#and he only really does it when he's upset or particularly pleased. so i still defend my dialogue choices as in character lol

[writing-good-vibes]

you know what they say about dead men

ever wondered why corey has daddy issues? look no further. another instalment of the road trip, at last, just in time for the one year ends anniversary !! divider by @/firefly-graphics

WARNINGS for corey cunningham x michael myers relationship, age difference, smut, unsafe kink practices, alcohol consumption, mentions of daddy issues, and mild mentions of unhappy/unstable childhood, implied child abuse and dysfunctional parental relationships.

taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (if anyone else wants to be tagged in corey related things, just let me know !!)

Wally Cunningham is dead; mangled in a motorcycle crash in 1999, leaving behind a wife and son. Corey had carried that with him since he was old enough to ask why he didn't have a daddy like the kids at school did.

Joan chose the details carefully, spinning a cautionary tale about how dangerous the world was, how his daddy wasn't smart enough to keep out of trouble, how it's so much better for Corey to stay at home, safe and sound, with her. To stay at home where she can look after him. And Corey believed her, for a while anyway. Why wouldn't he?

In a dirty dive bar in Florida, Corey is finishing his fourth beer of the night before ordering another one. Michael sits stoically beside him, his gaze focused impossibly on the mirror behind the bar from beneath the trucker hat pulled low over his eyes.

Beneath the sound of shouts and jeers and idle chatter, the AC unit rattles steadily, keeping only some of the balmy heat at bay. Corey sweats, curls sticking at his temples and an itch working it's way down his nape, but he he doesn't take his cord jacket off.

"Hey, Wally," someone shouts. It's not an uncommon name, especially for men of a certain age. There's probably a handful of Walters and Wallaces in this bar alone, right?

Still, Corey glances over his shoulder, taking a long swig from his new beer.

The man who shouted had just arrived, and in the time it took Corey to turn around, he's snaked his way through the throngs of patrons to a table in the corner. He claps an older man heartily on the shoulder as he sits down.

Corey's jaw drops, and he dribbles some of his beer down himself.

The older man -- and he does look old, these days -- is startlingly familiar. Corey would know him anywhere, he's seen him a thousand times over in his dreams. He still has a beard, though it has long since greyed. He's wearing a bandana tied over long, equally grey hair. A motorcycle jacket is slung over the back of his seat. Of course he has a motorcycle jacket.

Corey wipes the beer from his chin and tells himself to stop staring, but he can't help it. Corey doesn't believe in ghosts, besides the ones that live in his head, but there's no other explanation for what he's seeing. No explanation that he's got the guts to take.

Because Wally Cunningham is dead. He was mangled in a motorcycle accident in 1999, leaving behind his wife and son. Corey has carried that with him every day of his life. He dealt with the school yard teasing and pushed the grief of every empty father's day deep down. He managed just fine when he learnt to tie his own tie and how to shave on his own. He managed just fine when Momma married Ronald and they all played happy families for a while until the precarious honeymoon phase passed. Corey has managed just fine.

So why is Wally Cunningham sat in a dive bar in Florida, laughing and joking, like he hasn't been dead for more than 20 fucking years.

For a split second, something like elation passes through Corey. That's his dad. His dad who was an All-American man. Who fought in Vietnam. Who would of taught Corey how to ride a trike, and then a bike, and then maybe even a motorcycle when he got old enough. Who would have played catch with him in the yard and coached him to join the baseball team. Who would have made Momma loosen her grip. "You can't keep your eyes on him every second, Joan. Let the boy live," his dad would have said. His dad who had loved him and it was just a terrible, tragic accident that tore them apart.

But then those familiar, safe daydreams fade, like smoke on the breeze. Like they'd never existed at all. His dad is alive, and he hasn't seen Corey in over 20 fucking years.

Without thinking, Corey gets up, leaving Michael sat on his own at the bar. In his haste, desperate not to lose sight of the old man at the table in the corner, Corey forgets to put his beer down, and his knuckles clench white against the glass.

"Wally Cunningham?" his voice is pitifully hopefully. It feels like a betrayal.

Wally turns away from his friends, a congregation of similarly aged-looking bikers with bandanas and bruised knuckles, and looks up at Corey, scowling. "Who's asking, kid?"

Corey swallows thickly around the growing grief in his throat, "I'm Corey."

Wally raises an eyebrow. For a long, disgusting moment Corey can see that his name doesn't ring a bell. The dots aren't connecting.

Until they do. "Corey? God, haven't you grown." Wally looks him up and down, taking in the sight before him. Corey wasn't vain, especially not now, but he has to resist the urge to shrink under his father's narrowed eyes. His hair is a little shaggy since he hasn't got around to trimming it lately, his thrift-store jeans are forever the wrong size, and his tarnished silver belt buckle glints just barely under the smoke-hazy bar lights.

"Well, it's been 23 years." 23 years of mourning only to find that the coffin was empty all along.

Wally nods in muted agreement. "What are you doing here?"

Wally's reserved reaction feels like the single spark that starts a bonfire, drawing in oxygen while Corey struggles to breath. "I should be asking you that. Momma told me you were dead, she said that you died."

Wally has the guts to chuckle, "She did? That doesn't surprise me, she always was fucking nuts. Well, boy, I'm still kicking"

His friends laugh along, but otherwise stay out of it. When Corey thinks about this conversation later -- and he will be thinking about it later, turning it over and over obsessively until he does something stupid over it -- he'll wonder how many of them knew Wally had a son at all. If he ever mentioned the life he'd left behind in Illinois, or if he wiped the slate clean with each state line he crossed. Just like Corey did nowadays.

Corey shakes his head as he connects his own dots, "You're not dead. You're not -- you've been alive this whole time."

Wally tries to be warm, but it doesn't suit him, "Not the brightest bulb in the box, are we? I guess you must take after me, son."

Corey's deep scowl says otherwise; Wally can see Corey is very much Joan's boy. He always was. "You left us, me and Momma."

"Son, your mother told me to leave, so I did. That marriage was a mistake, it's a good job I left her when I did, or I don't know how it would have ended, but it'd wouldn't have been good, I can tell you that --"

"You left me!" Corey shouts, cringing when his voice breaks. "You didn't just walk out on Momma, you walked out on me, didn't you?" His fingers tighten even more around the beer bottle, just a little tighter and --

Suddenly, Corey feels a presence behind him. He knows it's Michael, knows his outrage must of have stirred him from his thoughts and led him over, eager -- if Michael could ever be described as eager -- to be close by in case Corey makes a scene.

Michael clamps a hand down on his shoulder, pulling him away from Wally by a couple of paces. The friends sat around his table shift uneasily in Michael's hulking, scarred presence, a fact Corey revels in as he leans back into Michael's touch. His fingers loosen on the beer bottle.

There's a tense moment of silence as the reality of this strange situation settles over them all. It reminds him of the tabloid shows Momma used to watch when he was little, the ones she shooed him out of the room for: Long lost son, meet absent father.

Finally, "This a friend of yours?" Wally gestures.

Friend. Corey's lip curls into a smirk, "He's my --"

What exactly is Michael? Boyfriend sounds too juvenile, and lover too tender. Daddy crosses his mind, as a sick little dig, or my old man. He doesn't think any of those would go down too well here, though. Partner is ambiguous, but too formal. Accomplice is fitting, very fitting, but he can't go around saying things like that in public. Cult leader is what it feels like sometimes, but a bit too grandiose for their current predicament.

"Yeah, this is Michael," Corey settles on. The pause he used to gather his thoughts was loud though, and something like doubt crosses Wally's face. But he was never fucking there, so he can go fuck himself if he thinks his opinion matters now. He can think what he likes, for all Corey cares -- and oh god, he cares, he cares so fucking much it makes him sick. Wally's probably right though, in one way or another.

"So, what are you doing in this neck of the woods? You left Illinois?" Wally tries again.

Illinois is so far behind them in the rear view mirror that it scares him sometimes, but Corey is headed West, and he isn't stopping -- for anything or anyone -- until he reaches the very end of the line. "We're just passing through," Corey shrugs.

They talk for a while, but Corey doesn't sit down at Wally's table. He doesn't accept a drink when someone goes for another round. He sneers instead of laughs when Wally's friends try to crack jokes. He stays stood in front of Michael, leaning just slightly against him when Michael takes his hand off his shoulder. Michael doesn't complain, doesn't move, just listens silently to the faux-casual conversation going on in front of him. Waiting.

Against his already-scarce better judgement, Corey does agree to stay in town for a few days and meet Wally again tomorrow. They have a lot of catching up to do.

Corey doesn't believe in ghosts, but still doesn't shake Wally's hand when he offers it, scared of what it might feel like. So, instead he smirks, a crooked gesture, and turns to leave, taking Michael with him.

The motel room is quiet and dim, the nicotine-stained bedside lamp casting a sickly yellow glow over the pair while the corners of the room stay shrouded in darkness. A safe and secret place to hide away.

Corey talks and talks, half to himself and half to Michael, wanting to purge every little thought in his head until there's nothing left.

"I don't fucking need him, I never needed him! I never needed him. I don't fucking -- oh fuck -- i got by fine, didn't I? That fucking piece of shit, never fucking needed him. I wish he really was dead, dead in the fucking ground. We should -- that's what we should do, I'm gonna -- please -- And who does he think he is? Talking to me like he didn't fucking walk out on me, on his baby. Can you imagine leaving a baby all alone? Leaving me with Momma. And he didn't even care -- he never fucking cared! -- didn't care that she was gonna swallow me whole. And he knew, he fucking knew, how bad M-Momma was and he s-s-still left me. He ne-ever loved me, did he? Because you wouldn't leave someone like that if you loved them. He never... he never... Why didn't he love me?"

Corey's talk turns into tearful babbles even as he keeps rocking his hips down against Michael's upward thrusts, fucking himself past the point of stupid. Rage and grief gnawing such a deep, deep pit in his stomach that he wants it filled immediately. Wants to fill it with the type of pain-pleasure that Michael delivers without even trying. Wants to choke on it, hot and heavy and ruinous.

But who was Corey kidding? The gaping black hole inside him wasn't new, it hadn’t been gouged out by tonight’s revelations. No, no it had been there for as long as he could remember, and it was Wally who had carved it out, taking it with him when he left and leaving Corey wanting.

"Doesn't matter, anyway. I don't care -- I don't -- I don't fucking need anyone. 'Cause I've got you, right? No one ever gave a shit about me, but I'm still here. I - I don't need them. Don't need anyone. I fucking saved myself. No, no, you saved me. And it's just me and you and we're gonna -- it's gonna be -- You'll never leave me, right? Please don't leave me, please don't -- I wanna be with you. I wanna... You wouldn't leave me. No, no, no, not like him, you're not like him -- you're more of a man than he'll ever be, and you're a fucking monster... Oh, god -- FUCK -- Oh, you can keep me forever and ever and ever and --"

Michael pushes him down onto his back. Corey chokes on a gasp as the angle changes and Michael sets a new, more ruthless pace. Ploughing into him -- too hard and too fast and too much -- as Corey's mouth stops working, his grief-stricken rambles melting into moans.

This happens sometimes, Michael losing patience when Corey runs his mouth, but usually Corey has enough sense to know when shut up. Corey's on the edge and he knows that Michael knows that, knows it when a rough, scarred hand closes around his throat, pressing dangerously on either side of his windpipe.

Corey sucks in a breath until he can't anymore.

The motel room is quiet and dark, once Corey reaches over to shut off the lamp.

He's still sniffling quietly, his sweaty skin sticking to Michael's as he arranges the older man's arms around his shoulders. Michael keeps them there limply, silently, as Corey wraps himself around him.

Abandonment feels so much worse than grief ever had. Wally wasn't dead, he just never wanted Corey. Wally wasn't dead, Corey just wasn't good enough.

Corey's fingers clench. There's a knife on the nightstand, and in his duffle, and one tossed onto the floor along with his clothes. His fingers relax. There's a snub-nose .38 revolver in the glove compartment of their truck.

"He'd deserve it, wouldn't he?" Corey mutters, "Just like she did..." He blinks up at Michael through wet lashes.

Michael doesn't say anything.

He agrees, Corey decides, smiling.

[kittyfrisk9]

IdeaDpxDc—There are better ways to meet someone.

Note: Sorry, I don't know English, so please use a translator. I apologize if you don't get the idea.

Dead On Main. Soul mates.

---

"Exactly... what does this ring do?" The shining ring was still attached to his finger. This wouldn't worry him if it weren't for the fact that, with each passing minute, the ring emitted more light, and that can't be good.

The cult leader refused to speak. He wouldn't even look at him, seeming particularly attentive to the material the floor was made of. Very funny that now he was scared of him when, an hour ago, he was giving a very cliché speech about how humanity was doomed because it would summon the evil of evils.

It wasn't very smart of him to perform his summoning precisely in Gotham City, home of the Dark Knight.

Red Hood was getting impatient. He placed the hand without the ring on his weapon; if words didn't work, a real threat to his life would. And this didn't really break Bruce's 'no killing' rule because the gun was only loaded with rubber bullets. However, just as he was about to advance and shoot the guy, he saw Batman grab the leader's tunic collar and lift him up.

The man, of course, screamed in fear. "Speak, what does that ring do?" No jokes. Batman's voice was deeper than usual, showing that he was upset, no, rather angry.

Or worried, but Jason could never consider that possibility. For the moment, he was only surprised, although it didn't show through his helmet.

"I-I don't know," the leader replied. Poor guy, he seemed about to cry. Batman, not content, tightened his grip even more; he wasn't willing to tolerate a lie this time.

