#It’s rated TV-MA for a reason

[raezingart]

I watched Blue Eye Samurai on Netflix and it’s incredible. Easily some of the most impressive animation I’ve seen this year! So here’s a drawing of Mizu because I couldn’t stop thinking about this series.

[kendallsroyco]

If fans start hating on Charlie if the new Daredevil show doesn't turn out the way they want it to be I will personally fight each and every one of them, IDC. I will be deep in the trenches defending this man. Cause let's be honest, it's inevitable that some fans would start hating him even when he's an actor who doesn't have any say or leverage (especially under someone like Marvel Studios) to dictate how the show is going to be.

Anyways I'm prepared to fight. Fickle fans be damned.

[emiline-northeto]

It’s really fun hearing music you recognize in shows! That very satisfying “ooh I know that!” feeling.

[sunaluv]

Kinda random but what if Earth42! Miles had a s/o who was bitten by a spider as well (maybe just an AU where 1116 Miles didn’t get bitten by the spider or there was another one) and they are both rivals under the masks but literally love eachother without them bc they don’t know each other’s identity?? And some angsty if they were in battle and he was beating her tf up and literally about to kill her and removes the mask and MORE ANGST AHH. Thank You!!

omg i luvvv this idea!!!

"-coming up next, more sightings of the prowler around brooklyn. though his intentions unknown, it can be assumed that-"

both you and miles were sat in silence listening to the news report. his arm around your shoulders begun to bounce up and down as he watched the news lady talk about how he was an assumed criminal.

"out of everything, you choose to watch the news?" an unimpressed expression drew on his face, hoping you don't take note of the slight agitation in his tone.

"yeah." your gaze is stuck on the tv, eyes dancing around the screen trying to analyse as much as you can from the tv as you watched the masked figure evade the cameras lens.

the prowler was a... difficult subject for you. the you miles doesn't know about at least. the few interactions you've had with him as spider woman were very confusing. you obviously had a feud going on, the game of cat and mouse coming nowhere to an end. but for some reason, your spider senses seemed to be immune to him-- one of his abilities you assume. since that fact was revealed to you, you've been hyperfixated on the boy, using any public (sometimes private) resource out there to get a one up on him.

a deep groan came from your boyfriends throat. "you have a crush on him or somethin', ma?"

finally, your gaze is removed from the tv. "maybe i do," you teased, "he's an interesting character,"

nothing else was said that night and miles was forced to watch you stare this guy (which was him) down. it got to the point where he wasn't even sure you had blinked in the past 10 minutes.

once the headlines were no longer about the prowler, you had a change of heart and decided tv was no longer interesting and called it a night.

"sorry i was kinda absent tonight," you stood up with the intention of going to sleep. "you can sleep over if you want."

"all good. i don't think i can stay over though." miles rubbed his hands on his thighs, before standing up. "ill catch you later, mami."

he kissed your cheek gently, before leaving.

you walked him to the door, listening until his footsteps were out of view. once the hallway was quiet, you walked to your room with practiced, hushed footsteps before sliding your spider suit on with familiar fastness.

with a new objective in mind, you elegantly swung towards the main city whilst keeping an eye out for potential danger on the way. after making your daily night time rounds, you perched on top of a tall office building to rest a little.

"you're back."

the familiar voice spoke from behind you. the prowler had once again startled you with his masked prescence. thankfully, you were certain he had no way of telling how your heart rate slightly increased from the shock.

"saw you on the news today," you stood, making your way towards the man who had yet to move an inch. "you've officially been recognised as a criminal, congrats."

he watched, allowing you to get within meters of him. through your peripheral, you noted the subtle glow rasiating from his claws. you waited for him to make his move and it came.

finally, your spider sense reacted.

though the period between the instinct and the attack was much too short and before you knew it, he had dealt a heavy blow to your side but this attack was not like the others. whatever that was glowing in his hands had stored enough force to blast your body way leftwards, making you fall off the building.

the next series of attacks came quick. after using your webs to save yourself from falling, you quickly generated an electric current in your hands as you were now on the defense.

your spider sense was going crazy, as if making up for all those times it had failed you in the past.

left. right. from behind. a flurry of attacks were unleashed on you, filled with such hatred. you had managed to shock him a few times, but he had also snuck in a few of his own, never seen before attacks.

fifteen minutes have passed and the two of you were running on pure adrenaline at this point. all cards have been revealed and nobody had the juice to keep pulling out the flashy special attacks from before.

he had you pinned to the ground. "this ends right now araña," he held his claw to your throat, spikes digging into your skin hard enough to draw blood.

from behind the mask, miles watched as you choked and struggled, before going limp in his hold. he checked your pulse and confirmed you had just passed out. he had time to deal with you later, he needed some information before he discarded you after all.

releasing his hands from the claws, his fingers hooked under the mask to lift it and his blood ran cold seeing you, his lover, passed out on the dirty streets of new york with blood running down your face and bruises and cuts marked on cheeks which he had kissed an hour before.

he had done this to you. even worse, he had come at you with the intention to kill you.

"what have you done, mi amor," he whispered, eyes glossing over. "i'm so sorry," he had lifted you up and hugged you as tight as he could whilst trying not to apply more pressure to your cracked ribs which was again, his fault.

miles, the man who swore to kill anyone who harmed a hair on your pretty little head had now become the man he hated.

[jxtina-86]

Temporary Escape - Part 4

A/N: I've added the previous parts to my fanfic links here. As always, this was written far too long ago - Mox is Dean for that reason. Blah blah blah.

To say I am nervous about posting this, is an understatement. I have written some crazy shit in the past but nothing quite compares to this and is one of the reasons I've sat on this for far too long.

I would really appreciate some love to ease my nerves on this - thank you in advance!

This entire part is a flashback - I've only put the first part in italics for reasons that will become clear...

This entire flashback is 10k words so I've split in two - look out for the next part soon...

So... let's find out what happened shall we?

Warning: Smut. To use the old-school term, this is stuffed with so many lemons, you could make a million gallons of lemonade

Rating: MA

Seth Rollins/OC/Roman Reigns/Dean Ambrose (Jon Moxley)

---

Fingers lightly dance over my hips as Seth kisses me, his mouth firm, wanting. I breathe into him, my body fluid as I lean into him. His hand slides up the back of my neck, into my hair, twisting big handfuls into his grasp as he holds me close. And yet I can still feel a hand on each hip. Then Seth’s other hand cups my face and I realise with a jolt that there’s another, someone behind me, someone else’s breath on my neck.

The hands on my hips squeeze gently as lips caress my shoulder. Seth is pulling away from my mouth, trailing hot, feverish kisses down my throat and I’m able to look behind me. Roman stares back at me, his tongue darting out to lick his lips before he kisses me. I groan into his mouth, responding not only to his kiss but Seth’s fingers tugging down the cups of my bra, his tongue flicking across one nipple before he takes it fully into his mouth. My brain is on the verge of shutting down already, when I feel another tongue, another mouth on my other breast. I break away from Roman’s mouth to see Dean slipping a hand around my back to unclasp my bra and drag the straps down my arms before he chucks the garment over his shoulder.

Seth sinks lower, his mouth on my stomach, his fingers on my panties and I can feel my knees starting to buckle. Roman’s mouth is hot on my neck and jawline, my hair wrapped roughly around his fist and out of his way. Dean’s tongue is sinful, his big hands cupping my breasts, making me hiss with firm, yet teasing pinches to my already sensitive nipples. My body arches as Seth…

I feel the bed beneath me, the warmth of the sheets, the softness of the pillow, a faint glow beyond my closed eyes and a dull murmur that brings me out of my slumber.

“Hey,” I hear Seth whisper, his hand ghosting over my back. “You okay?”

“Huh?” My voice is thick with sleep, my eyes squinting at the glare of the TV.

“You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“I was?” I roll over to find him and smile, my eyes closing as he pulls me close.

“Yeah,” he breathes across my cheek. “Bad dream?”

I shake my head, but don’t say anything because I’m not sure what to say. I can barely compute it, the details are hazy but the more conscious I become the more aware I am that my skin feels hot as if those three pairs of hands are still caressing me.

Seth’s finger slips under my chin, tilting my head back so I look up at him. “Tell me.”

I mean, do you tell your sort-of-casual-fuck-slash-kinda-boyfriend about sex dreams that involve other people? Especially when those other people are specifically his friends and co-workers?

“Tell me,” he repeats, his arms settling around me, his beard fuzzy against my forehead. 

“You were there,” I start and I look up in time to see the cockiness spread across the lit side of his face; the rest cast in shadow and unreadable. “Fine, it was a sex dream.”

“Uh-huh…” he grins. “You’re almost as vocal in your dreams as you are in real life.”

I feel my cheeks redden and for a moment wonder if he can see, before I realise that perhaps certain names slipped out during my state of unconsciousness.

“So,” he continues. “What were we doing?”

I chew my lip. “We…”

“Because if you tell me, I’ll give you the real life play-by-play.”

I snort and before I can connect my brain with my mouth: “I’d think twice about that.”

“Why?”

I kick myself. “We… We weren’t alone.”

“I see.”

“Just a dream, Seth.”

“Sure.” He pauses. “But a dream you were enjoying?”

“I guess.”

“Who was there?” He doesn’t sound jealous, he doesn’t, as far as I can tell, even look jealous. It seems to be genuine curiosity.

“You really want to know?” I give him a quizzical look.

“Sure.” His face stays soft and relaxed.

I chew my lip and when I speak my voice is low, barely a whisper. “Roman… and Dean.”

He’s silent and I watch him blink, his bottom lip disappearing for a second as he chews it thoughtfully. “Huh.”

“See, told you to think twice about it.” I force a chuckle as I look down, unable to meet his gaze.  “Anyway, just a stupid dream.”

“How was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it good?”

“We don’t have to talk about this.”

“I want to.”

“Why? It was a dream. Nothing more.”

“What if it was more?”

I look back up at him sharply. “What?”

“I made you a deal. You tell me your dream and I give you the play-by-play in real-life.”

“Seth, c’mon. Like you’d ever agree to that.” He has to be kidding. Right?

“I would. I am.”

I roll my eyes. “No, you wouldn’t and you’re not. Like how would that even work?”

“I think it’s pretty straightforward.”

“Sure. You go wake the guys, tell them that we’re going to have a foursome and then it just happens.”

“Why not?”

I blink. “Because it sounds fucking insane Seth.”

“Trust me, it isn’t in the slightest.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’ll see.” He kisses me on the forehead before he pulls the covers back and starts to rise.

“Where are you going?”

“To get them.”

“Seth!”

He kneels on the edge of the bed, bending down to me, his hand cupping my cheek, fingers lacing through my hair. “Trust me. Go freshen up. I’ll be back.”

I grip his wrist, keeping him to me for a minute. “Seth, stop messing with me.”

“No messing. I’m serious.”

“I don’t understand.”

He kisses me and it’s soft, tender. “I’m telling you that if you want this, it’s on offer.”

“I…”

“Take as long as you need,” he breathes against my mouth as he pulls back again. “We’ll be waiting.”

I watch as he moves to the door and it shuts behind him. I’m frozen in the bed, but only momentarily, as I try to compute the conversation that has just occurred. And then I’m moving, scrambling to push the sheets back and launching myself towards the bathroom where I close the door and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

I’m telling you that if you want this, it’s on offer.

One casual, half-formed sex dream and suddenly sex with three men at once is a possibility. Beyond how incredibly fucked up this is becoming in the early hours of a Saturday morning, I’m not even sure of the logistics of a foursome. Opening the bathroom door, I spy my phone and grab it quickly before retreating to lean against the vanity and open up Google. I pause, unsure what to write. The results will be porn or urban dictionary entries written by sixteen-year-olds - hardly a reflection of the potential reality of what may be about to unfold.

And then I stop - how is this even happening in the first place? I half-wonder if this is a dream within a dream, that I’ll wake from this to discover I’m back in bed and Seth is asleep next to me and no one is even remotely suggesting that a dream should be acted upon with almost immediate effect.

I can’t even put my finger on what even caused the dream. But as I close my eyes, I can see fragments of the brief encounter stood between three men and my stomach flips. Of course I can see the attraction of Roman and Dean - they’re tall, handsome men, with muscles, charm and wit. But they’re also Seth’s friends and co-workers. And surely to them, I’m his… Well, whatever I am.

And maybe this is why Seth is up for this, I think, my heart sinking slightly. I am just a casual fuck. Sharing me with his friends wouldn’t be a big deal because I’m not his girlfriend or anything quite as serious. I’m just the girl he sees when he’s local or when he invites me out to keep him company on the road. So what would it matter if I slept with his friends in some off-the-chain sexual exploration?

I chew my lip, picking up my phone again, idly scrolling to take my mind off this sudden realisation of why Seth wasn’t even bothered by my dream in the first place. There’s a handful of messages and I scroll through them, one of them an unknown number. I frown as I open it and read the message in full:

Hey Maddy, Seth sent me your number. I was backstage the other night when you were with the guys and thought you might like this.

There’s a blurred picture and as it starts to download, I suddenly remember. They’d been wearing the skull masks, the same that Seth and I had messed around with a few weeks back and had been posing for backstage snippets presumably with the same photographer who was messaging me. Seth had pulled me into one of the shots and with a chill down my spine I remember how close all three had felt as they surrounded me to make sure they were all in shot.

The photo comes into focus and I swallow hard. I’m the only one staring at the lens, my grin bashful. All three of them are looking elsewhere. All three of them, I realise, are looking at me. To the left is Dean, his head cocked to one side as he stares down at me, his chest almost up against my shoulder. Behind me is Roman, his head looming above mine, his eyes boring into me, his shoulders and arms flexed. And to the right is Seth, his eyes the only ones I can truly read and I know what happened later that night to back that look up - the combination of the mask, that he’d hit that roll over the barricade during their entrance and just him being him had resulted in one hell of an impromptu after-party between the sheets. Or rather against the wall, on the floor, against the chest of drawers, in the shower, against the bathroom vanity and then finally on the bed where the mood slowed and he’d fucked me painfully slowly, teasing me, until I was shaking uncontrollably.

I blink, distracted at the memory and stare again at the photo as if I’d imagined what I had previously seen. But no, all three are still staring at me and my dream suddenly seems to come into sharp focus as well. I obviously hadn’t realised at the time what was happening around me but clearly somewhere in my sub-conscious that feeling of them all so close had remained and my brain had started to connect the dots.

And the conversation with Seth is starting to make more sense too. He knew. He knew about this photo, knew what Roman and Dean were thinking and my dream was just confirmation that in some way we were all on the same page. My heart starts to pound and my hands are trembling as I put the phone down and start to consider what to do next.

My train of thought is interrupted by movement behind the door and I freeze, my ears straining to hear…

“Are we all sure about this?” I can hear Roman saying. “Including Maddy?”

“I told her that if she was up for it, so were we,” Seth replies.

“I mean it’s pretty fucked up.” Dean, which surprises me. “How are you okay with this?” My thoughts exactly.

There’s a pause. “If this is what she wants, then I’ll give her that. The fact it’s you two, you both admitted you’d have hit on her given the opportunity and rightly or wrongly I trust that you’re not going to do anything to hurt her, well that’s a bonus.”

“So let me get this straight,” Dean again. “You’re willing to give her whatever she wants, I get that. But usually acts like that are usually giving a chick commitment or a fucking handbag or some shit like that. Not a gang-bang.”

“Are you down for it or not?”

“I’m not sure I’m the one you should be asking that question to. I’d start with asking Maddy and perhaps even yourself.”

“But if she is. And I am?”

Another pause. “Sure.”

“Roman?”

There’s a grunt of agreement.

“Okay, so the deal is that no-one ever mentions what happens outside of these four walls. Not even to each other. And this is on her terms, her lead. No-one does anything to fuck with that, got it?”

