#I think... I'm the first one to make that tag...

[axetivev]

— Summary: Being nothing other than a servant for the Ishikawa clan, even though they treated you horribly. You took care of their heirs. Even if the king of curses came. Ryomen Sukuna's first plan was to kill everyone in the clan... But he found a bride instead!

— Warnings/Tags: Smut + Fluff + Angst, Mentioned of Violence, Blood, Reader died (I'm sorry not sorry), Feminization, Sukuna has Two Dicks, Jealous Sukuna, Nipple Play, BDSM (Shibari), Double Penetration, Degradation (?). Belly Bulge, Self-insert Reader.

— Words: 3.5k

— A/N: tbh i haven't thought of this idea but shout out to @carnalcrows for asking this to be a fic. [here's the idea if you're curious -> 🎭] there's new shits i add because why not, this in semi-rushed. i'm not really in the mood to do anything these past few days... but i promised I'll deliver the Thief x King reader idea. welp, that's it from me. i hope you enjoyed this fic !!!

— Pairing: Heain Era!Ryomen Sukuna x Male!Reader

Being a servant for the Ishikawa clan sure is a work. How couldn't be?

You work for the rest of your days. Not to mentioned, the people of the clan were assholes, morons… abandoning everything and anyone if they had power, extremely thirst for power. You often avoid handling with the older folks, so you mainly dealing with the kids—heirs. You teach them humanity, something their supposed “guardian” never gave them.

Even if you can’t use curse techniques yourself, you teach them swordsmanship. Giving them attention that they barely obtained other then told that they were just a tool. It was nice to know that they would still had a child heart even you knew when they got older—they were no different with the elders. Until, that day.

In the middle of the night, after an exhausting day of serving the elderly. You were somehow able to take a break. Even though it was a quick nap and nothing much, but it’s better then never. You slowly rosed from your sheets. Right as you about to tidy up, you heard a scream—a scream of horror and terror.

You glanced at the door that showed a glimpse of what happened, you saw a figure—210 cm tall. His eyes were four, that information alone was enough to think of one thing; Ryomen Sukuna. The kids of Ishikawa once told you about him, a blood thirsty sorcerer and his description matched.

You don’t know what’s going on inside your head. You just wanted to make sure that the kids would be alright—you didn’t care if they became a good heir or not. You just wanted them to be… save. You rushed to where the kids’ room was, holding a katana in hand. Thankfully, the king of curses was in his way—just in the right amount of time when you finally made it to the door, defending the wood with your left hand.

Sukuna looked down at you, well. He was abit too tall for an average male, he saw your right hand gripping the black tsuka. Your face somehow didn’t even show fear when your hand clearly trembled, but he doesn’t knew why. Sukuna’s four eyes were look down at you, his upper right arm slowly gripped blade of your katana—lowering it.

Confusion was written all over your face—Sukuna bore into you, with his lower arms grabbing your waist as he then throw you over his shoulder. Walking away from the door, where you saw the kids looked relieved and terrified.

“You damn—!” “Shut it, brat.” Sukuna spat, as he walk with a… white haired human?

That shut you up quickly, but you squirm. Hitting the back of the Sorcerer’s back, even if didn’t do much. You look forward to look for the kids, the adult there—you can’t see it clearly. But they seemed to have disgust written on their face, it’s not because of Sukuna.

But… you?

A frown form on your face, is it because of you just, didn’t try to fight back? Or what it because you spend too much time with the kids and they prefer you over their parents? You honestly had many questions. But thank to Sukuna’s large hand spanking your ass when you were on the gate of the Ishikawa clan.

“Stop thinking about them.” Sukuna said, as if he read your mind, you froze as you felt his hand rough fingers trying to sooth your cheeks.

Sukuna narrowed his eyes at your back, you turned your head in confusion by why did he stop moving. His lower arm grabbed your back knee, while the other on your back, trying to make you stable. Sukuna’s other lower hand was on your back, carrying you in bridal style, your arms were slowly and awkwardly wrapped around his neck.

“You’ll be my bride from now on.” Sukuna said, it’s not an ask. That’s a command.

The word “bride” was weird to you, but you were honestly too scared what would fate do to you if you didn’t agreed to what he said. So you nodded, hiding your face over the King of Curses' chest (what does this man even do to make it this big?). Sukuna, again. Look at you, making you squirm under his grasp. But he shrugged, continued to walk with the same white haired human.

Uraume.

That was their name. After your wedding with a few amounts of sorcerers which, you noted looked terrified most of the time during the ceremony. In your now home, for now, you spent most of your time with Uraume.

The minka you currently lived in is quite big, but average from an average sorcerer’s home. In the middle of the forest. But it had a small garden in the inside and in the back, it was close to a river with fishes swimming to the clear water, and some Baikamos, White lilies… it was surprising how clean the water was, Uraume would often company you when you admired the beauty of the waters in the river. They admitted; “He asked me to watch you.” Which you imagine it was Sukuna asking them to do so.

When Sukuna was home, Uraume will usually gone in the speed of light. You swore, they were beside you before the the king of curses came. Well, you don’t know if it’s normal or not. You already cleaned the house with Uraume, the sun was slowly loosed it’s shine as the moon rose. You saw him—he was in front of you, and weirdly enough. You didn’t find him scary in any sort of way. Just nervous.

“Is there… something wrong with me?” Sukuna heard your nervousness, he let out a sigh. Shaking your head, he saw you tilting your confusion. Until he finally grunted, his lower arm holding your wrist. “Let’s go out.”

His voice was sharp—but you somehow heard a softness in it, weird that someone like Ryomen Sukuna to be able to had a little softness, you sighed as you shook your head amusingly. Arguing with him seemed to lead to absolute nowhere. So, you followed along.

Your destination was lead to the same river behind the house. The flowers there were more then expected. Baikamo was blooming, white lilies looked like they’d shined the dark night. But your eyes landed on the Hasu flowers. You liked them, it’s white, pure and simply beautiful. Sukuna was watching you from a distant which you failed to realize because of your enthusiasm with flowers.

Sukuna’s four eyes looked at you, his arms crossed—the Hasu flowers and your face showed something that tugged some strings in his heart, in a good way.

The way you smiled kills him, the way you just happily looked at flowers like you never seen them in your existence, even if it's just a day after the wedding. He realizes something fast—instant. Ryomen Sukuna, a suppose special grade sorcerer, picked up a random man and decided to make him his bride, he thought you are the one falling for him hard. Instead, he was the one falling for you, harder.

“[Name]…” Sukuna muttered your name—as if he tested the waters, he saw you turning your head. Titling your head in confusion, but still, a smile played on your lips.

“…Yeah?” Fuck, your voice—sounds too good. If the Heain Era had something technological, he’d record that voice of yours and then listen to your voice and masturbate.

Sukuna stayed silent, his eyes flickered between the Hasu flowers and you. Pure, handsome, innocent… and it’s all for him. Forever.

Forever? You and me?

It had been weeks since that day, you now found Sukuna more often in the house. Therefore, making you cleaned the house while making sure it was nearly spotless. You knew Sukuna liked eating humans, once. You asked what he liked other then human’s flesh, which. His answer was straight to the point; “Figure it out yourself.”

It annoyed you with a burning passion. But you’d shrugged, leaving you asking for Uraume which they only said human flesh. Eventually, this leaving you by asking random sorcerers to hunt for random animals in the wild. Seeing their face turned to pale isn’t what you really thought of, but you often feel something—someone was watching you from a distance.

And after you asked a sorcerer to hunt form something—anything really. He never came back like how it suppose to be, it questioned you, but you can conclude that it may be caused of the harsh rain that suddenly came without a warning. Sitting on the engawa of the minka, the sound of thunder and rain echoed from the distance. The sky was covered by gray and waters already dropping from the gray clouds.

“[Name].” Uraume called, you watched as they stood in front of the door. “Sukuna is looking for you.”

You gave Uraume and polite nod as you walked your way to your room, well. Eyeballing that you thought Sukuna was in your room, and you were right. You saw a hand—Sukuna’s exact hand coming from the wooden door, you walked right in front of the door as that hand dragged you in—thr door behind you immediately closed shut without a way out.

Sukuna stood in front of you menacingly—you studied him, his very expression and movements. Sure, he looks bigger up close, but you never seen him so close before. The mouth on his stomach gritting it’s teeth, the urge to just punch his stomach was unreal—“Why did you ask those sorcerers to do those things?”

“…Those things?” You echoed, genuinely confused by Sukuna’s question. “Ah, asking those sorcerers to hunt for—”

Sukuna huffed, his expression hardened, his upper arm—its hand wrapped tightly around your wrist. “Can’t you asked for your husband’s help, at the very least!?” He snapped, his voice was loud enough to made you shut up. “I let you walk in this world still alive, I’m here now more often, can’t you just ask me for help? What? You scared?”

His face was actually showing anger. You? Ah, dumbfounded. Honestly, you motives of doing so is because of wanting to surprised Sukuna—not to get him angry, but you found out something new that’s a mixed of something laughable, stupid somewhat concerning.

The king of curses? Jealous of other sorcerers? You held back a laugh by bitting your lip, you raised your hand up to a fist. With a light force, you hit Sukuna’s head with your hand. Like those arcade games where you had to hit animals to get scores, Sukuna didn’t looked amused when you finally laughed your ass off. Crying over the fact he was jealous over humans—sorcerers he can beat without even doing much.

“[Name], it’s unacceptable,” Sukuna said firmly, his grip over your wrist tightened. “I hope it’s not considered rushing to do this.

“I hope it’s not considered rushing to do this.”

Sukuna’s voice—that exact words of his echoed in your head as you were tied by Uraume themselves. They didn’t looked surprised or in any some sort of embarrassment as red ropes circling your naked body. The texture was rough… it felt somewhat comfortable, but it didn’t really hurt your skin as much. Not for now.

When you came out from the next room, in ropes, your arms on your back, it felt fucking uncomfortable. But Uraume said earlier it was Sukuna who requested it and it’s his idea. Not theirs, your dick flopped down sadly. Sukuna, who was sitting comfortably on the bed, he uncrossed his upper arm, using his fingers. Sukuna called you forward with a simple command, you stood between the king of curses’ thighs. His fucking huge thighs.

Sukuna didn’t looked up, his fingers found their to your bare chest he soon enough called tits. He didn’t even hesitate to pulled the bud, making you gasp out of Sukuna’s boldness. His fingers then circled your areola, before gently switching your nipples.

“You humans are sensitive when it comes to this,” Sukuna spat out, he then leaned forward, his teeth catching your already hard buds. “It’s embarrassing.”

His tongue went all in to your left nipple, his slimy tongue was circling your nipple again… rougher. Sukuna left a bite over your bud, your whimpers was music to his ears. He seems to be neutral about it, but deep down. He knew he was a stupid freak under the title “King of Curses”.

His lower hand mover their way down—rubbing your ass, you looked back to then flinched feeling Sukuna’s thumb rubbing your entrance, how big was that? You don’t know neither wanting to know. Your hands grabbed his shoulder when Sukuna inserted his middle finger—soon his index. It hurts if you can be honest, does sex feel like this? Really you don’t now, but it slightly feel good. That’s a plus, right?

Two fingers fucking you wide—Sukuna’s tongue moved to your other nipple. Both sensation made your dick erect and legs trembling. Hot breaths escaped your lips that reached to Sukuna’s ears, he then brushed over your prostate which let out a loud gasp out of you, he pulled his fingers out, you whined by the lost. You finally looked back at Sukuna who didn’t seemed to look impress at your expression; a whiny bitch who just begged to be breed.

Sukuna flicked his tongue as he made you sat in his thighs, he opened up a bottle and poured something similar to a voice like oil, you about to turned your head but Sukuna smashed your face against his chest. You felt something rubbing against your hole before something huge was slammed inside of you.

Guess Sukuna’s fingers did something…

Your eyes were watery—he didn’t even moved. Not yet, but you felt so full. Sukuna ignored your whines, he simply slammed his hips up, a whimper escaped your throat. Soon, that one slam turned into many thrusted. Your hands clawed his back, Sukuna’s lower arms captured your waist. While his upper hand kept playing with your red erect nipples.

“What? Does it hurt?” Sukuna faked a cooed, your hole tightened. He laughed at your pathetic state. “It’s just one cock. You haven’t feel both of them.”

You grit your teeth, Sukuna entered his thumb, forcefully letting his second cock in. But he’s kind enough to stop his pace and letting you adjust. Yeah, you’re too full for this. One was making you full, but both? Yeah…

Sukuna gripped your waist—right as he tried to thrust his hips, cum filled your tight puffy hole. He couldn’t like, it caught him off guard to reached his climax early, but he’ll definitely deny that it’s because your hole feel good. Sukuna looked down to your stomach, the visible bulge amused him. The fact that you can still take both of his dicks cumming inside of you sure made him interested.

He studied your expression—your fucked up face, his hand gently touching the tip of your cock, making pre-cums. Sukuna dragged his upper right hand, gently taking your own hand to intertwined your fingers together, like blood and heart. Unable to be separated. Sukuna didn’t say much, but he simply leaving kisses all over your jaw as he now gently thrust his hips upwards.

He isn’t satisfied… Fuck. Poor hole.

Now Sukuna insisted of brining you everywhere…

Even if Sukuna met other sorcerers, he’ll always bring you. Leaving you often helping him while Sukuna himself tried to not go insane when you’re next to him, neither him trying to kill the other sorcerers who linger their gaze at you. Well, that’s most on your part to hold him back to do so.

And you, being his wife—husband. Usually got your payment too! Eating… asking Sukuna to do the work instead, and most importantly, the river. Sukuna was now more often beside you as you admire the waters, it’s honestly a reason for him to loved everything about you, worship you, loving you, really. Just about everything. Thanks to that too, he now barely killed clans for food, And till now. You questioned yourself neither it was a bad thing or good thing.

But everything doesn’t last forever. That, was what Sukuna always forget to remember.

Mornings was always filled by you and Sukuna walking together for a morning walk, it was calming. The birds are singing and the air was fresh, everything was perfect. Since, today. Sukuna doesn’t had anything busy going on, spending time with his husband sounds like a good idea. Isn’t it? Walking together inside of a forest side by side, your face was the only thing that kept Sukuna entertained.

“Sukuna,” the name owner turned his head directly at you. The way his name runs on your lips nearly made his heart stopped. You then pointed at a bird that was singing happily. “It looked pretty, don’t you think?”

Sukuna stared at the bird that’s in front of his very own eyes. He’d just kill the poor fellow on the spot, but the way you looked at it with those lively eyes, he nodded. “Indeed…”

“Can we… have it?” You looked at him with a grin on your lips. “Please~?”

He didn’t seemed to be amused, rather. Sukuna pinched your cheek. “[Name], there’s already many wild creatures at home.”

His answer isn’t enough, you grabbed his palm. With such innocent and… sex eyes, you begged Sukuna. It was a silent beg which usually doesn’t work, but seems like he can’t take it anymore. Sukuna rubbed his face, looking at you as a sigh of defeat escaped from his lips. Giving you an approving nod, your eyes lit up as you carelessly run to the tree where the bird still hummed.