Red Robin raised an eyebrow. "You managed to gather a bunch of magical artifacts for your summoning and you don't know what they do?"

The man looked away. "No..." The rest of the cult members also looked away. Very brave and stupid of them to all agree to lie to the bats. Jason himself wanted to mock them, but the ring kept shining. He couldn't mock when the ring kept shining and he didn't know what it meant.

From the communications, Robin could be heard. "Tt, this wouldn't be happening if Hood hadn't put on the ring." Jason suppressed a growl.

"Kid, I didn't put on the ring. This thing stuck to me the moment I touched it." It was true. In the middle of the operation to stop the ritual, Jason had pulled the ring, which at that moment was a kind of necklace by the chain that ran through it, from a member who was wearing it. The ring in his hand began to glow and suddenly teleported to his ring finger, then stopped shining. It was when everything calmed down that the ring began to release a different, but constant light.

Approximately ten minutes have passed since then, he thought as he looked at the ring, ignoring all the magical stuff; it was actually a very simple ring. Suddenly, the ring began to blink.

Oh, no. That couldn't be good.

Batman, fed up with the leader's silence and his followers, threw the man meters ahead. "Oracle, call Zatanna now, we need more information about the ring," he ordered as he approached the man who was in pain from the fall. The guy, terrified by the violent aura of the Dark Knight, tried to retreat.

Finally, Nightwing stepped between the man and the brutal beating he would receive if he didn't speak.

"It's okay, B, calm down." With his hand on his father's shoulder, Dick tried to ease the atmosphere. "I understand your concern. We are all worried about what the ring might do to Hood. But we can't let fear and anger control us. Hood is important to all of us. He is our brother, your son. We can't lose our cool now. Let's call Wonder Woman. If no one wants to talk, she can help us with the lasso of truth."

Total silence. Jason didn't know what to say; he didn't think his family would react like this over a blinking ring. That is... he doesn't know. Suddenly, the ring's light began to blink faster.

Batman, after Nightwing's words and seeing the change in the ring, understood that he couldn't waste time with someone who wouldn't talk. "You're right, thank you Nightwing." Looking at the others, he said: "We need to act quickly, we don't know the effects the ring might have on Hood. We need to take him to the cave for a thorough analysis, no discussions." The last part he said looking at Jason. "Until then, don't try to take it off or use it."

Jason scoffed, as if he would.

"Oracle, you heard, call Diana. Red Robin and I will take care of the rest of the cult. Nightwing, take Red Hood to the cave." Batman began giving orders as he reached the leader and began dragging him towards the rest of his cult. The leader, in a failed attempt, tried to resist. "Agent A, please prepare a stretcher. Understood?"

Everyone nodded.

On the other hand, the touching speech and the strange family moment of the bats seemed to soften the heart of a girl from the cult, who in a whisper said: "The ring, nothing will happen to him." Although she spoke quietly, everyone present heard her.

The leader, panicking that the information would be revealed, exclaimed: "Catrina, shut up!" However, he was struck by Batman, who was already fed up with the guy.

"What do you have to say about the ring?" he asked.

The woman hesitated to speak. "We thought of using the ring to subdue the king of the dead and make him listen to our orders..." She paused, not knowing how to continue. "There is a real legend about the ring. A long time ago, a witch wanted to know who her soulmate was, so she created the ring. This allows one to be guided to their soulmate through the red thread. I think everyone already knows what the red thread is." Nervous, she looked around. Only Nightwing nodded, and that was enough for her to continue telling. "Well, the witch's red thread connected with a prince. Unfortunately for everyone, the prince was not happy that his soulmate was a witch. So he had her killed." The girl looked at her hands; that part of the story was sad. "The witch was angry, but still wanted her soulmate to accept her, so she rewrote the ring's original purpose. It was no longer something that united you with your soulmate, but now it was something that allowed you to subdue your soulmate... uh, this." She pointed to a book that was lying in a corner. "With another spell, in fact, it can be used to subdue anyone, even a king of the dead."

With the whole story already told, Red Robin asked: "So, what is the ring doing to Red Hood?"

"It's tracking his soulmate. I... didn't get to put the other spell on it. I could only activate the ring's primary function. Your brother will be fine."

That definitely changes things. Jason swore he could hear his heart beating. A soulmate, wow. He admits he's read many romance novels and maybe once dreamed of it, but for it to actually happen, wow.

Suddenly, the ring stopped blinking. Five seconds later, everyone saw a red thread shoot out from the ring's gem. It quickly moved in one direction, went through the wall, and kept going. The process was like a fishing rod when it catches a fish.

"Does this mean it already found its soulmate?" Red Robin asked. Astonished by the red thread, he tried to touch it but his hand went through it; apparently, the thread was intangible to anyone else.

"Yes," the cultist also seemed astonished.

Jason felt a look on him, turned, it was his brother. Oh no, not that look, he knew that smile; Dick would tease him so much in the coming days. For his part, Batman sighed in relief. Well, it wasn't such an extreme danger, but it was still dangerous. "Agent A, cancel the stretcher." He never imagined this would mean a soulmate case. "Oracle, don't cancel the call to Zatanna or Wonder Woman, we need to verify the information. We'll stay here until the police arrive."

How nice it would be if everything ended like that, right? With Dick joking with Jason, Tim analyzing the thread, Barbara laughing at the turn of events, Bruce relieved and Damian surprised. However, one must remember the story.

The witch changed the ring's original purpose. Unexpectedly, the thread began to retract, as if it had caught something. It did so so quickly that Jason grabbed his hand in pain. It was then that everyone had a bad feeling. The wall the thread had previously passed through suddenly exploded, the noise and dust alerting everyone, especially when once the chaos disappeared, something horrific could be seen.

An arm. A fucking arm. Apparently freshly torn from its owner. Oh, no. What did it do to his soulmate?

...

Somewhere else in the world, somewhere in the United States, Danny gasped in pain. What the hell? What was that? Ancients! Where is his arm?

---

Note: Sorry, I don't know English, so please use a translator. I apologize if you don't get the idea.

Edited on 06/21/2024 - Note two: Thanks to redflagshipwriter, who continued this idea below. And to Sakuravalelp who made me laugh with the complement.

[luveline]

omg i love ur pregnant reader x hotch esp the flangsty ones…

maybe him and reader get into a little argument and the fighting plus the hormones plus the constant discomfort makes her leave to stay at a friend’s house for “space” (maybe someone in the bau hehe) then he shows up and grovels and they kiss and make up <333

ty for requesting! —hotch and pregnant!reader make up after a fight (neither being quite as mad as they’d claimed).

“Your boyfriend’s outside.” 

You raise your tired head from the couch cushion. “Who?” 

Morgan grins at you. “Hotch, mama. He’s at the door.” 

Hotch is your husband, not your boyfriend. You’ve got the ring to prove it. 

“You didn’t let him in?” 

“He said you might not want to see him.” 

You want to see Hotch more than you’ve ever wanted to see another person. It is absolute torture to be so heavily pregnant with someone’s baby and to worry they don’t want you anymore. If he’s here at such a late hour, he must’ve forgiven you for being grumpy. Right? 

You sit up and let Morgan help you into a standing position. He pulls your blanket tight around your shoulders. “Should I let him in?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You drop your voice to a whisper, “But don’t let him know I’m eager.” 

He gives you a knowing smirk. “Course not. Stay here, okay? I’ll bring him in.” 

Morgan starts back down the hall. You stand in his living room wondering what Hotch is gonna say, if he’s still mad, if you’re still mad, and if he’s strong enough to carry you back to the car. You don’t wanna sleep in Morgan’s bed, as much as you love him. You want your bed, your Hotch, his baby boy snoring in the room across the hall. You love your life (most of the time, when you aren’t carrying the weight of a bowling ball on your abdomen and the hormones aren’t making you sick). 

“Hello,” Hotch says, still in the suit he’d been wearing when he got home that evening, strangely and obviously nervous where he stops in the doorway. 

“Hi. Where’s Jack?” 

“He went with Jess. I needed to talk to you.” 

“Could’ve brought Jack.” 

“I didn’t want to upset him if you stayed here.” 

You nod. Hotch —who’d cringe if he knew you still called him that in your head, though it’s the name he went by when you fell in love, so what are you supposed to do?— gestures for you to sit, not demanding, only concerned. “It’s late,” he says. 

You can’t be bothered to lower yourself awkwardly into the cushion nest you’d made. “Morgan offered me his bed. He has a California king.” 

“But you stayed on the couch.” 

You glare at him half-heartedly. “Maybe I was watching TV.” You’d been waiting for him to call, but it’s not his business.

He doesn’t seem perturbed by your reaction. He's about to apologise anyways. “I’m sorry for getting mad. I know how stressed you are, and I should’ve done better.” 

Your glare softens. 

“I’m sorry I upset you,” he furthers, the ever present pinch of his brows particularly severe. His eyes are dark like clouds full to bursting with rain. 

You don’t want to say it’s okay. You want him to cross the room and cuddle you up like you’re fragile, the way he does, his nose pressed to your temple as his hands grasp up your achy shoulders. 

“I’ll be better,” he says. 

“You really wound me up, you know? I already feel like I have cabin fever.” 

His eyes cast over you, sympathetic and sorry down to your stomach and up again. He’s pleading without speaking. 

You’re not mad anymore, anyhow. “Can you do that thing for me, please?” you ask quietly. 

Hotch crosses the distance between you and encourages you into his side and under his arm. Careful, he bends into your back, pressing his hand under the round bottom of your bump and pulling up. It takes some of the weight from your hips and spine, alleviating a certain heavy pain and discomfort, while also closing the sour gap between you both. 

“Aaron,” you say, a little shy, mostly relieved, “you should’ve brought Jack. You know I’ll come home if you ask me to. I wasn’t even that mad by the time we got back here.” 

His breath is a shudder by your ear. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” You look out toward the hall. “Where’s Morgan?” 

“He said he’d go for a walk.” 

“He's a good friend.” 

“He’s a great friend,” Hotch agrees, rubbing the side of you with his other hand before he pulls away completely. “He told me you can always sleep over when I’m acting like your drill sergeant.” 

You laugh under your breath, leaning in with arms held up to slide over his shoulder. He lets out a sigh as your chests touch, your bump smushed, like he’s finally been cut from a trap. To think he’d be so clearly relieved at having your forgiveness has you emotional all over again, but not with the same red passion you’d been angry with before. “I’m your drill sergeant,” you mumble into his shoulder. 

“You’re my sweetheart,” he says, so quiet you’re sure it wasn’t him, so out of character to admit something like that on a random day. There’s a hint of joking under it, but enough sincerity simultaneously that you melt in his hold. “You are, and I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t sleep in your own bed.” 

“It’s not like I’d have been put out. Morgan’s got a California–”

“So you’ve told me.” His palm stays flat to your back, his fingers patting you gently. His voice mellows into that silken gentleness to match, the tone that drew you in and has you in such a terribly emotional position to begin with. “I couldn’t leave you here. I know you’d be more than comfortable, but I couldn’t sleep the night without you.” 

“Imagine how I feel when you’re away.” 

“I know. I know.” He kisses the skin shy of your eye. “Should we go and get Jack before bedtime?” 

“Can we get something to eat, too?” 

His answering smile is a curve on your cheek. “Mm-hm,” he hums. “Let me just say thanks to Morgan. Then we can go wherever you want.”

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Pickup Truck

summary: frankie hates your boyfriend. in fact, everybody does. but he’s willing to give him a chance. you’re his best friend, after all. until frankie discovers something he can never forgive.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+. MDNI. this fic contains allusions to, but no descriptions of, domestic abuse. please do not proceed if you know this will upset you.

frankie's pov. no lady and no baby for our boy. drinking, violence (against pos bf), angst, lots of hurt, allusions to dv. comfort, fluff. frankie to the rescue. unprotected p in v (wrap it irl!). oral, f receiving. creampie. bad spanish (again). kings of leon references. happy ending, of course.

wc: 9.8k

an: whew, this was an emotional one to write. but i hope a good love comes to all of you in time, no matter where you are at the moment. and if you already have it, may it always keep you safe. lovely divider from @saradika.

Frankie really doesn’t like your boyfriend.

Scratch that. Nobody does.

Nobody really knows where you found him, either. A sweet, smart girl like you, moved back to your small town from your big city life, and it looks like you picked up the very first guy who sidled up to you in a grimy bar.

Which, if you’re really honest, is exactly what happened. Because he was nice at first. Real nice. He was charming and sweet and interested - he bought you drinks all night and didn’t push to come in when he walked you home. You went for dinner a few times, and sure, he could be a little rude to the waitstaff, but it was only because he was so focused on you. He bought you flowers and took you for rides, and sure, sometimes he’d come home far too drunk after seeing his friends and get a little too close, a little too loud, but he always apologised.

And sure, he sometimes made you cry, but he always made it up to you. Sweet promises, small gifts. And he'd never laid a finger on you.

Not until last week, anyway.

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know who to turn to. The thought of it makes you so sick you have to lock yourself in the bathroom at work. How did this happen? How did it turn so sour?

And how do you get out?

Walk you home to see

Where you're livin' around

And I know this place

Frankie walks you home from the bonfire. He always does.

It’s his favourite moment of the night.

He gets to have you all to himself. Gets to watch your cheeks cool in the night air, watch as the blush from the heat of the fire subsides. Your giddy, wide eyes, your tipsy babbling about stories which had been swapped over the flames, picking out particularly scandalous details for you two to giggle about before doubling over into breathless laughter over something Benny had said. 

He likes to hold your elbow, your hand, as you catch him in your amusement, gripping onto his bicep. He loves to lose himself in this little pocket of time with you.