“Christ, this is fucked up.”

Couldn’t say it better myself, I think as I close my eyes. Dean’s hands on my breasts, Roman’s mouth on mine, Seth’s tongue on my stomach. I bite my lip, feeling my skin flush. My terms. Never mentioned again. He trusts them. I trust them.

I ruffle my hair, tug at my shirt, reach for my toothbrush and a minute later I reach for the door handle. Taking a deep breath, I slowly pull open the door, my heart in my mouth as I feel three pairs of eyes on me. I’m not sure where to look and the first person my gaze connects with is Roman. He’s shirtless, his hair tied back as it usually is, but not as neat as if it was done in a hurry, the edges frizzy and loose around his face. My breath catches in my throat as I look away but at the same time catch a glimpse of the sweatpants slung low on his waist. Too low for there to be anything underneath them.

My eyes sweep to find Seth and instead meet Dean who at first glance seems to be fully clothed but then I notice the hoodie is only half-zipped and I can see his chest. I find myself blushing despite having seen both him and Roman in various states of undress over the past two years - sharing hotel rooms will do that as will a backstage pass that gets you into locker-rooms to sneak a kiss or more with your…

Finally, Seth comes into focus. He smiles, stepping away from the other two towards me. He’s still in the same state of undress; the tight boxers that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. His arms slide around me, his hands in the small of my back as he pulls me against him.

“Hey,” he breathes against my cheek before he gives me a soft kiss. “You okay?”

“I guess.”

“Maddy,” he says, his mouth next to my ear, his voice low. “If you want this, they’re on board. I told them-”

“I know. I heard you.” I cup his face with one hand. “I still don’t get why you’re on board though?”

For the first time, I see his cheeks flush slightly. “You once said that you wanted to feel everything at the same time.”

“I’m pretty sure I was kidding, Seth.”

“Your choice. The three of us will give you that. If you want it.”

“I saw the photo.”

“And?” Seth’s fingers are trailing up and down my back and all I can think about is how much I suddenly want, need, the other two to do the same.

“My terms?”

He nods and I look up to see the other two nod in agreement.

Seth slips a hand around my neck, up into my hairline as he kisses me. I audibly groan into his mouth, clamouring for more as he pulls back. “So tell us?”

“Tell you what?”

“About your dream.”

I close my eyes for a second, steadying my breath. When I open them, Dean and Roman are closing in, one of either side of us. “It started with just you,” I tell Seth. “We were kissing. And your hands were on my hips. But then you moved them but I could still feel hands there and that’s when I realised we weren’t alone.”

“Who was it?” I hear Roman ask, his voice so low it practically vibrates through me.

“You,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper. “You were behind me…” I look up at Seth who nods encouragingly. “You were kissing my neck and then Seth started to move down to my breasts so then you kissed me.”

“And then?” says Dean and I can tell without even looking that he’s barely inches from me.

“There was another mouth on my breasts…”

“Me?” Dean’s the first out of him and Roman to touch me, a finger trailing down my jawline to raise my gaze to him. I nod and he gives me a cocky grin.

My mind starts to fog as I feel hands, larger than Seth’s cup my hips and my heart pounds as I feel Roman’s chest against my back. Seth’s mouth ghosts over mine as I get out the final memory of the dream. “You,” I tell him. “You started to go down on me and that’s when I woke up.”

“No wonder you were moaning in your sleep,” he chuckles as he presses kisses to my jawline. “Those soft, breathy moans that you do when you’re on the edge.”

Fingers pluck at my shirt, lifting it and I realise that, unlike my dream, I am completely unprepared for this. Thank god I showered before bed is all I can think. Not so thankful that under my shirt I’m wearing a cropped bra that’s seen better days rather than some chic lingerie that flatters me rather than offering practical support. My mouth opens to offer some sort of apology, but I’m halted by a hand cupping the back of my neck, easing my head back.

“Breathy moans, huh?” Roman murmurs. “Let me see if I can help with that.” He leans forward and I sense a slight hint of tentativeness at the first real step over the line. But then his lips brush over mine just as Seth’s hand cups my breast and my head almost explodes. Roman’s mouth is firm, determined, his fingers massaging the back of my neck at the same pace. I sigh into him and I feel his lips twitch in a grin. Only when Seth nips at my ear do we break apart and I’m breathless as my shirt is pulled free from my body. Seth kisses me, a soft growl in the back of his throat and I wonder if it’s through want or need to assert his ownership over me, or something else.

But once again, all rational thought leaves my mind as he pulls away and returns to blaze a path down my throat. I feel new fingers plucking at my bra, cool air hitting my breasts as that too is pulled up and over my head and I’m left fully exposed bar my panties. I can’t bring myself to look down so i look up instead, meeting Roman’s gaze once again and letting my hand cup his head this time to bring his mouth back to mine.

Dean’s tongue meets my skin at the same time as Seth’s; a move that seems too coordinated not to be and my back arches into their touch. I can feel hands everywhere - on my breasts, my back, my shoulders, my neck and my skin feels electrified. Dean pulls back, releasing my nipple with an audible pop and then I hiss into Roman’s mouth as a cool breeze hits my hot and damp skin. Fingers pinch gently, then harder, testing the waters and I pull away from Roman to meet Dean’s gaze.

“You like that?” he asks, his voice rough as he pinches my nipple again watching my face intently.

I nod, my head lolling back against Roman’s chest.

“What else do you like?” he pushes as he cups my breast and takes it into his mouth again, his tongue swirling over the hot skin before he pulls back again, this time his teeth grazing the sensitive tip.

“That,” I manage to get out. “I… I like that.”

Seth’s mouth is on my stomach and my legs start to tremble. I’m more turned on than I ever realised was physically possible and even on an average day, his mouth is my undoing within minutes. I can already feel the tingling anticipation between my legs and I’m about to be at my most vulnerable, yet most euphoric in the presence of three men.

Roman’s teeth nip at my ear. “You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” I breathe as I feel Dean cup both my breasts, pushing them together and then his tongue flicking over one then the other. Seth’s tongue trails from my navel down to the waistband of my panties and I feel my knees start to give way. “Fuck…”

My free hand drops to the back of his head and I feel him chuckle against my skin.

“Needy, huh?” Dean teases as he takes the opportunity to kiss me for the first time. “Tell us, what do you need?”

I can feel Seth pause in his endeavour, Roman’s mouth halts too, his breath hot on my neck as I stare up at Dean’s wide eyes. The three of them, waiting on me, waiting for my command, my permission to proceed.

“I need to cum.” My voice is barely a whisper. “Please.”

“That’s a given, but what do you need?” Dean asks again.

“I…” My head is swimming.

“This?” His fingers dig gently but firmly into my breasts.

“Or this?” Roman adds, his mouth on my neck, teeth nipping at the taut skin.

“And this?” Seth’s voice vibrates against my clit and I jolt in response.

“Or all of it?” Dean summises with a grin as my eyes meet his and I nod.

Seth’s hands are splayed on my thighs as he kisses me through my panties. His tongue flicks over my clit, dampening the material even more than it already is. His arm nudges my legs further apart and I feel myself slip against Roman’s chest, Dean’s hands tugging involuntarily at my breasts.

“Easy,” Roman murmurs and a secure arm eases around my waist, holding me steady. “I got you, baby girl.”

My stomach flips at the endearment and his touch, grateful for both. Dean’s hands are still pawing at my breasts, but his mouth is ghosting over mine and this time his kiss is hard, wanton. Seth’s fingers finally start to ease my panties down and there’s a brief pause as I step out of them and then I feel his tongue. I moan into Dean’s mouth, my body lurching uncontrollably and Roman’s arm grips me firmly.

“Shit, you’re dripping Maddy” I hear Seth say as his fingers rub my wetness. I’m barely aware of him rising until Dean slips away from me and I feel two fingers touch my lips. 

“Holy fuck,” I hear Dean exhale as Seth pushes his fingers into my mouth, making me taste myself. I’m lost in a haze of lust, barely able to focus as Dean’s mouth crashes against me as Seth heads south once again.

“Can I…” Roman growls against my ear and I shiver as I nod. His hand slides down my back, over my ass, squeezing the exposed flesh and I moan as finally a long finger slides into the heat between my legs just as Seth’s tongue presses flat against my clit. There are hands and mouths all over me and I’m already starting to spiral. My own hands are occupied with gripping the back of Seth’s head, the other slipping back and forth between Roman and Dean, unable to stay still for long, desperate to feel them both as they adorn me with kisses and teasing strokes.

Roman adds another finger, just as Seth eases my leg over his shoulder, opening me to both of them and the movement causes me to break from Dean’s kiss with a gasp. Roman’s arm around my waist tightens and I hiss as he nips at my neck. 

“Faster or slower?” he murmurs, his fingers mimicking his question before returning to a steady pace that combined with Seth’s mouth and tongue on my clit is moments away from making me unravel completely.

“Just right,” I manage to stammer. “Oh fuck…” My body arches as I feel Seth’s thumb on my clit as he presses wet kisses to my inner thigh.

“Go on,” I feel Dean's warm breath on my cheek. “Take it, we’ve got you.” His fingers are circling my nipples, making me shiver as my head rolls back onto Roman’s shoulder.

“So wet,” I hear Roman murmur. “Fuck, Maddy…”

My breath hitches as Seth’s mouth returns to my clit, steady and firm pressure from his tongue, fingers gripping my thigh, my ass as he pushes me further and further towards an orgasm that’s jointly fueled by the actions of two others. My skin starts to itch, hot, flushed and I can feel the blood rushing in my ears. My hand on Seth’s head tightens, keeping him just so. My legs are starting to go numb and I feel my weight pressing back into Roman, his solid frame rock solid. As is something else.

Pressed against my ass, I can feel the outline of his dick, hard and thick and I can’t help but roll my hips slightly, relishing in how Roman’s teeth nip at my earlobe and Seth’s mouth never even falters. The move doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean, who presses his entire body against my side, his own length and thickness nudging at my hip. His fingers grip my chin as he kisses me, a hand pulling my own from his shoulder and down over his chest, his stomach, his crotch.

A strangled sob echoes through the air and for a second I can’t work out where it comes from. And then I hear Dean whispering, coaxing me softly as my orgasm rips through me and realise the sound came from me. Wave upon wave crashes through me, Seth’s mouth still on my clit, knowing to keep going until I’m weak and exhausted. I can feel Roman’s fingers slipping from me and I want to tell him to keep going but I can’t find the words. But then words don’t matter as he tilts my chin back and my eyes flicker open to hazily watch as he sucks his fingers dry, holding my gaze as he does.

Slowly, the tension that has spasmed through me eases and I take a deep, shaky breath. Seth’s mouth moves to lazily kiss my hips, my stomach as my leg slides from his shoulder. Three pairs of arms circle me, holding me up as I struggle to hold my own weight and I feel momentarily light-headed as the reality of what just happened hits me.

“Fuck,” I gasp, my mind suddenly catching up.

“Good?” Seth mumbles against my mouth and I nod into his kiss. “More?”

I’m acutely aware of my nakedness and how over-dressed the three of them are in comparison. I’m also fully aware that pressed against me in various places are three rock-hard dicks and I swallow thickly at the thought.

“More?” I squeak and Roman chuckles behind me.

“You got three men ready and willing to do whatever you want. If you want more, we’ll give you more.”

“Your terms,” Seth reminds me. “You tell us what you want.”

---

I'll be back soon with the next part...

[joonslfttiddie]

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Chapter 46: You Mean Nothing...

💜Fic Pairing: OT7 x OFC

💜AU/Genre: Reverse Harem/Polyfidelity/Ghosts/AMBW

💜Warnings: Smut/Adult Language/Adult Content/Murder/Blood/Attack by stalker/Strangulation

💜Rating: MA

💜Word Count: 4,844

Chapter 46

Tia’s POV

Not only have my ancestors given me a peek at the passion the guys and I will hold dearly, but they have also informed me of the best way to navigate situations to keep us all safe. I had told Jimin that I was keeping something from them to prevent a situation that could harm us physically and mentally. However, I couldn't reveal more details as it might negatively impact our timeline. I know that if I told him, he would immediately tell the others in an attempt to keep me safe. Because of that, I also couldn’t let him know of today’s events.

“Y’all, I’m starving! We don’t have anything to cook for lunch,” I whine while sprawled across the couch, my head resting in Taehyung’s lap. Even though we did have a late breakfast, it’s well past lunchtime and my belly lets me know by rumbling loudly. This is just another reason to put some fire under these guys.

“We, literally, just had breakfast,” Jungkook chuckles while rubbing my calf, his eyes fixed on the TV screen. “There’s no way you’re hungry again already.”

“It’s okay, my baby,” Taehyung says sweetly yet teasingly while stroking my hair. I pout up at his handsome face, which makes him laugh, then offer, “We’ll go as soon as Yoongi gets here, okay?”

“There are still chips in the pantry. Do you want a bag to hold you over?”

“Joonie, you’re so sweet but I want meat,” I say, declining his offer, not even realizing I’d inadvertently walked myself into a joke.

“Well, if that’s the case, I just might have something you can snack on,” Jungkook teases.

I can’t help but laugh out loud and kick at him playfully.

“Wow, Koo. While that sounds appetizing, I’ll save that for later.”

Our laughter dies down before Jimin can ask, “Did Hoseok say what time he’d be back from Bangtan?”

“He said it’d be later this evening, most likely,” I answer him without looking over at him lying on the floor near Namjoon’s chair, scrolling on his phone judging by the Tiktok sounds I hear.

“So we really do need to leave as soon as Yoongi gets here so that we can make dinner before he gets back,” Jungkook realizes.

“Or we could just do takeout tonight? Seems like that would be the easiest thing so you guys won’t be rushing,” Namjoon suggests.

“That sounds good to me,” Taehyung says, smiling down at me.

“You know I don’t mind that at all. Maybe we could get food from that new restaurant Tia wanted to try,” Jimin adds.

“Bet, that sounds like a plan then. Since we’re in no rush now, how about-,” Jungkook says as he runs his hand up my thighs to glide his finger under the hem of my black shorts.

“Koo!” I giggle as he leans across the couch, slithering his body to lay on top of me.

“Damn, this man never quits,” Namjoon says to no one in particular with a snicker.

“He is quite insatiable, huh?” Jimin laughs, answering Namjoon.

“I swear,” Taehyung agrees with a chuckle, joining the other men. “I don’t see how he does it. I guess I’m getting old cause my back is still sore from helping move those mattresses last night,” he retorts as he fondly runs his fingers through Jungkook’s hair, who is now kissing me deeply. Jungkook parts my legs with his knee, making room to rest his semi-erect manhood against my mound.

My giggles have long turned into moans and I find myself fighting the urge to allow my mind to cloud over with lust. I can’t. I have to get them out of this house. While I wish this make-out session could continue, I gently push Jungkook away by his shoulders.

“Babe,” is all I manage to say, thankfully being saved by the bell.

“That must be Yoongi,” Namjoon says, about to get up to answer the door.

“I got it,” Jimin offers, getting up to run out of the room.

Jungkook kisses my lips one more time before dismounting my body with a grin on his face. Taehyung leans over to kiss me, too, then helps me up from the couch to rush excitedly behind Jimin to meet Yoongi at the door. On my way to him, I suddenly see blue and red lights flashing in the peripheral of my mind’s eye, signaling that trouble is on the way. I have to get them away from the house…NOW!

Yoongi’s POV

I smile involuntarily when I’m met at the door by Jimin, Tia, and the sweetest smell of caramel or vanilla. Fighting the urge to pounce, the scent, along with the boyshorts that hug Tia’s hips and thighs, is triggering something primal within me. I remember the distinct aroma from yesterday, but it is inebriating coming from outside to be consumed by it again. When I come in contact with her soft body as she rushes into my arms, I bury my face in her neck and strands of her hair tickle my cheek.

