which you subconsciously yearned for god knows how long. Everyone gathered around him in a matter of seconds, engulfing him in a suffocating hug. Pogo was still bewildered from the sudden act of affection, as you all were from seeing him alive and breathing, but in this instant of happiness, the questions why and how didn’t matter. What mattered was the present minute, what you currently knew as is.

And next, a voice broke the silence.

Who would dare to turn around first? Who wanted to confirm that the voice that was just heard from behind them, came from a legit source? On a serious note, was it even real? Your minds are only playing tricks on you. You were ecstatic for having Pogo back, but it would be too good to be true to turn around and see the possessor of the voice. We can’t have all the wonderful things. It never went that well for you. Your bodies turned stiff, and your feet were frozen on spot. But what made you fear to turn around? The horror of hearing something that’s not truly there or facing it bravely. Something…someone you haven’t faced in roughly two decades.

- What the hell took you guys so long? – the annoyance sounded so raw, hence genuine. You could hear and understand the words crystal clear; then why didn’t you believe your ears?

The group hug disassembled at a snail's pace and turned to face what they never expected to see ever again in their lifetime. You, on the other hand, had secretly wished for a moment like this. Your heart was aching for the chance, not caring about being rational nor delusional. It kept the faith in your soul steady.

- Please, tell me I’m not the only one who can see him – Klaus muttered.

- Ben – Diego confirmed in a hushed tone without letting out any more words as he didn’t need to. He was the bravest out of all of you to speak up.

So, there he stood in his monochrome outfit, with his black leather jacket hugging his form and a coy smile painted all over his face. The faint rosy cheeks, lively eyes and vivid emotions displayed told you everything. The Ben standing in front of you was very much real, and more importantly, alive, and well.

- All of you look like you’ve seen a ghost – he grinned from ear to ear, and his light-hearted joke legitimately freed your body from the tension which held you in your place so aggressively. Number Four didn’t hesitate one second longer, and slammed himself against his brother, who sweetly returned the embrace. Registering it, savouring it, then finally loving the physical contact, Klaus broke up in a hysterical laughter. The group succeeded to pull the strings in a way his death was luckily prevented. How the hell did we manage this? But he didn’t care. All that mattered was the present minute, what he currently knew as is.

- You’re telling me, man – his laugh slowly started to die down, but his joy only rose. Of course, a group hug was crucially needed and initiated effective immediately. Everyone surrounded him, and you held onto each other tightly, so he never slips away from your grasp again. You admitted it to yourself, that it felt heavenly, but more precisely, it felt so damn terrific. The others eventually backed away, but you stayed right in front of him.

- Hey, you – were all he needed to say for you to go flying into his arms – Where have you been? I missed you – his confession was a simple, warm, and loving anecdote, and it broke your heart in the best way possible.

You missed me?

Your loud sobbing, and ocean of tears was baffling and a mystery to him, and he looked at the others with a perplexed expression. They asked him to just let you be because they understood everything perfectly. Each tear was valid and every one of them had a reason. His arms were wrapped around your body, as he was shielding you from all the cruelty in this world. His embrace wasn’t tight, but fond and sensitive enough. You weren’t greedy at all; it was just all too marvellous. Hearing his stable beating heart as he held you close to his chest completely fulfilled you. A featherlight kiss was tenderly placed on your forehead by him, in an attempt to calm you down. It failed, as more droplets of salty water coated your apple-like cheeks. Even so, the kiss was given so compassionately, it must have come from heaven itself.

Maybe you were in Heaven. Maybe your life ended when you arrived in the hall. This isn’t real and I’m probably dead in Diego’s arms by now. But what if you accepted it as your reality now? You couldn’t believe it, even after feeling his touch and his kiss on your body. It might be because you thought you didn’t think your wish to see the person closest to your heart again would ever come true. After the horrific months you went through, it was certainly an impossibility to be gifted with something this enormous, significant, and joyous.

Maybe miracles and lucky days exist. Maybe they existed both on the same day in favour of you. I’ll accept this, I deserve this. You absolutely deserve to be happy and to drop the burden that’s been weighing on your soul for years. Nobody deserves to live their lives in inescapable guilt and grief. Having Ben back in all your lives meant the world to you. You were thinking about how you might have to fill him in on the details of the previous events, but that was a case for a later part of the day. For now, it was nice to bask in his love and warmth. You’ll care about every other issue later. This was the only feeling that mattered in that moment. Peace finally taking its rightful place back in your heart, which has been waiting for it for a long time now. He radiated pureness, an energy which was incomparable to anything else. Clutching his jacket was your anxiety making sure he doesn’t leave again. Maybe he was reading your thoughts, but at the same time he was realizing he’d never leave you even if it meant his life.

- I missed you too.