He loves the sparkle of the stars, the glow of the streetlights as they light your features.

Frankie loves you.

And he’s so glad you’ve moved back from your life in the big city to come and be around your real friends again. So glad that you’ve all found your way back to each other. Tonight has left him with such a mellow tingle in his bones that he finds he can’t stop smiling at you, looking at you, on your walk home.

Bonfire nights have always been your monthly hangout, a time when you can be sure you’ll get the whole gang together. There used to be more of you through highschool, and still a fair few during college. It dipped when the boys joined the forces, when people moved further east and further north. But eventually Frankie, Benny, Santi, and Will had come back. Jessa, your other best friend, had returned too. A few others coming and going - Lily, Marcus, Maggie - also back and forth from their new homes to their old ones. And then eventually folk had just… settled. 

Frankie felt like he was one of the last, like he was maybe the one finding it the hardest, retired to a life of civvy duties. Unable to hold down a girlfriend, struggling to stick at a job, sofa surfing around friends’ places. He was still flying whenever he could, but then this coke allegation happened, and it was like the world was finally swept from under him. 

You were the first person he had called, the first person to talk him down from his panic, that debilitating squeeze around his heart when he thought about the future. The first person who made him feel like it would be okay.

So of course his joy when you had come back had been immeasurable. Maybe this time, he’d thought.

And then you’d met Tanner.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as you drag your hand out of his, skipping a little further up the dark street until you reach a corner. Frankie watches as you spin on the spot in the quiet neighbourhood, gesturing down the pathway before you. 

‘This is me.’ You say.

But you don’t turn to keep walking. You watch him, a small, excited smile on your lips. Like you’re waiting for him to work it out. 

Frankie drags his eyes from you, away from thoughts of your new boyfriend, to look up and down the street you’ve led him to, and for a second he is pulled beneath the ebbing flow of memory, towed with the riptide of things forgotten. 

This is his grandmother’s street. Was his grandmother’s street.

The cracked concrete, the peeling paint of the porches. The weeds, the flowers, the smell.

He breathes your name like you’re the only thing tethering him to the now.

Breathes your name through the bright, sunny flashes of his childhood. His mama bringing him here with his brother, his papa swinging him by his legs in the flower-riddled front garden. Cartoons in the ripe heat of the afternoons, him and his cousins stuffing their faces with Guagitas and Frugele until they’d made themselves sick while the younger siblings napped in the sunbeams of the bedroom next door. Cycling over on his bike after school to sit at her kitchen table to do his homework, letting her fuss over him - his height, his friends, his grades, girls -

A skinnier, younger Frankie stopping by his abuela’s house with you to pick up her up for his nineteenth birthday party, along with her homemade tamales, her chiles rellenos, and specially made pumpkin sopaipillas for later on. The way you had chatted to her, natural, easy going, how you had made her laugh, her eyes sparkle. How, when you had taken some of the plates to the car, his abuela had pinched his cheek. I like her, she’d said, Será tuya algún día, mm, mijo? And Frankie had flushed bright red, batting her arms away as she chuckled at him. He had hidden in the back bedroom when you came in from outside, and listened a little longer to your conversation as he waited for the heat of his face to die down. When he reemerged, you had helped his grandmother into her shoes, her cardigan, and kept ahold of her arm until she got into Frankie’s beat up old car. At the end of the night, his abuela had kissed both your cheeks several times, rocked you back and forth in a hug, and clapped her hands as she said how she looked forward to seeing you again.

When you came home from college every summer, you’d have tea with her in her garden. She always asked Frankie about you, about how you are doing. When he told her you were coming home, she’d been so excited. Quizás este sea el momento? She’d said to him, squeezing his hand. He’d smiled, his heart quietly full of hope. Tal vez, abuela, he’d said.

When he called you two weeks later, his voice weak from crying, to tell you that she’d passed, you had been heartbroken. And it seemed like her wish, the red thread she’d seen between the two of you, had been snipped, too.

Pour yourself on me

And you know I'm the one

That you won't forget

Frankie likes to listen to you talk, because he’s never much been one for talking. 

He supposes you just bring it out of him, though. Because here on this street, in the moonlight, he tells you more about his grandmother. You spend hours walking up and down the pavement as he recounts every story he can remember; him and his brother, his parents, aunts and uncles, cousins. Birthdays, weddings, funerals. The street comes alive with the ghosts of people, the spectres of feelings. You and Frankie talk of growing up. Of falling in love. Of each other. 

Your small, well-loved house is half way down the street, four up from his abuela’s. It does something strange to his heart to have two of his favourite people, who loved each other in their own ways, so close but so far away. 

Your fingers hold his wrist as he shows you a scar on his palm from eating shit on his bike when he was eight, and when he looks up, your eyes are shining under the streetlights. There is a glint of moon in your teeth, and a shocking want so clear on your face, but when he meets your eye there is suddenly hesitation, a realisation, a shuttering. Frankie stops his story. There is a moment, and then it slips away like sand.

You shiver, chilled all of a sudden, and wrap your arms around yourself. Frankie tries not to look too hard at the goose bumps blossoming on your bare skin, tries to fight off the urge to kiss the little raises until you’re warm again under his touch.

‘Cold?’ he asks, and you smile back up at him. God, his heart.

‘As a hole,’ you giggle, and he feels himself smile goofily back at you. ‘We gotta warm up.’ You say, and then freeze.

It takes Frankie a little while longer to hear the inadvertent invitation in your words.

Boyfriend. Boyfriend.

You both stand on the porch, frozen, like some great frost has swept over the land. If Frankie squints, he can imagine the glitter of your eyeshadow, now fallen, dusted on your cheeks, is a collective of tiny constellations of ice. 

Your body is wracked with a shiver again, but when Frankie looks you in the eye, you’re burning up from the inside. He swallows.

If he could only make the steps towards you. If he could only will his heavy feet to move, if he could summon his nerves to do exactly what his brain says, he would already be in front of you. He would have your face in his hands, be able to look into your eyes to see that deep, hidden want again, and kiss you. Again and again and again, and he wouldn’t stop, because things like that shitty boyfriend of yours wouldn’t matter anymore.

No. The whole world would be glitter and stars and constellations of ice crystals.

And then you blink, smile softly, and wish him a goodnight.

When he can finally lift his foot to move, your door is already closed.

And in your denim eyes

I see that something's awry

And I see you’re weak

You don’t see Frankie for a while after that, always finding a way to brush off his attempts to hang out. 

At first he doesn’t worry too much about it. You’ve just moved back - you have a new job, a new place, new friends to get to know. Tanner. 

Frankie finds other things to do. He gets business cards made up for the flying school he’ll be setting up next month. He pilots people across the state, sometimes across the country. He sees the boys for drinks, even sees Jessa for a coffee. He starts to worry when they say their texts have gone mostly unanswered, and they haven’t seen you either.

It must be why he turns up on your front step one day, a six pack in hand. 

You open the door on the second ring of the doorbell, and Frankie finds himself rendered speechless. You look… different.

Tired and wary, a little thinner. And when he gets you chatting, you say you haven’t really been anywhere, done anything. You’ve been settling in, getting used to it. You have two beers each, but you seem on edge, like you’re waiting for a knock on the door. And then Frankie asks about Tanner, and your eyes linger on the entryway a little longer.

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘He’s okay.’

Frankie’s jaw twitches, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

‘Just okay?’ He asks. 

Because you should be excited. You should be gushing and giddy and falling in love. But you’re not.

‘Yeah,’ you shrug. ‘He’s good.’

There’s something in your eyes. Something which shrinks away, skitters back. Something drained, something sapped of life, of energy. Hurt, maybe. Fear, perhaps.

When Frankie thinks back now, he knows he should have pressed you harder. Maybe should have taken you to his, made you talk a little more for a little longer. Away from Tanner, the threat of his presence. But he didn’t. He didn’t.

And he hates himself for it.

When he comes around

I see you're fixin' to shine

And my face won't speak

When Frankie next sees you, you’ve had a hair cut, and there are deep, dark bags under your eyes. Both of these things worry him equally. 

Your beautiful hair that you’d been growing out since you were young, hair that you swore you’d never cut shorter than it was in seventh grade, when your mum had to chop it into a bob after you got gum caught in it. And here it is now, much shorter. 

Jessa says she likes it, and you give her a watery smile, a weak thank you. She asks where you had it done, when. She asks if you like it, and you shrug. You say you’re trying something new. You say Tanner likes it.

Over your shoulder, Frankie exchanges a look with Santi.

You’re quiet the whole time you're at the bar. Far too quiet, so far from the bubbly conversation you usually hold, your loud cackle, your bent-double amusement. Your affection for your friends - the hands on knees, arms around shoulders, kisses pressed to cheeks. It’s hardly there. 

Frankie offers to walk you home, but you wave him off kindly. Tanner’s picking me up, you say, he’s probably outside. Jessa frowns at you.

‘Are you sure, babe?’ She says. ‘It’s not even late yet.’

You smile and nod at her, gather your stuff to go. Jessa catches your arm.

‘We’re still on to go shopping Saturday, though - right?’ 

You smile at her, the first warm one you’ve mustered all night.

‘Of course,’ you say, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ 

When you stand to leave, you hug everybody goodbye. Tightly, for longer than usual. Frankie doesn’t give you an option when he walks you out to Tanner’s car. The smug prick is hanging out the driver’s seat window. He watches Frankie as you walk up, hostile, threatening, arrogant, and somehow still ridiculous. And, Frankie thinks cruelly - ugly.

Frankie pulls you into his arms a few steps away from your boyfriend. He kisses your hair, and you sigh.

‘Have a good time on Saturday,’ he says softly. You twitch a smile at him. 

‘Thank you, Frankie.’ You say before stepping back and walking to open the passenger door. As you climb in, Tanner winks at him. 

‘Gettin’ a new one tomorrow,’ he says, stupid fucking grin on his face. ‘New car. Exciting stuff. Anyway, better get this one back,’ he says, squeezing your knee a little too hard. You don’t look at Frankie, something like humiliation colouring your cheeks. ‘See you around, Frank.’ Tanner says.

Frankie steps back from the car as it glides forwards, and he watches it disappear up the street. 

Deep anger burns in him. And a kind of fear. It crawls over his skin, cooling the sides of his neck. His heart churns uncomfortably in his chest.

He tells your friends about it when he returns to the table. And they form a plan. Jessa texts you a time she’ll pick you up on Saturday. You say you’re excited again, you need some new clothes.

But Frankie knows Jessa won’t take you shopping. 

No, she brings you here, to the beach, to the bonfire. To him, to Santi and Benny and Will. Because they’re worried.

So worried, they tell you.

They sit you down in one of the chairs around the fire, and they explain why they’re worried. They tell you they love you - so much - and they just need to know if you’re okay. Because they can help. They want to help, want you out of this, because he’s not good for you. The silence, the hair, the clothes you were going to buy. They tell you they hate the way he doesn’t let you speak, how he speaks to you. And you are so quiet through all of it, Frankie begins to get more worried. He speaks to you gently over the fire, but you can’t meet his eye. He tells you his worries, their love for you again. He swallows down his own confession, anything to make you see. How they don’t want you pushed closer to him, want you to be pulled closer to them instead.

But your eyes are so vacant, so far away, that Jessa leaves her deckchair next to you to sit on the burned up log closer to you on your other side. She takes your hands, and you finally, finally look at her. You open your mouth, and you say so quietly -

‘You’re right. You’re right.’ 

It feels like the biggest gulp of oxygen Frankie has ever taken. He feels lightheaded from the relief, from the knowledge. They were right, they were right, which is a terrible, terrible thing.

Will clears his throat, and Frankie looks at him to see similar thoughts flicking over his face like film reel. He licks his lips, opens his mouth, and -

Hate to be so emotional

I didn't aim to get physical

But when he pulled in and revved it up

I said, ‘You call that a pickup truck?’

And in the moonlight I throwed him down

Kickin', screamin' and rollin' around

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

Whatever Will is about to say is cut short by the sweep of headlights over the brush near the dunes. 

A beat up old pickup truck bumps up the track and pulls up alongside Will’s Ranger. The driver’s side window slides down, and Tanner’s face emerges from the gloom. He revs the engine loudly, making you and Jessa jump. A sick feeling curls in Frankie’s stomach as he watches him, this piece of shit who’s been so busy crushing you down. 

Tanner leaps out of the truck, and slams the door. Frankie looks over at you, visibly panicked on the other side of the fire. How the fuck did he find you?

‘Hey baby,’ Tanner says, sickly sweet as he strolls towards you, ducking to press a kiss to your unresponsive mouth. He turns to the rest of the group, eyes skating over Will and Ben until they land on Frankie. Tanner steps towards him, offers his hand.

‘Good to see you again, Frank,’ he says, ‘Told you I’d be getting a new ride.’ 

Frankie stares at his hand. He takes a deep swig of his beer, breathing deeply before looking Tanner in the eye, refusing to shake it.

‘I’m surprised to see you.’ He says to the dirty-haired man.

Tanner tries his best to appear unfazed, but there’s a glimmer of something hot behind his eyes.

‘’Course man, wanted to show off the new pickup.’ He says, grinning broadly. He looks around again, eyes falling hungrily on Jessa. She shifts uncomfortably on the log, rearranging her body so there’s less for him to look at. A deep heat begins to rise in Frankie’s chest.

He glances again at the ancient car that Tanner’s driven up in. The front bumper almost hanging off, the red paint aged and scratched, bumps caved in all up the sides, the roof sagging. 

‘You call that a pickup truck?’ Frankie says lightly. Tanner narrows his eyes at him, angry, before he catches the sound of Santi’s laugh.