“YOONGI!”

She continues to squeal my name, pulling me into her even tighter. I’m not usually a fan of loud noises but the way she screams my name sends chills down my spine. Not even realizing that I’d begin to squeeze her tighter, I relax my fists to release her shirt from my grip and my grip on her.

“Geez,” she says lightheartedly, slowly pulling away. “I couldn’t breathe for a second there. Are you okay?”

I’m slightly embarrassed by the effect she has on me, or rather my inability to control myself. I reassure her that I’m fine and apologize while Jimin caresses her back and checks to make sure she’s okay. After a moment, she seems to speed walk her way back through the foyer and disappears into the kitchen.

FUCK! She must be pissed at me.

Before I can mentally spiral, Jimin is there to talk to me.

“Bro, breathe,” he says and I exhale a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her. I don’t want to hurt her, I swear. It’s just-,” I try to explain before he finishes my sentence.

“It’s her scent. I know. I get it. We’ve all been there, I promise,” he reassures me, his hand on my shoulder. “It does get better with being around her more. Come on,” he says, leading me through the kitchen and into the living room where the other guys are. They all extend warm welcomes, taking turns coming to hug me. My heart feels so full, I could cry.

“Ahem,” I clear the lump from my throat, “what are you guys up to?”

I try to discreetly read Tia’s expression from where I’m standing. I watch while her eyes dart here and there, also, taking notice of her shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

I thought she was upset with me for hurting but she seems more tense than angry now. Anxious, even. Maybe I’m reading too much into it.

“Waiting for you to get here. Grocery run, remember?” Jungkook answers, then grabs his hoodie from the back of the couch and puts it on.

“Dang, he just got here,” Namjoon says to Jungkook, his sulking evident by his expression.

“I know! I feel the same way, but let's think of it this way,” Tia says. “The sooner they leave, the quicker they’ll be back, right?”

She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his lips which seems to appease him for now. Taehyung gathers his things, Tia passes out kisses to him, Jungkook and me, then we’re out the door.

Namjoon’s POV

I don’t know if Jimin noticed before he left to go to the dance studio, but Tia seems a bit on edge. Something ain’t right. I can tell that she’s trying to downplay it, but as I’ve mentioned before, I feel like I’ve known her forever. I know her little quirks, habits, and mannerisms. And right now, she seems rigid and tense…almost robotic.

“Little, you good?”

You would have thought I yelled at her by the way she flinches.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. I was in my head for a moment,” she tells me, which could be true. I understand that she’s still getting a handle on her gifts. I can’t imagine how she must be feeling trying to navigate that on top of all of the excitement surrounding our new living situation.

“I just asked if you are okay. You seem off.”

“I’m okay, really. I’m just a little tired, I guess. Do you want to nap with me?”

I agree, a little drowsy myself, and follow her upstairs. We snuggle up under the sprawling duvet and the bed seems even larger with just the two of us in it. Once in the middle, we cuddle up against each other, her tiny frame fitting perfectly with mine. When I feel her body fully relax and her breathing deepens, I’m able to succumb to my own tiredness, knowing that she’s safe in my arms.

Jimin’s POV

In the studio, I connect my phone to the speakers and play one of my playlists. I allow my body to move instinctively, no particular choreography in mind. Even though I’m enjoying how light and effortless my movements feel, my mind is congested with thoughts of Tia. I’m worried about her but decided to come down here to give her some space. I’m going to have to talk with my baby. I feel obligated to let her know that she’s terrible at hiding her feelings. As if on her sleeves, they can be seen in her movements, her touch, shit, even the way she squealed Yoongi’s name didn’t sound right.

I’m assuming the change within her has something to do with what she shared with me yesterday. It has to be. She said it was something she couldn’t go into detail about in order to protect us. I’m dying to know what she’s talking about, but I know that if she has to keep it close to her chest, it’s for a good reason. I just wish there was something I could do to help her. The thoughts are haunting, but I know better than to tell the others. I don’t want Tia to question her trust in me, and I would hate to have the guys feel like I am right now.

After dancing for nearly an hour, I’ve worked up quite an appetite. I take the initiative to place an order of different dishes from the spot we agreed on. They should deliver the food in approximately 30 minutes, which gives me enough time to dance for a few more minutes before I go up and shower.

Tia’s POV

And the Academy Award should go to me for the act I just put on, or so I thought until Namjoon questioned me. I feel slightly guilty, like I’m being deceptive, but I have to be in this case. I have to in order to save us all. I’ve been focusing on keeping my feelings inside and not transmitting to the guys this entire time.

When he believes I’m sleeping and dozes off himself, I wait until he’s snoring and in a deep sleep before I slink from under his arm and inch my way out of bed. With my phone in hand, once I’m downstairs, I dial the number the female detective had given me the night she and her partner interrogated me, Taehyung, and Jungkook in the bedroom.

She answers quickly with, “Detective Lopez.”

“Hi, Detective Lopez, this is Tia Monroe. I’m not sure if you remember me from the stalker case at 1959 Honeysuckle Terrace.”

“Of course. Yes, I remember you. You’re Officer Jeon’s girlfriend, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Of course. How may I help?”

Her friendly tone turns serious when I begin to give her the details I’ve acquired. Thankfully, she takes my word for it, maybe because of my relationship with Jungkook, and doesn’t press to know how I know these things. She pauses each time I say something of significance, repeating it in a whisper, letting me know that she’s writing down the important parts. She is just as relieved as I am to know that Jungkook is not here, understanding how hot-tempered he can be, especially when it comes to people he cares about.

“So, there are already units at his house looking for Tony, and the brother is coming for you right now?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Got it. I’m on my way.”

After hanging up, I quickly take a peek outside from the balcony door, hoping that Jimin will be dancing for a little while longer. This has to play out just right so that we ALL survive.

Narrator POV

Tia hangs up the call with Detective Lopez and quickly makes her way to the balcony door. She is relieved that Jimin is not on his way back to the house and that Namjoon is upstairs sleeping soundly.

While walking the aisles, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Yoongi chat about nothing of relevance while placing things into the cart until Yoongi speaks up.

“Is it just me, or did Tia seem…different?”

“Holy fuck, I was literally thinking the exact same thing,” Taehyung answers, placing his things in while Yoongi pushes.

Jungkook feels it too but doesn’t say a word, now pissed at himself for not following his gut. Something seemed to be nagging at him, like a gnat in his ear, telling him to stay with her.

“Let’s finish,” he says, and they find themselves moving with haste, trying to grab everything on their lists. They try to ignore the uneasiness that rests between them, but they seem to have made a silent agreement to grab what they need and then get back to the house. It hasn’t even been an hour since the men left the house, but each minute feels like an eternity, knowing that something is off with Tia.

They finish up, check out, and rush to load their bagged items into the car. Taehyung shifts the car into drive, looking behind him to back out of the parking spot. Before he can press the accelerator, Yoongi touches his hand.

“Umm, you’re in drive,” he points out to the younger man.

“Fuck,” Taehyung says, his mind obviously somewhere else at the moment.

“Here, I’ll drive,” Jungkook offers before getting out from the backseat to switch seats with Taehyung.

After tying up all of the loose ends in Bangtan, Hoseok hops in his car, excited to head back home.

At this moment, a man can be seen walking toward the house, his construction boots leaving imprints as he walks through the grass. He doesn’t even have time to ring the bell when Tia opens the door, almost as if she’s expecting him.

Jungkook’s POV

Fuck, fuck, fuck! I knew something wasn’t right. I fucking knew!

The thought seems to be on a loop, repeating in my head, the only thing I can hear due to the silence among us. Yoongi’s foot taps against the floor at an unnatural speed as he’s staring out the passenger side window at nothing in particular. Taehyung seems to be on the verge of a panic attack, clearly out of it at the moment, his breathing is erratic with sporadic deep sighs. I can’t say that I blame these guys being that I’m sure I would have similar reactions if not for my training.

I must admit, I am taking advantage of that training at the moment, speeding and dodging in and out between the cars in traffic, relying on the security that my badge will afford me if pulled over. I wish my instincts as an officer would have convinced me to stay with Tia. I pray this gut feeling is wrong for once in my life.

Tia’s POV

“Twin, where have you been?”

I joke with the man at the door, even though my heart is pounding in my throat. And judging by his expression, he’s not really in a laughing mood.

“You think you’re really funny, don’t you?”

“I do, actually. Don’t you?”

“Bitch, I don’t even know where to start with you.”

“Excuse me? What the fuck did I do? What is happening?”

“You know what the fuck happened. Why are there cops at my fucking house? I know your hoe ass is behind it.”

“Whoa! What are you talking about? That’s your house. I ain’t got shit to do with what goes on in your home, sir,” I say, trying to act like my normal, sarcastic self.

“You know, don’t you?”

“Know what, Brandon? Matter of fact, why are you even here? What makes you feel as if it’s okay for you to pop up at my house unannounced, yet again, with the nerve to talk to me any kind of way?”

“You know that Tony is our little brother. Why else would you tip off your bitch ass boyfriend?”

“Yea, I know he’s your brother but I haven’t tipped anybody off about anything. And my boyfriend is far from a bitch.”

“Hmm,” he says, scratching at his beard. “I wonder what else you might know. Are you a witch? I heard stories about your whore of a great-great grandmother and how she seduced my great-great-grandfather with her tricks and spells. I see it runs in the family…black magic AND being a fucking slut.”

It’s no surprise that Brandon can be a dick, but I’ve never experienced him speaking to me this way. I must admit, I am caught off guard and I don’t feel that any vision could have prepared me for this.

“Brandon, you’re going to fucking far. You need to leave now.”

“Since you know every fucking thing, do you know who was texting you? Who was watching over you and protecting you? Do you know why your wine was extra delicious?”

I am just standing here, trying to read whatever is behind his eyes from this distance, which is making things even harder than usual. His questions cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end; my gut is telling me to dig deeper. Looking into his eyes, all I can see is evil and death.

“Protecting me? Wine? What are you talking about?”

“It was me. I’ve loved you from the first day we met—way before meeting you here. You remember, don’t you?” He speaks proudly as he admits this to me and seriously expects me to remember some previous encounter.

“Ummm,” I say as he’s taking steps towards me.

“At your old office. I remember it like it was yesterday. I’ve been checking on you ever since, only having to keep my distance so that I didn’t get caught or connected to Tony’s dumb ass.” He stops just at the threshold of the door as he continues to reminisce. “And I’m so sorry for what he did to you that one day. I had no idea he was talking about you when he asked me for dating advice. I should have just killed him then for hurting you. I’m so sorry,” he reaches out to touch my face and I pull away.

“Stop, Brandon. You need to go.”

“I’m not going no fucking where. Not until you admit that you feel the same way I do. I know you do. You always have. I can tell by the way you look at me. The way you smile at me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never looked at you any kind of way after we had that talk. I only remember you from when I hired you to do my renovations. Sure, we flirted in the beginning and did some senseless stuff, but we ended that. That’s how I met you and I don’t remember anything about us meeting before then. I only recently found out that you and Jason used to bring Tony to his appointments sometimes but we never met or spoke to each other for that matter.”

“So, you’re telling me that you don’t remember me? You haven’t missed me at all? Do you even love me? Do you not feel the way I do?”

“Brandon, what the fuck. No! No, I don’t. What about anything I’ve said are you not comprehending? I don’t love you and I never have. You mean nothing to me.”

“Stop calling me that,” he says, becoming increasingly upset as his face takes on a new shade of red.

“Stop calling you what? By your name? You are crazy and delusional, Brandon. It’s time for you to go.”

“I said don’t call me that. AND I’M NOT CRAZY!”

As if my last remark was the last straw, the man lunges at me, causing my body to slam against the hardwood floor, his body weight on me making the impact that much worse. I’m coughing while trying to catch my breath, having the wind knocked from my lungs. I’m trying to crawl away as he straddles my body, only for him to pull me back.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, huh? Well, riddle me this…let’s see if you have an answer for this one. YOU SAY YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND, SO WHO THE FUCK ARE ALL THESE OTHER MEN COMING IN AND OUT OF HERE, YOU FUCKING SLUT? I HAVE SACRIFICED SO MUCH TO MAKE SURE YOUR DUMB ASS IS SAFE, BUT YOU’RE IN HERE LETTING ANY AND EVERYBODY CRAWL BETWEEN YOUR FUCKING LEGS. I’VE TRIED TO BE UNDERSTANDING BUT THE WAY YOU’RE ACTING RIGHT NOW IS LIKE YOU DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ME. AND I’M HERE STILL TRYING TO FUCKING LOVE YOU.”

Profanity, obscenities, and spittle fly from between his clenched teeth to spray onto my face. I’m trying to wiggle and kick my way from under him, but my efforts are futile as I’m easily overpowered. Just as I’m able to get a full breath in, he wraps his thick, massive hands around my neck, cutting off my air supply. “Brandon,” I barely get out as I claw at the skin of his hands and can feel when my nails slice across the smooth, scarred skin on his left hand.

JASON!

I’m beginning to see spots floating in front of my eyes, my kicking and scratching is becoming noticeably weaker. I can feel myself on the verge of passing out, but suddenly I hear commotion coming from all sides. Everything seems to be going in slow motion and even though my ears are ringing, I hear the muffled voices of my loves, Jimin and Namjoon. I can feel their fear; their anger. Their footsteps sound like thunder, booming in my ears and there is another voice that I can’t place.

“HEY, STOP! GET OFF OF HER!”

Jason continues administering force and his surge of obscenities. “I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN TO CHASE SUCH AN UNDESERVING SLUT LIKE YOU. YOU’RE PROVING THE REPUTATION SURROUNDING YOUR FAMILY NAME TO BE TRUE. EVEN AFTER YOU TRIED TO SEDUCE MY BROTHERS, I STILL TRIED TO LOVE YOU. EVEN AFTER YOU IGNORED MY CALLS, TEXTS, AND ADVANCES. YOU’VE CONTINUED TO SHIT ON ME OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER,” he says the last part of his statement while applying more pressure as if to emphasize the words, tears falling from his face. “AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER, BUT THAT ALL ENDS TODAY. SAY HELLO TO YOUR MOTHER FOR ME,” he adds the last part with a smirk which is the last thing I see.

“CLOSE YOUR EYES,” the new voice yells.

I don’t know if I ever close my eyes or if I temporarily lose my vision as it begins to narrow, clouds of darkness moving in from the edges of my line of sight. Suddenly, there is a loud bang, then warm liquid and pieces of flesh splatter onto my face and into my hair. With the weight on my throat now gone, I gulp in oxygen. Jason collapses partially onto my legs as I continue to gasp for air and begin to cry, flailing in another attempt to get him off of me. Something hard is pressing against my shin, digging into my skin.

“Tia, don’t open your eyes, baby. Come on,” Namjoon says, and I feel him trying to pull me free while lifting the upper half of my body.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Jimin says, his voice coming from down below. I can feel Jason being rolled off of me.

“Go ahead,” the new voice instructs and Namjoon pulls me to my feet, then picks me up to cradle my body in his arms as my legs are much too weak to support myself.

I can hear sirens coming closer, tires screeching, then, the voices of my other men.

“TIA! TIA!” Taehyung’s voice follows us through the house.

“WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?” Yoongi is not far behind, obviously confused.

“FUCK!!!” I can tell that Jungkook is upset, which is understandable.