[myelocin]

please know that i’m yours to keep | oikawa tooru

synopsis: a comfort for the days you feel like you’re everything but what you try so hard to be.

genre: fluff, comfort | warnings: suggestive themes | wc: 2000+

characters: oikawa tooru

a/n: this is a commissioned piece from @triskoof ;w; 

the girl | city in colour 

ko-fi | commissions

Because you’re always meant to be yours, Oikawa Tooru loves you in the way that reminds you of that.

Like the tips of his fingers just barely grazing the skin on your face, he has a habit of pulling back before fully cupping your cheek. The kind of warmth that hovers—never touches—but still lingers.

Moments like now are where you’re glad that traces of him still stay, because it reminds you that his presence was meant to be one of the things that was lasting within a world that truly was anything but.

“I don’t feel beautiful,” you say, and Oikawa thinks the look in your eyes holds nothing but your most vulnerable truth.

And he supposes that he understands, because our thoughts aren’t just thoughts at the end of the day. Intertwined with them are the emotions that come as feelings, with the intention to be felt to the end and not just realized as a passing epiphany.

So, “Beautiful,” he replies, tasting the word on his tongue before swallowing it whole hoping that the heart from his truth would reach the words he always holds for you.

And he’s gentle, with not just the look in his eye, but also his honesty, when he says, “You.”

He cups your face in between his hands, and warm, you think.

They’re warm, because he’s here, and because he’s true.

He kisses you; the first on your forehead, right as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. The second, on the tip of your nose, as he says the word beautiful, again, right before he mutters your name.

Your name, Hailey, as just six letters from the alphabet strung together to make a sound just this morning, but suddenly turned into your whole truth laid bare as Oikawa kisses you again.

You realize that it’s your truth in not just the objective sense, but more so because it’s one of the few things that would always be your constant.

“You’re beautiful,” Oikawa mutters again, then lets his face hover just inches away from yours as he leans down, pressing his lips against yours. Phrases from him to you, which speak of not just his love, but also both his respect and awe, are mumbled in between the kisses he gives you.

In his arms you keep yourself still—pliant, even, as you let your body mold into his arms. And you feel safe, doing so. The thoughts in your head simmer from screaming into just whispers, but even as you still hear them poke and prod at you, Oikawa’s voice is what’s immediate in thundering over those which are unwelcome.

“Why aren’t you nice to yourself?” he asks, and in your moment of absolute vulnerability, you look at him and allow yourself to crack.

You don’t necessarily break, because you’ve always believed that a person can never fully be broken, but the cracks of your hurt run deeper in some places. The word beautiful rings in your head, like an echo you can’t seem to get rid of, but you want to shake it away.

Glassy brown eyes mean to peer at you and offer comfort, but it’s the ugly cracks of your resolve that come to you and whisper in your ear that you are anything but beautiful, when you see a reflection of yourself against them.

“Sometimes,” you sigh, taking the liberty of pulling yourself back and parting from him, “—it’s just hard to feel like you’re something.”

“Beautiful feels like a different person, Tooru,” you confess.

“Have you always felt this way?” he asks, ushering you to follow him to bed and making space for you to lie down in beside him. When you settle, he lies beside you, his face just inches away from yours once more.

“Some days,” you express, shrugging your shoulders. “Yeah.”

Your some days, meaning that there really are moments where it feels like you have to constantly tell yourself that you are still beautiful that it becomes redundant enough to the point of sound like a drawl.

Tonight’s one of those days.

You’re a little more cracked than composed, so you let yourself be and hang on to Oikawa who you know has never wavered.

Intimacy in the little moments shared like this, but because today you feel like you’re everything but what you should be feeling and seeing things in every way but the way you should be seeing them—like yourself—you close your eyes when your reflection flashes across Oikawa’s again.

Intimacy like trust, because you know here, you are safe.

His palm that’s quick to move up and rest against the expanse of your cheek says “I love you.”

But it’s his voice, that makes his truth be known through words as he says, “You’re always gonna be beautiful.”

“Not for now,” you shake your head.

Oikawa chuckles, murmuring something you couldn’t quite catch as he leans forward again to press a kiss at the tip of your nose. In response, you close your eyes, comfortable in the warmth he emits.

“For now is just that,” he hums. “You can’t always be on your own side or see things in the lighter way, but I’m here,” he smiles. “My eyes are open and they still you.”

“My beautiful girl,” he adds.

Through the strands of your hair that fell across your eyes, you see Oikawa offer you his honest kind of smile before propping himself up on one elbow to lean over you. He moves with purpose, but keeps his eyes on yours.

When he gets close enough, he smiles, again, and even if the thoughts in your head still rage with the intention to nestle within the cracks they made to grow and root themselves, you push them to the side in hopes they would quell.

(They don’t.)