He whirls around to the other man and spits -

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Frankie almost laughs, too. Almost.

Pope spreads his hands. He looks up at him through his brows, a glint in his eyes that Frankie is violently familiar with. You must notice it, too, because you clear your throat and say -

‘Santi’s one of my friends.’

Tanner doesn’t even look at you. Just keeps staring at Pope. 

The moment seems to last an eternity. Frankie feels like he’s watching everything through sludge, like he’s in someone else’s dream. His whole body is on edge, vibrating, ready to lunge - he’s just not sure at who. He looks between the two men before he catches your eye through the flames. The adrenaline in Frankie’s heart gutters at the look of panic in your eyes.

Please don’t let them do this. Please help me stop it.

Frankie glances back to Pope, and says, so softly only he can hear it -

‘Pope.’ 

And Santi immediately looks away, taking a swig of his beer.

Tanner stands there still, clearly baffled at Santi’s sudden lack of interest. Then he turns to the rest of the group like a petulant child, a toddler who has been ostensibly robbed of its favourite toy.

‘It’s a good truck,’ he says, before turning to you. ‘Ain’t it, baby?’

You hum your agreement as Tanner scoops a beer from the pile by Will’s chair, shucking off the top with his teeth. Jessa looks away, disgusted. He settles himself in the deckchair at your side.

‘Y’aint allowed to touch it, of course, sugar,’ he says to you, before laughing into his bottle. ‘Ruin everything you come into, anyway. Root of all my problems, ain’t ya?’ Tanner takes a pull of his beer. The group is silent around him. Around you. Tanner notices.

‘Boy, fun bunch you are.’ 

You look at him through your eyelashes.

‘Baby, that’s enough.’ You say as softly as possible, and Frankie cringes at the pet name. 

Tanner looks at you sharply. Dark, furious. It’s in the pinch of his jaw, the anger at what you’ve said so obviously rolling around in his skull.

Frankie hates him for it. And he hates that he hates him for it. There are already so many things he hates him for, but he’s so fucking stupid it’s almost funny. Not your equal in any way. In kindness, in conversation or in intellect. And not even willing to try. To learn. For you. Just trying to dumb you down instead, squash you into smaller, more digestible bites to chew on. 

When it comes down to it, Tanner has nothing smart to say back. He just pushes a short breath from his nostrils and mutters out a little -

‘Well, well, well.’

Then he flexes his fingers against the chair, and you flinch. 

You flinch hard, your brows coming together, chin scrunching, waiting for the blow to land. And when it doesn’t, your eyes flicker open slowly. Hollow, bereft, drained and dim. 

Tanner hasn’t noticed, but everyone else has.

The awful unveiling of your last secret.

Frankie forces the bile down his throat. His head swings forward to the ground of its own accord, a faint, resonant ringing in his ears. When he looks at his hands, they aren’t his own. In fact, he recognises no part of his body as the ringing gets louder, as he gently places his beer bottle on the floor. When his eyes leave the dirt, the mix of faces around the fire are all mirror reflections of each other. Horror, disgust, grief. Grief that this is what you hid from them, this is what they have taken too long to pull you from. The burning building splintering around you, your shell of a body immovable in the middle. 

You won’t meet his eye. You won’t meet anyone’s eye as your hand shakes around your bottle. Jessa notices. She stares at your trembling fingers for too long, but she can hardly say anything. None of them can. Her eyes shine like beacons from her seat, wet with tears. Frankie sees her bottom lip quiver, her chin dimple. And then she swallows, swallows again, and reaches for your hand.

You flinch again, softer this time, and Frankie is sure everyone around the fire - everyone in the town, the world, must hear his heart crack. Because he feels it so keenly, so deeply, that it takes the air from his lungs. His breath is caught in his throat, and no matter how hard he tries to draw it, it seems impossible to claw it down. He’s drowning. He’s drowning right here in front of everybody, and it makes it all the worse to know that this is how you must feel. Every damn day.

Come on, he hears Jessa say, Let’s go and get another drink. And through the dark swirling of his mind he watches the two of you stand slowly and disappear towards the back of Frankie’s truck. He waits until Jessa has you hidden from view, her arms around your hunched back as you bring your hands to your face - crying - and that’s when the thread snaps.

Frankie gets to his feet, slowly.

Pope and Will watch him. Benny is still staring at Tanner.

Tanner looks up at him, chin jutted out, smirking as Frankie approaches. 

He’s challenging him. He’s waiting for a war of words, for the shouting to begin, for the insults, the observations to fly.

He expected the wrong war from a soldier.

The first punch sprawls him out of his seat. It makes a satisfying cracking sound, and the first trickle of blood starts to bleed from behind his lip.

Then Frankie kicks him. He kicks him hard in the ribs, making sure he doesn’t have enough time to recover from the punch to deflect Frankie’s boot. 

Tanner clutches at his abdomen, wheezing, gazing up at Frankie with bewildered eyes. Fucking coward.

Frankie grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulls him upwards. He has nothing to say to him, but the fury he feels, this deep, endless, swirling pit of rage, he lets him see. He lets it fill him from the soles of his feet all the way up through his eyes, and he lets it bleed out. He lets the blackness flood the ground. He lets Tanner watch it, lets it petrify him, and then Frankie swings again. Tanner takes it on his chin this time, his jaw snapping closed, and when it goes lax, a couple jagged bits of tooth fall out. Frankie grunts in satisfaction and swings again, again, until blood spouts from Tanner’s eyebrow and his cheek begins to bruise and swell. Frankie breathes deeply, in rhythm, doesn’t even feel it when Tanner manages to land a lucky punch to his eye socket. He plants a knee into the other man’s crotch, lands him an elbow to the back of his head when he keels over, and then shoves him to the ground. Frankie gets on the floor with him, raining blows down on Tanner’s body, his face. He’s methodical about it, a punch to each eye, the crack of the cunt’s nose, one to either side of his mouth, then bloodying up his jaw. He’s aware, somewhere, that Tanner is screaming. Strangled, gargling sounds trying to claw up his throat. And then he’s aware of two pairs of hands around each armpit, dragging him away, pulling him up. Will is saying something in his ear, that’s enough, Frankie, alright now, and Benny is speaking, too, panicked - you’ll kill him, Fish, come on man.

Frankie blinks, really looks at Tanner where he lays bleeding on the dirt. His eyes already swelling, a couple more teeth scattered on the ground next to him. His face different shades of red and purple, a mess of a man, and Frankie is pleased. He could keep going. He wants to see him bleed much, much more. Will and Benny keep their grip on him.

‘Leave,’ Frankie growls, low, without a quiver in his voice. ‘And don’t you ever come back. You ever look at her again, I’ll gouge out your fuckin’ eyes. You ever touch her again, I’ll break every bone in your body. I’ll make sure they don’t find anything left of you.’

Tanner doesn’t say anything, which must be the only smart thing he’s ever done in his life. But he still doesn’t move.

The four men watch him for a moment, the silence heavy, broken only by the crackle of wood and Tanner’s heavy, wet breaths.

Then Benny lets Frankie go, steps forward and picks the man up by his collar, swinging him around to the direction of his truck. He throws him down on the dirt.

‘Move,’ he spits. ‘Get out of here. And if you have the courage on the way, wrap your fucking truck around a telephone pole.’

Tanner finally has the good sense to crawl over to the vehicle. He hauls himself up the scarred body work before creaking open the driver’s door and slipping inside. The truck sputters to life, yellow bulbs flooding the bonfire site again before it quickly backs away, turns, and drives off. Frankie watches its blinking red brake lights until he’s sure the cunt is gone, and then he turns around.

You’re stood with Santi’s arms wrapped around you, back from the fire where Tanner’s blood is drying. Pope strokes your hair, squeezes you tightly as your body shudders. And Frankie can only stare. 

Minutes might have passed. Hours. And Frankie is terrified. Terrified that he’s scared you, broken you, pushed you away. And then you turn your face on Pope’s chest, moving your head from shoulder to shoulder, and you’re looking at him. Eyes red-rimmed and raw, face flushed and damp, and it’s like Frankie’s trance breaks.

Frightened, he takes a step forward. He breathes your name.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and you shake your head. Fuck. What has he done? What has he allowed himself to do? ‘I’m sorry, querida, please - I know, I know -’ but what does he know? He looks to Santi, pleading for help, and the man offers him a small smile as you step out of his arms. 

Through a fog, you come towards him. Your chin wobbles. Your eyes swim. You’re a little wide-eyed, a little shocked. And something else, something beyond his reach. 

You get to him, and your arms make their silken way around his middle as you begin to cry. Hot tears stain the front of his shirt, and he cradles you to him, holding your skull gently, enveloping your abdomen. A loud sob looses from your ribs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ You wrap your arms around him tighter, press your nose into his sternum.

‘I’m not scared of you, Frankie,’ you sob into his chest. He clutches at the back of your head, holds you even closer, strokes your hair. When you speak again your voice is higher, strained with your tears. ‘I could never be scared of you.’

The sting in Frankie’s throat becomes hot, burning. He doesn’t know whether to pull you impossibly closer or to push you away, to run as far as he can from your broken, heaving body in his arms. Because what he’s done should scare you. It should. He’d lost all control. The only thing he’d been able to see, to feel was his all-consuming, depthless fury. And Tanner’s face as it splintered, bloodied, swelled. And he’d wanted to keep going, until there was just pulp. No nerve endings, no teeth, no eyes, no mouth, no body that he could ever hurt you with again. He doesn’t want you to hurt any more.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers into your hair.

Trembling misery

And as cold as a hole

I hug your bones and skin

Frankie holds your hand the whole way home, the drive passing in a dazed silence.

You still don’t talk when you get to his place, when he unlocks the door, lets you in, and locks it behind him. You take his hand in the quiet cool of the house, lead him upstairs. He follows, slowly, sore, exhausted. Trying to process it all.

When you reach the landing, you turn on the bathroom light, and he trails behind you. He stands propped against the sink as you dig around in his medicine cabinet, finding wipes and bandages and anything else you think might be useful. You take Frankie’s hand again, examine his bruised, bleeding and swollen knuckles with solemn eyes. You are so gentle, twisting his hand in the light, inspecting. You look over it for a while, and Frankie watches you. When you reach for an antiseptic wipe, your hand is shaking.

Frankie winces silently when you start to dab at the blood on his knuckles, cleaning it away with minute swipes. You chase the dried rivulets of blood down his fingers, over his palm. The scar there from when he ate shit riding his bike.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. You ignore him, breathing shallowly as you inspect his hand, holding his wrist, cleaning blood which is no longer there.

‘Might be a hairline fracture or two,’ you say, distant. ‘I won’t bandage it, gonna let it dry out first. But you’ll need to rest it. And we’ll need to ice your eye.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, into your hair. You shake your head, and the light catches the different colours in every strand. Frankie’s throat tightens.

‘Please stop apologising.’ You whisper.

A shaky breath pushes itself from between Frankie’s lips.

‘No, querida,’ he says softly, ‘It wasn’t right. Shouldn’t have done it. And I shouldn’t have let you see -’ he swallows thickly, throat bobbing. He looks over your head at the white tiles behind you as your grip on his wrist tightens. You still don't look up at him. ‘But it’s not how you treat someone you love. Not how it should be. Should be protecting them, treating them right, loving them the way you love -’ him. He cuts himself off, because he realises as he says it he’s wrong. So wrong.

Right to be like you in your gentleness. In your care, your touch, your tenderness, your loving. But Tanner deserved none of those things. He didn’t deserve your faith, didn’t deserve your protection or your silence either. None of it. 

He closes his eyes.

An image of you flickers through Frankie’s mind. Your fingers on his wrist as they are now, your eyes shining under the streetlights. The glint of your teeth, and the want so clear on your face, then the hesitation, the fear, the shuttering - 

And if only he had kissed you then. If only you had taken him inside. He could have shown you what it was supposed to feel like. He could have saved you from the hurt, the fear which lay ahead.

There’s a splash of warmth on the pale skin of the underside of his forearm, and he opens his eyes again. You’re still hunched over his hand, but your movements have stilled. Frankie waits, confused, before another warm drop lands on his arm and you hiccup a sob out. He whispers out your name, and you turn your face up to him, devastated.

Frankie’s face crumples, and your grip on his wrist loosens enough for him to lift his hands to your face and cup your cheeks.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. I wasn’t thinking -’

‘You think I love him?’ You croak.

Frankie’s jaw works around his next sentence, his next thoughts. He tries to process what this means. That look in your eyes, your tears, your implication. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

‘I don’t love him, Frankie,’ you choke, ‘I don’t. Christ - I don’t think I ever did, I never could -’ you suck in a deep, stuttered breath. ‘I’ve never - never hated anyone more. I couldn’t stand him, couldn’t have him near me, couldn’t have him touch me -’ Frankie flinches at your words. ��But I was so scared. And embarrassed. I didn’t know how to leave - I didn’t know how to tell anybody about what was going on. I was terrified of what he’d do. To me, to you guys, if he found out I’d spoken about it. And he made it so hard for me to see you, so hard for me to get away.’ You sob now, panic and relief forcing out your words. ‘I thought - wherever I go, he’ll find me. He’ll track me down, and he’ll bring me back - and somehow - somehow that was worse than if he tracked me down and - and - I don’t know, killed me or something -’

Frankie’s eyes shutter. He can’t even follow your thought, so awful is the image, the gaping emptiness. He pulls you close, he lets you cry. Curled into his chest, your body wracking with tears, shaking, tense and uncontrollable, the sounds you make rooting in his brain. They file themselves away in a box where very few things go. Deployment. Tom. The darkness after his investigation. You break and break in his arms, and it’s all he can do to hold the pieces of you together. To press kisses to your head, breathe in the smell of your hair, rub his hands over your back, cradle you like a child. 