With my eyes still closed, Namjoon leads us to the living room where he begins to wipe my face with paper towels being handed to him. Someone else hands him a wet cloth that he wipes my eyes and mouth with, then switches back to paper towels. He repeats this process while the other person helps by running off to refresh the cloth with warm water. He removes my shirt and replaces it with a hoodie and I can smell Jungkook all over the fabric. Detective Lopez and other officers enter the room and I can hear her speaking with Jungkook and the shutter of a camera in the foyer. After a few moments, I can finally open my eyes and the light is blinding. I immediately fall into Namjoon’s arms, tears still forming in my eyes.

“It’s okay, Little. It’s okay.”

Detective Lopez comes over and gives her condolences, not for the dead, but for what I’ve had to endure. She asks me to recount what happened. I give her all the details I can think of right now, and she’s very empathetic to how I’m feeling.

“I can imagine that what you’ve just gone through and what you’ve had to deal with for the past few months is traumatizing. Get some rest. Please, reach out if you remember anything else.”

“Check the truck. You’ll find evidence to connect him with Tony there,” I tell her. She pauses for a slight moment before writing it down and whispers something to a uniformed officer.

“Thank you for your help. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

She goes to get statements from the guys and Namjoon leaves me for a moment to give his. I look over to see Hoseok in the crowd, unsure of when he arrived due to the chaos. The shock and concern are evident in his expression. Jungkook comes over to take Namjoon’s place, his brows furrowed confirming his anger.

“Jungkook, I-,” I begin but he cuts me off.

“Nuh uh. Not now,” he just hugs me, not wanting to hear an explanation or anything right now.

I don’t know how much time has passed, everything feels surreal and moments seem to drag along. Finally, the commotion dies down and all of the officers have gone, leaving only us and the cleaners to do their thing. Namjoon leads me up to our room and into the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, I look at him and can see blood splatter on his shirt and when I try to look down at his pants, he doesn’t let me, pulling my face to look at him. The tears return as I begin to sob into my hands, covered by the long sleeves of Jungkook’s hoodie.

“Shh shh shh,” he tries to comfort me. “It’s over now, Little. I got you.”

He strips me of my clothes before he shuffles out of his own, then the sound of a trash bag rustling gets closer. Jimin opens the door to collect our soiled clothing, then he closes it again without a word

We step into the shower and allow the warm water to wash over us. In silence, Namjoon rubs at my skin with just water to remove any spray and residue before leaning my head back to rinse my hair in the same manner. He washes my hair several times before he uses my facial and body washes to cleanse me from head to toe to fingertips.

While I can assume what just happened, due to limited vision during the incident as well as in my spiritual vision, I’m not in a place to talk about it. Not right now. I need to sit with this to allow my mind and spirit to catch up, so I’m thankful Namjoon is quietly focused on cleaning me up. I take this time to transmit that thought to everyone else and I know it’s received when Namjoon quietly says, “Okay.”

A/N:

Damn, Tia is going through it! 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 Did you expect this to happen to her? What are your thoughts? Let me know in the comments!

Thanks, again, to @downbad4yoongi for beta reading this chapter!

[scattered-winter]

the sheer amount of angst potential in carmen sandiego is INSANE

like. they’re fighting against a criminal organization that is so secret and covert, literally nobody knows about it (except ACME but they’ve been trying to find them for 20 years and turned up with nothing, so without Carmen’s intervention they probably never would have defeated them), but its roots are in LITERALLY every country. there are canonically VILE operatives that run nations and supercompanies. like. when you really get into it, VILE is ASTRONOMICALLY powerful. and the only people who both know about it and can actively fight against it are a handful of teenagers.

also like. the mindwiping thing??!!? it’s a kid’s show so it wasn’t really explored in depth but the implications are HORRIFYING. if they can wipe someone’s mind, they can completely rewrite a personality, or create sleeper agents left and right. they could kidnap random people off the streets, brainwash them, and then have an army of drones with the drop of a keyword. they manipulate and train their operatives to steal and kill without remorse or hesitation, and honestly the only reason why all the main characters made it through the show alive and unscathed was because of the rating because if it was a tv-14 or tv-ma rating, there’s no way everyone would have survived that shit

[vasiktomis]

Enclosed Spaces (18+)

Pairing: Travis Hackett/Gender-neutral Reader. Solo. Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~4000. Warnings: Sexualisation of a cop (yuck). Passing mentions of gore and violence. Depictions of paranoia. Read it on Ao3!

Tags: No use of Y/N. Light angst. Self-hatred. Masturbation. Pining. Premature ejaculation.

There’s a particular sense of dreariness in diners nowadays, Sheriff Hackett has decided.

It wasn’t always like this. Back before smartphones and the internet — hell, even cable TV — before technology and fast tourism had made damn clear how cut-off from society old communities like North Kill were, Travis had spent his adolescence looking forward to breakfast outings wedged in vinyl booths with his family on this particular stretch of forest road. Even in his youth, it was decades past its zeitgeist, but as a rare treat offered by parents who prided themselves on self-sustainability, he and his brothers had once loved coming here.

The Hacketts were an introverted people by nature, but they held the respect of the county-folk for their dedication to keeping North Kill from being wiped off the map. As time passed and the population dwindled, only the most well-established locals seemed to persevere. Businesses rotated through owners almost yearly. One brother was born. Then the next. Travis's family, while ever-changing, were among the only constants he knew. Them, and this meagre little diner, nestled in the trees. 

It was always the same. 

Bobby, forever the baby, would be shoved between Ma and Pa’s elbows while they traded conversation with whatever locals stopped by to chat. Chris, while closer to Bobby's age, suffered enough middle child syndrome to boost him half a decade to keep up with Travis. On their side of the booth, the two of them would brag to each other in the hopes of catching the attention of pretty wait staff. 'A copperhead bit me once while I was hunting with Pa, but I was too strong and the poison gave me powers. I have the tooth, still.' Chris would almost yell to him over the table, both of them fixated on the 20-something that leaned across them to top up Ma's coffee.

“He’s so cute.” The waitress would coo at Bobby, not even sparing his competing older brothers a glance while the kid carved yet another crayon into the tabletop, fingers and chin caked with grease and maple imitation. 

Those moments were the only instance Travis could recall hating one of his own. 

The years came and went. Times changed, but out as far as they were, the routine didn’t. Pocket money and independence turned the spot into a hangout in a pinch. Tourists came through in increasingly modernised cars and wardrobes while their little town — if you could even call it that — drew further and further out of time. Architecture dulled. Classics became white noise. 

Family breakfasts dwindled in adulthood, but Travis still frequented for the 24-hour service that shift-work had forced him to appreciate. It was familiar. Quiet. That same side of the same booth, in the same dingy little diner. It had become an especially common habit for him in recent years to hang around the place after clocking off. Ever since Silas had been on the run, it was a handy spot to eavesdrop on late-night chatter when one had otherwise silence awaiting them back home. If there wasn't some muttered tip to follow up on, there was at least the clatter of plates. Some casual wave. A ‘hey, Sheriff’ — hell, even a drunk to ferry home — or lock-up, behaviour permitting. 

In the present, there's no better reason to be here than you. 

There's you, bearing a welcoming smile, returning to his booth like clockwork while the hours pass in the night to top up his coffee. You, who combats the loneliness and dreariness of this out-of-time place with ill-fitted enthusiasm and daily anecdotes ranging from boring to bizarre. Something about you teems with stubborn, relentless, fascinating life, and when there's nothing else to observe in the room, Travis takes great pleasure in simply existing in your proximity.

He doesn’t speak to you. Not in a familiar sense. Small-talk is a hard habit to break out of when you’d been working here so many years and all he’d grown accustomed to trading for your words were unamused hums and taciturn, one-word responses. He likes to think that despite the lack of chatter, however, your short interactions had stacked enough familiarity over all this time to transcend conversation. Even if he wouldn't dare to ever address you by your first name, Travis likes to think you enjoy having him around.

At least, that’s what he tells himself every time you linger at his table, slowing the stream of coffee from the pot to enquire about his day and he chokes out a curt reply that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. It’s what he tells himself when he barely returns your smiles, far too concerned with family business, work, and nerves to regard you until it’s too late. When you’re already tending to another patron or shuffling menus or cleaning tables. Gaze captured by your retreating form only when the pressure of your attention is no longer on him. 

Existing in your proximity is doable. Comfortable. Talking to you, on the other hand; he can't think of anything more terrifying.

Tonight — however —  is a little different.

It’s almost sundown when Travis is finishing up. Bobby and his parents are waiting on him to prep for tonight’s hunt. Chris and the kids are most likely sedated and chained up by now. 

You’re tugging the ties of your apron as you approach, signalling the end of your shift, and his heart sinks in relief at the prospect that you’ll be home instead of here for the full moon. Unfortunately for the both of you, that weight shifting off his shoulders looks a whole lot more like annoyance on him. 

Despite his refusal to match your energy, you seem to hold out. “You need a top-up before I head out for the night, Sheriff?” You ask, beaming bright enough that he can barely stand to meet your eye until you’re finally faltering.

Travis’s jaw rolls. Words jam on his tongue. Silence. At least until he averts his gaze to the setting sun out the window and stands from his seat. 

“Making sure you’re the one getting the tip, huh?” He grunts. A breath leaves you. Polite laughter. He’s almost dizzy at the sound. “I’m headed out, too. I’ll, uh— I’ll walk you out.” 

He overtakes you on the way to the door, maybe a little too briskly while you stop to grab your things from behind the counter. It feels almost like it could've been an evasion if he willed it, but you're catching up as he slows to escort you out. His intention is to be gentlemanly; commit to the absolute bare minimum of courtesy — maybe even catch a whiff of whatever shampoo you use while you're close enough.

Fuck his life that a group of 5 just so happens to walk through the door as soon as he opens it, ignoring the two of you completely on their way past. Travis's molars grind. Whatever. Maybe that albino shit might scare some manners into them if they stay out too late.

His failed attempt has him distracted enough that he forgets his intention completely and walks outside first, only just remembering to hold the fucking thing for you once you’re already outside. 

The summer air offers no reprieve from the heat crawling up the back of his neck while you follow him down the steps, gaze flickering at him in his periphery. It's a battle not to turn his back to you when he slows to a stop in the parking lot — to just pretend you don't exist for a few seconds and claw back a little dignity.

Jesus fucking Christ, he hates himself. 

He rifles through his wallet for whatever note seems appropriately sizeable enough to communicate a job well done without seeming like he’s playing favourites among the staff, and half-expects you to disappear the moment the cash is in your hand. 

You do not. 

“Thanks." You mutter, shrugging a shoulder. The act of giving you money while you're not in uniform almost feels dirty. He's on the verge of asking for it back before the two of you continue on your way. "You, uh, you walking me to my car?"

The curious tilt of your head has Travis frowning. Then, he realises he’s been meeting your stride in the opposite direction of his patrol car.

“Is there a problem?"

"No, you're welcome to." There's amusement in your tone. "Safest 30 steps I'll ever take."

"Sure."

Christ, why couldn’t he have been born with a little of Chris’s charisma? Why does walking you across a parking lot have to be so painful? 

“You headed back to the station tonight?"

“Nope.” Fuck. Elaborate, dumbass. “I’m — Out. Off. For the night.”

In the corner of his eye, your gaze wanders elsewhere. The prickling in the back of his neck eases. 

“Got any plans?”

“Family business.” 

“Which one?”

That almost makes him chuckle. “The hunting one.”

It wasn’t strictly a lie. 

“Anything after?” You ask.

“All-nighter. Bastard we’ve been after’s migrated back up North from the sounds of it."

“Sounds pretty elusive."

“You don’t know the half of it.” The corners of Travis’s mouth tug. 

For just a moment, while you’re rounding the driver's side of your car and the two of you slow to a stop, he’s finally able to trade a friendly expression with you.  

Silence stretches between you for a moment, a little more comfortable now that you seem to be the one searching for your words. With the tables turned, watching your gaze flicker to meet his — then away — then back again — he decides it’s…cute, when you do it.

That smile blooms across your face once more, now trained firmly on him.

“Maybe I’d like to.”

A pit forms in Travis’s stomach. Blood drains from his face. He sobers in an instant. Your words echo through his thoughts, sharpening with mounting anxiety. What exactly were you trying to say? You were interested in hunting?

The smile still lingers on you, and what felt like amusement moments ago has suddenly warped into something harsh and mocking. Did you know what they were hunting? Were you probing him for information? 

“What makes my time any of your business?” He snaps, ignoring a pang of guilt at such a confrontation. Perhaps he was being too paranoid. Perhaps you were none the wiser. Just curious. Less sense than caution. He made an effort to ease up at the sight of your brow furrowing. “I think it’s wiser that you get in your car and go drive home.”

You’re pulling the door open. Not quite able to slip into the drivers seat when Travis’s palm presses into the chassis, using whatever presence he could just to make sure you were listening. “Maybe another night, then.”

Another night?

Anxiety turns to panic.

“Don’t let me catch you out here after dark." He insists, voice hardening. "You’ve got no idea what you’re doing.”

“I meant…—“

“I don’t care what you meant. I’m telling you to drop whatever it is you’re hoping to get out of this. No ‘another night’.” Travis grinds out. “Go home. Do I make myself clear?”

The ensuing pause is dreadful.

“Yeah.” Eventually cuts from between your teeth. Your eyes flash disdain at his order. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.” 

Travis notices far too late how close you’ve become until you slip out of his shadow. Maple scent disappears with your presence as you get into your car, avoiding his gaze now. His hand still rests against the chassis, preventing you from leaving. He leans down. 

He needs to be certain you’re hearing him. He needs to know you’ll be alive in the morning. 

It’d be overstepping to offer his number. Let you know you can call on him for help outside work hours. He'd be there in a heartbeat if you asked, if not for the implications.

“I’m flagging your licence plate.” Is all he can offer in lieu of a assurance. “I see your car anywhere between here and my family’s home? May god help you.”

The mortification is clear enough to have him content. You’re not pleased to say the least, but his point is well and truly across. It's fine; it's better this way. There's safety in distance, and he can always compensate with a more generous tip tomorrow.

Travis pushes the door closed the rest of the way, molars grinding at the empty smile that broadens on you. 

He’s upset you. He knows it, but he can’t be faulted for steering you clear of the hunt. For keeping his family safe.

Maybe another night, then. That phrase sticks out to him while you start the car and back out of your space. He’d have to keep a closer watch on you if you planned on challenging his warning more than once. Another night, then. You'd never shown an interest in hunting. Why would you do such a thing, if not out of nosiness? Malicious curiosity? Spite, even. It made less sense the more he replayed it. What was that if not an invitation to–

...

An invitation.

Oh. Oh, no.

Travis goes rigid, watching your car pull out of the lot. Hands frozen on his hips. Gawking.

Had he not been on display to the entirety of the diner, he might’ve thrown something. Started kicking the tyres of his patrol car. 

You were making a fucking pass at him. 

Shit. Shit! 

You’d shown an interest in him. In him. In being with him. Off-duty, outside work hours. At night. Recreationally. And he’d just torn you a new one for it. 

Fucking piece of shit. Fucking loser. Over and over while he trudges back to his own vehicle, the conversation flickers through his thoughts. How many more ins had you given him prior to today? How many fucking chances?

The sun's half way past the horizon. He doesn't have time to reflect. He has to table this for now. As much as the realisation claws at his insides, he has to focus on the hunt.

Maybe if he kills that kid tonight, he can look forward to making amends.

That's the final reflection he allows himself before shoving the though to the back of his psyche, where it can't bother him.

_____________________________

It does bother him, as it turns out. 

It haunts him through the night while he searches for Silas in the undergrowth. The White Wolf hasn't made an appearance tonight and the trail is cold, and while his failure is spelled out by undisturbed frogs and crickets chirping late into the night, the Sheriff is almost relieved. The incident outside the diner and the replaying memory of it deafens him to the ambience. If he's being stalked by the werewolf, he's far too distracted to know it.