Sukuna kept his eyes on you from a distance, as the bird laid at your finger, you brought it close to your cheek, it happily snuggled at your cheek. The bird’s ear coverts was rubbing against your cheek, it trickled but doesn’t really hurt. You looked at Sukuna, the distance isn’t far, just a few steps and he’ll able to carry you. But what he didn’t calculate is a blade coming at you with the speed of light.

It was fast—and definitely uncalled for. A blade—a katana strike perfectly through your heart, it’s almost impossible but there it was. It hurts like wild. Not to mentioned that there’s a weird feeling of something was blooming inside of you like a flower during spring, blood slowly came from your mouth like a vampire eating their first target. But they aren’t eating their target, you were the target.

“Fuck… ‘kuna—” you coughed—more blood came out, your eyes widened as you used your palm to hold the blood—the crimson from your insides. Sukuna was staring down at your, he was in front of you. You forced yourself to look up, why does he looked… blurry?

“Suku—” “Keep that mouth shut.” Sukuna’s voice was firm, you could hear the urgency within in. You wanted to tell him—wanted to cry and ask why does he look so blurry… until then, you saw black.

Black… everything was gone insight. Sukuna, who was blindingly looked around for some sort of clue, saw you on the ground—even more blood now coming from your mouth which you can’t even feel. Sukuna… lost you? He couldn’t be… right? Why… does it hurt? His heart arched with someone he can’t explain. Sukuna kneed down, using his hand to moved your body as if he was trying to see if a cat died nor not.

Fuck, he may lost you now.

Sukuna looked down at your corpse. He lost everything, his favorite smile, what makes him genuinely happy, what filled the empty useless gaps… now it’s all gone with a blink. The king of curses lost someone special to him…

Special?

He threw the katana that pearced your heart, his arms wrapped around your body, making sure you were in a comfortable position even if you can’t feel it anymore. Your head resting against his chest, Sukuna carried you like the day where you two meet. He doesn’t know what to do now, but he just walk to the now gloomy forest until he reached where… ah you know it.

The river looks more… gloomy now, everything felt empty, at least. That’s what Sukuna saw, he sat down—his hand gently touching your paled mouth, where the blood already tried out. His eyes met with the white hasu that now resembles you even more. Sukuna doesn’t know neither to be happy or sad about it, he reached out to the clear mineral to wiped the blood from your lips.

He stared at you, and for a moment. He realizes something. He loved you. He fucking loved you so much.

Sukuna knew he loved you, but he never expected to feel such lost. A human—something that’s not eternal. But here he was, grieving to his husband, his forever love life. Since you weren’t here anymore… killing that piece of shit who killed you wouldn’t end with a scolding.

“I hope we can meet again, someday [Name].”

last minute note; i legit uploaded this in my office... welp. thief oc coming up ! be a lil patient here :). curious, since both @carnalcrows and @sooniebby did a face claim for their ocs... are you guys interested for me to do it next?

[kkochigomi]

skz reacting to a member walking in on you guys

hyung line + HH | maknae line

(this is an F U to that anon, I'm doing yet another thing other than what I started)

warnings/tags; dubcon, gn!reader, sub!reader dom!member, voyeurism & exhibitionism, penetration, jerking to your fancam, riding, missionary, doggy, ass eating, masturbation, prone bone, usage of 'hyung', this was longer than intended, some members have longer portions which just happened to happen

hard hours are officially open until further notice!

It started with you being a backup dancer for one comeback, then goofing around with the members while rehearsing, to you hanging out with them regularly. There are a lot of people in and out of there, all of the friends they've garnered over the years. You're also friends with other idols, so it never occurred to you. You know, you with them.

For the guys, it was an unspoken rule to not fuck their best friends. At least, not in a heat of the moment kind of way. Just in general, not doing impulsive shit will fare better for anyone in the long run.

However, sometimes shit happens. That shit happens to be your most recent backup dancing gig. Let's go through what happens when a certain member caves first.

⦊ bang chan ⦉

When it comes to members you were close to considering doing, Chan was at the top. But not on purpose. It's your fucking friends. His friends too. Lord knows Jake cannot help calling Chan daddy and pretend he's a horned up suitor to piss him off. The image of being fucked by Chan has been practically forced into your mind. Not that it was impossible to imagine that. You and everyone recognized him as a very manly and dependable man which is popular among people attracted to masculine people. Daddy indeed.

being walked in on

I imagine it was heat of the moment between you two. There is no doubt in my mind that he was the most dedicated to upholding the status quo of the friend group. But after seeing you in that outfit doing those dance moves... well Chan didn't even know you could move like that. That your face was capable of those expressions. And what you were doing with your tongue-

No. Chan shouldn't be thinking this way. And he definitely shouldn't be masturbating to the video. Thanks to you being popular like no:ze, there was a cheeky little fancam to make Chan's bad habits a little easier to achieve. After that, he was too far gone. You got playfully flirty one night and sat in his lap while he was at his computer. When you felt it, you couldn't lie. You liked what you felt. The minute you push your ass back to start grinding he wraps his arms around your waist. He holds you there, stilling you as his heart started to beat faster.

"Are you sure about this?"

One yes later and you were bouncing on his cock in his computer chair, Chan trying desperately to keep it from rolling away with his feet firmly planted to the ground. He takes a moment to stop his roaming hands and turn the chair so the back was against the desk. Now you grinding forward on his cock has the chair repeatedly thudding against the desk.

Loudly.

"Hyung, what the hell is that?" Jeongin's voice is momentarily muffled until he pushes the door open. The realization is instant. And so is Chan's anger.

"What the f- close the door!" he shouts, clutching you close with one arm and pointing angrily with the others. Jeongin lags for a second, before he snaps out of it and slams the door shut. Both of you feel like your adrenaline is through the roof, so it takes you a second to realize that not only is he still hard, but he's bucking into you.

walking in

Jeongin abruptly cranked up the TV thirty minutes ago and it's starting to agitate Chan. He's not normally like this. He's a very mindful roommate, and usually Chan worries the TV isn't even loud enough for Jeongin himself to hear. So Chan isn't immediately angry with him and assumes the best.

The worst in this case would be Jeongin going through a rebellious phase in his mid-twenties. Not seeing clothes strewn about the living room, and not seeing Jeongin on the couch with his bare ass clenching as he thrusted into... you?

Since Jeongin caved first in this scenario, Chan is still in the pathetic perv phase. So seeing your face drenched in ecstasy just like you simulated on stage went right to his cock. You're the first to notice, jumping up and knocking your forehead against Jeongin's. Chan apologizes profusely for intruding (even though you both chose the living room) and for the boner he's not even sure either of you noticed.

⦊ Lee Minho ⦉

Messing around with Minho never actually occurred to you. He's like a cat in all the weird ways. When he comes in your room you're more focused on what he's gonna fucking knock over. But there are glimpses, it just took a while for you to store them in your mind correctly. Recently you've been compartmentalizing each moment where Minho was surprisingly sexy. Every smirk, lidded gaze, bite of his lip. It's starting to build up.

being walked in on

With you two, it was a slow burn. Minho didn't know just how similar both your thought processes were. He also slowly noticed things about you, long before the sexy choreo. He was playful with the idea. It didn't guilt him too much and he had fun teasing you and even more fun when you started teasing him back. It went from daring one to kiss the other to jokes about sleeping with each other to playful groping that the rest of the friend group found weird.

That all culminated in you calling Minho a pussy for ignoring yet another one of your infamous dares. At one point you were actually joking. Then it turned into you not minding if he did go through with it. And now it was an actual challenge. He accepts it.

He grabs your ass and pulls you into him. He takes in your dark eyes as he leans against the kitchen island.

"You want me to fuck you?" he asks with a cocked brow.

"I dare you." you whisper, a breath away from his lips.

"Ohoho... getting real slutty now. Show me how much of a slut you are. Do that thing you did with your tongue during Crave."

His hand creeps up your body as you obey his command. You watch in real time as his pupils dilate. After a soft peck you challenge him again and he wraps the hand creeping up your body around your throat. It was curtains after that.

He had you by the back of your neck, bent over the counter as he pounded into you. Slow, languid blows you felt in your gut. It was probably the squeaks pounded out of you that drew a curious Jisung to the kitchen.

"Oh- Hooooly shit!" Jisung drops his phone in shock, hands flying to his head. You and Minho are frantically yanking your bottoms up and Minho is quick to anger.

"Why are you just standing there?!" it was unreasonable, but Minho was embarrassed. He was no longer hard and no longer in the mood to your disappointment. Jisung had long since skittered away while you watch, slightly amused, as Minho paces with bright red cheeks.

walking in

Minho was already rattling off about how he was about to order some food and reminding Jisung to include the tax when he sent the money when he heard it. A wet noise he would soon realize was Jisung lapping at your asshole. You were settled into a deep arch, blissed out atop Jisung's bed while he did the thing you always told Minho to do when he pissed you off.

"Someone finally ate your ass," Minho projects, not even getting the second word out before Jisung is flopping to the floor and looking up at him in shock as his angry red cock peeks out of his zipper. You scramble to cover yourself, sporting a similar "deer-in-the-headlights" look until it hits you. That annoyance Minho is always happy to provide.

"Carry on!" he encourages with an impish laugh, offering a gesture with his phone to each of you before leaving you to it.

⦊ Seo Changbin ⦉

You and Changbin always joked about finding each other attractive. Well, you finding him attractive. You see, the bit is that Changbin would say something braggadocious and then flex dramatically and you would squeal like a fangirl. Sometimes you would squeeze his biceps and think to yourself holy shit. He and Chan had great physiques, but something about him made you want him to... I don't know...

being walked in on

Put you in a chokehold. You asked him one day, a segue from being genuinely impressed by his arms. It's something you always ask fellow dancers or any of your friends with muscular physiques. It's a joke, but when Changbin does it, there's something else at play.

There was an unbearably submissive quality to the way you danced in that performance that made Changbin want to mount you. He hates the thought, so he buries it. Having you squirm, helpless under the conditions you subjected yourself to, his desires become unearthed.

You let out a moan unintentionally and what happens next is completely in the heat of the moment.

You're getting rug burn on your knees from the two of you frantically bumping uglies on the couch and somehow making it onto the floor. You're prone on the carpet while Changbin straddles you from behind. He has his hands around your throat, his balls grazing against the tops of your thighs.

Incoherent pleas and grunts fill the room as he rolls his hips into you. Changbin is too focused to realize Hyunjin has not only peeked his head out of his room, but fully walked out to marvel the pile of desperation on the carpet. Not until a small, inquisitive 'huh' leaves Hyunjin's mouth.

Thankfully Changbin's head is out of the way when you pop yours up in surprise.

"H-Hyunjin," you yelp, unable to move much with Changbin still on top of you. Yeah, Changbin is surprised, but he's just as intrigued as Hyunjin seems to be. His presence didn't bother him much. Oh, and he has no intention of stopping.

"Are you gonna get out or watch or what?"

walking in

Changbin could just send this tiktok to Hyunjin via DMs... or he could just walk across the hall and show him. Plus, he wants to see his reaction and make sure he's actually watching.

"I can't trust you to watch this on your own-"

Changbin stops when moans grace his ears. Then he looks way from his phone to see all the motion happening on the bed. Hyunjin's face is buried in your neck and he has red hickies all over his shoulders. His hand is cupping your hip while he thrusts into you slowly.

Oh shit, Changbin thinks. But when your eyes snap open and Hyunjin raises up to his knees, he realizes he said it out loud. He just hopes neither of you saw his cock twitch.

⦊ Hwang Hyunjin ⦉

Just like Chan, Hyunjin's looks were very popular, so it was obvious you flirted with the idea of something more. It didn't help that Hyunjin had this inherently romantic aura to him. Especially with the long hair, a paint brush held in his mouth with smears of blue and yellow making a haphazard rendition of The Starry Night on his arms and clothes. Even with the buzz cut, there's something that screams a meet cute is destined to happen. And those eyes. He's not flirty or dangerous like Minho, he's attentive and soft. The way he looks at you when you speak makes you feel like the most special person in the world.

being walked in on

Hyunjin was very intentional. He set up what could be considered dates but also weren't too explicit in their connotation. Just two friends watching a movie while sipping on wine. And one of the friends peering over at the other with the intention of locking eyes. The little wine dates were dangerous. Wine made you flirty, everyone knew this. Even if it was just a little bit.

So when Hyunjin gazing at you with his elbow propped on the back of the couch, fully ignoring the movie, you decide 'fuck it'. You lean in as well, awaiting the culmination of all this YA fiction BS. So it happens naturally, the kiss, but it doesn't escalate. So Hyunjin is always the first to "cave" technically, but you haven't had sex with him, and the choreo hadn't come out yet. As of right now, you two have a hint of a pre-established romance.

You both felt comfortable not putting a label on it or being exclusive. Just little flirty kisses and fun somewhat dates. It was fun like that... it really was... but god were you sexy in that video. Cute pecks turn into longing kisses to groping to even dry humping on the couch. Hopefully the movies you two watch suck because you never watch them. You soon ditch the movies for kissing on his bed. The slow escalation is familiar to you by now, so you're not surprised when his hand slips under your shirt. What does surprise you is how hard he's getting, but it's a pleasant surprise. He strips all your clothes off and you do the same to him, taking turns peppering kisses all over each other's body.

Even the way Hyunjin fucks is romantic. It's not 'fucking' at all. He holds you like you're precious porcelain as he pushes into you, cupping your hip. You're so entranced by him, more than you've ever been. The moment he dips lower and start kissing up your neck, you throw your head back and drown in ecstasy.

You're so focused on how his hot skin presses into you with every thrust that you don't notice Changbin. It's only when you hear an 'oh shit' that your eyes fly open.

There stood Changbin, phone in hand, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. As Hyunjin leans back, his dick pulls out of you. It is definitely still hard... and you swear you see it twitch. He looks at Changbin, very much dazed from lust and unaffected by Changbin's presence.

walking in

Hyunjin has a propensity to find art in anything. Stopping to take a picture of a duck with it's baby posed perfectly in front of it, pointing out pleasing color schemes, and seeing certain positions people are placed in as a spark of inspiration. And he finds some scenes a lot more intriguing than others. Hyunjin first hears grunts and random words from his room as soon as he pops his earphones off. He's pretty damn sure of what he's hearing, but who the hell is Changbin having sex with?

Hyunjin pops his head out and sure enough, Changbin is fucking someone from behind on the floor. When he sees you lift your head, he feels something bubble inside him. It isn't anger or jealousy. He doesn't pinpoint it until he feels heat brewing downstairs.

He walks closer, noticing little details like how your skin tone looks against Changbin's, the dynamics of the position, other artsy stuff that Hyunjin understands but I don't, and he enjoys the sight.

Huh, Hyunjin thinks, wanting to sit and watch the art unfolding on the living room carpet. Except he doesn't think it. He realizes this after your head shoots up and almost knocks Changbin's teeth out.

"H-Hyunjin!"

You're shocked, but only briefly. You're now focused on the look of utter captivation on Hyunjin's face.