But Oikawa’s voice reaching out to you—and arriving, hushes them again.

In the silence he builds with his words and presence alone, you release the tenseness of your muscles and sigh, holding up one hand just as Oikawa lets his down, both of your palms cradling the other’s cheeks.

Then it’s within the darkness where the two of you lay, eye to eye and face to face as the sunset in the sky shifts into the beginnings of the blue hour.

The blue hour, you recall, is the time of day that happens in the morning and night. The in between that bridges night and day, setting the scene for the transition. From black to blue at six AM, right before the sky erupts into shades of vanilla. Then, when it’s six at night—like right now, it’s the burnt orange of today’s sunset mellowing into the depth of blue.

You know it’ll turn dark soon.

But you stare straight into Oikawa’s eyes anyway, hoping to drown out the sounds of your demons with the hues of earth and reflected fragments of the sky within the two perfect orbs that look at you, as if you hold constellations.

In the blue hour—the inbetween—you let yourself be still and fall.

And at the sight of your surrender, Oikawa leans down and kisses you. His lips on your neck, starting from the spot right behind your ear, trailing down to the tops of your collarbone, he mumbles your name in between the traces of him he intertwines with you.

His name, from your lips, sounding like just a breathless whisper to the ears of the world is like a sort of lifeline for him to hang on to, because through the haze he’s aware you probably are seeing the world with in your moments of weakness—you still are with him.

So he holds you.

His legs on either side of your waist, and arms on either sides of you, he nips at the skin of your exposed neck, leaving a mark. “You’re beautiful like this,” he winks at you, all the while as you laugh, knowing full well that his words are fueled with the intent to lighten the situation.

It works, because in the soft light of the blue hour, you wait as he raises his head from your chest, your stare steady, meaning to lock with his. At the sight of you, Oikawa holds your gaze, a light smile against his lips.

“You’re just saying that,” you laugh, peering down and moving your hands to brush away his bangs that fell across his eyes.

At the sight of your earth—your world within this world—you soften. It’s only as you peered underneath the underneath where you realized that Oikawa was just a man who still had his flaws beneath the porcelain mask he wore.

“I say things because I mean them,” he tells you, and from the steadiness of his voice, there’s nothing in you that tells you to doubt him.

So you do the logical thing and believe him.

In the blue hour you make your hurts be known, finding words to string together to atleast give the hurt a name, and Oikawa listens.

But none the less, he tells you you’re beautiful, through the silence that he blankets around the room, and by the way he moves with you. He kisses you on your forehead again, tenderly, before capturing your lips with his. And love, you think—right then and there—has always felt like patience with him.

Slow kisses under your ceiling with the glow in the dark stickers in the shape of distant galaxies and stars, it has you feeling infinite.

His hands that know the contour of your body: from the dip on your waist to the scar that’s barely even there right by your thigh. He touches you like he would glass, fragile. And he breathes your name like he would whisper his confessions—and you know they’re all of love.

(You are in love.)

As in love as you are, you also are reminded that emotions can move like waves.

One day you feel beautiful, then in the next you don’t.

Emotions will always be raw, because at the very core of what they are—that’s just their nature. The ugly parts of it can come like a whirlwind some days instead of creep in slow and slam against your foundations, getting cracks to form in deep.

But, the beautiful will still remain, you think.

Beautiful like the earth of Oikawa’s eyes staring at you as if you hold all the constellations in the skies.

The silence comes and goes, and beautiful is the way he holds you when night comes and darkness floods the room. He still feels you against him, your skin a familiar kind of warmth against his, while the calluses of his palms don’t scare you even as he trails them under your shirt and over the bare skin of your chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he says again, and Oikawa knows that it’s only been those two words that you’ve heard from him again and again throughout the night, but the more he wracks his brain for a better set of words to say—the less actually comes to him.

He tries to show you, none the less.

And it isn’t just in the intimacy of sex where he lays himself bare to you too, but it’s also through this that he hopes to convey his whole truth to you, in hopes that you’d see you through his eyes to get you through the aches of your today.

Oikawa’s aware that perhaps tomorrow, you’ll rise again.

But it’s this for now where he reminds you of the infinity he’s always known you’ve held.

“I love you,” when he pushes inside you, and “I love you,” again, when he hears you sniffle at the emotions that he knows just overwhelm.

“You’re beautiful,” you know he means to say when he leans down anyway and brushes the hair away from your forehead to press his against it. “You’re beautiful,” you hear again, when his thumb brushes over the scars you know have long healed across your body, then at the shell of your ear right after he whispers your name, again.

(And your name is beautiful.)

Most days you think it is, but because today it’s a word that’s a little hard to say, you hang on to him and allow his truth to come to you and wrap you whole.

Oikawa feels you hold on to him, so he holds you too—centering you back to the now.