Finally, the sun rises, and Travis is once again out of time. Another month to add to the record of the family curse. Another month of Ma's ire and Pa's hard-won, past-his-prime lectures. Chris and the kids didn't deserve this. Especially the kids. 

He has to get back to the station in a few hours. Pretend he hasn’t been wandering the woods all fucking night. He has to clean off. Decompress. Take just a little time to reflect on what he’d said to you — on how the fuck he could hope to set the record straight when the mere knowledge that he’d held your interest was trying his stomach in knots. 

If he couldn’t work up the spine to speak to you before, he's got no hope in hell of approaching you now. 

The moment he’s back in his flat, Travis bee-lines for the bathroom, ignoring hunger and exhaustion and the temptation to retrieve the 6-pack from the fridge along the way. The blood he’s worn to cover his scent on the hunt isn’t so obvious against the black of his uniform, but it acts almost like a sponge, soaking fresh stains over his skin, incriminating him in the light. 

He doesn’t bother to let the water run hot before he steps into the shower fully clothed, barring his shoes. The half-minute of icy spray does well to remove whatever rusted pigment his clothes might gain once dry. Momentarily, the chill of the water is enough of a shock to his system that he stops mulling over what happened in the parking lot. 

It doesn’t last. The self-loathing seeps back in right while the water pooling around the drain runs copper and crimson. Another night of fuck ups. Another month of cursed loved ones and the overtime it took to keep them safe. Some small part of him protests; maybe they’re asking too much of him — maybe it isn’t fair that it all falls on his shoulders. With Bobby’s disabilities and his parents’ ages, though, who else can keep everyone safe?

He’s ashamed of himself for such a sentiment. And yet —

He feels just as cursed.

To be free of the favours and the corruption and the secrecy — the fucking paranoia that settles over every conversation that someone might know, or find out. He fucking wishes he could spend a moment in that diner with a clear enough head, just enough to be capable of holding a conversation with you.

Maybe he's shifting the blame too much. This has been going on so long that he can't be sure if he was terrified of you before Silas came to the county. It's possible that even if the Harum Scarum hadn't rolled into town, and there'd been no fire, and no witches, and no werewolves — he'd still be sitting in that little booth.

The water begins to warm, and Travis reluctantly disrobes in the cubicle, unbuttoning and peeling off his drenched uniform. Shame hits from a new angle once his trousers are discarded. He’s half hard in his periphery. A frequent state he’s left in while you’re on his mind. While he’s at his booth, thanking his lucky stars to be covered by the table while you wipe down tables, bent at the hip, reaching for too high glasses, body stretching, waist cinched by an apron perpetually dusted with coffee grounds and sugar. While he’s seated at his desk in a silent police department, combing social media for your image despite your unanswered friend request and the access that just fucking accepting would give him and fuck—

He blew you off. 

One fucking window of opportunity left wide open to reciprocate a now obvious flirtation, and he’d spent it trying to intimidate you instead. 

God, he's repulsed by himself. Even in the wake of the hurt and the gore, he's still suffering an erection. Even when his hands have scrubbed the mask of blood off his face and the smell of rotting flesh is all but washed away, he's still left in disgust.

What if he’d thrown caution to the wind and allowed you to come along tonight? It was quiet. You'd have survived. He'd have had you trudging through the brush, armed to the teeth. Would you still have been interested after that? Would you have pitied him, or laughed at him for his monthly routine of dousing himself in werewolf’s blood, and failing to track a freak show attraction who couldn’t even speak?

On the other hand, what if he’d taken this one night off? Had the common sense to tell you 'tomorrow night, I’m available' ? 

Why were you drawn to him in the first place? Did you feel sorry for him in that empty station, in his empty patrol car, in his empty flat? Was it the uniform you liked? Or had his hope that your mutual little routine of small talk affect you as well?

Maybe, somehow, you took him at face value and liked what you saw. 

Travis stiffens at the thought. A twitch from below beckons his attention once more. He presses a forearm against the cubicle wall, shifting his weight, contemplating. 

Then, he gives in. Takes himself gingerly in-hand and basks in the relief of touch, thoughts clearing, envisioning the potential your interest might have had before he ruined it. 

Do you find him attractive? Do you steal your own furtive glances when he isn't taking his own, ignoring the thinning hairline and the way his ears stuck out — or do you like that, too? 

Heat licks up through his spine with an experimental pump. Body reacting emphatically to what he's testing. 

Travis slackens with a sigh as the tension in his shoulders lessens. Nerve's spark elsewhere now, begging to keep his attention. His forehead comes to rest against the tile beside his wrist, and swallowing back a hesitation, he builds into a rhythm. 

Did you want him to fuck you? Did you think about that at all before today? He ventures to hope you’re kind enough not to mind the only experience he has to show for himself is a handful of one night stands dotted few and far between. You’d be patient, and he’d make it up to you. He’s nothing if not dedicated. He’s all too happy to learn. 

A scene he's imagined before takes shape on the backs of his eyelids. If you’d let him, he’d take you in your workplace. Late hours of a weeknight. Unlikely that anyone should enter, but always a risk that you could be caught. He’d have you against the counter, apron bunched around your waist. Right now, though, he can’t decide which image he prefers. Bending you over the counter-top or having you spread on your back atop one of the tables. Would you let him, anymore, after how he treated you? 

Maybe some fucked-up, fictional version of you might find retribution in sex. Shit, he likes the idea of that. Foregoing verbal apology in favour of physical satisfaction. Something electric buzzes through his nerves, core tightening with a particular throb that simultaneously warns and sings. He's already close, and slowing strokes do little to lessen his momentum.. He has to make the best of the time he has. 

Travis changes the scene. His patrol car. Behind the wheel. Sitting back, helpless beneath you while you rock in his lap. Taking what you need from him. Paying no mind if he’s already finished— overstimulated, trembling, slacks a stained mess from how much of him has spilled out of you. It’s only fair, after how he behaved. He transplants the image into as many scenarios as imagination will allow: his office, his couch, his bed. Arms draped around your rib cage, cheek pressed to your sternum. Feeling you make yourself come around him, over and over, flushed from exertion, not letting up until the score is settled and forgiveness is earned. 

When you’re finally done taking what you’re owed, you give way to sweetness again. Fingers scratching gently through gelled back hair. Lips ghosting over his forehead. Murmuring praises. Telling him how well he did. 

It's the thought of being held by you that brings him undone. 

The surge comes too soon, catching him off guard, choking the air in his lungs. He’s emptying into his fist already, bliss and humiliation dragging him through an orgasm that lasts nearly as long as his performance. Whatever hasn’t been spent on the tile wall coats his knuckles in residual little twitches.

The image of you evaporates, and a nearly inaudible curse slips through Travis's teeth. 

He doesn't want to leave the cubicle. What he wants is to savour the waning warmth. Enjoy what he can of the afterglow before clarity and guilt creep back into his mind.

Even if you did want him, the truth would change that. 

He’d blown you off, but at least you weren’t privy to what he’d done. What he was doing. So long as he kept you at bay, the height of your disappointment would only stem from his refusal.

Fuck. He couldn’t convince himself of that. 

At some point, he’d have to decide whether or not he’d be content to remain in the stasis of that booth, in bitter silence, or clear the air. Admit wrongdoing and hope that you’d find his incompetence charming, so long as he hadn’t completely dashed his chances.

The prospect alone terrifies him.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He’s so fucking tired.

At least there’s a 10 hour stretch of shift work between himself and that confrontation. 

At least there’s still a few minutes of hot water left. 

...

He can work with that.

He's got another round left in him. 

[cherienymphe]

this has been an ongoing discussion but obx is unnecessarily PG-13 for a TV-MA rated show. i recently learned that in the scenes where rafe says “hell”, he originally said fuck but they had to dub it in for who knows what reason.

idk i just feel like there’s no point in rating it MA if it isn’t 😭 cause mature where ? the worst thing in the show is probably either death or rafe doing coke.

NO BECAUSE IVE SAID THIS BEFORE!!! I was genuinely shocked to look it up one day and see that it's TV-MA? Mind you...euphoria is also TV-MA 🧍🏾‍♀️literally what about obx makes it TV-MA 😭

[itsaash]

unsatisfyingly satisfying: part 3/3

Today, for @noots-fic-fests, the final installment in this series, rated E and it's pure Coops, characterizations by @lumosinlove. THANK YOU for any and all support of this lil fic which it turns out means rather a lot to me. part 1 (reading here let's you get the jist, while avoiding the E parts of sirius/OFC) part 2 or all of it on ao3 here

Sirius and Remus got through the rest of their evening without being asked for any selfies or autographs, and managed to not run into any more exes. Ordering room service to the room may have helped avoid this. 

“How did it happen anyways?”

Sirius looked up from behind his burger. They were sitting on the floor of their hotel room, eating, tv on in the background.

“Quoi?”

“How did you end up in bed with Rebecca? I’ve never found myself in that situation. Always knew I wasn’t up for it.” Remus shrugged. “We don’t have to talk about it, but I have to admit I’m still thinking about it.”

“Thinking about it like you want to invite them over, or thinking about it like you’re jealous?” Sirius quipped. 

“Neither, asshole,” Remus rolled his eyes. “I’m just trying to understand the wilds that were your mind back then.” 

“I don’t even know, Re,” Sirius sighed. He popped the last bit of burger into his mouth and chewed while he looked up at the beige ceiling, thinking. “I could hardly think in a straight line back then, I was so tied up in knots. Lots of guilt and pressure and shame and so so many ‘shoulds.’” 

Remus nodded. “You thought you should like women. Like Claire said, the comphet comes for all of us at some point.”

Sirius nodded. He draped an arm over one bent knee and Remus reached out and held his dangling fingers gently as Sirius spoke. “That was definitely part of it. Just pressing down the thoughts I had about guys until they were as small as possible. Doing mental gymnastics to explain them away. I really thought I just needed to find the right girl, and for an evening I thought Rebecca might be that, so that was part of what got us into the room, I think.”

“I’m sorry the world told you you needed to do that, baby,” Remus said gently. 

Sirius quirked half a smile at him. “Well, I got there eventually, dieu merci.”

“Oui,” Remus smiled back. “Fuckin eventually. ” He dropped his head backwards and sighed. “And, ok, I am a bit jealous.” Sirius barked out a laugh. “Really? Pourquoi? Tu es l’amour de ma vie… you know that, right?” he said, trailing his fingertips up Remus’ forearm. 

“Toi aussi, baby. I love you so much. But … it really sucked watching you with girls all those years. And I had no claim on you then, but, still.”

“I get it. If you had had a boyfriend I would’ve hated that.” Remus snorted. “You would have been so mean to him. Captain stares across nachos. RBF over fries.” “Definitely,” Sirius agreed. He scooted over to sit beside Remus, both their backs resting back against the bed. He wrapped his arm around Remus’ shoulders and pulled him in towards his side. “I’ll tell you anything you want, if that helps. It was very not great.” “It seems Rebecca would disagree on that.” Sirius scrubbed a hand over his face. “I honestly was surprised she said that. I guess focusing on her, or any of the girls, was a way to not focus on what I was feeling. Or not feeling.”

Remus just nodded, his head tucked into the warmth of Sirius’ shoulder. 

“Tell me a bit about the night? Maybe if I do know about it, I’ll stop thinking about it.”

Sirius nodded and took a moment to remember. “We spent a lot of time in the hotel bar with James. Playing pool, talking, having fun. Having James there absolutely was part of the reason I got comfortable with her. It was an annoying weekend of photo shoots and interviews. There were some drinks. I think there was juggling?”

“Juggling? Juggling what ?” Remus laughed. 

“Random things. Coasters, probably a shoe.” Remus laughed, picturing it. “And I’m sure you were the best at all of that and won her right over with your skill.” “No way, she beat me at pool and juggling. But I beat Pots, so that was ok.” Remus turned to look at him. “Really? She was better than you?” “At juggling?” Sirius gave Remus a funny look. “Yeah.”

Remus stood up, going for the suitcase. “Let’s see it.” “What?” Sirius laughed. 

“Your juggling. You didn’t even have to be amazing at it for her to want you? I want to see how you look when you’re juggling.”

Sirius shook his head, but stood and cleared away the tray with their plates on it. Remus gathered enough balls of socks and gave three to Sirius while he started to toss his own. He tossed two in one hand, then the other, looking at Sirius the whole time. Sirius rolled his eyes. 

“Of course you’re already good at this.”

“Julian and I would do this together!” Remus laughed. “So let’s see you, Cap.”

Sirius tossed one sock up and immediately dropped the other two. 

And again. And again. His socks ended up on the floor as Remus watched with a smirk on his lips. 

“Tabarnak .”

“Impressive pick up technique, I can see clearly why this worked so well,” Remus deadpanned.

“I think it was more than my juggling. ” Sirius said, keeping his eyes on the socks. 

“I’m sure it was. Maybe you turned around when you picked up the socks so you could show off Canada’s ass? Or did you add in a bend and snap?”

“Fuck you.”

After a few minutes he started to get the rhythm, the toss up, pass over, knew which sock to watch at what time. Remus juggled his socks easily, and Sirius caught his three in his hands after a few successful rounds around.

“You win, you win. But I can do it now at least.”

“Not bad baby. Quick study, like always.” Remus tossed his socks neatly into the suitcase. “What happened next?”

A lump rose is Sirius’ throat at the heat behind Remus’ words. 

“Are you sure you’re only a little jealous?” Sirius said quietly, pushing. “That someone else had their hands on me?” Remus closed the distance between them in two quick strides and had Sirius’ jaw in his hands and their lips crashing together before Sirius could feel satisfaction at having successfully riled up his husband. Remus pushed him backwards until Sirius’ back hit a wall, and he spread his feet apart to bring their lips to the same level. Remus kept his hands cupping Sirius’ jaw the whole time they kissed, tongues diving in and out of each other’s mouths. 

“This actually is what happened next,” Sirius murmured, heart beating fast. 

“Yeah?” Remus breathed into his mouth. 

“Yeah. Except I was tense and overthinking every movement of my lips, instead of turned on. And it was against the door, not a wall.”

Remus broke away just long enough to turn them and guide Sirius against the door, pressing him into it with a thunk. He clicked off the overhead lights while he was at it, and plunged back into the kiss. 

“Mine,” Remus said, hardly louder than a breath. A tingle travelled up Sirius’ spine and he moaned into the kiss. 

“For always,” Sirius agreed. Remus moved onto Sirius’ neck and collarbones, biting and sucking in a way that Sirius knew would leave marks and he loved that almost as much as the overwhelming feeling of Remus’ lips on his neck.

“What next?” Remus asked. Sirius shook his head to bring himself back to the world of coherent speech.  

“Um, she knelt down and kissed my stomach.” Remus felt Sirius tighten up and he stopped sucking a mark into his collarbone, instead drew Sirius’ earlobe into his mouth and whispered, “was that a bad thing?”

“Non, no, not bad. I just never let myself have that, before? It felt too easy and like too much to ask and I was very concerned about what they’d tell their friends.”

“That makes sense, baby.” Remus turned pressing Sirius into the door into more of a hug than a makeout position and Sirius relaxed in his arms. “And the piece of me that apparently is territorial of you is extremely glad I got to be your first.”

Remus bent one graceful leg underneath himself, lowered to one knee, and then the other. He trailed his hands down Sirius’ sides and belly, fingertips light over his abs. He ran his hands up and under Sirius’ shirt, hooked them into the tops of his pants as he kissed Sirius’ stomach. 

“Not to get caught up in the details of this admittedly strange role play, but can I actually suck you?”

Sirius’ breath caught and he let out a little gasp as Remus’ fingertips trailed over his zipper. “Yeah, Re, yeah, you can.”

So he did.