"Are you gonna get out or watch or what?" Changbin asks through a laugh. Hyunjin shifts his weight to one leg as he thinks for a moment.

"If it's okay with you guys, I think I'll watch."

if you send an ask, I might even do a follow up blurb about a threesome including one of these pairings... I can't guarantee that a follow up will be gn because I suck at descriptions already and if I can't describe genitalia it'll be like cutting a limb off.

[lazysoulwriter]

soft launch sabotage - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: fluff, social media reveal, anxious Pedro, established but secret relationship

---

It wasn’t like you and Pedro had planned to keep your relationship a secret forever.

But it was new, and you were both a little drunk on each other. The kind of drunk where even going to the grocery store together felt too intimate to risk. Too good. Too delicate. And Pedro, bless him, had been so respectful of that — always checking before posting, always turning a soft smile toward you when someone asked about his love life and saying something vague like, “I'm very loved up lately, let’s say that.”

But then the awards show happened.

And Pedro, in a sharp navy suit and those glasses you loved, was practically glowing with nervous excitement as he stepped onto the red carpet. He was halfway through an interview when it happened. The reporter said, “You look incredible, Pedro. Who helped you pick out the suit tonight?”

And without thinking — not even pausing — he said: “My girlfriend. She has this eye for tones, and she—she’s amazing. She said this color makes my eyes look 'less tired in photos.’”

He blinked. The reporter blinked. The camera operator did not blink.

Pedro’s smile froze slightly as his brain caught up with his mouth, and he tried to chuckle it off. “I mean, my...stylist. I call her that sometimes. You know. Fashion girlfriend. Fashion ghost. Ha.”

It didn’t work. It definitely didn’t work.

By the time he made it off the carpet, your names were trending together on Twitter. People had screen-recorded the interview in HD and were doing TikTok deep dives on your recent vacation photos. Somehow, a blurry pic he’d taken of your legs on a hammock two weeks ago had resurfaced. The caption — “Heaven looks like this.” — was now very much in question.

Pedro’s anxiety had kicked in full force. He didn’t even go to the afterparty. He just went home and called you the second he walked in the door, pulling off his tie with trembling fingers.

“I fucked up,” he said immediately. “Baby, I fucked up so bad. I'm so sorry. You didn’t even get a say in this and I just—blurted it. I opened the gates and now they’re gonna find everything. I didn’t mean to out us, I swear, I wasn’t thinking, it was—”

“Pedro,” you said gently, trying not to smile.

“I should've kept it to myself. I just—I was thinking about you. I always think about you. And they asked and it just came out and—fuck, you hate this kind of attention. I ruined it, didn’t I?”

“Pedro.” You laughed now, full and warm. “I don’t care.”

He blinked, and your voice came through the phone like balm. “I mean, maybe I would’ve liked to post a really cute soft-launch first. You in the kitchen with that ridiculous apron you wear. Or me in your hoodie. But... it’s fine. It’s you. And I love you. I’m not mad.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then: “You love me?”

“Oh my God,” you rolled your eyes. “Yes. Obviously. I just thought I’d wait to say it until after you accidentally told the entire entertainment industry we’re dating.”

Pedro’s breath caught in his throat — and then the nervous wreck of a man melted. He was giggling, pacing around the living room with a hand on his chest like you’d hit him with a tranquilizer dart made of love. “Fuck. I love you too. You’re sure you're okay?”

“Yes, Pascal. In fact—” you grinned. “Now you have to post me. No turning back.”

So the next morning, he did.

pascalispunk 📸 a carousel of you and him — the first one was a candid: you curled into his lap, laughing in a sunbeam, his sunglasses half off your face. The second was blurrier, you kissing his temple while he cooked. The third was that same hammock photo — but this time, he tagged you.

Caption: Guess the secret’s out. Best accident I ever made. 💛

The comments were unhinged. The internet fully lost its mind. But Pedro didn’t care — not with you curled into his chest, hand tucked under his shirt, scrolling through them with a lazy grin and whispering, “They’re right, you do look less tired in that suit.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

---

[lacedcompulsion]

FLATLANDS

Hotch sends you and Spencer to Iowa to conduct a death row interview with an inmate. Thing is, there's not much to do in Iowa but fuck.

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

tags/warnings: 18+, wc: 5.9k, whew, smut, porn w plot, piv sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, soft-dom spencer ish, biting, praise kink, this is so self-indulgent muahahaha, discussions of a case, but nothing too bad it's canon typical stuff, iowa hate idgaf!! drinking/getting drunk, i think that's it!

notes: this is likeeee. one of my first times writing longer smut. also i did in fact say i would re-upload old re-worked fics before posting anything new but alas! i am a liar! here is something brand new! i spent like. 9 straight hours on this yesterday. and it is currently almost 8 am and i just spent all night finishing it up instead of sleeping. ALSO i am in fact a philosophy major (future barista moment) and my fics get soooo. philosophy-esque. like. every single time. i'm sorry... i am who i am.

If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa. 

You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.

Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.

You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends. 

You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)

“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees. 

“Hi.” 

“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.

Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.

“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.

“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.

He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.

“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand. 

“Why is your casefile in there?”

“Where do you keep yours?”

“I never put it away.”

“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”

“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects. 

“You think she did?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later. 

You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list. 

“Do you think he’s gonna focus on me?” you ask once he reaches a lull in speech.

“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”

You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out. 

“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”

“There’s not much out there.”

“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”

“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door. 

The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.

It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.

– 

Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.

The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent. 

The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way. 

If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.

The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin. 

The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach. 

You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants. 

There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.

“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”

You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed. 

“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes. 

“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.

“My answer remains.”

“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.

“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.

“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.

“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.

“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”

“Right.”

It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.

The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven. 

The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground. 

You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.

Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”

“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”

“You sound like Hotch.”

You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”

“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.

“You fluster easily.”

“Do I?”

“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”

He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”

“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”

You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived. 

“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer. 

He smiles, shakes his head no. 

Good, you mouth.

You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too. 

—

Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.

“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”

“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”

“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”

You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born? 

“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat. 

“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”

“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. “But murder is.”

Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist. 

—

“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs. 

Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot. 

The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down. 

“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”

“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”

“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.

“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.

“Not a fan of Iowa?”

“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”

“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.” 

“Ridiculous.” 

—

You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.

Spencer.

You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa. 

You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure. 

“Hi?”

“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”

“Much nicer than yours.”

“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”

He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.

“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”

“It’s interesting.”

“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”

“You were asleep?”

You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”

He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you. 

He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”

You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”

“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”

“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”

“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”

You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”

He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”

You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”

He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”

You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.

He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”

“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”

You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”

That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.

There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.

“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.

“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”

“Smart,” you say. 

He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”

You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”

He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.

You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable. 

You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”

Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”

You squint. “It doesn’t?”

“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”

You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”

“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”

“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips. 

“God, no.”

You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”

He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”

“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”

“I sensed you were captivated.”

You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”

He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”

You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”

“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?” 

“Hm?”

“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”

“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.

You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”

“What?” 

“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”

“I’m not really flirting with you.”

You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”

“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”

You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

It lands like a match.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.

“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”

He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question. 

He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.

Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.

You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.

But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.

“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.

He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.

There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.

You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again. 

Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.

“Fuck?”

“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.

“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.  

“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”

“My fucking pleasure.”

“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles. 

He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.

His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.

“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him. 

“I’m going to. Just stay like that.” 

You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.

The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command. 

When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug. 

“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”

You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.

He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air. 

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.

“No?”

“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”

You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.

He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them. 

Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”

He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good. 

You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.

His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.

His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs. 

When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.

He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm. 

“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water. 

“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.

“Spencer.”

“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“What did we say about using our words?”

“To… use them?”

“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.

There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you. 

"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."

The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself. 

When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.

“Do that again,” you whisper.

“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”

“Needed you.”

“Yeah?” For a reason you’re too clouded to place, that makes him snap his hips against yours a little harder. 

He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might. 

"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.

You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in. 

Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.

Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner. 

Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

“‘m okay. Are you okay?”

He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Hmm what?’

“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.

“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”

“Pee schmee.”

“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.

“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.

“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.

“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.

“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”

“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”

It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog. 

“I would like that.”

[narcissistshandler]

hello! this is my first time to request something, can you write overstimulation for sae or rin? (or other bllk characters if you want). like make them get soo ruined, leg shaking, crying, and begging something like those :) thank u in advanced !

　⸸ .ᐟ S ' G O O D FOR Y O U

「 pairing 」 male reader x itoshi rin / itoshi sae [separately] 「 content 」 overstimulating the Itoshi brothers 「 tags 」 amab!reader, top!reader, sex toys, anal sex, overstimulation (obviously), use of "daddy" (to refer to the reader) on Rin's part

a/n I love the Itoshi brothers, unfortunately Sae's part is more of a bonus and the focus here is more on Rin, but hope you like it! [unedited]

RIN always wants your touch, your complete attention and love so much that it feels like an empty hole unable to be filled. Like a cat, he slides into bed as soon as you push him, no questions asked. So complacent to you. And damn flexible. You can push his legs up to his ears after he can't keep them open any longer, spread wide above his head. Hold them there with one or two hands, the position giving you better access to his hole, and allowing you to see the bulge in his stomach whenever your hips move forward ── your dick rearranging his insides. He's fully exposed like this.

God, yoga really did wonders for your relationship.

Unlike his workouts or stretching, at this moment Rin gasps, seeming to struggle with each breath. "You’re making such a mess. Do you even remember how many times it’s been?" you say. But Rin's tear-filled eyes have already lost focus, his bad habit that you thought was adorable taking over too: his tongue lolling out of his mouth, drooling over himself. He was too far away to hear you.

Rin isn't the type to beg because he simply loses himself in the pleasure. You fucked him for hours on end, cum accompanying each thrust, dripping from his full insides. He can only mumble nonsensically, a complete mess, shaking all over when the heat is suddenly there again, in the pit of his stomach, ready to explode. And he doesn't want to cum again, even though his body throbs and yearns. He doesn't want to, no—

His cock jumps into his stomach, the head an angry red where blood pools. There's a growing pool of fluids collecting there; the last two orgasms haven't gotten anything out of him but a few splashes, his balls too tight to give you something—anything. But he couldn't anymore. He was so sensitive. He was always too sensitive to bear the provocation.

But you push him anyway, feeling his entire body tense, the already relaxed hole around you barely squeezing. "I-I'm gonna—" Rin whimpers, tries, the words barely pronounced. "[n-n-name]... I-I can't— I can't— ahhh..."

"Just one more? Just one more, come on, for me. Come for me again, bunny." You, cruel as you are, smile at him, gyrating your hips in a way that makes you perfectly hit that sweet spot inside him. The stimulation is so much it hurts, so good it hurts his stomach, where your cock seems to reach. Pushing inside him, forcing his insides, over and over and over.

"It’s too much, it’s too much, I— I’m gonna—" he's babbling, toes twitching, shaking his head as if in denial. But his body is obedient and responsive to you.

"What was that? 'Too much?' Come on Rin-chan, you want to be good, don't you? Yes, you do, sweetness," you smile as Rin nods, sweat running down his chest. "You can take it. Just. One. Ngh. More." You keep your grip on his heels, keeping him open as you pound into him, mercilessly, grunting at the delicious heat and the fluttering of the walls as he comes again.

Rin is now crying for real, lips trembling, a drool laced mess. His poor penis twitches and throbs and tenses, but nothing comes out of it. It starts to go limp, having nothing left to give. It looks painful. Rin reaches between you to hold him, his hands shaking like the rest of his body.

You think he'll try to ease the tension, maybe rub the burning away from his sensitive urethra, but he doesn't. Your obedient bunny is masturbating for you. Gritting his teeth, grunting and whimpering, something between a wild animal and sweet prey as he obeys and tries to make himself come again for you, trying to keep his cock hard and ready for your demands.

His green eyes roll back in his skull, his muscular legs bounce and spasm, but you hold them in place, abusing his prostate as Rin pulls himself through the pleasure and pain. For you. Wetting his entire chest and chin, squirting for what feels like an eternity as his entire body struggles to escape his control. Too much. Too much.

Rin gasps, seems to be relearning how to breathe, so out of breath that you fear he's going to pass out, "No more, I c-can’t feel my legs..."

"Every time you whimper it makes me want to keep going just to see how much longer until you break. Although, from the way your lovely cock is dripping, your hole all stretched and smooth, I might already have."

"Plewse—"

His hips buck and he swallows the rest of the word. Oh, he's going to pass out──

"Just a little more, bunny, daddy's so close to cumming, you're not going to let me down, are you? It's okay to cry, baby, you can let your dick go. Obedient thing. Just a little more and I'll let you rest."

Even if in the end Rin was completely in pain and unable to feel his own body, the ultra-sensitive hole and his cock dripping with no sign of pause, he would never stop you from taking your pleasure from him.

He was so good to you.

Tears, begging, obedience and everything.

+   B O N U S: SAE ITOSHI

It's been hours since you started playing with his body, as you lewdly called it. Destroying him, was how Sae preferred to put it. Some people often claimed to enter some sort of subspace when under continuous stimulation, but Sae was hyperaware the entire time. Unable to escape from your hands.

He lost count of how many there were. The toys pushed through the smooth ring of muscles, some so small they barely gave satisfaction, some long ones, which reached so deep that they took his breath away. One was as thick as your fist and Sae might have torn the sheets as he writhed from the overwhelming stretching sensation.

He's already forgotten how to breathe when you pull the powerful little vibrator out of him. It feels like his hole continues to vibrate even now that it's empty, the sensation doesn't go away. The tight ring at the base of his cock didn't help, only making it more cruel. Sae was at your mercy, taking an indecent variety of toys inside him, balls tight with release denied.

"[name]." His voice was low, rouca, the warning clear as day, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the way his hole fluttered weakly against a cabeça de seu pau. "You promised." Sae was shaking like a leaf. You tried to pull him to his knees, but he couldn't stay in position, having slipped down onto the dirty, sticky sheets.

He no longer remembered the promise very well, but it probably had to do with letting him cum after he took the monstrous dildo inside him. And nothing about you pushing your cock against his swollen, sensitive hole.

"Just a little more, I promise. I'll let you cum as soon as I have my cock buried deep inside you."

"[name]," He gasps, not believing you. You would finish off what was left of him.

"Yes?"

Sae's hole throbbed, his cock felt like it was about to explode beneath his body, and everything about him was sweaty and hot. The denial, the stimulation, hurt. But he still wanted your cock so badly──

"Yes... Please."

[azriona]

Okay, I am late to the party; in my defense, first day of summer break has been unexpectedly busy and it's not even close to over yet.

I like that my blog is full of variety. I like that you'll scroll and see a jokey commentary on life, followed by a x Reader fic, followed by a Leverage gifset, followed by a goofy Spiders Georg reference, followed by a call-to-action for some real lift shit, followed by a hot take with a hot response and an even hotter call-back, followed by a gorgeous hand-bound fanfic, followed by some amazing bit of costume lore, followed by a Rickroll. I know this means I'll never be included on a "who to follow for this specific niche content"... but you know what? That's okay. You guys knew what you signed up for; you know whatever my current fascination, you'll still get something enjoyable eventually. Tomorrow's content is the surprise in the middle of the Kinderegg, who the heck knows what it'll be, but you'll probably enjoy some part of it.