You’re probably a mess underneath him, you think. Lipstick from earlier still wasn’t wiped off and he’s probably kissed you a hundred times now. Your clothes are crumpled, your shirt pushed up at best and your underwear just shoved to the side in his haste, but he says beautiful again, and again, as if it’s the first he’s truly seeing you.

(Perhaps it is.)

(The face of vulnerability has always looked different every time, after all.)

The now is a moment of vulnerability, so you let him hold you.

And because Oikawa knows you’re always meant to be yours, he shows that he loves you forever, by holding you and giving you a safe space to just feel the things that come.

“I don’t feel okay,” is your moment of weakness, because you’re still human.

But in Oikawa’s wordless way of conveying “I love you,” and “You’re beautiful,” do you feel the assurance  that even though days like this come and try to drown you—you’ll always have your boy with two eyes holding the earth who will keep your head from going under.

[undead-merman]

this is the yan monster luci and satan requester, not a poly relationship, but just like a mutual agreement that they don't want any low life demon going near their s/o

Okay I’ve got Lucifer as a Manticore and Satan as a Sphinx. I love writing these, its a shame I can’t write these faster.

🦁Manticore Lucifer🦁 🦁Sphinx Satan🦁 as Yanderes GN- Reader SFW

Lucifer

Appearance

As a manticore his appearance is fearsome and even his presence is enough to make most others turn tail and run. His mouth is full of too big teeth, some of the long canines poking past his stern frown.

He has small hands that are more paw-like, with razor sharp claws at the end of them. He has paw pads on the tips of each of his fingers, and 3 small pads on his palms. Unlike normal paws, he does have a thumb and surprising dexterity with them.

Along his forehead and temple he has small black horns, they’re perfectly symmetrical which is unusual for a chaotic creature like himself. On top of his head, past his horns are two lion ears that twitch and turn to even the softest noises.

On the back of his neck, down his spine, are small quills tipped with a viscous venom. He is able to flatten them against his body to make them flat for his clothes many of his kind have spots open in their clothing for their spines to poke out, but Lucifer does not have have that in his clothing, He only has a spot open for his large, slightly torn bat like wings.

His tail is long and ends with a red tipped scorpion stinger, quills randomly set along it. It normally hangs low and curls up to avoid knocking things over.

His true form is like that or a normal manticore but with piercing yet silky and shiny black fur and bright glowing blood red eyes.

The Undefeatable Beast

Manticores have a reputation of being mighty beasts unable to be slain by any man, but there are rumors of some being slain. Lucifer, one of the oldest and most powerful has never been bested. Every opponent he’s ever faced has perished and only the surviving onlookers have been able to tell the tale.

His viciousness is renown all over the devildom; while he acts like a gentleman whose temper is always under wraps, he’s quiet vengeful and easy to anger. He doesn’t like to show it, he lets it simmer until he can get his revenge.

His appetite is ravenous and loves to have barely cooked meat served elegantly. He doesn’t like it raw as it feels barbaric and he enjoys the finery of life, but if he needs to he doesn’t mind eating anyone until not even the blood is left.

He does have a vulnerable side however, as since he’s that of lion and Scorpion he needs to sunbathe in order to be in top condition if he doesn’t he’s sluggish, but more brutal. Since there's no sun in the devildom he uses a light to warm himself as he lays on his sides. He looks surprisingly peaceful when warming up.

Spending Time with You

The one thing he can’t defeat, is you. He has such a soft spot for you that he is willing to do anything you ask. Giving him your big doe eyed look makes his monstrous face scrunch up and flush at you. He really can’t say no to you.

His favorite thing in the world is to lay down with you in the warm light, looking up at you as the light engulfs you and all he can see is your smiling face. He loves it when you go to run your finger through his hair or pet him. His wings shiver when you do that and his spines do as well before tightly flatting against his skin allowing you to touch him without getting poked at all,

He is fiercely protective over you. He snaps at anyone who touches you and stands behind you as someone talks to you, his icy glare focused intensely on the person you're talking with.

He loves to take you to enjoy elegant food, sights and sounds. His favorite place to take you is the opera, he loves to listen to the soft gentle melodies as he takes your hand into his.

His Dark Tendencies

Lucifer does not like others interacting with you. Should you defend another person from him too much he’ll start to get insecure. He’ll think you're forgetting about him and falling in love with someone else, and he hates that. He’ll take you even if you struggle and lock you up and keep you to himself until he feels you’ve forgotten about the other. Of course his opponent would be dealt with swiftly, and painfully.

He loves seeing you locked up, it makes the dark monster instincts churr in delight. Completely at his whims, of course he’d never hurt you too much. Should you make him angry or god forbid you try to escape, he’ll punish you by applying constant pain without actually hurting you. Painfully clamping your skin more and more until you go mad and beg him to stop. But if you made him truly angry you’ll be lashed and whipped until he feels better making you count each one out loud.