He doesn’t know how long the two of you stand there for. He waits until you stop sobbing, stop crying softly, stop hiccuping, stop sniffing. He waits for a few more minutes in the silence, too. And when he pulls away, he presses a long, sweet kiss to your forehead. 

You blink up at him through red, swollen eyes.

‘You’re safe here.’ He says, and you nod.

‘I know. Thank you. For - everything.’ You say thickly. Frankie swallows, nods. You know it all anyway. Any time, for however long you need.

He pads downstairs to get you a glass of water, and while he’s pouring it, he can hear you blow your nose, wash your face. Somehow, they are the most perfect sounds in the world.

Crackling wood’s gone white

And my eye swole up now

I can see the light

Frankie gives you one of his sleep-stretched t-shirts and an old pair of shorts for you to wear to bed. 

The clothes dwarf you a little, and he can’t wipe the small, thrilled smile from his face, even when he looks away. You look fucking adorable. 

You giggle at him every time you see it, your little what? only making him smile harder. It stretches his mouth until it hurts and his cheeks start to cramp up, squishing his swollen eye. Stop he tries to say, but it comes out as an equally breathless huff of laughter - and that only makes you giggle more. So much so that he sweeps you up into his arms to stash you under the covers, and you laugh even harder as he tucks the sheets in tight around you, just like his mama used to do when she wanted him to stay put. 

He looks down at you from the side of the bed, hands on his hips, and you laugh back at him - eyes shining, mouth open in wide hoots of delight, your hands coming up in a desperate attempt to contain yourself. He points a finger at you.

‘You need to calm down,’ he says, voice tight with bridled amusement. ‘It’s bedtime.’

But you cackle back at him, this glorious puddle of sunshine in his bed, only howls of laughter for a response. Unable to help himself, he returns your joy, turning off the bedside lamps to slip in beside you.

In the darkness, your snorts subside into ragged breaths, and you turn on your side to look at him. You study him as though you never want to forget a single line on his face; such warmth, such affection in your eyes that Frankie’s whole body swells and lifts.

You take his hand beneath the sheets and hold it between your faces, smiling softly at him.

The first and only girl he’s really ever loved. This brilliant, fierce, bright, intelligent woman damped down by the waste of fucking space who had bled by the fire. At the thought of it, Frankie feels his heart fall out of his chest, down through the floorboards, and plummet towards the middle of the earth.

And finally, he begins to cry.

He tries to stop it, he really does. It’s selfish, he thinks, so awful and selfish to cry in front of you when it’s you who should be wrapped in his arms, swept away by emotion again if you needed to be, safe and warm and unworried, never having to fret about anything again.

But he can’t stop it. It comes out in great shuddering breaths - pained, wracked sounds slipping past his lips, and he can’t help it. He tries to gather them in his hands to shove them back in his mouth, tries to scoop them in his arms and press them back into the caving ache of his chest, but he can’t.

When Frankie was a child, he saw his dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after his father’s brother was killed in a car accident. He had seen it through a crack in his parents’ bedroom door, and it had hurt him. It had wounded him, as a child, to see his father break with such grief, such pain, such emptiness, and to know there was nothing he could do about it. And now, he is split into those two people - younger self, older self - as he thinks of you lying next to him on the bed. This person who he loves so much, who is now so full of the knowledge of the worst parts of living, wound up so tight within you that you let it settle, let it unfurl around your bones. He sees your hurt, your grief, your pain refracted around him tenfold, and he hurts with you. He sees you as the boy he once was, this poor creature looking in at a heart breaking, as he has unknowingly watched yours break for months.

And he’s so sorry, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop saying it.

But here you are, still, performing the ultimate act of kindness. Comfort.

He feels the mattress move as you slide closer to him, and then your hand is on his back, swooping in gentle movements. He feels the scrabble of your fingers under the ribs he has pressed into the bed, the pressure of your arm moving under him so you can hold him properly. Frankie sobs harder, but he opens his body to you. You press closer to him, burying your face in his neck, and he breathes you in as he cries. Your scent is here, you are here. And like you heard him, you whisper -

‘It’s okay, Frankie. It’s okay. ’M here. I’m safe.’ And this realisation allows a little more air, but it doesn’t make Frankie’s guilt, his shame any better. But you’re right, he knows it. And somewhere in his crying, this turns his gasps to tears of relief. Softly, you retract your arms from around him.

You take his hands away from his face, and kiss the palms. You kiss each fingertip, each bruised and cracked knuckle. You lean forward and press a kiss to each tear, each trail of saltwater on his face. And you are so beautiful in the moonlight. Soft and wide eyed. Safe. Kind, always kind, and full of understanding. Frankie sees now that you have been crying against him, too, your eyelashes cloyed with tears. Sees his thoughts in your eyes as though you have had each of them zip to you through the air. When you were a child, you saw your dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after…

A smile breaks through your eyes, chasing away the remnants of tears, glazing down, softening your lips. 

And Frankie doesn’t think this time. His feet don’t fail him. He doesn’t think of stars or glitter or constellations of ice crystals. He just kisses you. And kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. And he doesn’t stop, because nothing else matters anymore.

You’re safe. You’re warm. You’re in his bed. 

You’re here.

You tip your head back, deepening the kiss, licking into Frankie’s mouth. He gives in so easily to you he’s almost ashamed. But then your fingers clutch at him, ball at the bottom of his shirt, tangle in the thick of his hair, and all his thoughts are forgotten. He feels you slip a soft, strong leg over his, pulling him forward. You groan against him, and Frankie’s cock twitches. You feel it, you must do, as you pull your body closer to him, tight against him. Frankie is so lightheaded he doesn’t know where his hands are, what they’re doing - and when he concentrates, he finds them skating over your back, squeezing the tension out of the back of your neck, gripping your hip.

He moans against you as you rock your hips over his thigh, as he feels the heat of your sex against his skin. He feels like he’s on fire.

You slip a hand under his sleep shorts and palm him, brushing his silken length with two fingers, feeling him grow harder, thicker against you. You take him in your hand, pump him once, twice with the perfect grip, the perfect speed, like you were made for him. He’s gasping against you, panting as you suck his lower lip into your mouth.

‘Baby,’ he groans, breathless, ‘We don’t have to. We really don’t -’

You look up at him through gorgeous, glazed eyes.

‘I want to,’ you say, ‘Do you?’

Dangerous, dangerous question. 

Frankie tries to shake his head, look away, think of anything but the tight fist of your fingers around his cock.

‘I do,’ he says, ‘I do. But I don’t think - this is the right thing -’

You loosen your grip, draw away from him. His body aches with a shudder.

His eyes flick back to yours again - confused, hurt - fuck, he can’t do that to you, ever -

‘I - I don’t want to take advantage of it - of you,’ he says. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks as you look down the sheets towards your toes. His jaw tightens. ‘And - and I don’t want this to mean - different things for us. I don’t want it to ruin what we have.’ Frankie breathes out heavily through his nose. He has to tell you now. He has to. ‘I don’t want it to mean different things, because I love you. I always have. And if we do this, if I have you even just for a night, I - I’ll never recover from it.’ Tears spike in his eyes again. He tries to smile. ‘You’d ruin me. And I don’t think I’d ever forgive you for it.’

Your breath hitches in your throat, and Frankie watches as your eyes flit back up to his. They search his face, the dribble of his barely-shed tears, the slope of his sad smile. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, running your thumb over his scraps of beard. He closes his eyes.

‘What you said earlier,’ you begin. Frankie swallows. He waits for the blow of rejection. ‘About me - about me loving him.’ He opens his eyes slowly to find yours, bright and clear. Something begs to bubble over in them. Something golden and warm. ‘You were wrong - obviously. And I couldn’t tell you truly why, because I was afraid. So afraid of pushing you away, even though I think that’s all I’ve ever done. I’ve never thought I was worth it, Frankie. I don’t deserve you. And I am terrified of how much I love you.’ You beam at him, eyes bubbling over with that thing - love - ‘I love you,’ you say simply, like it’s not the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. 

A stunned little laugh ripples up his throat, and you copy it. He grips your face in his hands, and kisses you again, again, again.

‘I love you,’ he says.

‘I love you, too,’ you giggle.

‘And you are,’ he presses to your lips, ‘You are absolutely worth it.’

He rolls over on top of you, and begins to kiss your jaw, nipping at the skin there, before moving down your throat. He kisses you with a hot, open mouth, sucking marks into the sensitive skin at your pulse point. Mine, he groans, and you whimper against him, rubbing your thighs together.

Frankie pushes your shirt up - his shirt - so he can bite at your chest, press kisses to every bit of exposed skin. Every single part of you that deserves to be loved, every single place which has so far been unknown to him. He sucks each nipple into his mouth, delighted when you keen beneath him, panting, please, please Frankie, before he sinks lower down, peeling his shorts away from you to expose your glistening cunt. 

He groans, unable to take his eyes away from it as he leans forward, pressing his body into the mattress to lick a stripe from your asshole to your clit.

‘Frankie -’ you groan down at him as he begins to work at you, sucking and licking, nipping at your thigh before slipping his tongue into your hole, swiping and tasting everything you’re giving to him. He grinds himself into the mattress, hissing at the relief, the uncomfortable weight of his cock dragging below him.

‘Taste so good, baby,’ he tells you, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to taste, wants to smell anything else ever again. All he can do is eat at you, breathe you in, until you’re begging him -

‘Frankie, your fingers - please -’ And he flexes his hand at your hip before brushing a fingertip against your entrance and gasping at the pain. 

You try to bear down towards him, but he rips his hand away, lifting his head towards you.

���Can’t,’ he gasps, and you mewl, bucking your hips up to his face, desperate. ‘Hand’s fucked,’ he says, and you still your movements before beginning to laugh again. It’s loud and from your belly, and it's bizarre. But Frankie gets it. He gets it, and he giggles too. He doesn’t try to fuck his broken knuckles into you, but he does try to continue lathing you with his tongue. You’re making it pretty fucking difficult, though.

‘Stop laughing,’ he huffs against your clit, ‘I’m trying to make you come.’

‘Okay,’ you say, gasping for air, ‘Okay. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. You’re doing really well, by the way.’ But this only makes him laugh. He groans, leaning his forehead against your inner thigh. ‘This is impossible.’ He pouts.

‘Nooo,’ you cry, leaning up on your elbows to pout down at him. ‘Please, baby. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I won’t laugh anymore.’

‘Promise?’ He says. You hold out your pinky to him.

‘Pinky promise.’ You say.

Frankie stretches his hand out to you and tries to extend his pinky. He winces at the sharp pain which shoots from the movement, and grunts at you, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

‘You bastard,’ he says, trying and failing to hold his smile, ‘You knew I wouldn’t be able to do that.’

‘Just keeping you on your toes,’ you grin, and then before you can make any more smart remarks, Frankie resumes his ministrations, lapping and tonguing at your clit, your hole, mouthing hot, wet kisses to your pussy. He shakes his head from side to side, running your bud in tight, hard little circles until you’re a moaning, whimpering mess beneath him. Your hips buck unconsciously, and Frankie hooks both his arms around your thighs to hold you down, flattening his hands against your belly to keep you firmly in place. He reaches up to twist at your nipples and you gasp. 

‘God, Frankie, tongue feels so fucking good -’ 

He can feel you begin to pulse against his chin as your whines get higher in pitch, and he groans as you twist handfuls of his hair.

‘Come on, baby,’ he says, ‘Give it to me. Wanna see you come, querida. Wanna taste it. Come on my face.’

And you do, the sensation of it arching your back tight like a bow, a strangled moan cutting off into the ceiling.

‘Fuck, Frankie, fuck -’ as he drives you through it, nodding and murmuring against you as you try to wriggle free, squealing in protest until you manage to twist a leg and set a foot against his chest, pushing him off. 

‘Fucking - hell -’ You pant, and Frankie grins down at you, smug.

‘Good?’ He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

‘Oh, fuck you, Morales.’ You laugh, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss, moaning when you taste yourself on him. Your tongue explores every part of his mouth, every crevice behind every tooth, like you can’t get enough of him. Like there'll never be enough of him. ‘Now fuck me.’ You whisper.

And Frankie does not need to be told twice.

He rips his shirt up and off his back, shucks his shorts down his legs, and squeezes himself tight as he can in his left hand. He ruts into his palm, thumb swiping to slick his heavy beads of precum down his length.

‘Ready?’ he asks, looking down to find you staring wide-eyed at his cock. It twitches under your gaze.

‘What?’ He says, and you shake your head in quiet disbelief and amusement. You lift your eyes back to his face, and they are so dark with arousal he almost melts into the mattress.

‘Nothing,’ you shrug. ‘Just somehow never believed Pope and the boys when they said it was like two coke cans put together.’ 

‘Jesus Christ.’ Frankie laughs, his face pulling tight with a grin as he lines himself up at your entrance, swilling the head in your arousal.

‘I mean, what if it doesn’t fit?’ You babble, and he shakes his head.

‘It’ll fit, baby,’ he says. ‘We’ll make it fit.’ Then he sinks the first inch in, and just waits. He waits and watches you, watches as your mouth falls slack, all the smart things coming out your mouth grinding to a halt. He throbs at how tight you are around him, at how you clench already, trying to suck him in further. And fuck, you are so wet.

‘You okay, querida?’ He asks through gritted teeth.

You manage a nod, a broken whine escaping you.