I like that I like my kids (and that my kids also like me). I think they do, anyway. My teen regularly comes to seek me out just for a chat, even if sometimes it's just to play mindgames. Yesterday he insisted on me downloading a game on my phone so we could play together. 🥰🥰🥰

I like my hair. Even if it's weird and grey at the root but golden at the ends. It's still super thick and sometimes curly and I like putting it in a weird ponytail-bun-thing when it's hot outside.

I like my sense of humor. I don't think everyone gets it sometimes, but I make me laugh anyway.

I like that I will always give someone the benefit of doubt. I think people are, essentially, always trying to do the right thing. Maybe your definition of the right thing is different than mine, maybe you're unable to see a larger picture, maybe you're focused on something I don't know about. I don't think most people are actively out to hurt anyone... not really. But I do think that people can change their minds and their actions, if you give them the space and the information and the opportunity to do so. I think people can always do better, and deserve the chance to be forgiven past transgressions and mistakes and ignorant words/opinions, even if those things cannot (should not!) be forgotten. (And maybe this doesn't apply to all things; I'm sure at least one person reading this is going "but you cannot possibly mean in this circumstance", and you're probably right. There's nuance and there's limits to forgiveness and doubt and all the rest, and there's definitely people I wouldn't forgive and don't plan to forget. But I think redemption should always, always be an option, even if it's rejected on both sides.)

And a bonus: I like that I find ways to break the rules. In this case, I'm actually going to bend them a bit, and go back to the original of sending asks. But if you don't get one from me, and you want to play: feel free to tag yourself anyway. 🥰😉😘

Firstly, when you get this, you have to answer with 5 things you like about yourself, publicly. Then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool)

Tysm!

Okay, this is gonna be difficult BUT

1) I like my hair

2) I like my eyes

3) I like my writing

4) I like my aesthetic

5) I like the fact I'm a bookworm

Instead of sending asks, I'll just tag my mooties/friends here!! ;

The sweet and coolbeanz you, @izumi-miffy

The one and only @3thereality

The awesomesauce @stareyeofficial @chuchucharlie @itzzkaylaaa @crazed-transbian-lunatic and @saturnidiot

My dear @finnosaurusladiesman217

And the love of my life, @h0neybun-xx

That makes 9 people but I don't have any more moots, so that'll suffice I think!

[mcrdvcks]

Hello! I just read your fic with the shy/insecure reader with Logan and I loved it sm!!

Could I request a similar thing with Bucky? Reader is just insecure of her looks instead, never truly finding herself attractive.

Again tysm love ur fics 💗💗

this feeling sucks, i've felt this way all my life. "funny" story: i started going to therapy like 4 months ago for my depression, but i'm also working on my self-esteem with my therapist. one reason i feel the way i do is because my dad always said the opposite of "you're pretty." it was always, "you need to lose weight," or "that shirt makes you look fat." i had enough courage to tell my dad that (after a few months of therapy), and he said he read an article when i was little (like 2 or 3) that said that complementing your daughter will make her overconfident and egotistical.

anyways, my point is, if anyone else feels super insecure with how they look, you're not alone <3 and we all need a bucky in our lives!

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: insecure!reader, thoughts of not looking good/feeling good enough, soft!bucky, protective!bucky

Bucky doesn’t notice your insecurity at first—not because he’s oblivious, but because he genuinely sees you as beautiful and assumes you already know it.

It’s the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. The way your hands move when you talk. The crinkle in your eyes when you smile. He’s quietly obsessed.

He starts to pick up on it when you always change behind a closed door—even when it’s just the two of you.

You brush off compliments. Laugh awkwardly when he calls you gorgeous. Won’t meet his eyes when he says you look good.

One night, after a mission debrief, he finds you looking at yourself in the mirror—expression unreadable, fingers pinching at your waist like you’re trying to hide something that isn’t there.

He pauses in the doorway, just watching for a beat too long. Bucky wraps his arms around you from behind, gently pulling your hands away from your body. “Don’t do that. You’re not allowed to treat my girl like that.”

He’s not great with big speeches—but he means it every time he says, “You’re beautiful.” He notices every change in your face when he says it—how you never believe him, how it bounces off you like armor.

He starts small: Swapping your shampoo for one he loves the smell of. Letting his hands linger on parts of you that you try to cover up. Whispering, “you look good in my shirt,” like it’s just a passing thought—but meaning every word.

Sometimes he gets a little gruff when you put yourself down.

“You don’t get to talk about my favorite person like that.”

“You know I’ve been alive over a hundred years, right? I’ve seen a lot of pretty. You still knock the wind outta me.” He says it so simply, like it’s a fact—not a compliment he’s handing out, but a truth he lives in.

After missions, when you both are bruised and exhausted, he makes sure he’s the one helping you clean up. Not because you need the help—but because he wants you to see the way he looks at you when your hair’s a mess and your face is bare and you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He starts leaving quiet reminders: Post-it notes on the mirror (“You looked cute brushing your teeth.”) His hoodie folded next to your pillow (“Smelled like you. Missed it.”) A photo of you, unposed, laughing at something dumb he said—set as the background on his phone.

You catch him staring sometimes—when you’re not wearing makeup, when you’re in ratty pajamas, when you’re doing absolutely nothing special. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He shrugs. “Because you’re here. And you’re mine.”

He makes you model every new outfit you buy, even if it’s just a new pair of socks. “C’mon, twirl for me.” And if you don’t, he spins you around himself.

At first you’d let out an exasperated laugh, saying that they’re “just socks” or “just a shirt.” But Bucky would just ask you again to “show it to him.” If you were still a little shy about it, he’d walk over to you and twirl you slowly himself, giving you detailed complements. “I like those socks; they’re your favorite color.”

He always makes it about you, not the clothes. “Looks good. But not as good as your smile.” When you roll your eyes, he grins. “I’m serious. I’d frame you if you let me.”

Sometimes he’d pull you into his lap without warning. Wrap his arms around your middle, bury his nose in your neck, and hum like you were the coziest thing he’d ever held. You’d try to squirm away, saying your hair was a mess or you hadn’t changed out of your worn sleep clothes. He’d just say: “Good. You smell like home.”

He compliments things no one else notices. The curve of your handwriting. The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. How you fidget with your necklace when you’re nervous. How your voice goes soft when you talk to animals.

He has a quiet obsession with the parts you dislike. The curve of your stomach when you sit down? He rests his hand there. The soft underside of your arms? He kisses it like it’s sacred. The “plainness” you see in the mirror? He traces it with his eyes like it’s art.

He adores seeing you in his clothes. You think it's because they're oversized and hide everything you hate. But he loves it because you're comfortable. Because you wear them without overthinking. Because “that’s the most yourself I ever see you.”

You once caught him muttering under his breath, “She’s so fuckin’ pretty,” while you were brushing your teeth in his old t-shirt. He didn’t even realize he said it out loud.

He’s not afraid to complement you in front of others. He knows you get shy when he does it, so he just sticks to nicknames like “pretty girl,” “sweetheart,” “doll,” and “angel.”

Even during missions, it slips out sometimes—gruff but affectionate. “You good, sweetheart?” over comms. “Don’t need you getting hurt, pretty girl.” When you deflect the nickname with a joke or a shy shrug, he doesn’t push. He just looks at you with those blue eyes like he’s memorizing you all over again.

He starts making you part of his morning routine: brushing his teeth while you do yours, kissing your shoulder before you put your hair up. “Mornin’, beautiful,” even if you’re still blinking awake.

He learns the exact places you’re insecure about and starts doting on them without making it obvious. He’ll rest his hand on your thigh when you’re curled up beside him. Press a kiss to your shoulder when your tank top slips just right. Nuzzle into your stomach when you’re in bed, saying, “Best pillow I’ve ever had.”

Bucky started complementing you so often that even Alexei and Bob joined in without really knowing why.

Alexei once said, completely serious, “You are a strong 8.5. Maybe 9. In Soviet Russia, you’d be married already.”

Bob just nodded solemnly, then handed you a flower he found in the parking lot. “He talks about your eyes a lot. Just saying.”

Yelena picked up on it first. Saw the way you dodged cameras and avoided your reflection in shiny windows. She didn't say much, just started calling you "hot stuff" every time you walked into the room.

Bucky would grumble every time they chimed in—“That’s my job”—but secretly, he was grateful. Because maybe if enough people said it, you'd finally believe it.

[evil-ontheinside]

I sense a new sibling for Sakura this chapter

[vollesroah]

Maybe it is a biased view but it seems, at least superficially that hyper-validation and gender critical are both fairly extreme and opposite positions. I can't tell if that really is true based upon the short post information, so maybe I am wrong.

Again, my opinion, being able to change your pov is good. I try to be open to listening other people's experiences. It doesn't always change my mind about something but almost always helps me to understand them better.

You mentioned "..definitely not for the radfems." Maybe looking around tumblr for the #detrans tag will provide a few examples of that. Basically, any post making trans people feel low in order to influence their actions.

I have attached a few below. The first few sound like the OPs have no personal experience of trans and are opposed to trans purely from an ideology.

One from a religious conservative I think. Not necessarily rad.

The last is different for me because the OP is speaking from experience. Bad experiences happen and they shouldn't be ignored either just to fit someone else's script - the original post theme.

Hope the links help.

Some trans people talk about detrans people the way heterosexual men talk about gay men. Like the very existence of the latter threatens to reveal some deep insecurity about their own identity and ideology in the former

[myokk]

different

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 4,2k

summary: Sebastian is not as she remembered.

cw: enemies to lovers, dark sebastian (I guess?), relic!Sebastian, smut (18+ ONLY), unprotected sex, maybe he has a breeding kink...I just don't know what to tag this it's angsty

a/n: or: Sebastian has probably gotten in over his head even though I don't specify what's going on with him🤭

Sebastian Sallow is not as she remembered.

There's something...unkempt about him. Feral. Unhinged. Uncontrolled. She feels absolutely ridiculous thinking it, of course, could never confide in anyone about what she's noticed.

Everyone knows she hates Sebastian Sallow and shouldn't be noticing anything about him. But...when they sit next to each other in their NEWT Arithmancy class and are forced to spend time with each other, there are things she cannot help but see.

Because of proximity, of course.

As she glances over to him, all she can think of is how his hair is more tousled than usual, a strange, feverish flush spread across already ruddy-freckled cheeks, his normally pristine uniform wrinkled and the top buttons undone. She is used to hating him from afar; their previous years at Hogwarts have been spent glaring at each other across the Great Hall, fighting to be the first to answer questions in class, him purposely antagonizing her and going out of his way to make sure she's annoyed by his presence and...

Well.

In the short first month of their seventh year (arriving to Hogwarts without his sister), so far he has been avoiding her. Avoiding everyone, really. More reclusive, less of the magnetic and commanding presence that demands people pay attention to him. As much as she thought she would rejoice the day he stopped bothering her, it is rather disconcerting.

He looks over at her, catches her staring at him, and his glazed-over-glossy eyes flash in fury.

"What," he hisses, barely disguised hatred poisoning his deep voice, "are you looking at?"

She starts, the quill she's holding slips out of her fingers and clatters to the table, and ink splatters across the page of notes she was working on. "N-nothing," she mumbles, before clearing the mess away with a wave of her wand.

The rest of their time together is spent in silence, both determined to not look at the other.

She secretly observes Sebastian any time they share a class - it's impossible to see him between classes, as he's disappearing to Merlín-knows-where, but he's still yet to be fully absent.

Some days, he looks better than others, almost like the mischievous Sebastian who used to torment her. A small smile might even grace his full lips.

But most days, there's an unhealthy pallor to his flushed skin, his shoulders holding an ungodly amount of tension; last week in Charms he snapped five quills in half, one for every squeak of Professor Ronan's chalk on the blackboard. She was sitting right behind him, unsure if anyone else noticed, but how could she miss it? The tension in his broad shoulders seemed to radiate off of him in waves, the skin she could see of his neck between his collar and his tousled hair was flushed and sweaty, and as soon as class was dismissed he was pushing his chair back and striding out with long legs, black robes billowing behind him.

This has been repeated more and more often as of late.

Where is Anne? -

"What do you think of Sebastian this year?" She's trying to act like she doesn't care about the answer, pushing food around her plate, resting her chin in her hand, but the truth is she's dying to have someone else acknowledge what she's been seeing.

"He's grumpier than usual," says Leander helpfully.

"He almost singed my eyebrows off in Charms," pipes up Garreth.

Cressida is too overcome by giggles to speak properly at first. "I've been trying to count the freckles on his forearms every chance I get," she confesses, "but every time I reach forty he turns around and I'm worried he'll kill me. Why? Are you upset he's finally moved on from his infatuation with you?"

None of them seem to be worried about him like she is. At Cressida's last question, she flushes and glances across the Great Hall and her eyes find his immediately. It's almost as if he's heard their conversation; his eyes are two black pits glowering into her own and she's worried that if she keeps staring she might fall in. Gaunt is sitting next to him, murmuring who knows what in his ear. The contrast between the two of them: one blond and elegant and deathly pale, the other flushed and disheveled and full of rage: is eerie.

She shivers and looks away.

As the days progress, Gaunt seems more and more upset with his friend. She catches the two of them having heated discussions under their breath on more than one occasion; the tip of Gaunt's wand flaring like his nostrils as they quarrel.

Normally, the two of them walk the halls of Hogwarts together like they own the place. The fact that they are almost never seen together anymore is preoccupying, to say the least.

She soon abandons any pretense of being nonchalant, of secretly watching, and finds herself looking forward (if it can be called that) to every class shared with Sebastian Sallow. His presence is intoxicating somehow - she couldn't look away from him even if she'd wanted to, and she is simply too curious to see how far he will fall.

Is he going to be normal today? she wonders as she sets up her station in Potions. Almost hoping to the contrary, but he doesn't show up.

She's...disappointed.

Or maybe she's just bored. Watching Sebastian has started to consume her, his strange behavior the only thing that seems to interest her these days.

When he barges into the Potions classroom five minutes late - not enough for Sharp to chastise him - their eyes immediately meet and he beelines for her station, unceremoniously dumping his bag at the empty spot next to her. Although they don't speak for the entirety of the class, she shows him the recipe she is working on and he pulls the cutting board towards him, surprisingly gentle with the knife as he starts chopping up the ingredients.

Soon, his robe is shed off. The classroom feels muggy and stifling and even she feels dazed from the heat and fumes of the combined cauldrons. He silently slides the cutting board to her, everything cut perfectly; she glances at him before nodding slightly and adding everything in with precision. Sebastian takes over the stirring as she adds the ingredients one by one, but soon he's pulling at his tie and collar to loosen then as he stands over the flames, rolling up his shirtsleeves and exposing his tan, freckled forearms. For one mortifying second she wonders if he's going to take off his vest too.