After Punishments he’s overly sweet, he’ll kiss every bruise and cut, and look at it so tenderly as he whispers about how good you are for him and how much he loves you. But he’ll graze his razor sharp teeth over your sensitive bruises just to remind you to never do it again.

Misc Stuff

When he’s extremely relaxed around you, he will let out a purr though, it’s a deep inhumane noise so deep that it shakes your chest if you’re near. He gets embarrassed if you mention it to him.

He greets those he’s close to by pressing his forehead against theirs. He does this with you, cupping your cheeks and smiling as he does it; with his Brothers and Diavolo it’s a simple tap, but with others he only nods his head. If he doesn’t like someone he simply just stares at them without blinking, glaring into them with fury.

He wants you to smell like him all the time but he gets a bit flustered about doing it. He’ll scent you by rubbing his palms, wrist and cheeks on you while you sleep or aren’t paying attention while cuddling. He feels like a tomcat when he does it but he can’t help it.

Satan

Appearance

His body is more centaur like, with the lower body of a giant winged lion. His fur is a lustrous blonde and gold color and his lower abdomen is large and bulky with thick skin and muscle.

His wings spread wide and are tipped in shimmering gold that shines in any light. The wings which are just under his humanoid hip have a blonde and gold fur, thick and volumes. While most of his mane is centered on his hips, it does have a trail of it going up his spine and shoulder blades.

Two lion ears sit on his scalp of much longer hair then normal, tied loose with a lime green ribbon. His ears constantly moving back and forth betraying his hidden emotions. They flick at nearby noise, or something that interests him, and lay flat when angry or embarrassed.

A Guardian Creature

Sphinx are mostly known for their stories of guarding treasures and tombs. A protective species and loyal to a fault. Satan is just like others of his kind, He focuses his attention to his collection of books and scrolls. Very solemnly does he allow anyone to come near his collection let alone trusts them to borrow from it.

He’ll never admit to it, but he has a lot of the same habits that Lucifer does. He enjoys lazing under a bright warm light, and your gentle strokes on him. He even purrs just like Lucifer too.

He seeks out riddles he cannot solve, he’s said to befriend those who tell him a riddle he can’t solve. He craves to expand his knowledge and find truly intelligent and wise creatures.

Spending Time with You

You had thrown him through a loop when you were given the quest to find a riddle he couldn’t solve and gave him a cheesy dad joke. Never has someone even attempted anything like that. It fascinated him and he quickly became obsessed with you.

He enjoys seeing your point of view on all kinds of topics. He’ll bring you a gift and ask for a discussion on it. He loves hearing your voice talk about the gift he got you and your thoughts on the history behind it. It stimulates such a deep part of his brain that he’s become addicted to it and he nearly brings you one everyday.

He also enjoys stupid fun. Stuff that he doesn’t have to think about too much, he finds it deeply relaxing, though he dares not let anyone but you see it.

If you ask he’ll let you pet his soft feline pads, he’ll get all flustered and squirmy with you rubbing and massaging them. They’re so soft and pink, but while you're doing that he gets to feel your hands in his paws and to him they’re the softest thing he’s ever felt.

His Dark Tendencies

Satan is so deeply infatuated with you, he simply wants to be around you constantly, never letting you out of his grasp. He, of course, loves to bring you small, cute gifts so he can see your face heat up and you look so happy, but a dark sadistic side of him loves to see you scared. The tears dripping down your face and your eyes shoot open with terror behind it. He’ll always be there to comfort you right after but a sick part of him loves to see you like that.

If you ever tried to hide from him or try to run, he would quickly catch you with a dead, unloving, and dark face. He’d carry you back, tie you up and humiliate you, force you to eat out of a cat bowl, and spank you till your rear is black and blue. He always grins from ear to ear when he sees you limping after.

He loves chaining you up and listening to you read to him. He likes playing with the chain as you read and he always complements how it looks on you.

Misc Stuff

Ashamedly he is much like a cat at heart. He finds himself a lot of time chasing bugs and chattering at birds in class. He’s so embarrassed by it that he threatens anyone who brings it up, if not clawing them in half on the spot.

He sits like a cat does, his lower body having its paws tucked in on themselves as he reads. He often falls asleep like this too, his humanoid body frozen while the bottom one is all curled up in a tight ball.

Unlike Lucifer’s more refined palette Satan can eat whatever it is put in front of him, fresh or dressed, it does matter at all, but he doesn’t eat a lot for someone his size.

Dealing with Interferences Together

Dealing with each other was nearly unbearable, but having another one in on the fear competition was unacceptable to both of them. With the two of them they could control the scenarios you were in, keep you at least near them. But having an unknown contestant was dangerous. What if They tried to touch you? Kiss you? So what they’ve done to keep you around them, the carnage they’ve left behind to scare you away from them.