‘Move Frankie, please baby -’ you beg, and he groans as he pushes further inside you, watching the obscene stretch of your pussy around him, the way it pulses, the way it gets wetter and warmer and tighter around him. When he bottoms out, he feels the hot rush of his orgasm leap towards him a little too quickly.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he breathes, closing his eyes just to make sure he doesn’t come right away. You squirm beneath him, canting your hips up, trying to fuck yourself. Frankie grips you, gritting his teeth. ‘Stay still,’ he hisses, flushing a little. ‘God, fuck, please - just for a minute.’ He opens his eyes to find you watching him, your bottom lip caught in your teeth. His eyes glaze down your body - his t-shirt bunched up around your chest, perfect tits, perfect belly, and your sweet, sopping cunt split open on his cock. 

He groans again, slipping out, watching as he retreats, soaked by you, before pushing back in. A high pitched whine leaves your lips, and you twitch your hands up to play with your tits. Frankie doesn’t think he’s ever seen something more sexy in his life.

‘That’s right,’ he says, ‘Keep playing with yourself like that, gorgeous. Look at you.’

So you do, looking up at him with doe-eyes as he fucks into you, soft at first, letting you adjust before quickening his pace, readjusting his angle, feeling you leak around him. His balls slap against your ass loudly, and you keen up at him, eyes wide, begging for something as you tighten like a coil around him, something you can’t quite voice. But Frankie knows.

He swipes his thumb against your clit, and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your back arching again. He groans at the sight, and works the bundle of nerve endings in tight circles, faster and harder, harder and faster, until you’re gripping him so tight he thinks you might push him out.

‘Come baby, come,’ he pants, ‘Please, querida, need to feel you - need to feel you soak me. Need you to come for me, come on this cock, baby, please -’

And he groans, long and loud as you clench and pulse around him, milking him, pulling him impossible deeper - fuck, Frankie, oh my god, feels so fucking good - the delicious pressure at the base of his spine at breaking point as he fucks you through it, as he pants and gasps -

‘Come, Frankie,’ you plead, ‘Please - want you, need you -’ and he spills himself deep inside you, hips stuttering, eyes clamping shut, overwhelmed and short circuited. He’s never known it could feel like this - good to the end of every synapse - and he’s fucking it in with three long thrusts, pulling out slowly just to watch it dribble out of you as he twitches against his thigh. He thumbs your clit just to watch you seize and sigh against him, then sits back on his knees to look at you.

‘You are something else,’ he says in disbelief.

You smile lazily at him.

‘Ain’t so bad yourself, Morales,’ and he laughs, throwing himself down next to you, kissing anywhere he can. I love you, I love you, I love you. Safe.

You lay there for a while afterwards, just feeling each other, calming your ragged breathing. Eventually, Frankie rises from the bed to grab a washcloth, coming back and swiping between your legs tenderly, gently, before collapsing back into bed and pulling you into his chest.

He feels like he’s in space, and he tells you as much. He spills secrets like a child at a sleepover. He tells you about the glitter and the stars and the constellations of ice crystals. You match him with a galaxy of feeling spanning the time he’s known you. And he feels that this is a dream, this love which floats like a nebula within the bed. He tries to keep his eyes open for as long as possible, even as you sleep. And even when he does drift off, he dreams of you. He dreams of you sparkling with stardust, waiting for him with your arms open.

When he wakes the next morning, you’re still there. Safe, soft and warm against him, furled into his ribcage, heart beating against the hand that’s pressed against your chest.

Everything’s okay. That red thread still intact, after all.

When the sun rises, bloody and mild, it’s never been so sweet.

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

[osamucide]

⊹ FOR SURE

RELATIVELY STABLE AND TENTATIVELY ABLE TO SAY FOR CERTAIN WHETHER THIS UNCERTAINTY IS FOR SURE

wc: 2k

cw: sad and probably ooc dazai but he’s my husband so i actually know how he falls apart, pretty straightforward references to anxiety+dissociation, references to self harm+suicidal ideation but nothing graphic, angst+hurt/comfort, dazai cries and then you feed him that's all

reid: a little spur of the moment something i started when i wasn’t feeling so hot a bit ago. ethel cain’s cover of this song has altered the course of my life anyway enjoy me projecting

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

He was quiet when he got home, which is uncharacteristic, unless he’s scheming. But there was no glint in his eyes and no menace behind his grin, only exhaustion. What’s more is there was no downcast expression, no particularly sluggish movement to suggest he was upset; granted, he would regularly go on performing his usual persona even if he was upset. He was always all moving puzzle pieces, all thick mask and mystery.

It’s a good thing you’ve learned to read him so plainly.

You owe it to the little shared space you’re in, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, reading a book of his as he shakes his coat off and tosses it across the small dining table with two chairs side-by-side at it instead of across from one another. Dazai usually hangs his coat up on the rack by the door, slips his shoes off mindlessly and comes to flop his entire body weight on top of you, but tonight he pulls his laces undone and leaves his shoes tucked neatly against the wall, walks by the back of the couch to press a ghostly kiss to the crown of your head, and heads straight to the bathroom, which he locks himself in.

You swallow as you hear the shower start. You had specifically picked out an apartment with a standing shower, no tub, when you moved in with him. You’d emptied it of razors a handful of times and you probably would a handful of times more, and you kept all of both of your medication in your bedside table. Still, you can no longer quite focus on the words in front of you.

So, you flick the television on. A little more noise in your brain helps tune out the shower that’s just that—a shower. He showers, most often, because he’s feeling strange and not because he needs to feel clean. Maybe he needs to feel clean, but not in a way that a shower will allow. He does it anyway. You wait.

When the water turns off and he doesn’t immediately bounce out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, singsonging which leftovers you should heat up for him, you turn the TV volume down a few notches. When it’s been five minutes or so, you find yourself in the kitchen putting day-old bibimbap in the microwave. When it’s been ten, you’re knocking on the door.

"Osamu?" Your voice is soft as your knock. "I waited for you to eat." Dirty trick, you know. But you also know he won’t otherwise; not on a night like this.

You hear a bit of shuffling before the bathroom door creaks open. His eyes are red, his nose flushed, and he’s rubbing his face with the corner of his towel like he’s just awoken from a nap. He’s got no bandages on. He nearly whispers, "You didn’t have to."

"Wanted to." You work the towel from his hands as he turns the light off. He’ll hide behind the darkness if nothing else, but it’s alright; you’ll let him. You pat water from his shoulders before you sling the towel around him like a cape. You whisper back, "I’ll get you clothes. Please get silverware, yes?"

You don’t give him much of a choice, but he’s in a state where he’s pliant enough to listen to corporeal orders. Getting silverware will be a marginally easier task than dressing for him right now.

After pulling a sweatshirt and pair of pajama pants out of your drawers—they’re his, or maybe yours, doesn’t really matter; what does matter is they cover as much skin as possible—you return to him on the couch, two bowls of cooling bibimbap with chopsticks stuck in them on coffee table. He’s got as much of his bare body under the towel as it will allow.

When you set next to him and peel the towel back he looks nearly catatonic. It spurs tears to your lash line, but you hold back. "Arms, please."

He shoves himself into the hoodie, tousling his wet mop of hair in the process, and takes the pants from you, which he stands robotically to step into. When he sits you wrap five fingers across the top of his flannel-clad thigh and press a short kiss to his cheek.

As if sparked by your touch, he curls himself into you.

You’re quick to receive him; you unlock his hands from where they latch behind your neck, gently, like everything else, and you lean back, back, until your head is hitting the pillow you were lounged up against earlier. His fingers scramble for somewhere to land; you will his weight down onto you, his shoulder and hip to tuck beside yours on the inside of the couch, his free arm and leg to sling across your body and his sweet face in the side of your neck. The water from his hair soaks through your shirt. You don’t care. You feel his breath; your fingertips trace circles along his spine, and your outside hand comes to tangle up with his. Eating will have to wait.

You don’t waste time asking if he wants to talk. If he did, he would’ve started by now.

So you focus on his breathing, and how lucky you are to have it ghosting along your collarbone. He’s gray, then white, then gray, then blue in the light of the TV as his thumb moves across the back of your hand, stiff, like it’s just been freed from paralysis.

You wait for his breath to shake; you know it will.

And he knows you know, because he squeezes your hand in a pulsing rhythm like a heartbeat. He hates this. He hates that you've seen him crumble so many times that you know exactly what he needs.

You say it so softly, again, almost a whisper: "I've got you, my love."

He doesn't want you to say it's okay or let it out or talk to me; this is another thing you know very well. He feels like he's floating away from what little sense of self he has to begin with and it's not okay, and he doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to be told when to cry or not, but he does need reminded that you're here, and you're real, and so is he, and so is this thing that both have; you'll grab his ankles and pull him down out of the air. You always do. You always do.

So he cries anyway.

It's like hearing a foreign language leave his mouth. There's something so assured about Dazai even while he believes he's all smoke and mirrors and seeing—hearing—his voice jump between heaving breaths and cracking sobs has always jarred you in some way. Moreover, now that you're so attuned to the way he breaks, it fills you with a tired anger that you can't place on anything concrete. It's a frustration you're glad to shoulder with him, but a frustration no less. You would set fire to everything you could touch, strangle it all to death with your bare hands, if it guaranteed his peace. But you know he wouldn't want that, not anymore; you quell the rage inside you between strands of his hair, fingerpads combing over his scalp with all that anger channeled into love, pure love. For as terrible and rotten as he's convinced he is, he's truly turned you into something softer than you thought yourself capable of being.

You feel his heart racing double-time against yours; you briefly wish you had no chest, no ribs, no physical form to separate you from him, so that your heart could cradle his, give over to his troubled body the time of the breath yours breathes.

He's all jagged edges right now and you're holding him like he's made of cotton. It makes him worse, momentarily, and he tears his hand away from yours; he knows wrapping around you like this, like a boa constrictor around its prey, will make his arms lose feeling but he does it anyway, like he's worried you'll go up in a cloud of dust if he doesn't hold onto you tight enough. He knows it's probably uncomfortable for you, too, laying back on his knotted fingers while he shoves every piece of himself as close as he can get to you, but you don't say anything, don't even make a sound when he hyperventilates into your shoulder and pushes out pathetic whimpers between his stuttering. He knows his face is twisted into that expression he long ago deemed too ugly to look at in the mirror. He gasps like he's underwater, and you just press your cheek to his temple while you lose track of if the wetness on your shoulder is from his hair or his eyes. It doesn't matter. You love him so fucking much.

He weeps against you with his constraint surrendered, loud but muffled by your shirt, at least until whatever movie was on is over. When he finally lifts his head, your eyes flutter open. You hadn't realized you closed them.

You tilt to look at him; the seam of your shirt collar is imprinted into his cheek. His bangs have dried wildly; you push them away from his eyes which are raw with sorrow, and Dazai's hands unclasp from behind you, settling back to how they first were with one curled up into the couch and the other interlaced with yours. He's devastatingly beautiful. You can't help the ghost of the sad smile you wear; it's because he's so gorgeous, and also you want to let him know you're content to be here—not content with what's upset him, not at all, but content to pick him up and help him haul himself forward. He does not reflect the smile back to you. You don't blame him.

"Let's eat." You leave the please unspoken, but it hangs there anyway.

"It's cold," he complains, still distant, but with a glimmer of a pout you think may be him. He's not getting out of it, though.

You sit him up, keep him close to your side and pick up a bowl; it's indeed cold, but you take a bite anyway, as if to show him it's not so bad. When you hold sliced carrot and broccoli to his lips, he looks at you like you're trying to feed him dirt, but opens his mouth anyway.

And it may as well be medicine going down. Not that he particularly cares for reheated and recooled leftover bibimbap, but your fingers being at the other end of the chopsticks makes it appealing. More than appealing. Delightful, even. He never really understood how things like food, music, or art could be healing until he met you and you doodles silly pictures of him on slow Sunday mornings, sang old love songs to him while you shooed him away from the stove as you cooked dinner, fed him leftovers in your shared home, on your shared couch, surrounded by all the things that were both yours and his, sweatshirts, books, blankets, chopsticks alike.

And he tells you that in his own way.

"Heat it up again for me? Please?"

He speaks the plea this time, and you grin—not sad this time, but wholly, as he relights slowly in front of you. And as already established, you'd do anything for him.

"Mhm."

"I love you," he blurts. Tags it on. You stand, gathering both bowls, still grinning.

"I love you." No question about any of it. You press a kiss to the crown of his head. He unfurls the blanket from where you'd slung it over the back of the couch earlier, picking up the remote to flick through the channels, finally breathing steadily as he waits for you to return from the kitchen. Your kitchen, his kitchen. He hears the microwave hum, in another room, not on another planet. He knows he'll be alright.

[simplyreveries]

hello hello!! just wanted to say your blog is super cute!! could I request platonic! dorm leaders with a very very affectionate yuu. like hugging, cheek kisses, the full nine yards. GN reader please!

sorry if my message wasn't clear 😭

have a good day/night!