He's so different from the exasperating boy she thought he was. Before, he was mischievous and charming and annoying and always getting into trouble with his sister. But now...now, he's angry in a way she isn't used to: his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turn white, his dark brow always furrowed in displeasure.

She finds she wants to smooth it away with the pad of her thumb.

At the end of the class, they get a rare 'well done' from their professor, and then before she can blink Sebastian is striding out of the class just as quickly as he has been for the past month. She hurries to shove everything into her bag and stumbles out after him, almost sprinting to catch up as he's already at the end of the hall.

"W-wait," she gasps, reaching out a hand that grazes his sleeve. He slows down a bit but keeps walking, not acknowledging her presence otherwise. "Sebastian."

He stops at the sound of his name, the fury in his glare makes her pause - maybe she shouldn't be addressing him like this, but they were friends before, weren't they? And now he continues walking, much slower this time, but still with purpose.

She takes this as an invitation.

She doesn't let go of her grip on his robes, not wanting him to disappear on her again.

The truth is, although everyone knows she hates Sebastian Sallow, she always kind of liked the attention he gave her. Out of all of the girls he could have pursued - almost any of them - she was the only one he ever paid attention to. As much as she was exasperated by him in previous years, there had been a few moments last year when...

She shakes her head to get rid of the thoughts. Clearly, that Sebastian lives in the past, and the one she is following now is someone else entirely.

Sebastian pulls her into an empty classroom and whirls around to look at her after the door slams shut, his cheeks colored and more ruddy than usual, and her heart is pounding as she stares up at him. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to follow him, and she curses herself for her damn curiosity. But...she can't deny that a thrill runs through her body, heat pooling in her stomach as she sees him glower at her. Maybe she's missed having Sebastian's undivided attention, and now she has it.

"I-" he starts, taking a deep, shaking breath as he looks down at her. He closes his mouth, runs long fingers through his hair, disheveling it more (she quite likes it, but -), paces around the room. She just stands there, watching him, clutching the strap of the bag that's pressed across her chest. "I know you're watching me."

"I," he says again, looking down at her, his warm breath fanning across her face, "cant get you out of my damn mind. You're always there, and it's..."

She feels his words tremble down her face, slide down her neck; she shivers. In fear? In anticipation? Heat pools deep in her stomach at their intense eye contact, at the fact his mouth is mere inches from hers, the fact that he's looking at her like that.

"Y-you don't hate me?" she whispers, moving the tiniest bit forward. Her lips brush his lower lip as she speaks, a thrill runs through her body at the contact. Sebastian is stock still.

"No," he responds. This time he is the one who moves the tiniest bit forward, his head inclined the tiniest bit more towards hers. Now, with every breath she takes, every inhale, their lips are touching.

She doesn't know who moves first: between their shallow-soft breaths mixing and mingling and the general haziness of her mind that still lingers after their Potions class: all she knows is that somehow, their mouths have crashed together and all reasonable thought has left her mind.

As Sebastian's lips move hungrily - desperately - against hers, her fingers clutching the collar of his robes so she doesn't lose her balance, one of his hands grips her by the hips to keep her pressed against him. His other hand comes up to her face: caressing her cheek: bringing his thumb to her jaw to feel her pulse as they kiss: slowly moving to tangle itself in the soft hair at the nape of her neck so she can't pull away.

She feels as if she should feel embarrassed at all of the small noises escaping her mouth, but she can't help it. His lips are soft against hers, a contrast to the hard body pressing against her, the sharp angles of the desk she's being pushed against. And besides, Sebastian's making just as much noise as she is. The sinful noises coming from him are making an unfamiliar heat spread through her body, making her feel as desperate as he is acting.

But...- as she's moving to undo his tie, her mouth wandering down to kiss his pulse point as she uncovers it - noises that somehow slip through the hazy bubble of just her and Sebastian make her pause in fear. A burst of happily chattering students walks past the classroom and makes her wonder what the bloody hell she's doing.

They could have been caught - and then what? She would find herself in a forced betrothal to this bizarre, dangerous version of the boy she once knew. Because, of course, propriety would have to be followed.

It's as if the scales have fallen from her eyes and she pulls away from Sebastian slightly, her chest heaving. She just lost control of herself for one second. His strange magnetism hoodwinked her into thinking - or lack thereof, she's not sure that any thinking was involved when she kissed him back - that she wanted this.

There's no other explanation.

She pushes him away slightly, scowling at his bemused expression. Merlin, he's insufferable. His lips are swollen, his freckled face flushed, and all she wants to do is grab his stupid face and keep kissing him.

She pushes his chest again, and this time he stumbles back a bit. Now that she's free, she bends down to grab her discarded school bag, her robes crumpled to the ground at her feet. As she shrugs them on, she glances at Sebastian over her shoulder.

The open expression on his face is already starting to close off, the scowl that she's now used to taking its place.

If she had thought Sebastian Sallow was strange before their -

She gives her head a small shake and rests her chin on the palm of her hand, trying her hardest to listen to Garreth speak about whatever it is he's telling her. It's impossible however, with Sebastian sitting across the Great Hall from her.

There might be a couple hundred students sitting between them, chattering about inconsequential and trivial matters, but it's as if none of them exist. She knows how many times he's taken a bite of his lamb, how many time's he's turned to whisper something to Ominis before realizing that his friend is not by his side. It's a stormy night, and every so often an occasional bolt of lightning cuts the Great Hall in half, illuminating the whole room in an eerie light - almost making everything look black and white for a split second before thunder rumbles in the distance. And, she swears that every time the room is lit up, Sebastian is glowering straight into her eyes.

For as much as she is trying to pretend that he does not exist (and failing miserably), Sebastian is not hiding the fact that he is watching her. She can feel his eyes boring into her back as she walks down the halls between classes, and she feels uncomfortably seen in a way she is not used to.

She can't get rid of the feeling of being watched, not even when she knows she's alone in her dormitory. Sebastian and his all-consuming presence are haunting her mind, and she often finds herself waking drenched in sweat in the middle of the night, needing him in ways she isn't used to. In ways she decidedly doesn't want.

After her meal's finished, she scurries out of the Great Hall as fast as she can, like she has been for the past week since their wretched kiss. Another bolt of lightning shoots across the ceiling; everything is painted with that eerie silver light again for a brief moment and thunder is beginning to rumble through the air as the huge wooden door closes behind her.

She's not quite sure where she wants to go, and she makes a mental inventory of the castle. Her common room is boring - nobody of interest will be there and is she really just going to sit around by herself pretending to be occupied? The library is off-limits, due to Sebastian's propensity to show up in her periphery when she's trying to study, it's too early to sleep and she's scared of what might happen if she's alone in her bed, the...

She huffs as she marches aimlessly through the hallways. Maybe the occasional ghost crosses her path, but otherwise it's empty. Every suit of armor she walks past, every empty classroom, every portrait, reminds her of moments when she was spying on strange-not-the-same Sebastian this year. She hates him. Why couldn't this year be a continuation of the previous years, with their harmless flirtation? Things feel different this year, more dangerous, and...

Somehow, she ends up in the Transfiguration Courtyard, and she decides to march through it, rain be damned.

She's soaked to the bone by the time she reaches the old oak tree in the middle of the courtyard; the storm seems to have somehow picked up, but she finds she doesn't mind it. In fact, she might like it. In her own over-active imagination, she feels as if the rain is helping numb her over-sensitive emotions, the raw feeling she's been harboring in her chest all week isn't as awful as it has been all week.

She breathes a sigh of relief and lifts her face to the sky as the rain pours down against it; when she feels the brush of someone's robes against her arm as they sit by her side she isn't surprised.

It's inevitable, after all.

"Sebastian," she says, so quietly she isn't sure he can hear her over the noise of the storm, "why are you following me?"

If he says anything in response, she certainly doesn't hear it. But what she doesn't hear is made up for by his touch. A hand slides up her arm, clumsily - her eyes are still closed, face still upturned to the pouring heavens - and when it makes its way up to her jaw, tilting her head slightly, she lets him. When his lips brush against hers, she allows it.

(maybe she's been hoping for this very thing)

The kiss isn't sweet for long: maybe it's the cold rain, maybe it's the thunder rumbling in the background, maybe it's the quickly darkening night: but their kiss grows desperate faster than she can fully realize what's happening. Sebastian groans into her mouth, his lips hot and demanding against hers, and when his tongue swipes across her lips she lets him in without thinking.

It's impossible for any thoughts to be in her brain whatsoever, apart from the overwhelming lust that's currently heating up her body and causing her to be greedy and want more. Maybe, if she were in a proper state of mind, she would be embarrassed at how quickly his touch has unlocked something feral inside of her. Sebastian's hands are running down her back, sliding to her waist, pulling her closer to him. One hand comes up to brush against the underside of her breast and her gasp seems to spur him on.

She finds her hands moving of their own accord to caress his face, her fingers glide down his cheeks and up his neck to run themselves through his soaking wet curls - Merlin, what's gotten into them, into her? Snogging in the middle of a thunderstorm that only seems to be picking up.

She pulls away slightly, breathing hard as she finally peels her eyes open. Sebastian's eyes are dark, his brow furrowed as if to ask her why she's stopped; she just gives him a small smile, leaning forward to brush her lips against his before lacing her fingers through his and dragging him to the covered area of the courtyard overlooking the Lake.

She can see a question forming on his lips, but before he can say anything, she reaches forward and grabs him by his collar, pulling his face down to hers and he's eager to reciprocate. She's worried that maybe, if words are spoken between them, it could break the tenuous connection the two of them seem to have. Because they are connected somehow, aren't they? Something is compelling and pushing them together, time and time again, and she is simply curious to see where it's headed.

As his hands drag down her back, holding her tight at the waist, pulling her closer, she's reminded of the fact that they're soaking wet. She fumbles with her wand, whispers a hasty drying spell, and then it clatters out of her hand as Sebastian roughly pushes her towards the wall. She's moaning, gasping, yearning into his mouth as the kiss deepens, as she's pressed between the cold wall and his too-warm body, and she vaguely wonders if he can hear her, if he can taste her desperation for him in their kiss.

She's not quite sure what she wants, the sweet kisses she's shared with Garreth she now realizes were chaste in comparison to Sebastian's overpowering, addicting presence. He practically growls as he pulls his lips away from hers, but before she can whimper in protest, his lips have moved to her jawline, her neck, leaving a hot trail of kisses and it's all she can do to stay upright. Her head falls back against the cold stone wall, her hands scrabbling in his hair to hold him closer, try to find some purchase so she can stay upright.

Her knees go weak as Sebastian slowly moves a hand up her thigh, dragging her skirt along with it. The feeling of his fingers ghosting over her woolen stockings - her whole body is so sensitive that she may as well be wearing nothing - is causing an unfamiliar heat to pool low within her stomach and, oh, Merlin, he's reached the top of her stockings where her skin is bare. She doesn't recognize her voice as she moans, Sebastian moving his mouth back to hers to devour every noise she makes and - yes, she thinks, there: his hand grazes the edge of her knickers. He lets his fingers brush over her folds - barely-there touches that she's not even sure are happening outside of her imagination - and she is insensible. Nobody has ever touched her there apart from herself, lately, thinking of Sebastian - and she feels herself get wet at the mere thought of Sebastian touching her.

When he pushes her knickers to the side and starts slowly circling her clit with his thumb, all she can do is moan. His other hand is helping keep her in place, and she soon finds herself rocking against his hand. When he slips a finger inside of her, far from being uncomfortable, it causes a jolt of pleasure deep inside of her and she gasps against his mouth. She's unsure if she should feel embarrassed at how wet she is, but she's past the point of caring how she comes across.

"So good," Sebastian murmurs against her lips as he inserts another finger without warning, and she just moans in response, bucking her hips against his hand. He's curling his fingers inside of her, still rubbing her clit with his thumb, and he can But, as she feels pressure building deep within her, he slowly pulls his fingers out of her. She opens dazed eyes to glare at him, fully prepared to chastise him as how dare he stop? When -

Sebastian grabs her by the arse and lifts her up, and she instinctively wraps her legs around his waist, her skirt still bunched up, still completely bare to anyone who were to walk past. He slides his arms underneath her knees, bracing his arms on either side of her, and she feels something decidedly different than his fingers pressing against her soaking wet entrance.

A bolt of lightning and its resounding thunder fill the air as she whimpers against his mouth while he slowly pushes himself inside of her - there's no resistance - how could there be, when she's as wet as she is? He stops once he's fully inside of her, pulling away from her mouth to take a deep, steadying breath. His lips move clumsily across her face - her eyelid, her nose, her cheek - as he gives her time to adjust to the feeling of him inside of her - Merlin - how does it feel so good?

Soon, however, Sebastian decides that patience is not a virtue, and he drives into her, hard, over and over again, and they fall into a rhythm of sorts. The obscene wet noises, his grunts, are overpowered by the storm around them, and she's unsure if he hears her moaning his name as she feels herself getting close. The heat inside of her, building up in her, is unbearable: "Please, Sebastian - don't stop - please -"

He doesn't slow down his pace, hiding his face in her neck, desperately kissing her wherever he can, and she could almost cry in relief as her orgasm crashes over her; she shudders against his mouth, moaning so loudly it's nearly a scream. Her every muscle tenses, contracts, her body is squeezing and trying to hold Sebastian inside of her for as long as it can, and yet he doesn't slow his pace at all. It's unbearable - she's so, so sensitive, and yet he doesn't stop.

But then - his whole body tenses against her and he pushes himself as deep inside of her as he can. He gives out a low groan, pulling away from her slightly to look her in the face as he comes. It's an expression she has become accustomed to this year, uncontrolled, dangerous, and as the two of them are breathing hard, staring into each others' faces, realizing what they've just done, he moves slightly. He's still deep inside of her, she can feel every twitch he makes, but...when he moves...

Something metallic clatters out of his robes.

Lightning strikes, and, through half-lidded eyes, she sees a strange object fall to the ground.

"Sebastian, what -"

He hushes her with a dizzying, toe-curling kiss as he slips out of her.

[ecstarry]

'The Stores'

James starts working at the video store for the summer and meets Regulus, the guy working at the record store next door.

James had been working on the video store for a week. His manager Remus was nice enough, he kept to himself and spent the entire shift reading. He would probably be better fitted to work on a book store but James didn’t mind the silence. 

The only time Remus would stop reading was to profoundly sigh whenever the volume at the record store next door got too loud. On his first day, James could’ve sworn Remus was going to waltz to the establishment and turn down the music himself. But he just mumbled under his breath and continued reading. 

Seven days in a row this happened until Remus had enough.

“James?” Remus asked.

“Yeah?” 

“You seem like someone people like. You’re sweet, attractive, quite charming.” There was a dissonance between Remus’ monotone voice and what he was saying.

James did not know where this was going. Was this the start of a very inappropriate workplace relationship with his manager? Maybe that’s what his summer needed?

“Sure?” James replied before his pause revealed his thoughts. 

“I do not fit that description. Meaning people don’t respond … well to my requests. I’m going to need you to pay our neighbors a visit and ask them to turn their music down.” Remus said firmly. 

“Ohhh.” 

“What do you mean ‘Oh’? What did you think I was going to say?” 