Whenever someone threatened that, they agreed to quickly and quietly deal with this before you even noticed They were gone. Stalking them and finding the perfect time to strike, when together it was deathly quiet, none of them talked and the tension was so thick you’d need a chainsaw to cut through it. They would get into fights fairly often due to them bragging about the time spent with you.

They hate working together, but they do work terribly well together as well. They get everything done quickly and without a trace. Their go-to is to kidnap the offender and bring them to a private room and take any frustration they got while working together and take it out on them. Those who go into that room never come back out. After everything is taken care of they’re right back to fighting with each other for you.

[mobagehelllocal]

A/N: The sound that came out of my mouth was raw and guttural. YES! YESSSS THANK YOU FOR SLIDING INTO MY INBOX SO FAST YOU GUYS! I APPRECIATED IT! 

all characters featured are depicted as 18+

warning: explicit content below cut!

Jamil Viper

Aftercare

He’ll let you rest for awhile after your sessions, but he’ll immediately move to the bathroom to prepare a bath for you. He’ll come back to you, and gently pull you to the bathroom so he can wash you up. He won’t stick around too long in the bathroom (he might get turned on again, and if you’re tired, he just wants you to rest) unless you want to sit in the tub with him for awhile. 

He’ll bring you back to the room, probably dry your hair--and he’ll enjoy it also if you dry his hair too. He’ll clothed you, and shuffle you back into bed, before pulling you into his arms for a cuddle. He’ll big spoon often, but you can always convince him to little spoon. 

Cum

He’s not particularly interested in breeding, but he certainly likes the way his cum looks slipping out of your wet hole. Something about it just says he has control and possession of you--and that notion certainly makes him like what he sees.

He’s pretty careful with it though--especially if his lover is a female. He’ll be careful not to cum inside when it’s not safe--unless you’ve been taking very effective birth control--and also unless it’s something you want from him. He’s not exactly sure how he’ll do as a father, but to know that--you’re willing to have that with him? It makes his heart skip a beat. 

Dirty Secret

He wants to use Snake Whisper on you. He’ll never admit it, and he feels a little worried at the thought that you might think he wants to use it because he doesn’t trust you or something... It’s not that. 

It’s more like he’s aroused at the thought that you would trust him enough to willingly put yourself under his hypnosis. Snake Whisper would let him have complete control of your actions.You’ll experience all the sensations--but you’ll have no control unless Jamil gives it back. That you’d willingly give up all control to him (and Jamil’s quite the control freak himself--) well--it makes him both happy and turned on. 

Hair

His hair is very smooth, and luscious--it’s almost unfair. He takes care of his hair a lot, and he can be a little bit vain too about it. He will probably enjoy feeling your fingers get tangled through his locks--and he’ll also enjoy when you start tugging in pleasure. 

Well, given how clean his underarm is (don’t lie to me, your eyes have lingered there at least once)--I think it’s safe to say that he’s pretty well groomed below too! He’s not completely without hair, but it’s very sensibly trimmed and neat at the very least. 

Location

Jamil is a very private guy, so he’s not the type of person who’ll take you in public. (He’ll whisper in your ear about how much he certainly wants to, but how he’ll refrain from it) He prefers such things in the privacy of your bedroom--or his. He’ll certainly fuck you everywhere in your bedrooms (on the table... against the wall... on the ground--every part of your room has been christened by your lovemaking)--but he especially loves intimacy on the bed.

He’s also incredibly partial to bath sex. He’ll put scented candles, flower petals, and he’ll alternate with tenderly washing you, to pounding into you from below, as you hold tight on the bath tub... On that note, he’ll probably like and enjoy the idea of hot springs and sex in them. 

Motivation

One of his motivations is when he’s particularly frustrated over something. Sometimes, he needs to have sex so he can essentially ‘vent’ his feelings out through his actions on you. 

Other times it’s you really. Sometimes, you’ll pull your hair over your shoulder--he’ll just be taken by the curve of your neck and have a need to be with you. At times, he’ll lean over and whisper something completely innocent in your ear--but when he sees your eyes flutter at the familiar brush of breath against your ears--he’ll suddenly push you off to the bedroom for a steamy session. 

Volume

He already has the prettiest voice out of the twisted cast, and then he moans? The clouds part, and angels come flying down because this man has some of the most beautiful sounding moans. It’s low, but smooth--almost melodic too. He’s especially noisy during oral sex, because something about you servicing him... just turns him on even further. 