💐anon

ty ty!!

riddle rosehearts

he was so incredibly flustered when you first started to show him lots of affection. he tries to keep his composure and push you away slightly while clearing his throat deeming that it's not appropriate! but it's just ever since he broke down after his overblot and then you've gotten close to him (well you barge into his life and make him your friend immediately) that you've been so utterly loving and sweet with him. something he is not particularly used to.

whenever you come by some celebration or unbirthday party you always eagerly come find him and hug him giving pecks on the cheeks. he’ll nervously pull away and thank you for coming, but he felt quite smiley and warm inside. because you usually greet him in such a fashion and refuse to be put off by his need for formalities, he has been accustomed to you doing that all the time whenever you see him. he doesn't necessarily reciprocate it but sometimes you may feel him wrap his arms around you and quickly pulls away.

his temper can easily be calmed down if you're around, he does feel much softer around you… lowkey though he does get a litttleee bit jealous with ace or deuce if you're equally as affectionate with your other friends as well. he can't help it.

leona kingscholar

nope nope leona totally pushed you away the first few (many times) you'd happily come up and try to hug him or kiss him on the cheek. he refused to let you be all affectionate with him, he would simply huff annoyed pushing you away. especially if you try to do anything like that around other people.

it'd take him a while to even warm up to it even a little, but with enough of your own persistence he gives in little by little soon enough. you've upgraded to being able to give him hugs without him giving you some glare and pulling away… he's lost the energy to try at this point you're too eager to find and hug him. he’ll rub his forehead “you're giving me a headache, herbivore.”, but once again doesn't make much of an attempt to push you away anymore.

ok… he still gives you this look, but he's better about it. like when you vote up to him after magishift practice (that he finally went to) and gift him a supportive pat on the back or hook your arm around his to drag him to show him something. the only time he somewhat reciprocated it was genuinely if you seemed distressed or upset about something, like your current situation in twisted wonderland or dealing with stress- he sighed as he wrapped one of his arms around you when you came in for a hug.

azul ashengrotto

he was so surprised at your affection initially but like riddle carefully pushes you away to maintain his image. nevertheless, you still are insistent on giving him so much attention. I’d like to think that after seeing his more… emotional and irrational side during the events of chapter 3 only made you want to dote on your friend more.

whenever you come and find him to give him a quick hug and to check up on him during late hours at the mostro lounge and just ask him about his day and what is he doing. he is slightly taken aback but like the others he's gotten pretty used to your affectionate behavior, he’ll chuckle confused, clearing his throat and thank you for asking. he is not used to this in really any way. in fact, if you think about it… this is probably the first time he's had someone he’s considers himself close to be so affectionate and kind. not wanting anything from him in return but to just be okay??

once he's more comfortable, he will somewhat reciprocate a little, something like placing a hand on your back when you pull away from hugging him. he won't admit it, but he does love the attention from you, it's something he never realized it's what he needed.

kalim al-asim

oh, he's definitely just as affectionate with his friends, if not more than you. kalim will happily hug you back and squeeze you tightly or kiss you back on the cheek and giggle. he's glad to have someone who can understand his affection's, unlike some people haha. he just has so much love to give to everyone.

he always greets you with a big hug, in fact it's basically a habitual thing between you two whenever you see each other on campus he’ll greet you with a big hug all happy every time he sees you. when kalim gets excited to tell you about something he’ll playfully swing your arm and asking you to come over to scarabia because he's holding some sort off celebration, or sometimes he likes to laugh and tell you he's tired as he lays his head on your shoulder.

he always tells you how much he loves the affection from you, you'll always get some cheeky “hehe thank you!” from him. he claims you cheer him up and help him all the time whenever you're all affectionate with him.

vil schoenheit

vil is affectionate in his own ways, i mean, ever since i saw the way he treated yuu and the others during chapter 6 when he kisses them on the forehead in a reassuring manner it made me melt. he definitely is lowkey about it to those he considers close to him. though he doesn't reciprocate much at times, he does appreciate small gestures.

like he will sigh and begin to smooth out his clothing or fix his hair after you hug him, he may even fix yourself up as well if your ribbon is tilted or uniform seems crinkled. but he’ll give you some afterwords shaking his head, giving a small smile “tsk, how troublesome” he’d say.

vil is quite observant though, if he were to notice you don't seem as affectionate with others or try to be with him he’ll definitely see and ask you if you're doing alright. he's surprisingly very sweet with his words. he can't help but consider you dear to him now, if you really seem troubled and worried about something, maybe feeling hopeless because crowley hasn't found a way home yet. he will give you honest advice and if you're lucky a kiss on the forehead as well.

idia shroud

he's so ??!! instant brain malfunction when you first come up to him and kiss him on the cheek, seemingly worried but relieved that he's okay after what went down in his chapter, once you got back to NRC. he will freeze up and feel unsure of what to exactly do because he's so awkward with these things.

the first time he hugged you back was a little tough for him at first (he just gave you that small and awkward pat on the back haha) and immediately pulled away, he feels himself burning up from embarrassment, but you're just so persistent, it does make it easier for him when you're so understanding and kind.

he does get more and more comfortable with you especially after inviting you or sleepovers with him and ortho at ignihyde and they're really fun. at that point he's totally okay having you close by as you're laying with a bunch of blankets, pillows and snacks close together playing videogames with him. he's grown to love it actually, as he casually talks and dumps everything he loves and knows about the game hehe.

malleus draconia

malleus was pleasantly surprised with your sudden affection, though he has known you for a while throughout the game, so he already has kind of gotten the idea you're a naturally friendly and overly affectionate with those close to you. he does notice how you are with grim and the others when out. but when you actually come up and hug him? he's shocked, you? a human would just come up to someone like him and hug him? going on your tippy toes to kiss his cheek when saying thanks for coming to the music festival with him??

after the initial surprise he chuckles placing a hand on your head “you’re quite the brave and unusual one, child of man” he loves that most about you though. he admires and thinks its endearing how often and without even thinking twice about giving him affection and calling him your own friend.

soon enough during the nights when he visits the outside of ramshackle dorm and you come to find him, he’ll gently stretch out his arms already knowing you're going to greet him with a hug. and you just know, his hugs are the warmest and most gentle things ever.

[starbunii]

Can I get Baizhu, Venti, Scara, Ei, and Tenko Chabashira with a gf who's deathly terrified of storms/thunder and lightning? Like, every t8me she sees/hears it, her breath audibly hitches but she tries to pretend it's fine? I think I'm not ok, bestie 😭

# . storms 𓂃 ♥︎

𝜗𝜚 ┈ baizhu, venti, scara, ei, tenko x reader (seperate) ! ｡

notes: dude im the exact same way, thunder is litrally so scary it makes me cry everytime lasjfsf

headcanons ノ fluffノfem! reader ノcanon universe

second person pov !! please enjoy! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

-- ♡ --

baizhu

he's immediately taking you to the kitchen, making a calming tea as you're wrapped up in a little blanket

changsheng is waiting there with you, gently licking the tears off your cheeks, slithering on your shoulders in a way that tells you everything is ok

he'll take you to the living room after, making sure everything is well-light as he gently soothes you while you drink your tea

he's brushing your hair out of your face, telling you it's ok as he squeezes you tight, ensuring that you're safe and as close as possible

venti

he doesn't really realize what's wrong at first, only waking up once he realizes you're out of bed

he finds you down in the cellar, huddled up by wine barrels in a little blanket. you're shaking and crying and his heart just can't take it

venti will sit with you, nuzzling close as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear. he'll even pull out the lyre if you want him to, singing soft songs to get you to relax

the two of you will be found sound asleep long after the storm is over, snuggled up together. at long last, you're calm and restful

scara

scara gets it. he's terrified of the sound of thunder too. it reminds him of his mother; of every single thing he's gone through. he hates it; he hates how it reminds him of his past behavior, of who he once was..

the two of you are stuck in bed, clinging together, whimpering at every strike of lightning and clap of thunder. you're on the verge of tears, and so is he

he's practically gripping at your waist while you tug at his hair, the two of you ensuring that you stay together

eventually, you two finally talk things out, fighting through tears. after a long, anxious conversation about the weather, you're both able to fall back asleep

raiden ei

if it's thundering, she's probably upset about something. does that add another layer of fear? i don't know, you tell me

obviously, she's upset about something. something big. but once she sees that look on your face...the tears streaming down your face, the shaky hands, the way your lip trembles ever so slightly...oh, she just can't take it

the weather clears up almost immediately as she rushes to your side, hugging you tightly as her fingers card through your hair. she's fussing over you as though you've just been terribly injured

even when you're not scared anymore, she's still clinging to your side the rest of the night, even (attempting) to make dinner as an apology. it's not edible, but...it's the thought that counts?

tenko

when she sees you crying, she is immediately trying to pick a fight with whoever made you upset (yes, even if it is the sky)

upon realizing it's just the thunder and lightning outside, she quickly pulls you into bed, holding you close and rocking you gently

she's not very good at comforting people, and being so close to a girl (even if she is her girlfriend) makes her just oh-so nervous. but she's more than happy to be your knight in shining armor, protecting you from the scary storm outside

she'll yelp a bit at particularly loud strikes of thunder, but will immediately giggle after, both because of her own silliness and to make you feel a little better about being scared

starbunii 2024 — all rights reserved. do not redistribute or translate to any other platforms

[ozzgin]

heya...!!!! Sweetypie 🍓🥧🧁.... It's me again, i want to make a request again...if you don't mind 😃.

Can you make a request regarding creepypasta with ticci tobby and eyelash Jack .Previous request for a creepypasta

Most certainly! Though my drafts are a mess so I’m no longer sure what the previous request refers to. ;-; Hopefully this is close to what you pictured.

Yandere! Creepypasta x Reader

Featuring Ticci-Toby and Eyeless Jack and a clueless reader that caught their attention. TW: dubious consent, gore and violence

Ticci-Toby

Oh, he really can’t explain it but you’ve tied his heart into a knot. His chest is tight and it’s almost as if his lungs struggle to get enough oxygen. You seem kind and he can’t help but daydream that he’s the subject to your friendly gestures. He feels like a spoiled child, drinking up every drop of affection, tipsy with delight. If only those doll eyes of yours looked at him.

He’s hesitant to approach you because his moods are so unpredictable. He’d love to shower you in adoration and spend the rest of his life protecting you from any threats. Then comes his rage and he’s tempted to scratch your face off for smiling to anyone else but him. Why are you trying so hard for other people? No one appreciates you as much as he does, (Y/N). Is his attention not enough? Does he need to hold your gaze in by force?

Suffice to say that Ticci-Toby can be extremely jealous and possessive well before you’re even aware of his existence. Unlike Eyeless Jack, however, he is very open about his displays of love and doesn’t wait too long to introduce himself. His impulsive desires take over any consideration he’s had regarding your safety in front of his mood swings. He can worry about it when it actually happens. Now matter the anger, he’d never hurt his darling, would he? It’s the others that will have to pay.

If he’s feeling particularly hyperactive he will begin parroting his reasons for your fated romance and why you were meant to be. If anxiety equates in, the narrations turn into regurgitated, repetitive questions stemming out of insecurity. Are you really certain you haven’t gotten tired of him? Truly, without a doubt? Perhaps you were thinking of leaving him? The interrogations culminate in desperate begging for reassurance. Please let him know you’ll never, ever abandon him. Otherwise he will have to guarantee it himself one way or another.

Eyeless Jack

You happened to be the next victim on his list. The creature stood above your sleeping form in absolute silence. You barely shuffled at the sudden coldness from the edge of the scalpel coming into contact with your abdomen. The blade, however, remained still on the surface. The hollow sockets were fixated on your unconscious face, seemingly deep in consideration.

He can’t quite pinpoint a reasoning to it, but your presence has caught his interest. On the bright side, you get to keep your kidney. The only caveat is that you now have a rather dedicated admirer with a less orthodox approach to his growing crush.

Jack primarily enjoys watching you from afar and leaves only vague hints of his presence. Which, of course, depends on your definition of vague. At first you didn’t make the connection between the people wronging you in your daily life and the mysterious packages you’d receive in the mail containing frozen raw organs. You had assumed some neighbor might’ve gotten some subscription for their dog and messed up the address. As the news piled up, often involving these particular people as abruptly missing, your suspicions increased. Especially after noticing that none of your neighbors seem to have pets. And then the love notes started and you nearly threw up next to your mailbox.

Jack is fidgeting like a schoolgirl upon seeing your reaction to his confessions. Could you be that overwhelmed by his love? It wasn’t a big deal, really. He’s just doing what he’s best at. He’s just glad to ease your life by erasing the factors that upset you. You don’t have to worry about returning his favors. Humans come with two kidneys for a reason, after all. They were made for sharing.

Now that he’s gotten his answer, he can confidently approach you. He can’t wait to get his claws on you. You look stunning from a distance, too, but nothing compares to actually feeling you. Hearing your whimpers of shy protest, sensing the increased pulse tumultuously running through your veins, observing your pupils contract in mild…fear? No, most likely just excitement. His spiraling black eyes (or rather, lack of) devour your presence with anatomical curiosity. If he’s careful enough, he might even play with you a little. He’ll be extra careful with his darling.

[mayumml]

Midori is not a good lover

The REAL Sou Hiyori relationship headcanons <3

first off, you don’t know if he genuinely likes you or not and most likely will never be sure 

Maybe you’re a piece of pawn in his stupid chess game but what can you do?

Midori manipulates and gaslights you just like with anyone else, you’re the primary victim that receives most of it though

He seems like a man that didn’t have a heart, and he literally doesn’t 

Feels like he doesn’t know how to act in a relationship or more like he doesn’t care enough to

You think he’d choose his work over you anytime 

He’s so on and off with his affection

He treats you like everyone else, particularly more strict with you sometimes and scolds you more often than the other participants

This fucker is adamant about “being fair to all participants and not letting a personal relation change that” and yet you feel like he’s being the most unfair to you

Even more passive aggressive when it comes to you, he loves to bring up the past and laugh when you get pissed

But then sometimes, he would appear out of nowhere and gives you a quick peck

You’d expect him to be open to PDA, and yet he only ever initiates (and allows) any affection when it’s just the two of you 

You’re conflicted, though, at certain times he’ll choose a timing where most of everyone is gathered in one place and approach you with the most affection you’ll ever receive from him

He makes sure everyone is looking, maybe it’s his way of showing his twisted sense of superiority?