“I actually had no idea where this was going.” James lied, quickly discarding the thoughts that had briefly crossed his mind. 

Remus simply raised a brow, signaling both that the conversation was over and that he expected James to do as asked.

James nodded and went to the record store. 

He understood why Remus was annoyed, but truthfully James had enjoyed listening to the music they played. He spent the entire week waiting for his paycheck to spend it on some records.

“Hey,” he said as he entered the store. Not loud enough apparently, since the guy organizing the vinyls did not even lift his head. 

James walked towards him and repeated his greeting slightly louder, startling the worker. He barely got to look at him before the guy walked towards the speaker to adjust the volume before coming back to where James was standing. 

“Hi.” 

For a split second James forgot why he was even there. The hottest man he had ever seen was standing in front of him, talking to him. And he had the prettiest eyes and fu- Right. He was talking to him because James had direct orders from his manager to say something. 

“Hey.”

The guy laughed at his sudden shyness. But right then there, James knew he had just found his favorite song of the summer. That laugh.

“I work at the video store.” Was all he could manage to say. 

“I know, James.” 

Hearing his name sent an immediate shiver down his spine. Had he blacked out and introduced himself at some point? Before he could spiral for any longer, the worker spoke again. 

“You are wearing your name tag," he pointed at it. "I’m Regulus, not a psychic.”

“Oh, yeah that makes sense.” A nervous laughter poured out of him. He felt his cheeks flush.

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I was just wondering if-” He couldn't finish his thought.

Today had to be James’ lucky day. A breeze drifted through the door, lifting Regulus’ shirt just enough to reveal his briefs and a hint of a happy trail.

“James?” Regulus asked, blushing as he caught James staring.

He tried to gather his thoughts but all he could do was replay the last thirty seconds in his mind.

“Umm, actually it doesn’t matter.... You should stop by the video store some day though.” James leaned into one of the shelves and almost fell, getting another laugh out of Regulus. He thought he might spend every single day trying to hear it again.

“Are you going to be there?”

James nodded enthusiastically. 

“I’ll see you around then James.” Regulus said. A faint curve forming at the edge of his lips.

James came back to the video store practically skipping. 

“I'm guessing it all went smoothly?” Remus asked, taking James out of his own thoughts. 

“Yeah it went great. Actually if you ever need me to talk to them again it’s no problem.” James assured with a grin.

Remus looked at him confused but didn't probe further.

James went back to his place and thought about Regulus.

This was going to be a great fucking summer. 

[baestruly]

i'm okay when you are ⋆ joe singh

( 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 )  joe singh x reader

.˚ ᡣ𐭩 joe comforting you when your parents are being shitty (again) tags - hurt/comfort, padma is my love wc: 650

You stormed through the door at a loss for words ━━ as if you had any to say to anyone. There was one thing for sure, they wouldn’t be for your parents, coming to town thinking they can still own and control your own life.

You’ve been through this shit so many fucking times you were sick of it. Their voices, how they acted, getting in your head━━

It got to be too much.

Which is why the door bell rings as you storm in, your beaten down sneakers shuffling against the floors.

Your head is spinning inside and out, spiraling at a hint for words and a glimpse of your lifeline behind the counter. The guy who would run out of Blue Farm with just a phone call, the one who you cried to first when struggling, because your parents weren’t there enough to give you the chance. 

Your hand falls to the piercing cold counter, spotting Padma finishing an espresso order.

Sensing your distress, she runs over, her eyes concerned. “Are you okay? Do you need━━”

You were already nodding for Joe, at a loss for breath. You think she’s going to leave you standing to find him, but instead, she pulls your arm around the counter before it moves to your shoulder and leads you cautiously to the back.

The minute you walk through the back doors, Joe’s familiar frame filters through your vision. Someone safe ━━ you were safe, you were okay.

He drops the knife he’s using to cut the vegetables on the white cutting board and immediately runs to your side, sneaking a quick appreciated glance at Padma before his gentle hands grasp your upper arms. 

“Hey, hey, what happened ━━ what’s goin’ on?” 

He said it so gently you could melt right there, but instead your stomach clenches and it makes your tears fall faster, still gasping for breath.

He nods knowingly before wrapping his strong arms around you, shielding your head from the world in which he wanted to protect you from.

“Hey, shh, I’m here, you’re okay, I’m not goin’ anywhere, honey.” He whispers into your hair , your sniffles blocking out the noise. 

Once your heaving breaths slow, his hand slides to your back as his thumb absentmindedly draws circles on your shoulder blades. 

He didn’t say more, but you were already starting your rant, choking hiccups interupting each word you wanted to say. 

“They showed━━they showed up again, I don’t know uh━━I don’t know why and they kept saying how━━”

Those words come to light, where you’d never make it in life with the pace you were at. How they’ve made up a magical fairy tale land for you to live in and you chose the furthest thing from it. They must be so proud, that shit sucks.

His eyes fall softer, flickering around your face for answers you don’t even have. “You don’t have to say anything, only if you think it helps, okay? I know you’ve been━━um━━struggling with your family situation, but I’m here for you, okay?”

You nodded along, spotting the customer line growing larger. If Padma had peeked in to see if you were okay and if Joe could continue his shift, it didn’t matter now. 

Your fingers trace his jaw, then fall to his thick beard. “What’s the worst fight you’ve had with your parents, champ?” You chortled a wet laugh, sniffing. Just seeing his smile made you feel better, at ease.

He chuckled, head bowing down for a minute before it raised with furrowed brows, then a smile, genuine. “Gosh, I don’t know ━━ isn’t this about you right now? Don't worry about me, honey.”

“It’s only about me if we make it about me.” You sighed, wanting to sit down and eat and especially sit with Joe forever. “Besides, I need distractions.”

He laughed, his relief evident once that smile he loved so much returned to your face ━━ the sparkle finding its light through your eyes to shine through his brown ones. 

“Just looking at you is mine.”

Playfully, you slapped him on the arm before he winces playfully in return. "Too cheesy. I think i'll order a croissant now."

His gentle hand slid down your arm as he walked past you, giving it a squeeze as his eyes lock with yours.

"Coming right up, champ."

a/n - the lack of joe fics is criminal on here

joe singh masterlist           masterlist

also request anything! 

[ckret2]

Wait I have to ask about some of those trans headcanons. Plz tell me about transfem Axel and Bigender Gideon.

(referring to my tags on this post!)

i'm giving you the gideon one first because the transfem axel one is stupid lmao.

When Gideon meets Mabel, he says one of the first things that drew him to her is that she "appreciates the sparkly things in life." So: Gideon appreciates the sparkly things, and this is a high priority to him.

He invites her over for makeovers, and his dressing room—

—is full of very feminine things. It's pink, it's sparkly, there's bows and feathers and flowers and ruffles and earrings and lipstick.

Mabel comes home with lipstick, eye shadow, false lashes, blush, fingernail extensions, curled hair, and a hair bow—which means Gideon had all those supplies. This is presented as his dressing room and we don't see his parents wearing that kind of stuff.

We know from out-of-canon sources that Gideon was unpopular before he found Journal 2, probably got picked on, and that's one reason he latched on to the journal's power. So that's one hint that there's Something Going On with Gideon that other kids twig as bullyable. It might be something else (like, he's fat, that's definitely bullyable), but it might be something queer.

If he's so eager to find a friend (or girlfriend) who appreciates the same "sparkly things" he does, it's probably because he's felt rejected by other kids in town who don't appreciate those things... or who judge him for appreciating them. Add on to that the fact that Gideon's got the speech patterns of a southern woman and steals high school girls' moisturizer, and he doesn't make for a terribly masculine little ten-year-old.

He latched on to Mabel so hard because she didn't judge him for any of those things. She saw a little boy into makeup and jewelry and sequins, and she got excited. She didn't see him as a weirdo... she saw him as someone just like her.

And Gideon looks at Mabel and sees someone just like him.

I headcanon that his crush on Mabel is only half because he wants to be with her. The other half is because he wants to be her: a cool pretty older girl (nearly a teen!) with long curly hair and skirts and headbands and fun cute colorful clothes she made herself and a lungful of bedazzling gems. A girl who doesn't feel constrained by her femininity, but rather uses femininity to freely express her full authentic self. She radiates everything that feels stifled within him. He wants what she has so much it hurts.

And he thinks the only way he can have what she has is by having her.

He's ten. He's grown up around the kind of people that use American flag pins on suit lapels to signal what good wholesome Christian patriots they are—and for y'all that didn't live through 9/11, in the 2000s those flag pins were shorthand for "conservative, or scared of offending conservatives." He's no doubt been taught that boys are boys and girls are girls and you are what you were born, and suggesting otherwise is not only impossible, but insulting.

Gideon's egg is years from cracking.

In the meantime, he's got his prison pals. They treat Gideon like something precious for being an adorable little child worth protecting, and for caring as they work out their emotional issues, and for doing crafts like friendship bracelets with them—he's found himself playing a rather feminine social role for these men, and they respect and admire him for it. I think he finds many of the same things with them that he found with Mabel: he can express the parts of himself that got rejected by his school peers, and he's celebrated for it.

You could just headcanon Gideon flat out as a trans girl and it'd fit the narrative perfectly. I headcanon bigender because I feel like he's not not a boy—he's just also a girl.

I imagine him as one of those kids who goes through middle & high school feeling more and more like something fits wrong, but unable to put a name to it, until he goes off to college and has a bunch of new life experiences and has a revelation. Does drag once "for fun" and suddenly that egg shell's dynamited apart.

Then she spends the next couple years grappling with "am I a girl? but if I'm a girl why does the thought of leaving behind manhood feel like ripping something out of my ribs? am I just a boy? but then why does the thought of not getting to be a girl feel like dying?" until she figures out she can just be both.

I think she'd tell her prison gang first, even before any of her family. She's sure if anyone will support her, it'll be them. (And they do, 100%.)

I think her parents would be alright with it, but I also think her parents are the kind of people who calmly listen to hateful talk show hosts denouncing trans & gay people because they never imagined they've got a little trans kid sitting right next to them listening too—"Well, sure Gideon asked for all those sparkly clothes, but that don't mean anything, our son's just an artistic little boy, that's all!"—so she didn't know they'd be okay with it.

Mabel would be thrilled for her—after she stops being weirded out that Gideon totally copied Mabel's childhood haircut. But I think her coming out would recontextualize a lot of what happened during Weirdmageddon summer and, okay yeah, not realizing you're a girl doesn't excuse kidnapping your crush and trying to kill her family, but it's easier for you to give a full and sincere apology for what you did when everyone has a better understanding of why you did it in the first place. I think they should both get the opportunity to have the big sister/little sister dynamic that in a perfect world they should've gotten in the first place.

okay and now here's my reason for the transfem axel headcanon, which i warned you is stupid:

years & years back i started a kingdom hearts 2 fic, back when the lore was just "when a person splits apart their heart becomes a Heartless and their body becomes a Nobody"; I think KH's soul alchemy has gotten more complicated since then, but I haven't kept up.

and the premise of the fic was that Axel ran into his Heartless—it was a Soldier—and they went on a quest together to recombine into one person. and I decided to make his Heartless a girl just because. didn't look different from any other Soldier, Axel could just tell it was a girl. it was his heart, so he should know. and that was about as much as it was explored.

years and years later i realized "hold on. if Axel's body/Nobody is male, and his heart/Heartless is female, then you've got a female heart in a male body. that's how countless trans women have described their experiences for centuries. ... welp, i guess she's trans now!"

this was about the same period in my life that i started a fic about orochimaru being a trans woman so it wasn't like i didn't know trans people existed, i just didn't think through the implications of my own headcanon lmao

[iasmelaion]

Murderbot 1x06

I'm behind on writing up my reactions, but this week's episode was super interesting to me, so just pretend I did write up those other episodes so I can skip ahead. Also, heads up to anyone who needs them: this episode was, uh, pretty gory!

The way this show leans so absolutely and uncompromisingly into discomfort is fascinating to me. Discomfort and comedy do go hand in hand, and not only with cringe comedy. Gallows humor, dark humor, humor that confronts power, satire--all of that can also be profoundly uncomfortable while still being funny. That's something I was thinking of a lot as I watched this episode, which did not at all pull its punches when it comes to body horror and violence. And that's so, so interesting to me!

Because I think a lot of this discomfort and horror arises from the change in medium. Now that we're no longer limited to Murderbot's unreliable narration, we see all the stuff that narration elides. And a lot of that stuff that's elided is the body horror inherent in being a construct, and the realities of violence. Some of these things pull double duty in the show by being both visibly and obviously horrifying, while simultaneously being darkly humorous punchlines. is this, tonally, a success? I'm not entirely sure! I think I'll have to watch the show all in one go to assess that. But it is super interesting.

I'm preemptively exhausted though by the way so many book lovers just--do not give this show time to do its thing. Like, I took one look at the tag and already saw people flouncing from the show because of what Murderbot says at the end about "liking" killing Leebeebee, and this after a bunch of other people fretted over Leebeebee in the last episode, like it wasn't goddamn obvious she was being set up as a villainous infiltrator and that she wasn't just comic relief there to make deeply unpleasant and gross sexual comments about Murderbot. This ties into the show's commitment to letting shit cause discomfort, and how there seem to be a lot of viewers who simply can't tolerate that or can't reconcile it with the context of the books. But like. I can almost guarantee you that Murderbot saying it "liked" killing Leebeebee is going to be expanded upon, complicated, given nuance. The show ends on cliffhangers/zingers, that's part of its whole adventure serial/soap opera format. Murderbot saying that is meant to make you, the viewer, uncomfortable! So sit with that discomfort! Think about it! Think about the potential nuance to what Murderbot expressed before you go off about how your precious Murderbot would never be so happy about violence, goodness, as if the books aren't chock full of violence that Murderbot tends to elide.

To me, btw, it is fairly obvious that the nuance is that Murderbot feels good about having performed its function and its duty: it kept its clients safe. It eliminated a clear and present danger to them. It did so somewhat impulsively--Gurathin is right that they could have gotten more information out of her--but it prioritized its clients immediate safety, and wasn't entirely wrong to do so. Murderbot's job isn't to solve a mystery, it's to keep its clients safe, and that means eliminating the threat and getting them off the planet.

I think it's very cool that the episode could have ended on that shocker of Murderbot clean blowing Leebeebee's head off, but it didn't. Again, it leaned into the discomfort of showing the accurate, ugly, messy, uncomfortable reactions of people unused to violence who have just witnessed someone being killed right in front of them, likely for the first time in their lives. This is a moment that is almost always glossed over or outright ignored in visual media, something that Murderbot itself alludes to when it says that people in serials are always happy to be rescued in such a way. The show instead lingers on this traumatic moment. It doesn't shy away from the gore, poor Gurathin is covered in it. And yes, all that is kind of funny, in a horrifying way. But it's also reminding you, the viewer, that deadly violence isn't normal. These normal-ass space hippies are not equipped to deal with it, just like many of us IRL are not equipped to deal with it. PresAux are having utterly normal and expected and unsurprising psychological and emotional reactions to a traumatic event. The show gives them space for those reactions.