Here’s the thing. He’s never been particularly loud during sex, he prefers to hear the effects he has on you instead. However, one time, he moaned directly into your ear--and you just came immediately underneath him and he realised the power his voice has over you. Fortunately (or unfortunately) he’ll likely chose to take advantage of this--moaning directly into your ear to see the way you shudder, or talk dirty to you--his breath brushing your ear. “I haven’t even need to use my unique magic on you--nnnh... you just tightened on my cock... is that something you want, my dear treasure?” 

[spencers-renaissance]

can't un-sing a song that's sung.

Summary: The worst thing about it is that Derek isn’t even surprised when he gets the call.

Tags: drug use, overdose, hurt/comfort, guilty derek & hotch, angst with a hopeful ending, bedside vigils, protective derek & hotch NO MCD

Pairing: Gen (Platonic Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid; Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid)

Word Count: 1.8k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

Major TWs, obviously. I'm just so angry that no-one did anything about Spencer's addiction in season two, so I decided to punish Derek and Hotch by having the (almost) worst-case scenario come to fruition. Fic inspired by this gifset & title from this poem (v short but v poignant) Fills the 'Overdose' square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card.

The worst thing about it is that Derek isn’t even surprised when he gets the call.

His heart sinks, of course, and his stomach feels like it bottoms out. His chest tightens and he struggles to breathe for a minute and a half, his hands clamming up as his tongue freezes and he can’t find the words to respond to Hotch over the phone. But he isn’t surprised. And that, when it really and truly comes down to it, is exactly where his sins lie.

He races as quickly as he can to the hospital, not obeying the traffic laws by any stretch of the imagination as his hands grip so tightly at the steering wheel that his knuckles turn white and the pattern of the leather; the seams where it's sewn imprint themselves on his palm. His heart pounds rapidly and it’s all he can hear, blood thudding in his ears as the tight knot of anxiety sits heavy in his stomach.

He’s just pulling into the hospital car park when he realises that the last time he felt like this — God, the last time he felt like this was when he first realised Spencer was missing all those months ago. He heaves a dry sob as he abandons his car in a space he hopes is the right one, and slams his palm down hard on the steering wheel once.

He allows himself one more guilt-ridden, heartbroken sob before he forces himself to calm down, doing his best to ignore the tumultuous emotions raging inside him as he shuts the car door behind him and hurries towards the entrance.

It’s hard not to cry when he first locks eyes on Hotch. Seeing his calm, stoic supervisor in a state of utter disarray — red-rimmed eyes, messed up hair, ruffled clothes — somehow makes this all seem a bit too real. Maybe in the car ride over he’d still clung to a small, pathetic bit of hope that this is all a nightmare, that he’ll wake up in a minute and he’ll drive to work and Spencer will already be at his desk, beavering away.

In the harsh lights and bustling noise of the hospital corridor, he knows that’s not going to happen.

They don’t say anything as they stare at one another, both clearly struggling to bite back the raw emotion threatening to spill from their eyes, to unleash itself in a full blown meltdown. Eventually, Hotch sits back down and buries his face in his hands, and Derek joins him on the little two-seater bench.

He doesn’t claim to know much about hospitals or medical care in general, but he knows for damn sure that waiting on a bench outside the ICU is not good, and he’s doing everything in his power to not think about that too hard.

They’ve been sat in stony silence for countless minutes before Derek finally lifts his head, though he still can’t bring himself to look at Hotch again. “Have you called the others?”

Hotch swallows, and Derek can see the tear-tracks trailing down the side of his face out of the corner of his eye. He pretends not to notice them.

“No,” he says, voice unsettlingly shaky. “Only you.”

He decides now is not the time to dwell on that. “Is he— is he going to lose his job?”

The only reason none of them had done anything sooner was because they knew how important this job is to Spencer. And Derek hates with a burning, roaring passion that their hesitation; their cowardly delay, might have cost him his life instead. Just the thought brings another choked sob from his lips, and this time the tears come with it. Before he knows it, his shoulders are shaking violently and all the emotions Derek is struggling to name finally come pouring out, right into Hotch’s lap.

He feels an arm wrap around him and he’s too broken not to lean into it, seeking comfort from the one person in the entire world who can offer it right now. Falling apart in his superior’s arms is not how he saw his Thursday evening going, but he’s too exhausted to care.

By the time he finally pulls away, Hotch is crying too, and they sit a little closer on the bench.

“Spencer won’t lose his job,” he says determinedly, looking Derek in the eyes. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Derek knows that they will have to lie. Papers will be forged and Hotch will be backed into an impossible corner, and he knows that they could lose their jobs if they are ever found out. He doesn’t fucking care. They’ve already failed Spencer in a disgusting, immeasurable, utterly unforgivable way, and he’ll be damned if they ever do that again.

“Good,” he says, and that’s the end of that.