Sirius let his head rest back against the door, let himself just feel . Feel the pleasure building, the way that wet heat could make his brain turn off, thoughts didn’t need to spin around his mind when he was in Remus’ mouth. He looked down then, threading a hand through Remus’ hair, taking in the sight of Remus with his eyes closed, working so hard for him, lips spread. Sirius knew he would be consciously relaxing his throat, breathing in time with his thrusts, all that effort for Sirius, just for Sirius to feel good. And it felt so good.

“Yes, mon loup,” Sirius said, voice low. “That’s so good. Do you feel good?” he asked.

Remus opened his eyes at that and looked up and Sirius’ heart skipped a beat at the view, an even more clear image of his cock pressing into Remus mouth. Remus moved back until the tip was just resting on his bottom lip.

“Mmmhmm, so good baby, you feel amazing,”

Sirius groaned and thrust forwards and Remus received him eagerly, still looking up at him. Sirius tugged his hair just a bit more, both hands now, pushing his hips forwards and back, heat building in his gut and up his spine. He made himself stop, mostly threw himself back into the door while keeping his hands in Remus’ hair to keep him away. Remus reached forward with his mouth, still in the rhythm they had been building, but Sirius held him back, gasping. 

“Are we keeping this going? You want to know what happened next?” Sirius panted. “Or are you satisfied that it’s only you I want?”

Remus smirked up at him. “Yeah? You only want my mouth?”

Sirius groaned. “ Fuck , Remus,” he hauled him up for a deep and dirty kiss. “Yes, of course I only want you. Je t’aime à la folie,” he said between kisses, “tu es mon âme sœur, my soulmate , Remus, it's you.”

“Je t’aime à la folie aussi,” Remus said, more slowly, but with just as much feeling and truth behind it as Sirius had. Sirius smiled at Remus speaking French and at Remus’ red lips, swollen from kissing, and just at Remus. “But, I do want to keep going. It’s… kind of fun? To pretend we’re having a hotel hookup? Except I actually really love you? And some territorial part of me does want to touch every part of you anyone else did,” he trailed his fingertips along Sirius’ jaw. “Claim every part of you.” “You have me.”

“I know. What’s next?”

Sirius walked him backwards to the bed, halfway giddy at the intersection of memories. At the wish that he could show his past self the future, this future, of his beautiful husband in his arms, stripping his shirt off and tracing hard lines of muscles. Height and build smaller than him, but not by much. Remus had shown him time and time again that he could manhandle Sirius just fine. But tonight, Sirius was overcome by the desire to claim this present. To claim his desire for sex and make it his own, to claim his husband for the sake of his past self who had hardly been able to place even the smallest stake in want. He had feared every want, afraid a blowjob would make him an asshole. Afraid his teammates would somehow know if he had ass sex and they’d hate him for it.  Afraid that if he let his gaze linger on a man, or pulled one aside at a bar, that he’d be immediately kicked out of hockey. 

But then Remus had been before him and said, for me, it’d be worth it, and now Remus was under his lips, as Sirius attacked his neck and jaw with love, so so thankful that they had plunged into this together. They fumbled with each other’s pants until they dropped to the floor and they held onto each other as they each stepped out of their clothes. Sirius whispered a jump and then Remus’ ass was cupped in his palms and their lips were entangled in a deep kiss. Sirius loved how he had to work a bit to hold Remus, it wasn’t hard but it wasn’t easy. Nothing in life that was worth doing was easy and Remus was worth every effort and Sirius was happy to expend the effort. He plunged his tongue deeper, licked across the top of Remus’ mouth. Remus moaned and moved his hips in response and Sirius wanted . 

He tossed Remus onto the bed and the mattress bounced impressively. Sirius was on top of him not a second later, moaning into the kiss when Remus wrapped his legs around his hips. They kissed and moved for awhile, just enjoying each other, the heat of desire pooling in his belly but not growing. 

“Was she a good kisser?” Remus asked, panting slightly.

Sirius couldn’t help but laugh. “Re, mon coeur, I have no idea.” He peppered kisses along Remus’ jaw, which was just slightly rough. “I was so in my head I wouldn’t have known a good kisser if they had jumped up and bit me.” Remus laughed and turned his head to take Sirius’ earlobe into his teeth and bite. “We were laying just like this, you on top of me, the first time we kissed,” Remus murmured into Sirius’ ear. 

Sirius’ eyes tingled with the promise of tears at the thought. Something about seeing Rebecca again made the past and present overlap tonight, like he could feel both at the same time. How scared he had been to kiss Remus that night, but how hopeful making a different wish on his birthday candles had made him. “Best kiss of my life,” Sirius replied. 

“Me too.” They gazed into each other's eyes for a long moment, then Sirius sighed and pushed himself up. He found his phone and scrolled for their shared sex playlist. The one that if they got a notification the other had added a song they knew they’d be on each other the moment they were behind a closed door. Sirius smiled to himself at this small intimacy and tracked down the lube and a towel. Remus continued speaking. “Even if I was more than a bit in shock that it was happening at all.” He was trailing his fingertip across his stomach as he watched Sirius moving around the room. “I remember the feel of your thigh between my legs and that felt so good, just that. That’s something I have to agree with Rebecca on, you’ve always been stupidly good in bed, from the first time.” Sirius brought the bottle back to bed, shaking his head. 

“Me? Mon loup, you. Only you. It was only for you that I've ever been good for. Only you that made me so hard and desperate I have to clutch you to me and chase it.” 

Remus’ cheeks were pink, from the kissing, from the memory. Sirius pressed kisses to each of his cheeks, slicked his fingers from the pump bottle and trailed them along Remus’ ass. Remus quivered beneath him, dropping his head back, and here, with one hand cupping his husband’s beautiful face, and two fingers tracing the soft skin inside him, Sirius felt fully himself. Remus always made him feel like himself, but juxtaposing it with his past made it feel even more sharply perfect. A happiness sharp enough to cut him, but safe enough that he knew he could lean into it and feel nothing but love. It felt so good goosebumps erupted over his skin.

“You feel so good,” Sirius hummed into Remus’ ear. “Thank the fucking gods I met you in the bar today.” Happiness and love that were safe enough to play with. 

Remus locked eyes with him and the desire there sharpened into mischief. Sirius loved that look, the half smile that came over Remus’ mouth. “Thankfully you’re better at this than juggling, eh? I was worried there for a minute you wouldn’t be able to coordinate kissing and fingering at the same time.”

“Ohhh, fuck you,” Sirius laughed, and dove into a kiss, while spreading his fingers and pumping them in and out, making Remus gasp.

“Yes please,” he managed to say with still a hint of a smirk.

Sirius continued to show off his coordination by adding another finger and bringing his other hand down to Remus’ balls and rolling his own hips against Remus’ thigh and kissing him deeply. Remus was starting to go limp with pleasure below him, gasping and moaning into his kisses. Sirius didn’t break the kiss as he got more lube onto himself and got between Remus’ legs.

“Ready, handsome? You want a condom?” Sirius asked, not touching him now, just a hair's breadth away from joining them together, but having to take the moment to play. 

“Oh my fucking god Sirius, get into me,” Remus said, reaching for his hips. But at this angle he didn’t have the leverage to pull Sirius forwards when Sirius was holding himself back. 

“You sure? I’ll wear one. I’ve never fucked anyone else without a condom.” He still said it playfully, but gazed into Remus’ eyes, reminding him of the reality beneath their game. Remus was the one, the only.

“Me neither. I’m sure,” Remus said softly, and Sirius let himself be pulled forwards and they both gasped as he pressed into Remus. They hadn’t had a thought or mention of condoms in ages, but taking the time to remember why they didn’t need to, the contrast to the past, made the slide in feel all the better. Hot and wet and completely different than it had been with anyone else. Not that he'd had anyone else like this before, had never let himself ask. But now he was inside his beautiful husband whose body pulled him in deeper with each stroke, who met him thrust for thrust, who knew just how tightly to hold Sirius’ hair to make him moan. He could want and he could have . 

And so he had , they went through loverboy and shivers, and then loving is easy made Sirius throw his head back and laugh at the joy of being in love and being in the moment and being with his person. Remus looped a hand behind his neck and smiled into his mouth as they moved together. “You almost, uh, there baby?” he said into his mouth. “Is this the position you liked with…” Sirius smiled to himself. Remus didn’t even want to say anyone else’s name, didn’t want to invoke anyone else when they were like this, as close as two people could be. 

“I like you,” Sirius said nonsensically, pressing his lips into Remus’ cheeks as he huffed out breaths, pleasure starting to crest up his spine. He felt Remus shift though, felt his mouth open as if to ask a question. He stilled and took a deep breath to push the wave of release away, for now. 

“D’accord d’accord, no, beautiful man who I met today and yet am, for some reason, replaying a night from years ago with, this isn’t how we did it.” He leaned back just enough to let Remus’ leg that had been over his shoulder pass in front of him, and guided Remus to spin on his cock, lifting his hips up until he could get his knees under him. Sirius pressed back in fully, hard. Remus gasped at the new angle, the ability to speak coherent words quickly fucked out of him. Sirius draped his body heavily over Remus so he could speak right into his ear.

“I had to get her like this so I could pretend it was you.”

Remus threw his head back and gasped, panting with every deep, hard thrust Sirius gave him. Sirius stayed with his chest bent over Remus’ back, tall enough to still be able to move and hit the spot that made Remus see stars and yell. Sirius reveled in every noise he wrung out of him, loved the firm torso under his arms, loved the sharp nipples that he rolled under his fingers, loved this man . 

“Yes, Sirius, yes, I’m gonna …” Remus gasped out. “There, baby, more, yes,” his words flowed out of him in a breathy babble. With a loud, “I love you!” Remus was coming. 

The contrast washed over Sirius in a wave of emotion. How no matter who he was doing this with, he had wanted to please them, yet with Remus it was completely different. He wasn’t trying to check a box, he wasn’t overthinking or worrying or planning. He was tuned in to the movements and sounds of the man he loved, the person who loved him, and their love weaved between them as pleasure. Taking pleasure only for himself wouldn't even cross his mind. But following his lover over the edge of orgasm, that was as easy as breathing, as real as the pull Remus’ body had on Sirius’ cock, as natural as coming hard in response to the tightness of Remus’ body.

“Re, je t’aime!” Sirius gasped back, and bit down into Remus’ trap as his hips stuttered and the waves crested again for both of them. Remus pushed his hips back as the dredges of his second wave tingled down his spine, just as Sirius pressed forwards, and they collapsed together; Sirius deep inside, on top of and firmly inside Remus. And he never needed anything else. Nothing had crossed his mind through this whole evening other than the sensations that Remus’ body, Remus’ very being, could and did wring from him with every touch. 

Sirius couldn’t help but push forwards one more time, chasing any drop of that perfect feeling, and Remus gasped in oversensitivity, but also arched his back, meeting Sirius’ thrust. “Holy shit,” Remus eloquently muttered into the pillow sometime later. “How do you always make it so good? I felt like I was coming forever.” Sirius’ heart was near to bursting with pride and love. 

“It’s all you, love. Only you.”

Remus hummed in response and they stayed like that, Sirius pressing Remus down so completely into the mattress with his full body weight, but he knew Remus could take it, and he didn’t want to ever move. But when his English had returned he asked, “do you believe me now? That it’s only you? That it’s only you I’ve ever loved, ever felt like this? Other people maybe touched my body, but only you get my heart.”

Remus ducked his head against the sheets, cheeks red. “I always believed you, baby. I just also had some jealousy come over me for no good reason.” Sirius nuzzled his ear with a smile. “I’m not complaining, I’ll fuck you like that any time you want. If there’s anything from your past that you want to re-do with me, you just tell me when.”

Remus laughed and it reverberated through both of them. He turned his neck back to the side so they could rest their faces together. They knew if either of them moved, Sirius would slip out, so they stayed still, breathing each other in, the pounding of their hearts slowing.

“And it’s not just ‘cause you’re a guy,” Sirius said, apropos of nothing.

“Hmmm?” Remus hummed, eyes still closed. 

“Well obviously I like your body the way it is, I’m gay, but it’s not just that.” “Baby, what?” Remus laughed, opening his eyes. “You have me very convinced that you like my body, I know this.”

Sirius huffed a laugh and tried to say what he meant. “Ok, so I know I’m gay, and you’re hot, so of course I like your body. But even though you’re the only guy I’ve been with, I know it’s all of you. Even if I had hookups with other guys, there’s no one else that would have wanted me, and not ‘Gryffindor Lions center Sirius Black’.”

“I don’t think that’s true, baby, you’re so amazing. I’m sure other people would have realised that, if you had been able to let them in.”

“Ok, maybe, whatever, but I didn’t need to keep trying girls until I found the right one, and it wasn’t that I just needed a man. I needed you. I need you .”

“Oh baby,” Remus murmured, and finally turned in Sirius’ arms so they could be pressed chest to chest, their legs tangled and arms wrapped tight around each other. They traced light fingertips along the other’s back and sides, and both of them broke into goosebumps, shivering and melting into each other. 

“I need you too. You’re all I’ll ever need.”

Sirius hummed happily and tucked his face into Remus’ neck. Both of their eyes drifted closed and they rested in each other’s arms, satisfied. 

[thenightling]

I thought part of the reason Werewolf by Night was in black and white was to circumvent a higher TV rating for blood splatter. If it's not red they can keep the PG or PG14 status instead of MA (equivalent of an R).

Also there was the "Looks like a 30s Universal monster movie" factor. But I suppose now that it's color they can play around and make it resemble Hammer horror.

I loved Werewolf by Night. It was very Gothic. I wish Marvel would make more things like that and not just around Halloween.

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

i’m like 3 eps into the gilded age and for some reason the very affected way everybody talks and the very quaint energy is really charming to me. it’s pretty silly in a lot of ways (a lot of signature downton-y ways!) but also just totally charming.

i also super like that it’s rated tv-ma but absolutely nothing tv-ma has happened yet. i just find that refreshing on a hbo program! yes, girl! give us nothing r-rated!

[paisley-print]

Chapter Five / Summer

Rating: 18+

Characters: Agent Whiskey x Reader X Ezra

This is a sequel to the MIDNIGHT Series

Rated TV MA. Heavy trigger warning. Infidelity, pregnancy, nausea, feeding tube. 

Note: This one is shorter but it's laying ground work for longer chapters. Enjoy!

Tag List: @just-here-for-the-moment @sherala007 @jediknight122 @pintsizemama @kenbechillin @elegantduckturtle @hearttbreak @tintinn16 @showbuckysomelove @somenerdyuser @kesskirata @littlemisspascal @athalien @spideysimpossiblegirl @littlemisspascal @sheresh0y @pjkimrn @i-ship-it-ironically @fictitious-little-stitious @curiouskeyboard @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @murdersheghostwrote @fictitious-little-stitious  @voteforpedro09 @greeneyedblondie44 @feel-it-on-the-way-home13 @galaxyofmando @kravitzwhore @solemnlyswearss @gooddaykate @sherala007 @aliwritesfic @athalien  @amneris21 @manuymesut @toxicfrankenstein @deadhumourist​@damnyoupedro​ @harriedandharassed​

The lazy days of August continued to slip by, shrouded in their golden light. You tried hard to spend as much time outside as you could once the sun dipped low enough in the sky to cool the rest of the world off. You knew winter was approaching fast, taking the sunlight with it and the notion of which made you irrevocably sad…or perhaps it was simply the passage of time that did so. This year you didn’t look forward to quiet cold nights, where in years past you would have welcomed them.

Therapy was going well, the relationship you and Jack had remained in a purely functional state during the rare times you saw each other. It was best that way. Yet, your world was still not at peace…that ever-present ache of guilt you still harbored towards Ezra never let you rest.