Also, going back to Leebeebee, I will admit: I was uncomfortable during last week's episode when she was saying all that wild, offensive, sexual shit about Murderbot, and the PresAux crew didn't push back against it! But again, the discomfort was the point. Both Leebeebee's own point, and the narrative point. Because, like, this is a thing that happens IRL. Sometimes you're in a group of people, and someone says some wildly horrifying racist or sexist or whatever shit, and it's just uncomfortable. Maybe someone laughs, anxiously. But no one says anything against it in the moment, they just try to change the subject. They assume or hope that it was just a one-off thing, they find some excuse to let it go, and then when the offending person leaves, everyone is like what the fuck, that was fucked up, right? That's what PresAux were doing. And then in this week's episode, Leebeebee pushed the boundaries again with another horrifying comment, but by now PresAux have caught on a bit: Bharadwaj pushes back against the comment, kindly but firmly, letting Leebeebee know that kind of behavior and commentary is not acceptable among people from Preservation.

So if I had decided to flounce off from the show because how dare it have Leebeebee make such comments that were unchallenged, then, well, I wouldn't have seen the resolution! So idk what is up with so many other viewers that they have simply no patience to let a conflict play out, but it isn't a problem with the show.

Actually, come to think of it, I wonder if the problem here is that for a lot of book readers, the Murderbot series, despite all the action and adventure, has a cozy vibe. And the show decidedly does not. The show isn't shying away from a single uncomfortable moment, the show keeps confronting the viewer with body horror and violence and the realities of being a construct.

But like, the books also leaned into certain kinds of discomfort! I know when I first read the first two novellas, I had to grapple with the ways Murderbot was expressing and exploring its personhood, and its insistence that that personhood didn't have to be like a human's to be valid.

Anyway, also, I love all the Mensah & Murderbot stuff. Loved it. Perfection, no notes.

[mcrdvcks]

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

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

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

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s extremely protective of your nap time.

“Hey—Y/N’s sleepin’. Shut it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 14

Source for pic

Imperfect 14

Word Count: 5845

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I meant to release this earlier. Gosh, this story has such a hold on me! But my blood pressure has been really low for the past two days, and I'm feeling a tad drained. Anyway! Here's another angsty chapter with a huge revelation. I hope you enjoy it! Tell me all about it, will you? (didn't reach 6k, but it got close!

Additional Note: Ughhh, this song is everything Killer is feeling! I'm crying!

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

Shanks dropped him off five minutes ago, but Killer still hasn’t found the courage to knock on his friend’s door. Thunder still echoes in the distance, but it’s so far away its rumble is nearly imperceptible. The rain is nothing more than a drizzle and a bad memory, the scent of damp earth obliterating the stench of pain and regret that Killer can still sense. 

He flexes his hand while a muscle tics in his jaw. His hand doesn’t hurt; he didn’t punch Kid that hard, but it’s like a lingering phantom pain from the accusation Kid sent his way. It was untrue and justified the punch, but it wasn’t completely unfounded.

The feelings were there. He’d just chosen not to act on them. 

Did that make the whole ordeal better?

With a sigh, he shakes his head and knocks twice on the door. No answer. 

“Open up, man. It’s me.” Killer knocks again. Still no answer. “For fuck’s sake.” He jiggles the handle, and it opens. Unlocked. 

Careless.

The place reeks of alcohol, and the stench stings his eyes. The blinds are still drawn, and the dim light from the open door reveals empty bottles and cans scattered across the floor. Either Kid got right back to drinking once he got home, or he hasn’t cleaned up since he came back from the car show.

A bottle clinks against Killer’s boot and rolls away to join its brethren. 

The latter option seems more likely. Kid’s just piling up empty bottles and regrets. 

Killer walks to the window and opens the blinds to let in the meager light from the overcast sky, and Kid groans in response to his actions. 

“You alive, man?” He opens another set of blinds and the windows too, to air out the place, before closing the door and walking towards the couch where Kid is sprawled. 

The couch was always too big for Kid, but in the state he’s in, it’s an especially obvious fact. His friend has one leg propped over the arm and the other on the floor. There’s crusted blood on his lip and a defeated expression on his face. 

“Barely…” Kid replies, swinging his arm over his eyes. Either to shield them from the light or to keep the shame out of Killer’s sight. “Came over to finish the job?” Kid snorts. “My jaw’s still workin’.”

“Should’ve hit you harder then, moron.” Killer looks around the chaos and flexes his hands, his body itching to do something, to clean this all up, to fix it. “I didn’t come here to finish nothing. I came to see if your head was still far up your ass.”

Kid just snorts again, and that’s answer enough. 

Silence stretches, and Killer shuts down another urge. This one tells him to make some coffee and cook some breakfast for his best friend. Not yet, he thinks. He still needs to get his shit together. 

Finally, Kid speaks, his face still buried in the crook of his arm, as if facing Killer could tear him apart. 

“How is she…?” The words sound raspy and pained. Killer stares at Kid with his arms crossed. He wonders whether he should answer this or not, but of course he answers it. Of course he does. 

“Broken, lost, a mess. Just like you. Minus the booze.” Kid stiffens but still doesn’t look at him. Killer can still feel your broken sobs against him, the warmth of your tears, the sound of your heart shattering. “It was fucking overkill, Kid. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I’m no good for her, man. Ye know that.”

“I think she should be the one to decide that. You just have to do your fucking job and love her back. Be there for her. Be the man I know you are. That’s all.”

Kid stands on the couch abruptly, his prosthetic hand gripping the arm tightly, because everything is surely still spinning. “I ain’t that man! I can never be that man, don’t ya get it? Fuck! I’m wreckage! I’m scraps! She deserves better!”

Killer kicks the nearest bottle, and it slams into the wall, shattering into pieces. “Then fucking change! Not just for her, but for you!” He takes a few steps forward and leans down, blue eyes burning with fury as Kid does nothing but blink back at him, mouth slightly agape. 

“You say you’re no good? Fine! Be better! You convinced yourself you’ll only hurt her, you keep proving that one right. So just fucking learn to stop! Go to therapy! Get clean! Do whatever it takes to be a better man! You don’t run or quit, for fuck’s sake!”

Killer’s heart thunders away in his chest. He was always the one to lay down the tough love to his friend, but it has never been this personal, this gut-wrenching, this painful. 

Kid swallows hard, his throat bobbing up and down as he runs a hand over his face. “It’s not that simple,” he growls. 

“No. It’s not. It never is,” Killer whispers, placing one hand on Kid’s bare shoulder. “But you don’t fucking quit. Not when someone like her loves you the way she does.”

“Did,” Kid scoffs. “She don’t love me anymore. I made fuckin’ sure of that.” Silence. “I saw her face, man. She looked at me like I really am the monster everyone talks about. It fuckin’ haunts me.” He shakes his head, lips curling into a snarl. “She’ll move on! Aye, maybe we’re both in the shite now, but she’ll move on. Eventually.”

Killer takes a step back, taking him in, his throat tight with emotion. “You think what you’re doing is noble? That you’re being a hero and a martyr, letting her go even if it hurts you both? Fuck you, Kid. You’re not being righteous. You’re being an ass. And a fucking coward. You’re just running from yourself.”

Fuck. Fuck. Too harsh, too much. 

But he can’t stop now. “This is not for her! You can paint it that way just to make yourself feel better, but it doesn’t make it true.” Killer gestures around the room, at the mess, at the broken bottles, at the stench and shame ingrained in these walls. “This is you running, just like you’ve been doing since we got sent back home! This is you putting your tail between your fucking legs and avoiding accountability for your own fucking actions!”

Kid stands up, breathing hard, chest heaving with ragged breaths as his eyes wander around the room, still not meeting Killer’s.

“I’m not fuckin’ runnin’.”

“Then why the fuck are you surrounded by your own wreckage instead of crawling out? Why are you beating yourself up instead of fighting back?”

Kid’s hand clenches into a fist, but he doesn’t answer. He can’t. 

“You don’t get to use her as an excuse for your shit, Kid. It’s about time to take a stand. She saw something in you, she fought for you, teeth and nails, even when you kept breaking her heart, little by little. She came back. She got up and tried again. It’s your fucking turn to do it. To fight.”

Killer’s gaze burns into Kid, even if he doesn’t look back. “It’s not easy! Fuck, Kid, it’s everything but. You’re allowed to feel like shit. You’re allowed to feel worthless and guilty. But there comes a time when you just have to stamp your fucking foot down and choose to be a better man. That time is now, brother.”

Kid finally stares at Killer, eyes narrowed with guilt and shame, but still not enough flame to ignite a fight. Not just yet… fuck.

After a few seconds, he sits back down, elbows resting on his knees, eyes facing the floor. “Ye done?”

“Fuck no. Not even close.” But he is. For now, at least. Killer’s sure some of his words got through Kid’s thick skull. Now he needs to let him mull them over, taste them on his tongue, and see if this time his best friend is willing to rise up and fight for himself. “You know where to find me when you decide to stop being an idiot. If not, I’ll be back.”

Kid doesn’t say anything else as Killer exits the room. The last thing Killer sees is Kid’s hand hovering over another bottle.

He doesn’t stick around to witness his choice.

-*-

It still smells like him.

You tossed his jacket into the closet and closed the door, drew the curtains, and crawled into bed to hide beneath the covers, but it’s like the whole room smells like Kid.

The hollow ache in your chest expands, threatening to swallow you whole. He did it. He finally pushed you away for good. Everything you fought for went out the window the moment he chose to bleed you dry instead of fighting too. 

You know that girl was just a pawn. You know for sure he didn’t feel anything for her. Maybe not even attraction. She was just a tool he used to hurt you deeply. A final blow to make sure you stayed away for good.

And fuck… this time, he might’ve succeeded. 

The fact that he did that after you told him you loved him… 

You swallow down a sob and push the covers over your head. Funny, you thought your tears had dried up by now. 

Your phone lies forgotten on your desk, so you don’t have any idea how much time passes. Soon enough, you hear your dad’s truck parking, followed by the door opening and his footfalls on the stairs. 

A soft knock at your door announces his presence, but you stay quiet. He might be ready to talk, but you’re not sure you are. 

“Bug?” Shanks pushes the door open and peeks in. You don’t answer, but he enters the room anyway. “Errands ran late, so I brought you some lunch.” You don’t turn, keeping your face to the wall and head tucked under the covers. The warm scent of greasy food hits you, and you groan, curling into yourself.

“Not hungry?” You groan again, and Shanks sighs. He leaves your room for a moment, and when he returns, he’s not carrying the food. “Sweetheart, let me look at you, please?”

You let that sit for a second. There’s a good chance you’ll break down in tears the moment you look at him. Also, there’s that lingering feeling of shame that hiding beneath the covers helps to mask. Shanks told you this was going to happen, but you thought you knew better. 

With a sigh, you pull the covers down and turn to face him. He tries to smile, but it's a weary grimace that twists his lips. You must look like hell. 

“Hey.” He bends down and gives you a peck on your forehead before grabbing the chair from your desk and turning it around. “How are you doing?” Shanks sits, resting an elbow on the back of the chair, tilting his head. 

You shrug, facing the ceiling. The old paint is still chipped and peeling in places from the fluorescent shooting stars you stuck up there when as a child. 

Shanks stays quiet for a few beats before adding, “You don’t have to tell me what happened. And I’m not going to say I told you so. Trust me. I wish I had been wrong. It wouldn’t hurt as much.”

You fight the prickling in your eyes, but a stubborn tear still slips down unimpeded. 

“It’s just,” he starts. Then he hesitates with a deep sigh. “I saw it coming, baby, I did. And now I’m kicking myself for not protecting you from heartbreak…” He looks down and groans. “Again…”

You shut your eyes tight, forcing more tears to stay in, even though they still find a way to spill over. It’s not your dad’s fault. It wasn’t with Ichiji, and it’s not with Kid. 

Maybe you’re just undeserving of love? 

“I know it hurts, Bug, I do. And I wish I could make it better. But time will make it better…”

Time… fucking time. You thought you had all the time in the world. Time to help Kid build himself up, to help him realise he’s not a monster, not bad, not just broken. But no. He had to ruin that. 

“I told him I loved him.” Your voice is barely a whisper. “I told him that, and in the next moment, he used it against me. Just to make sure I left.” You sniff, a sob clawing its way through your defenses. “And the worst part? He thinks he’s protecting me.”

Shanks presses his lips together before reaching out and taking your hand in his. His thumb draws soothing circles on your skin, but you can feel him holding back his feelings, throat working, and jaw flexing. 

“That sounds like a coward’s way out.” He clears his throat, trying to dispel the anger. “That’s not how you love someone. He doesn’t get to do that. He—” 

Shanks cuts himself off and lets out a deep sigh. 

“I thought I could make it work. That I was enough. That he’d want to fight for me. For us.” 

Your dad grips your hand tighter. “You are enough. This is not your fault,” he snarls. “You’re worth fighting for, and don’t ever think otherwise. Shame’s on him for not seeing it.”

You nod at his words, though you’re not really absorbing them. It’s all still too fresh, too raw. You just want to close your eyes and rest, drift away, pretend it never happened. 

“I’m here, sweetheart. For whatever you need. You want to yell, break stuff, cry… call me, okay?” He squeezes your hand, and you nod numbly. “I brought the food downstairs. Give me a holler if you want to eat.”

You nod again, and Shanks fills your water glass before pausing in the doorway for a beat. 

“Love you, sweetheart.”

You hum in response, too tired to speak the words that damned you the day before.

-*-

Kid relocated to the garage in the middle of the afternoon, just to give his idle hands something to do besides drinking. 

It didn’t work.

So now, instead of being slumped on the couch upstairs, he’s slumped on the couch in the corner of the garage, his ghosts keeping him company again. Ever since the party, they’ve refused to go away, no matter how much he drinks.

They’re just… there. Judging, taunting, punishing. And there’s nothing he can do about it. 

Part of him wants to consider Killer’s words, that he’s worth something underneath all that garbage; that if he works a little harder on himself, he might be someone worth loving. But every time his mind starts to consider the possibilities, to imagine a life without ghosts, without misery, and… with you… he’s interrupted by the sneers and taunts of his dead friends, reminded once more why he’s undeserving. 

When he hears the garage door opening, he knows it’s not Killer. It’s not his friend’s easy gait approaching. Kid straightens, and as soon as his eyes meet the visitor’s, he stiffens, the grip on the bottle tightening. 

“Aye, let’s get this over with.” Kid angles his jaw, offering up the part of his face that’s not completely busted up. “Killer fucked up my left, so if ye’d take my right, I’d appreciate the kindness.”

Shanks takes two more steps and then stops. His eyes narrow as he takes in Kid’s sorry state, then wander around the garage, taking in more empty bottles and cans that litter the place. He presses his lips together, and Kid can feel hot waves of anger rolling off him. 

“I’m not going to hit you, Eustass. Though I’m glad Killer did.” Shanks runs his hand through his hair, tightening his lips once more to keep from snarling. “I wasn’t going to come. I really wasn’t. You see, I’m trying this thing where I become a better parent.” He snorts. “And that comes with respecting her boundaries, but… shit, Eustass…”

Kid sets the bottle down and leans back, feigning indifference, but he fails. Shanks’ rage isn’t loud, it’s so much worse: controlled. Calculated. Intimidating all on its own. It simmers under the surface, controlled and contained, even though Kid knows that if he let it explode, it would be devastating. 