Derek doesn’t understand most of what the doctor tells them, but he doesn’t really care that much for the technicalities anyway. All he cares about is that Spencer had overdosed in the parking garage of his building and was found by a neighbour he doesn’t even know that well. He cares that a damn near stranger was there for Spencer when he wasn’t, and he cares that Hotch was called as his emergency contact, and as such, Derek can finally step up. He can walk into his room and hold his hand and tell him that he’s here now, and he’s not leaving again.

He cares that Spencer is going to be okay.

He’s still asleep when they’re finally allowed to take their seats by his bedside, and Derek tries very hard not to cry at the sight of him, but it isn’t easy. There’s still a bluish tint to his fingernails, and he looks pale and clammy under the oxygen mask. Medicine drips slowly into the line connected to the cannula in the crook of his elbow, and the heart rate echoing out from the monitors is still alarmingly quick.

The evidence of Derek’s failings is staring him right in the face, and it’s hard not to turn away, but he refuses to let himself. He has a lot to make up to Spencer, but he can damn well start by sitting with him here in his darkest hour.

“We all knew.”

Derek looks up from Spencer’s hand to meet Hotch’s eyes. “Yeah.”

“We all knew, and we didn’t do anything about it.” The guilt in Hotch’s voice is momentous enough to rival Derek’s own, and it hurts to hear. Derek failed Spencer as a colleague and a friend-maybe-something-more, but Hotch failed him as a father figure.

He feels tears well up in his eyes again and he does his best to swallow them back down. “Emily did.”

A violent sob tears itself out of Hotch’s lungs, and it’s so loud that Derek almost flinches. “And isn’t that just so much worse? She barely knows him! I met him at lunch with Gideon when he was nineteen, I’ve known him for seven years! Before all of this went down, he almost called me ‘dad’. And I sat back and watched him suffer with both the PTSD of being kidnapped and the fucking heroin addiction he developed because of that bastard, and I did nothing!”

Derek’s at a loss as he watches Hotch break down in front of him, his voice breaking as he shouts, tears streaming down his face as he dissolves into sobs.

“He’s never gonna forgive me. Nor should he. I can’t stand myself right now.”

A little uncertain of the right thing to do, Derek stands up and crosses to the other side of the bed and wraps his arms around Hotch like he did for him only hours earlier. “We all fucked up,” he agrees, “but we’ll get through this. We might never forgive ourselves, but we can always do better. We can do right by Spencer as he recovers, we can help him get clean, help him keep his job, remind him of how loved he is. We can’t abandon that duty just because we failed at doing it before.”

Hotch sits back up and wipes at his eyes furiously, casting his eyes on Spencer. He reaches a hand out and brushes it through his short but untamed curls tenderly, his thumb caressing his eyebrow and forehead gently.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I won’t fail him again.”

Both Derek and Hotch spring into action as soon as Spencer stirs, waking up slowly through the layers of sleep until he’s staring at both of them with a look of terrified uncomprehension in his eyes.

“Hey,” Hotch says softly, hand moving to cup the side of his face. “You’re alright, you’re safe. You’re in the hospital with me and Derek, and everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Spencer slowly looks around the room as the realisation of what’s going on slowly dawns on him, and soon the anxiety is replaced with abject horror and to Derek’s dismay, he immediately starts to cry.

“Hey, hey, pretty boy,” he murmurs as soothingly as he can, following Hotch’s suit and tangling his fingers in Spencer’s hair. “Don’t worry about anything right now, okay? Hotch and I are gonna fix everything right up, and we’re gonna help you. We’re gonna help you like we should’ve helped you before.”

He hates that he loses his composure slightly at the end, but Spencer relaxes slightly so he takes it as a win.

“You can go back to sleep now, Spencer,” Hotch says gently, spotting the signs of exhaustion easily. “We’re gonna stay right here with you, okay? We’ll be here when you wake up.”

When he does finally awaken again, he explains through tears and strangled breaths that he didn’t mean to, that he wasn’t trying to die, he was just so tired and in so much pain that he hadn’t calculated the dosage right.

Hotch and Derek calmly explain that they’re not judging him, and that they’re going to help him through the hospital’s rehab program. Spencer refuses their apologies but they repeat them anyway, trying not to show just how much they hate themselves as they do.

They rope Penelope in, and she helps them make sure Spencer keeps his job, but otherwise their team is entirely oblivious to their chaotic and regret-filled Saturday night spent in George Washington University Hospital.

Most of all, though, Derek does absolutely everything in his power to make sure Spencer is happy, no matter how torn-up and scarred he might feel when he goes home to his own apartment. It isn’t much compared to his property business and his coveted role at the FBI’s behavioural analysis unit, but to Derek it’s his most important and worthy mission in life.

And if that spirals into something more, well. Maybe that’s just one good thing to come out of that small, stuffy, heartbreak-riddled ICU room.

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