That last conversation you had with him…..the way you insulted him with the sour bite of wine sliding around your tongue. It made you physically shrink into yourself. The feeling got harder to ignore as August slipped away. Stores and shops had already started to display their fall decor, you couldn’t step twenty feet without seeing some pumpkin-laden sign.

You knew you couldn’t do it over the phone, even on the improbable chance he picked up, the apology wouldn’t mean nearly as much. You were ashamed of the way you acted, and you were ashamed of the state of your body.

How foolish you must seem to him now. Alone, knocked up by a man you knew was being unfaithful, then discarded as easy as trash. You had to remind yourself that the reason you were going was not to gain his approval but to right your wrongs. Whatever way he reacts…well that was none of your concern.

You waited until evening, when you knew he would be at home, loaded yourself into the car Jack had fixed for you and drove yourself to the address you had memorized months ago. Driving felt odd after not having done it for so long. You fought back nausea the entire time but managed to keep yourself together long enough to get to his house without any accidents. You had memorized the route to his house months ago, even though you were only there twice. His house was not hard to find, it sat on an offshoot of Main Street, nestled snugly on a corner lot. Two large weeping willows stood swaying silently in the breeze out front.

The sight of the grand Victorian never ceased to amaze you. How one man could endure a lifetime alone in it, you would never know.

You pulled to a stop next to the curb, staring at the house for an embarrassing amount of time. Large drapes blocked the windows but there was light on the inside. Both the living room and the upstairs bedroom emitted a glow that reached out into the front yard.

You felt dizzy and detached from yourself, your legs refusing to move. You even considered driving off but knew if you did you wouldn’t return. Finally, you stepped into action, taking off your seat belt, reaching for the pie sitting snugly on the passenger's seat then stood and shut the door.

You walked up the driveway that led to the front doors of the house and then reached to pull the heavy brass door knocker. Paint chips and rust flaked off with each pull.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

You stepped back a little, reminding yourself to breathe as you heard movement from inside. Your breath ceased altogether upon hearing the heavy metal locking mechanism turning inside the door. Quickly you pulled your hair behind your ear with your free hand and braved a friendly smile.

The door drew open, revealing an expressionless Ezra standing at its threshold. He stared at you in an uncharacteristically quiet manner.

“Hi,” you said quickly, face feeling hot with emotion.

“I-...What are you-”

“I know that it’s  - um  - late. I’m sorry about that, and for not calling before. I just, I know this won't make up for anything I did, but I haven't been able to get our last conversation out of my head. The way I acted towards you….and with….. you were completely inappropriate. I should never have spoken to you the way I did. I think I will regret it for a very long time and I’m sorry….. And I made you a pie- well I didn’t make it, I bought it. I figured, that it would at least make this conversation worth it for you.” You extended the pumpkin pie towards him.

His eyes stayed fixed on you, expression still lacking. “Are you ill?”

You gave him a quizzical look, remembering the tube taped to your cheek. You reached up and touched it. “No, I’m not.”

He stayed silent, you could see he was waiting on a response.

“It’s just morning sickness, but like bad…” you cursed yourself inwardly for how utterly illiterate that sounded. “I’m not going to die or anything.”

His brown eyes shifted downwards, the hoodie you had on concealed your growing figure.

“You're with child?” He asked.

“Um, yes it’s…. Jackson’s….”

When his eyes shifted back to yours you felt a twinge of icy embarrassment fill up the inside of your chest.

“Congratulations,” he said.

You waited, hoping he would say more. He always said more. Why wasn’t he filling this silence with words?

Your eyes were as wide as you stared at him like a deer in headlights. “We’re not together anymore. You were right there was… someone else…”

His shoulders dropped just slightly, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

A voice sounded from inside the house, “Ezra?”

It was unmistakably female, in its high-pitched honey-like tone.

You smiled awkwardly, trying to hide the utter panic you felt inside. “So… um… okay,  I’ll just be on my way.” You jutted the pie at him, forcing him to take it in his hands, then turned to leave.

You could feel his eyes on your back as you descended the short steps of the porch. You stopped, then turned to face him once more.

“I am truly sorry, if there is anything I can do to show that then I will be more than willing to do it… But if there’s not… then I understand. Have a nice night Ezra.”

With that, you turned again and made your way down the driveway, when you got back in your car you could see his door had closed.

[storm-leviosa-fanfics]

car ma vie, car mes joies, aujourd’hui, ça commence avec toi

It's finally here!!! My fic for the @batfam-big-bang!!! I got to work with my brilliant beta @enchantingruinscandy and the amazing artist @jube-art on this. Best team!! Thanks a million guys <3

Rated: Gen

Summary:

Maybe, he dared to think, Goliath couldn’t do it yet, but certainly he could with time. With effort. With training. Damian knew all about time, and effort, and training... Damian was going to be the first person to train a dragon-bat in dressage. or, Damian falls in love with dressage. How could he not? It is a beautiful, elegant sport, one that rewards control and accuracy and precision. The problem is that Damian does not have a horse. But that’s okay - he has Goliath. The dressage world will never be the same. Certainly some of the judges are never coming back.

Chapter 1 - starting from zero

The stables out back hadn’t been used in decades - well, except when Drake had lived in them for some god forsaken reason, but that didn’t count - which was why Damian was inspecting them. And it was a good thing he was: cobwebs so old they were thick with dust hung heavily from the rafters, the hinges on every door were rusted near to disintegration, and to top it all off, the rat holes made the stable floors themselves unstable. He didn’t dare inspect the hayloft. If the main stables were this bad, he dreaded to think what the upstairs was like. Most likely, it was more dangerous than swinging across Gotham’s rooftops. 

In other words, the stables required intensive work to make them inhabitable. And making them inhabitable was the bare minimum really; Damian would not settle for any less than perfection. 

He tapped the pen against his chin, scribbled another note. He could see how the stables would look once restored to their former glory. The high ceilings with strong wooden beams stained to keep out the rot, the dirt floors covered with concrete, rubber matting, and a thick layer of fluffy shavings, the hinges, kick bolts and stiff sliding bolts replaced with top-quality sliding doors, the shutters on the back windows replaced so the outside world was visible. It needed far more than a fresh coat of paint, like father had claimed (though a fresh coat of paint was also sorely needed) but all was not lost. 

Damian’s newest project had come to him early in the morning in the form of a letter slotted into his window frame telling him in no uncertain terms that Goliath could no longer be kept on the island. Alternative arrangements must be made for him. Damian had put the letter down, gone to eat breakfast, and mentioned it to no one. 

When, later on, he had passed a TV showing a sports channel inexplicably playing a video of horses dancing, he had thought to himself ‘Goliath could do that’, and then stopped. The rest of the morning passed in a blur, as Damian was slowly sucked into this sport he had not known existed until that very moment. Maybe, he dared to think, Goliath couldn’t do it yet , but certainly he could with time. With effort. With training. Damian knew all about time, and effort, and training. Damian needed to find a new home for Goliath. The connections were made and there was no turning back.

Damian was going to be the first person to train a dragon-bat in dressage.

… He just needed somewhere to keep him first.

The supplies Damian needed to fix the stables could not all be bought from a hardware store, or a farm supply store, nor could he do the fixing himself. It chafed at him, the need for outsiders, but there was no getting around it. Pennyworth was insistent. He could take a long-handled broom to the cobwebs though, so that was how he spent his Saturday afternoon: bandana firmly tied around the lower half of his face and broom in hand as he attacked cobwebs that had been spiderless before he was born. By dinnertime he had cleared one stall. It was the slowest of slow progress.

He came back the next day with a new bandana and a leaf blower and no adult supervision.

All the stalls were clear of cobwebs but Damian was grounded. This mattered not at all because now the cobwebs were cleared, Pennyworth’s favoured handyman could come in to replace the doors and windows. By the time he was ungrounded, the stables would be almost ready for their newest occupant. In the meantime, Titus needed walking and if he just so happened to swing by the stables while doing so, well, that was just a coincidence.

By the time he’d finished painting the stables, everyone had figured out something was up. Grayson had asked, Drake had made comments, Father had narrowed his eyes suspiciously and hummed. Pennyworth knew everything of course, but it would not be down to him whether Goliath came home. He would have to ask Father, and that made him nervous.

Asking made him nervous, so he didn’t ask. He simply told Father at breakfast that Goliath was coming home.

“I will require the Batplane this afternoon,” he said, solemnly, “the one with the large cargohold.”

Father asked no questions, so he told no lies.

“You know what happens if you don’t bring it back in one piece,” he warned instead. Yes, Damian did know what the consequences were if he destroyed the Batplane. Luckily for him, this was not any kind of mission, merely a transportation need.

“I’ll be back in time for patrol,” he told Father, and Father grunted, then returned to his tablet. WE had been…difficult lately, and taking up far more of Father’s time than he would like. It boded well for Damian though, that Father was distracted. A distracted Father was one less likely to complain about another pet that Damian had acquired. 

Goliath did not want to get on the plane, did not want to stand in the hold, did not want to leave the island, or eat treats out of Damian’s hand. He was scared by the movement of the plane, by the sound of the engines, by the strangeness of his environment. And Damian did not have Maya with him this time, did not have Jon to call on to help, or Colin to regale his adventures to. He was alone, with a terrified beast and a plane to fly and he may be just a little bit out of his depth. 

But Damian Wayne does not give up easily. Damian Wayne did not need help. He could fly a plane and placate Goliath and keep everyone safe and Father would never know about this brief set-back. Except Goliath was well and truly panicking, tugging at his leadrope and pawing at the floor, whites of his eyes showing as his eyes rolled in his head. Damian looked at him, looked at the controls of the plane, looked at the med-kit stashed in the cubby, looked back at Goliath. He had two options here: one, he could ditch the plane, fly Goliath home, miss patrol and face the consequences, or two, he could see how much sedative was in the med-kit. There were no other safe options. 

They did not have enough midazolam to be particularly useful, but Damian wasn’t looking to knock Goliath out completely, just relax him a bit. If he used all they had, it would probably be enough - there weren’t exactly textbooks about anaesthetising Goliath’s species, but he could guess based on size. Sure enough, a quite frankly alarmingly large injection of sedative later and Goliath was no longer hysterical in the hold of the Batplane. Damian was cleared for takeoff.

It was time to go home.

When Damian returned, Father was a fuming, fussing volcano in the middle of the batcave. Damian’s hackles raised, and he had scarcely landed the plane before he and Father were arguing. Sharp, barbed words and vicious insults flew and Damian did not have it in him to regret. He knew Father likely would not either. This was a fight for Goliath, but in the heat of it Damian forgot about the beast, still tied up in the belly of the plane, the midazolam wearing off. By the time Father had stormed out of the cave, Damian had received a thorough tongue-lashing and a grounding and benching that he barely cared about. Goliath would be allowed to stay in the stables. All would be well.

Unable to leave the house, Damian poured himself into research - equipment, dress, exercises, tests to learn. A rule book was in his sights within hours. He found a database of instructors specialising in dressage in the state, did more research, made a pros and cons list for each, short-listed them, emailed several, and waited impatiently for replies. None were Gotham natives, but that shouldn’t matter over much. Dressage was dressage after all; these instructors had to teach only him. He could handle the rest alone.

Only one of the instructors replied to his emails, around the time his jodhpurs and helmet arrived. He answered all his questions in the same curt, business-like tone that Damian had emailed with to begin with. He seemed the type to take no nonsense, which he appreciated. His prices seemed reasonable, his credentials were significant - regional and national champion to prix st georges level, a longtime trainer of his own horses, a student of an Olympian that Damian, with only his new knowledge, did not know - and he was willing to travel to Gotham, which was only an added bonus. Pennyworth had approved the visitor for a week from now, though with pursed lips and a suspicious frown about his forehead, and so Damian’s first lesson was written into the family diary.

His name was Stephan and he arrived dressed to impress. Stepping out of a sleek black Land Rover in a tweed suit did not earn him respect from Damian or his family, but he was not to know that. Damian took him round to the stables, which he declared ‘quaint’, explained their lack of menage, which he claimed would not be an issue until the back end of the season, provided they had a field to ride in, and then showed him Goliath, tacked up and ready in shining new gear. Stephan’s nose wrinkled. His lip curled. Damian resolved to hate him. He also resolved to prove his first impression wrong. 

In the field, Damian mounted and awaited instruction. Stephan told him to warm up, but Damian had never done that before. He did not know what he needed to do. He did know that dressage was not an aerial sport - Goliath would need to stay on the ground - and so he would need to use his legs to get him to go and not a flick of the reins. He dug in his heels and, with a brief lurch of surprise, Goliath set off at a marching walk.

Damian thought he was doing quite well really. He’d seen the horses walking on the TV and they didn’t go fast or slow, they picked their feet up in a short, eager stride, or else they had a long step with their head lowered. It wasn’t that hard really. Stephan urged him into a lurching trot, which had Damian bouncing all over the place no matter how hard he tried to remain still and serene, and then something akin to a canter. Poor Goliath’s legs didn’t move quite right for it to be a true canter, and Stephan’s face was not a happy one when Damian eventually stopped. 

“Well he’s never going to be good,” he said, bluntly, “but we can work with what we’ve got I suppose.”

They worked on the canter because that was the bit that Goliath got most wrong, it seemed. Stephan barked orders from the middle of the arena for Damian to get him “rounder. I said rounder,” or else to “use your legs; I know you’ve got them.” By the end of the session, Damian was exhausted and Goliath was drooping. They still could not canter well.

“Practice,” Stephan said. “I’ll see you next week and I want to see that canter looking halfway decent.”

And so it went on. During the week, when Damian was not at school, he would practice just like Stephan told him to, until he and Goliath were sweating and trembling with exertion. On weekends, Stephan would come, shout at him for an hour, and then the whole cycle would begin again. He learnt how to tuck Goliath’s head in and get him to pick his feet up like the horses on TV. He learnt the drama of it all, the hard word and pain of popped blisters that hadn’t yet turned to calluses on the soft sides of his ring fingers. He learnt how to hold tight, and how to push so even Goliath’s thick skin could not ignore him.

He hated it.

There was something miserable about the endless nagging and tugging and fighting, something wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Damian had watched so many videos, had seen so many pictures, and the riders at the top? They didn't battle with their mounts every day; they didn’t struggle and chip away at their horse’s will until it submitted. They didn’t move , some of them. Watching them, Damian had never felt further from his goal.

Finally ungrounded, Damian started patrolling again. It was…a manageable schedule. If anyone asked, he was not exhausted and didn't get up before 6am to feed Goliath and then shower before school to get the "stink" off, and then get driven to school by Pennyworth for half 8 and then surround himself with plebeians for 7 hours before getting driven back from school by Pennyworth, then down to the stables to train and feed and do whatever jobs he hadn't done in the morning, and then dinner, and then patrol until whatever time Father brought them home. He fell into bed and slept like the dead until his alarm went off at quarter to six. It was never enough sleep, but who in the world was going to notice? Certainly not Ffather, who only rarely had the time in the day to look at his face without a mask. Not his brothers, absent in mind and body. Not his teachers or classmates, who all had similarly deep bags under their eyes. And besides, it was worth it, the exhaustion, because Damian and Goliath were finally making progress. Stephan was almost pleased with them at their last lesson, and had suggested a competition to announce themselves to the world. “Just a small one,” he had promised, “no need to be nervous.”

Nervous. Hah. What a joke. Damian had never been nervous a day in his life. 

His hands were sweaty, but it was a hot day - nothing at all to do with his upcoming competition. Training took priority and the exercise made him sweat even in cold weather, which late spring was not, and his hands definitely were not slipping on the reins. Surely not. What a ludicrous suggestion. There was nothing to be nervous about and he had all the time in the world.