“My baby girl is back home, breaking because she poured her heart out to you and you trampled it. Just like I fucking warned you not to.”

Even though he’s cursing and pacing the space in front of Kid, Shanks’ voice never rises. Barely even wavers. 

“You think you’re protecting her? That by pushing her away, you’re being a hero, keeping her unharmed?” Shanks shakes his head, and his voice drops further. “It takes a special kind of coward to do that, you know? Because if you cared for her even a fraction as much as she feels for you, you would’ve fought.”

Heat snickers to his right, Wire sighs and shakes his head, and Bubblegum pounds the workbench, trying to contain his laughter. Kid’s heart constricts, and he growls, baring his teeth. And then he lowers his head and takes it. Because Shanks is right. And this is the wrong battle to fight. If he were going to fight, it would have been for you.

“I despise what you did to her, but I’m fucking glad that the action might finally make her realise what a useless shit you are.” Shanks kicks an empty bottle and takes another step closer to Kid. 

He faces your father, raising his chin instead of cowering away. Enough of being a coward, enough of that. Fuck.

“You wanna destroy yourself? Drink yourself to death? Wallow in your own self-loathing? Fine.” Shanks’ voice drops lower, eyes narrowing like a predator. “Become the wreckage you think you are.”

Kid holds his breath, stands by the accusations because they hit too close to home. But he does not look away.

“But you do not get to drag my daughter down with you.” Shanks points a finger at him in warning. “You stay the fuck away from her. You do not get to try and fix this. You do not get to be a selfish bastard and pull her back into your fucking misery just to stamp on her heart again!”

The fire in Shanks’ eyes rivals the color of his hair. Kid grits his teeth. His first instinct is to fight back. He doesn’t take shit from anyone. But Shanks is just protecting you, and that is exactly what Kid is trying to do, too. 

Even though he’s failing miserably. 

So he clenches his fists and swallows down all his rage, taking in every word, every warning, every threat in silence. And then, with a herculean effort, he dips his chin in understanding.

“You made your fucking choice. Now live with it. Just know that if she spills more tears over your sorry ass, I won’t be as forgiving.”

They stare at each other, and Kid keeps fighting back his instinct to rage or to mock. He grinds his teeth, clenches his fist, and evens his breath before opening his mouth, “I wouldn’t expect ye to.”

Shanks holds his stare for another beat before he turns his back on him and walks away. 

-*-

“It’s been three days, Killer. She’s not eating anything.” Shanks sighs, pacing the kitchen. “She’s surviving on water alone. I don’t know what to do! I’m taking her to the clinic. I—”

Killer places one hand on Shanks’ shoulder, trying to calm him down. 

Three days. Three fucking days of hell. Killer’s been drifting from your house to Kid’s, trying to pick up all the pieces you two keep leaving behind, trying to patch you up as best he can, so you’re both whole when this all blows through. 

But it’s been hell on earth. 

You refuse to eat and spend your days curled up in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom and drink water. Killer spends hours by your side, trying to get you to talk, laugh, be you, but the best he gets is hums. You’re in a depressive state, and Shanks is not overreacting. Perhaps he should take you to the clinic. 

Kid, on the other hand, just keeps spiraling further and further. Killer thought his initial conversation had gotten something out of him, that his friend might actually consider getting help. But he’s only gotten worse. If Killer thought Kid was at rock bottom before, he was wrong. He’s found a way to dig himself even deeper, and it’s getting harder to help him climb out.

He keeps saying his ghosts don’t leave him. He drinks and he fights. Killer forced him to stay inside last night, claiming to need his help with something he made up last minute, but he’s not sure if the same trick will work today. Kid’s running out of time. He’s about to hit the destruct button for good. 

So before he does that, Killer plans to step in. 

But you first… you first. 

Killer removes a container from a bag and opens a cabinet, searching for a bowl. “I made her a hearty soup. Gonna try and get her to eat it, okay?” Killer hates that his voice already sounds defeated, like he knows he’s going to fail. “If she doesn’t eat it, I’ll help you take her to the clinic.”

Shanks slumps into the kitchen chair and nods, his hand running through the scruff of beard he hasn’t shaved in two days, his eyes restless. The soup is still hot. Killer made enough for you and Kid. In his opinion, comfort food is halfway to a healthy recovery. In both your cases, he’s hoping it’s the first step towards finally getting you out of your spiral. 

He ladles two scoops into a bowl and grabs a spoon and a napkin. Each step up the stairs to your room is a broken plea to whichever deity might be listening. He needs you to eat. 

Killer knocks, but he knows better than to expect a reply, so after a few minutes, he pushes the door open, sighing when he notices no difference from yesterday. The curtains are drawn, the blanket pulled up to your ears, and despair clings to the walls. 

“Hey, love. How are you?” The chair is there for him. You don’t move it, and he stopped doing it, trying to purposely leave it in the middle of the room to see if you’d get up and put it away. 

You don’t. 

So he places the bowl on your nightstand, pulls the curtains to let in some light, and sits, leaning in to observe you. You lie in bed all day, but you don’t rest. There are heavy bags under your eyes, and your face looks pale and withdrawn. 

You’re withering away. 

“I made soup. I know you’re gonna love it. I don’t wanna brag, but I’m the best cook in this town.” Your lip twitches like you’re about to smile but quickly falls back, your eyes boring a hole in the wall. “Can you just try it? A few bites? Please…”

Nothing. 

Killer’s chest tightens, and his jaw clenches. He stares at the steam curling slowly from the bowl, then back at your unmoving form, then closes his eyes, his breath shuddering with a heavy exhale. 

“I’ll show you my face,” he states. You stop breathing for a moment, then slowly turn your head to stare at him, blinking softly, trying to process whether he’s speaking the truth. Killer swallows hard. “I’ll make you a deal. You eat that soup and you get up. You go about your day, and you start living again. And I’ll show you.”

A fleeting memory of a drunken you asking him to show you his face floats by his mind’s eye. How you made him claim that he’d show you his face if you ever needed cheering up. 

Well… this is it. 

You hold your breath, your weary eyes holding his ransom. He nods again, assuring you it’s true, he’ll do it. So you let out that breath and sit up slowly. Without breaking eye contact, you reach for the bowl with trembling hands. It takes you a while, but you eat more than half the portion before your stomach starts to complain. 

Killer has to bite his lip to contain his excitement. You fucking ate. You chose to take that step. Finally. Fucking finally. 

“I ate…” Your voice sounds raspy and affected from days of disuse, but it’s the most beautiful thing he’s heard recently. 

“Yeah…” Killer nods, reaching to take the bowl from your hands, buying himself some time before he has to compose himself. “You did. And you will get up? Get out of bed?”

You nod slowly, and he raises his brow at you, expecting something else. 

“I promise, Kill.”

Killer’s heart swells. It’s a beginning. It’s a win. It’s a fucking celebration. He has to close his eyes for another moment because, for a hot minute there, he thought that what Kid had done was irreparable. 

“Alright.” He sighs, reaching for the knot in his bandana and untying it with precise movements. After the accident, he never let anyone see his face besides Kid. No one. So he won’t pretend he’s not terrified of showing it to you, to the one person that matters most. 

But he’s not a coward. And he made a deal. 

The knot breaks, and he closes his eyes for a second before letting the fabric slip. The air is warm and stale, but the skin on his jaw and cheek is extra sensitive, so he sucks in his breath to adjust as he follows your reaction closely. 

Your eyes widen, lips parting slightly. Your gaze falls on his permanently curved lips, scarred from the burning kiss of flames. Then they follow the remaining scar tissue across his cheek, down his jaw, and around his nape, where the flames licked and lapped on that fateful day. 

Your hand twitches, and then you raise it, meaning to touch him. He flinches briefly, and you catch your breath. You both adjust to the novelty before he nods, and your fingers caress him gently. You use a feather-light touch, but everything feels heightened. 

Killer can’t remove his eyes from yours as you’re standing so close to his face. He sees the curve of your lips, the rise and fall of your chest; he feels the warmth of your breath and the curiosity in your eyes. 

A slight dip. Just a tiny movement, and he would be able to kiss you. 

Fuck.

“I’m—”

“Beautiful,” you finish for him. He was going to say hideous. Because that’s what he is. Who in their right mind would take one look at his scars and call them beautiful? Call him beautiful? 

“You don’t have to lie for my sake…” The words barely find their way out of his lips. You’re still too close.

“I’m not lying, Kill,” you whisper, your eyes catching his now, making a mess out of the once steady beat of his heart. “How did this happen?” you ask softly, your gaze mercifully retreating back to his face. 

Killer clenches his jaw. He can’t share the full story, he doesn’t know what Kid wants to share or if he’ll ever want to share it all. 

A tiny, selfish part of him tells him that this is also his story, and he could tell you if he wanted, but Killer shuts that beast down before it has a chance to transform and overtake him. 

“Our last mission… the one that… fell to shit,” he murmurs. “This was from a close-range explosion… I… Kid didn’t get out of the way in time, so I… forced him.”

I shielded him. It’s what Killer did, really. But he won’t say it like that. He doesn’t resent Kid for it, since he also lost an arm in that explosion. And they both lost so much more than that. 

You still have your fingers pressed against his ugly face. You’re still too close to him. So he sees the way your nose scrunches, eyebrows shooting up. 

“But… I saw the army picture in Kid’s garage. You had the bandana on there. Was it taken after? Because Kid had both arms in it…”

Killer swallows hard, his eyes turning to the side as he scrunches the black fabric of his bandana. He’s itching to cover his face again, he feels too exposed, like he’s baring his heart out to you. 

“It was taken before. I never liked my smile. I used to wear the bandana for photos or videos, mostly. After… after, it just became permanent. It’s part of who I am now. I don’t want to bear the pity stares or see the disgust on other people’s faces.”

You shift slightly, pulling yourself even closer to him as you cup his cheek with both hands. It’s too much. Too close. Too overwhelming.

“You’re not disgusting, Kill. I’ll say it as many times as it takes: you’re beautiful.”

His throat works as he swallows down the emotions, and he nods because he can’t trust himself enough to speak. You let your hands fall to your lap but don’t retreat back into bed. 

“Can I see it?” you ask.

“See what?”

“Your smile…”

No. 

Killer shakes his head slowly, but when your eyes narrow, pleading, he falters. He’s always hated his smile. But, shit, if there’s someone he’d willingly show it to, it’s you…

“Maybe some other time, love, okay?”

He must sound really weary, because you nod softly and finally fall back, leaning against the headboard with a deep exhale, like you’ve been holding the weight of the world on your chest and he just helped relieve it. 

“I’ll hold you to it, too, you know?” you joke, a ghost of a smile twitching your lips upwards, and Killer’s heart skips a beat. You’re smiling again. Fuck yes. 

“Wouldn’t expect it otherwise, City Girl.”

A comfortable silence envelops the room while he fastens the bandana back into place, tying the knots easily like he’s done a thousand times. Except the fabric feels tighter this time, abrasive against his soft skin, begging him to stop hiding, perhaps. 

No one has touched his face in years. No one but himself and doctors has even touched his scars. It’s fitting that you’re the first one to do it. For a fleeting moment, he wonders what would’ve happened if he let you see his smile.  

He sighs and pushes that thought away, because it stings just thinking about it. Instead, he finishes the knot and watches you. You’re looking out the window, with that slight pull of your lips still present. There’s a small light behind your eyes now, something he thought was missing. 

God, he could stare at you for hours. 

“You’re gonna finish that soup later?” he asks instead, feeling gutted by reality. 

You nod softly, training your gaze back on his. “It was very tasty, Kill. I’ll finish it.”

“Good,” he states, getting up and picking up the bowl. “I’ll toss it in the fridge, then. Don’t forget to get some fresh air, okay? You promised.”

You nod again, mock-saluting him in a way that crumbles some of the heaviness in his chest. You’re getting back to normal. You’ll get there. 

He opens the door, ready to head downstairs before you stop him.

“Killer?” He pauses. He will never grow tired of the way you say his name. Soft, sweet, asking for nothing else but his attention. “Thank you. For… everything.”

He grits his teeth hard and nods once, just before closing the door as fast as he can. Just before words he can’t say spill out of his goddamned mouth. You’re recovering, and that’s all that matters. 

As soon as Killer enters the kitchen, Shanks springs up from the chair, his eyes immediately landing on the half-empty bowl of soup. 

“Oh, thank God!” he blurts, slumping back down, a heavy sigh of relief parting his lips. 

“She says she’ll eat the rest later. I’ll store it in the fridge.” Killer feels exhausted, the weight of holding your and Kid’s recovery dragging him down. But he can’t give in to exhaustion yet. Not yet.

One down, one to go.

“You even got her to talk?” Shanks gets up and paces the kitchen as Killer busies himself with the soup. 

“She promised to get up and get some air, so hold her to that promise, will you, Shanks?”

“She did?” Shanks huffs out a laugh. “God, that’s— God! Thank you, Killer.”

Killer nods, placing the container in the fridge and closing the door, then washing the spoon and cleaning up the little mess he made. All in contemplative silence. He can feel Shanks’ gaze boring into his back, but he doesn’t dare meet the older man’s eyes.

Until Shanks speaks. 

“You love her.” Just three words, said with a finality that brooks no argument. Shanks speaks with the confidence of someone who’s lived through life, who knows things, who sees what people try to hide. 

Killer wipes his hands on the kitchen towel, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “She’s not mine to love,” he says after a moment of silence. 

“Doesn’t change the truth…” Silence. “Are you planning on telling her?”

“No.” Never. He won’t do that. Not to Kid, not to you, not even to himself. Because there’s no way anything good would come out of it. 

“You’re the better man,” Shanks deadpans, contempt weighing his words down. 

“He’s my brother, Shanks.” Killer turns to face him, his lips set in a fine line behind the bandana. “Not by blood, but… in every way that matters.”

“He’s not here. He’s not trying.” 

“You told him not to!” Killer argues, using the words he knows Shanks said to Kid because his friend told him, after much persuasion. 

“And would that stop you?” Killer hesitates. And that’s all Shanks needs to know his answer. “That’s what I thought.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Killer says, nipping the conversation in the bud. “He’ll get his shit together, and whatever has to happen, happens. It’ll be out of our hands. I’m just looking out for their happiness.”

Shanks holds his gaze, and Killer feels himself shrink. He’s looking at him like a father would. With care and worry, like someone who holds all the answers, but is waiting for him to figure them out. 

“And who looks out for yours?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that. 

So he grabs his stuff, mutters a quick goodbye, and flees to the porch, gulping in the fresh air with rapid breaths, trying to steady the harsh beating of his heart. Killer doesn’t care about himself. He can’t right now. Not when you and Kid need him. Not until he gathers all the broken pieces. 

Not until he fixes it. 

And even then… maybe you and Kid’s happiness is all he’ll ever allow himself to want.

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