He did not have all the time in the world. A week from competition day, entries submitted and test sheet printed, Damian abruptly realised that he was not prepared. It was perhaps the first and only time in his life that this had occurred. His test sheet remained in the bottom of his desk; he had not checked the start times or list of entrants since entries had closed; he had not given Father or Pennyworth directions to the venue. He hadn’t even checked the rule book. And this was where he came unstuck because Damian, in all his reckless bullheadedness, had disregarded even the most basic rules of dress. He had jodhpurs and boots and gloves and that was enough, yes? Evidently not.

At the level he would be riding at, tailcoats like what were seen on TV were not only avoided, they were outright prohibited. Likewise, there were strict rules about the colour of the jodhpurs and gloves and shirts he was allowed to wear. He needed a special kind of jacket, boots and chaps, or else tall boots that took months to break in. None of these he currently owned, and a week was far too short a time to procure them. No tailor worth his price would agree to a show jacket made and altered in under a week, and the boots Damian knew from experience would take far longer than expected to get used to. Could he wear his Robin boots? He didn’t see why not. They were, after all, the least recognisable part of his costume, and ticked all the boxes: large enough heel, tall, black leather, provided the correct support. He would raise it with Father after a good patrol, he thought.

The jacket was more of a problem, and Damian began scouring the rules for some kind of loophole, spending hours that he did not have looking for something that did not exist. He wondered if League dress would count as cultural attire for the sake of this. As little as he wanted to remind himself of those times, the clothing still fit and it might as well be useful rather than collecting dust and mothballs in his closet. Surely a tailor could alter the outer robe to look like a short jacket given a week to work with. 

They could, as it turned out, and Damian soon had a beautiful coat to wear. Emerald green and smooth as silk, it was a perfect fit. One problem down, so many more to go. He consulted the rulebook again and ordered some jodhpurs in a pleasing cream colour. He already owned gloves, because he valued his hands far too much to damage them being an idiot and dragging Goliath around without something to protect them. He practiced his test over and over and over again, until Father or Grayson no longer had to stand at the fence and call it for him, and he could see the pattern in his sleep. He memorised everything he could, read the rulebook cover to cover, checked his tack, his dress, trotted Goliath up to ensure he was not lame, found a blue ribbon to indicate that Goliath was a ‘stallion’ and to be avoided, though he couldn’t imagine many people venturing close to him.

And then the morning came. Stephan rattled up the driveway before most of the manor’s inhabitants were awake with a large horsebox and invited himself in for coffee. Then, it was time to groom, boot up, and put Goliath on the box.

Goliath did not want to go on the box.

This was entirely understandable but still frustrating. 

“I thought you said you were prepared,” Stephan fumed. Damian said nothing, just tugged on the leadrope once more and offered Goliath’s favourite snack. Goliath did not move. He continued to not move until Stephan grabbed a nearby broom and swatted him gently on the hindquarters, upon which Goliath shot up the ramp like he’d been lit on fire. It was an alarmingly effective method.

They pulled into a large grassy field and parked beneath a spreading tree. His excitement growing, Damian hopped out of the truck and, as he made his way around to lower the ramp, caught sight of the warming up arena. Everything seemed to stop, just for a moment, as he watched the pristine horses prancing. He had wanted to prove everyone wrong, show them that anyone can do dressage, but now… he found he did not want to take Goliath out of the truck, did not want to get on and join the other competitors. He was not unprepared, was the thing; Stephan had said that he was “as ready as you’ll ever be,” which was high praise from him, and Damian had memorised the test, brushed Goliath until he gleamed, polished his tack and boots and mutilated his League clothing to make dressage-legal attire. He was more than ready for this. But he suddenly felt very small and very scruffy, when faced with all these people on much more typical specimens. It struck him then, with all the force of Killer Croc on a rampage, that he was not going to win this competition. 

Stephan saw him staring, and stood next to him. He said nothing, but Damian knew he could see his uncertainty on his face.

“They are all much better than me,” he said, quietly.

“If you think that, you’ve already lost,” Stephan replied. “Now get that beast of yours off the wagon and tacked up. We’re on a schedule and your dawdling is going to put us behind.”

Damian lowered the ramp.

His nerves followed him through tacking up, through signing in at the secretary’s office, through the walk to the warm up arena, and would not let him be. His hands did not shake - they never did - but his knees had no such restrictions. They twitched, as if a nerve had been trapped or a reflex had been tripped, and Damian could only hope it would not have an effect on his aids. In the warm up ring, near every horse was driven wild by Goliath’s approach. It did not make him grin, but it did make him wonder if, maybe, he stood a chance after all. It was not a very sportsmanlike thought but then, Damian was not always a very sportsmanlike person. He ignored them, the shouts and whinnies and stamping feet, and mounted. Goliath blew air through his nostrils and reached his head round to look at Damian. Really, he seemed to say, you’re making me put up with this. Damian rolled his eyes. Such drama.

The thing about horses is that they are cowards but they are equally forgetful, and so within a few minutes, the warm up arena was back to normal. This unfortunately meant Damian had to pretend to ignore his fellow competitors riding perfect canter circles and square halts for far longer, but also meant that none of them were looking at him. This was, he thought, a positive, considering he had very little idea what he was doing and was trying his utmost to hide it. Twenty minutes later, Stephan was calling him to the gate. Damian took a breath and did not stiffen. He was the combined strength of both his families. Damian Al-Ghul Wayne did not get nervous; he did not tremble or stiffen or gulp; he was completely unfazed - cool as a cucumber, as Grayson would put it. He rode into the ring, white boards gleaming and banners fluttering lightly, and stayed carefully still and poised. First impressions counted here more than anything. He held Goliath in something akin to collection: neck arched, feet picked up cleanly, ears flicking back and forth. He saw the judge look up, do a double-take, stop speaking to her writer, leave the box. Damian did stiffen then. 

“Young man,” she called, voice tremulous. She was an elderly woman, Damian noted, evidently with many years of experience. Stephan had seen her name listed as the judge and nodded, saying she would be fair. Not kind, but fair. Damian was as grateful for it as he was confused.

“I am afraid I may have to disqualify you under DR119 section 1, if you do not provide me with some kind of identification. I am not certain that your mount is, in fact, a horse.” Damian was lucky. Damian had prepared for exactly this scenario. He turned to her and said, voice far more level than he was expecting,

“My coach has Goliath’s passport to hand. If that does not suffice, please be aware that your stated rule declares that dressage classes are open to ‘horses, mules and/or ponies of any origin’, and that ‘a horse is an animal over 148 cm without shoes, and 149 cm with shoes.’ Thus, as Goliath is over 148cm without shoes, and is an animal, he is a horse.”

“That,” she blustered, clearly trying and failing to regain her composure, “is completely besides the point.” She then stalked over to where Stephan was standing, hands on her hips ready to give him a piece of her mind. After a few moments of wild gesticulation, she returned to the judge’s box without so much as a glance in Damian’s direction. Goliath flicked an ear and snorted. It was the first time in a long time that he had been actively ignored. People being scared of him? Pretty par for the course. People wanting to cuddle him? Weird but sweet; Damian could relate. Ignoring entirely? Goliath wasn’t the only one to take that as an insult. He leaned forward and scratched the fluff behind his ears, just the way he knew Goliath liked it.

“Let’s go show her how it’s done, hmm boy?”

The sun was in his eyes as he rode down the centre line. He tried not to squint, while also smiling, because he’d already ruined his first impression and whatever he could salvage by smiling was worth it. The combination of the sun, the smile, and the squinting most likely resulted in a pained grimace instead, but an attempt was made. He turned right, kept trotting, held himself steady, felt Goliath’s mouth down the reins, his muscles flexing beneath his legs. He squeezed with his right leg and opened his left rein to bend onto a twenty-metre circle. He changed the rein across the diagonal and held Goliath in as he tried to plunge his way across the arena. Another circle. Another change of rein. He gently heaved on the reins and Goliath came back to a walk. Lumbering and laborious, tThey made their way around the ring, and it became worse as Damian released his hold on the reins for a free walk. Goliath was not good at free walk; they had not practiced and Goliath did not have the long and elegant neck of the fancy dressage horses. He tried, and Damian tried, but it was never going to be perfect and this was worse than usual. Damian was relieved when the time came to trot again. Picking up his reins and trying to hold Goliath in some kind of shape, he squeezed him into a trot that had at least a little swing, before asking for a canter. It had come up very quickly, and the movements within the gait would only come more quickly still. A circle, up the long side, another circle, return to trot over the centre line. Breathe, Damian, you have survived. Time to change the rein and once again hold Goliath back, then repeat the canter movement again. By the time the canter was over, Damian was so tight that he was almost almost trembling with exertion. Now, however, was the final centre line. Damian needed to smile again, he needed to pull himself together, except the turn was coming up far too quickly and…

He overshot it by maybe a metre, and salvaged the line by hauling on his inside rein. It pulled Goliath off balance, but he at least made it to the centre line. After a scrambled, embarrassed, halt-immobility-salute, Damian gave Goliath a pat on the neck and removed himself from the arena. He dared not look at Stephan’s face; he dared not think about the scores. 

It took far too long and not long enough for the scores to be out. Long enough to have lunch, certainly, long enough to receive a thorough tongue-lashing from Stephan, not long enough to redeem himself. 

Sixty-three percent.

That was… Damian wanted to say it was terrible, but looking at the scoreboard he was, surprisingly, far from last place. Out of a field of about ten, he was solidly middle of the pack. Fourth was not where he had wanted to be, was not an acceptable position, but when put up against what he had seen in the warm-up? Those beautiful, elegant animals performing like it was the Olympics themselves? Fourth place was not so bad really. 

It did not matter what he tried to tell himself. Fourth place was not going to be showing anyone anything about his, or Goliath’s, ability. It would not win him any ribbons or championship qualifications. It was just…in the middle. Average. Average was not good enough, when you were Damian Wayne.

They drove home in silence. Damian had nothing to say, and Stephan had got his disappointment in Damian’s performance out of the way early. There was nothing he could say that Damian had not already told himself. He was disappointed, yes, but also furious, also confused, also mortified. From birth, he had been the very best: the best heir, the best son, the best Robin. And now he was merely average. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried: he’d tried so hard, practiced so much, been as prepared for this as Drake had to be for patrol, but it had amounted to nothing. The entire hour drive, not a word was spoken, and it felt stifling.

At home, Father hung the green ribbon in pride of place and Pennyworth picked out all the positives on the scoresheet Damian had been too outraged to look at and Grayson demanded to see the professional photos that had not yet been made available. Drake, on his way out the door, patted his shoulder and said “better luck next time, squirt,” as if Damian were a normal little brother and not a trained vigilante who could kill him five different ways with just his shoelaces. It grated on him, that they were being so positive when something was wrong, when he had done nothing to deserve their praise.

He had done badly, there was no kind way to say it, except Grayson told him well done for trying and Pennyworth thanked him for coming home with no broken bones or lacerations and Father? Father had smiled that small, secret smile that was just for Damian and said he was proud of him. Why? There was nothing to be proud of, no congratulations to give. Commiserations may be the more prudent action. But Father was proud, and Damian wanted so badly to accept that without thinking about it that he ached.

Another week, another lesson, and this time Damian had read the scoresheet and knew exactly what he needed to work on. Except that wasn’t what Stephan wanted to work on.

“Rounder!” he barked, “rounder, more hand…not like that - I said rounder, not slower, are you deaf?” Damian, feeling Goliath fight and pull against his hands, feeling him chomping uncomfortably on hard metal, found that he hated Stephan a bit. This was not what they needed to work on and it was making Goliath unhappy and Damian wasn’t particularly happy either. 

He did not ask Stephan to come back the next week. 

Without Stephan, he drifted a bit. He practiced what he knew, worked hard on the things he thought he needed to work on, but he had no goals in mind. Goliath seemed happier, and that was important to him, more important than ribbons, but still that score grated on him, that fourth place ribbon. He didn’t want it to end like that, but he refused to go crawling back to Stephan and admit defeat. Stephan was wrong, and Damian would prove it…somehow.

[karawastaken]

Even though miss girl herself is bisexual- ;3;

More roleplay practice, yay! These are characters from my novel I’m writing, the blonde is Amelia and the brunette is Blair.

The audio is from the show “True Blood” on HBO Max. Its bizarre and very creative, but still a really good show, I totally recommend it! (Only if you’re over 17 yrs old, it’s rated TV-MA and for good reason lol)

This was also posted on my YouTube channel, Instagram, and TikTok if you guys want to see it there along with my other stuff ^^

♡ My Links: ♡

YOUTUBE = https://youtube.com/@KaraWasTaken

INSTAGRAM = https://instagram.com/karawastaken

TIKTOK = https://www.tiktok.com/@karawastakenbyufos

TWITTER = https://twitter.com/karawastakenmc

[etherlights]

“Feel Good: The Romanticization of Tr*uma”

TW:a*use tr*ma *ssault *ddict*on

I recently happened upon this Netflix original series when I was well out of television shows to binge and searching for a good British comedy.

Originally, I decided to watch the series after a brief introduction through the trailer in which I found Mae Martin to be attractive (and reasonably so) and was also excited at the prospect of masc/nonbinary queer representation in a TV show (which is rare to happen upon these days but that is a whole other story)

I will have to admit, I did find the presentation and acting style a bit hard to stomach at the beginning, although I did understand it was intentionally meant to be choppy and a bit jarring, but I kept watching - partially out of boredom, partially for the eye candy ;)

However, I definitely did not expect the show to end up being so raw, touching, and straight up illuminating.

The character ‘Mae’ who is a factionalized version of the Canadian comedian Mae Martin, walks us through her life as a recovering addict who is living abroad in England.

The series is essentially an autobiography of the comedian’s story as they navigate relationships and adulthood while stuck in a relatively pubescent state of mind; as is a quite common psychological response to trauma.

The problem is, as the character is spiraling, they aren’t even aware of the root cause of their self destructive tendencies.

They spend a majority of the series, sorting through bits and pieces of their blurred memory, to only eventually remember the fact that they had been s*xually *ssaulted as a teenager. After which, their agent attempts to use it as a marketing advantage claiming “trauma is trendy.”

The heart of the matter is: that statement, although meant to be ironic, is actually reflected as true in today’s world.

I remember as a teenager, binge watching my favorite TV show ‘Skins’ (also a British drama) which revolved around the lives of secondary students who faced severe family issues and toxic relationships.

At the time, I was truly naive as to what was being portrayed, but with the partying, the s*x, drugs, and “forever” friendships - I truly believed this was a representation of life at it’s finest.

Only years later, I realized these kinds of portrayals of toxic relationships, impulsive behaviors, and reckless endangerment are far from romantic or even remotely enjoyable.

I can unfortunately, deeply relate to these characters struggles to this day, especially in this particular series - in which Mae had subconsciously blocked out entire periods of their adolescent because it was too painful to bear.

On many social platforms, including Tumblr and more recently TIkTok: unhealthy behaviors and situations are continuously romanticized through the use of aesthetic appeals.

We may not even realize it as we consume, but we are dangerously being fed notions that toxic romance is alluring, mental illness is just as relatable as a meme, and drug and alcohol abuse are a iconic way to breeze through life.

Too often, we excuse people who subtly promote these behaviors with commentary such as “Don’t be so sensitive, it’s just a joke”

There is a fine line between comedy and the mishandling of life-altering behaviors and this series dauntingly explores what happens if you don’t tread carefully.

The series leaves you wondering exactly how “trends” can warp our idealizations of reality, but ultimately ends on a wistful note.

I would rate this Netflix original a 7.5/10 and recommend it to those who may relate to it with caution.

Although, there is a comfort in knowing someone else has experienced similar pains, there is always the danger that it could trigger something buried deep down under.

I hope anyone who is struggling, gets the help they need and the love they deserve. You are not alone, and you are going to make it.

Peace and love,

X Ether