Midori very quickly reverts back to ignoring you if he is satisfied 

You learn that he is extremely possessive

Yes, you get fed up with his shit many times and he knows it well

Does he ever apologize? Never. 

Like ever. 

You could confront him, but he’ll give you the same saccharine smile and feigns innocence

“What’s wrong with me showing my lover off to everyone? Does that upset you?” 

When you try to explain that’s not why you’re upset, he convinces you that you’re overreacting and somehow makes you seem like the bad guy for “not wanting to be seen with him.” (bitchass) 

Weirdly loves small talk 

Midori would interrogate you whenever he pleases and ask about your favorite color to wear on a rainy day 

You cant tell if he really cares about your responses at all because he just stands there and blinks with his smile and throws follow up questions at you

Kind of feels like he wants to know everything about you but also nothing at the same time 

Remembers small, itty bitty details about you

It’s endearing but also freaks you out because he remembers which angle you prefer to wear your collar

Very touchy when he wants to be, but acts like a jerk when he decides he doesn’t feel like it 

Limited use of pet names because he prefers calling you by your name 

Will call you sweetheart (mockingly most of the time), “my favorite participant,” or a shortened version of your name

Likes to receive but doesn’t give, unless he needs something

You don’t know why you’re still with him 

Midori is very good at making you feel special but also worthless

Will give you overly expensive presents that you don’t need and stare at your reaction as you open them 

(does he think this makes up for his neglect as a partner?)

Very likely to give you jewelry with his initials, he might have one with your initials but won’t wear it 

Sucks at comforting

He actually just doesn’t comfort at all

He makes things worse when you’re upset 

“You’re crying? Humans really are sentimental beings, after all. I guess crying is all that you’re capable of.” 

Let you play and style with his hair in private 

Gets defensive and change the subject when you mention Shin’s history with him

Avoids personal questions like the plague 

Actively tries to poke into every corner of your life. Boundaries? What’s that?

Not a very good partner, he’s just not a good person in general

Midori rarely mentions your relationship in front of the other participants, but when he does, he refers to you as his lover

Will pair you with him with the red light, he knows you don’t have the guts to kill him 

Urges you on to kill him way too often 

He gives you a smug knowing grin and a kiss when you can’t do it

Don’t try to physically hurt him, it turns him on (he won’t hesitate to break your arm)

Remember when I said he’s very possessive? 

Fucker treats you like an object

no one takes what belongs to him

Won’t be the type to defend you and won’t fight if someone hits on you

He would direct the conversation elsewhere and weird out whoever it is somehow (always works) 

Shows up a few days later with news that the attacker mysteriously jumped of a building (willingly?) 

His romantic side is very unconventional

“Would you love me even if I was a worm?” 

“Worms are rather dirty and invasive, are they not? I’d rather not deal with a pest, thanks.” 

[hwanghyunjinenthusiast]

Stress Relief

AN: I officially hate this man now. Fucking menace to society. Pretty much wrote this in a lustfilled frenzy lmao. I have pieces that have been my drafts for well over a month and, what does my brain decide to do? Vomit out Taehyun smut. Don't be shocked if you see a Beomgyu piece next. I have a lot of feelings about those two lately.

Synopsis: After a particularly frustrating workout session, your boyfriend is still very pent up. Fortunately for him, he has a girlfriend who will happily let him take it out on her. Heads up: Kang Taehyun x Fem! Reader, pwp, established relationship, Hard Dom! Taehyun, Sub! Reader, dirty talk, pet names, choking (f. receiving), facefucking (f. receiving), degradation (f. receiving), praise (f. and m. receiving), not titfucking but, Taehyun rubs his cock on Reader's boobs briefly, pussy spanking (f. receiving), unprotected piv sex, slight Possessive! Taehyun, slight objectification (f. receiving), overstimulation (f. receiving), creampie, very brief mention of blood due to nail scratches, and Taehyun gets off on seeing Reader's tears.

I will block you if you are a minor and/or have no easily visible indication of your age on your blog if you interact with me in any way.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Taehyun reminds himself not to slam the apartment door behind him. He's an adult. Adults don't slam the door just because they have a shitty day.

The apartment is silent. He guesses you're in the bedroom is proven correct when he sees you vegging out on your shared bed. You're completely focused on whatever it is you're doing on your phone and, you fail to notice him taking you.

Seeing you acts as somewhat of a balm for his anger.

You startle when he drops his gym bag onto the floor, "Hyunnie, when did you get back? You scared me."

"Just a bit ago," he responds, making his way over to you. He smiles when you let out a quiet oof as he rests himself on top of you, nuzzling into your neck as his hands familiarise themselves with your thighs.

He closes his eyes when your hands reach up to rub his back and fiddle with his hair.

"Not that I'm complaining, but what's inspired this?" You ask partly amused at your boyfriend and, partly concerned.

"What? I can't just cuddle my girlfriend?" He asks against your skin, privately taking great delight in how you shudder at his lips and breath against your skin.

"You absolutely can cuddle your girlfriend, but you tend to only do this when something upsets you or makes you mad," you retort, "you also usually take a shower straight after the gym so, I know you're probably mad mad."

Well, leave it to you to read him like the back of your hand.

"Just some fucking asshole at the gym. And dealing with that put me in a shit mood so, I couldn't focus on my workout," he responds darkly against your skin, not taking notice of his grip tightening.

"I'm sorry to hear that, baby," you say softly, massaging his scalp in the way you know makes him melt against you.

You would never revel in your boyfriend being upset, but a part of you always finds it insanely attractive when he gets angry like this.

"It's okay, you have nothing to be sorry for," he groans against your neck, pressing kisses against the skin there.

"Still, I don't like seeing you so upset," you respond, cupping his face and making him meet your lidded gaze.

Taehyun is a very observant man. You are not the only one who can read the other incredibly well.

"Really? Because the way you're looking at me right now would say otherwise," he muses. Before you can stutter out a response, he presses his lips against yours. Not giving you any opportunity to catch your breath, licking into your mouth immediately.

His grip on your thighs is bruising now as your hands fist the back of his shirt.

Your hips buck up into his when his teeth nip at your bottom lip, one of his hands coming up to ghost around your throat.

"Please," you whine out softly, pressing further into him for any sort of relief.

"Begging already? You're more into this than I thought," your boyfriend muses, rolling his hips into you, allowing you to feel the drag of his hardening cock.

"Yes, Tae, please. Want you. Need you," you gasp desperately, your eyes rolling in the back of your skull as his grip tightens around your throat.

If you're this reactive to him being angry, maybe he should come home like this more often, he muses. Dark eyes taking in your already blissed out face. Your begging going straight to his cock, pre-cum smearing his boxers.

"Yeah? What do you want, baby?" He coos lowly into your ear, licking at the skin just below it as he continues to grind into you.

"Want you to touch me please," you moan out, quickly being reduced to a quivering mess with every brush against your clit. Even through all your respective layers of clothing, your boyfriend was very precise.

"I am touching you," he responds with a condescending grin, pressing down harder on the sides of your neck briefly to illustrate his point.

You try your best to articulate what you want, your mind going completely hazy, "I want you to touch me directly, please. My tits or my pussy or both, please. I'll take anything."

Well fuck, how could he deny you when you sounded so pathetic and pretty?

Taehyun pulls away from you briefly, and any protests die on your tongue when he impatiently tugs on your oversized shirt, tossing it somewhere on your bedroom floor. He stills for a moment to take you in, your breasts jiggling slightly with each of your laboured breaths and your wetness leaving a noticeable dark spot on your panties. Licking his lips, he wasn't sure where he'd like to start.

"Could you take off your shirt too, please?" You ask him shyly, and something familiar and affectionate settles in his system. You still get so bashful sometimes, and he thinks it's one of the cutest fucking things in the world.

"Of course, baby," he responds, tugging at his shirt and tossing it haphazardly as well. He doesn't fail to notice how your gaze turns even darker, mouth slightly agape as you take in his bare torso like you're seeing it for the first time.

Taehyun finally settles on what he wants first.

"Stay like that, baby. I'm going to fuck your mouth," he says and your reaction to his words his immediately. Your breathing becoming heavier as your thighs try and fail to subtly rub together to alleviate some of the ache he knows has settled between them.

All you do is nod as you watching him begin to take off his sweats and boxers as well, his cock an angry red and impossibly hard as it smacks against his ridiculously toned abdomen.

You've never felt more empty in your entire life.

You continue to watch transfixed as your boyfriend moves to straddle you in all his nude glory, his cock mere centimetres away from your face.

"See something you want?" He asks smugly, reaching down to languidly stroke himself in front of you, moaning both from the raw pleasure of it all and the desire to put on a bit of a show for you.

And it seems like it's working if the whimpers from your lips and your inability to not squirm as you stay completely focused on his cock are anything to go by.

"Hyunnie please," you breathe out, hands gripping the sheets harshly as your arousal seeps onto your upper thighs now.

"Please what? You know you have to tell me directly what you want," he groans out, hips slightly fucking into his fist.

"I want you to fuck my mouth, please," you moan, meeting his eyes this time around so, he knows you're serious and fast approaching the point of breaking.

"Open your mouth for me," he orders in a tone that leaves no room for questioning, groaning as you comply immediately.

"Such a good, obedient, little fucktoy," he moans, rubbing the tip of his cock along your awaiting tongue.

Your panties stick to you uncomfortably now, the familiar, slightly salty taste of him going straight to your pussy. You whimper slightly at his words, clenching around nothing as they wash over you.

"You love being my fucktoy don't you, baby? My personal slut to use however and whenever I want," he continues, pushing his cock further into your mouth slowly, eyes lidded as he watches your spit begin to coat him and dribble down your chin.

He smirks that arrogant smirk of his when all you can do is moan in response at his words and the weight of him against your tongue. Taehyun starts to pick up speed, fucking into your mouth faster as his hands find purchase on the headboard, his grip harsh.

He watches you the entire time, curses spilling from his mouth every time he bottoms out and your nose kisses his abdomen. At the beginning of your relationship, you struggled so much to get used to his girth, but now? You take him like a pro. It's like your throat was built to take his cock, and he tells you as much.

"My perfect, little cockslut. You take me so well, baby. Could cum down your throat right now," he moans, the tears spilling down your cheeks on further adding fuel to the fire as he continues to fuck into your mouth.

As much as Taehyun would love to see you struggle to swallow his cum, he has other plans in mind so with much self-restraint, he eases his cock out of you. Taking sadistic pleasure in the way you struggle to catch your breath and sputter slightly.

"Why'd you stop?" You ask a little hoarsely, your face scrunched up cutely in confusion. Fuck, if you kept looking at him like that, he might just pick up where he left off and cover your face in his essence.

"As much as I'd love to fuck your throat until you can't speak, I have other plans in mind," he responds, voice laced with dark promise as he shuffles downwards and rubs his spit and pre-cum covered cock against one of your breasts.

God, he fucking loves your tits.

He watches as his cock leaves wet trails all over your skin, taking special attention to circle one of your nipples with the head of his cock. The way you shudder and mewl underneath only serves to further invigorate him.

Eventually, he shuffles further downwards until he's nestled between your delectable thighs. Lidded eyes taking in your ruined panties and the juices smeared at the tops of your thighs.

You're so fucking hot and you were all his.

"You're soaked and all I've done is let you suck my cock," he mutters, grabbing his cock once more and lightly tapping your panty covered centre with it.

"Taehyun please," you whine out, your hips involuntarily lifting up in search of more.

The gasp that flies from your lips leaves you breathless as he harshly spanks your pussy over your panties, eyes intense as they meet yours.

"What did I say about using your words?" He asks like you're an idiot, the condescension only making your walls ache more.

"Please fuck me, Taehyun," you manage to utter, trying your best to stay still and behave.

"So you do know how to use your words," he responds with an upward tilt of his lips.

His hands making quick work of your panties.

Even after all this time, Taehyun thinks he'll never get used to the sight of you bare, soaked, and swollen with arousal for him. His cock twitching incessantly against his stomach.

"Such a fucking pretty pussy," he groans and means every word of it, shifting closer so he can align himself with your entrance.

You grow shy at his words, turning your head to the side to avoid his piercing gaze.

"None of that," he says, gripping your jaw and making you meet his eyes once more.

"You have the prettiest pussy I've ever seen, Princess," he groans and you know he's being sincere. Still, you can't help the embarrassment that sometimes rises up inside you.

"Thank you, Hyunnie," you respond, turning your head to give his thumb a gentle kiss in a display of affection.

"If you keep being so cute, I might have to fuck you full of my cum," he says, beginning to sink into your tight, wet, scorching pussy.

He watches intently as your eyes roll into the back of your head, your thighs already quivering around him just from the sensations of him sinking into you.

Usually he makes sure to prep you more, his girth still being a little too much for you sometimes but, he was so high strung that he had to feel you around him immediately or, he'd likely lose his mind.

You don't seem to be complaining though.

"Hy-Hyunnie," you babble out already just from the feeling of him finally bottoming out inside of you. He's so hard and thick and brushes all the right spots inside of you that you wouldn't be surprised if you came on his dick minutes from now.

"My little cockslut," he groans into your ear, moving his hand from your jaw back to your throat as he begins to move.

Taehyun doesn't give you much of an opportunity to adjust because his pace is unforgiving from the get-go. Stretching you out thoroughly on his cock over and over and over again while his grip on your neck remains consistent, tightening from time to time.

All you can do is lie there and take it. Fingernails dragging down his muscular back and high-pitched sounds of pleasure coupled with his name spilling from your lips.

"You're so big," you gasp out, fresh tears spilling down your face as your boyfriend fucks into relentlessly.

The praise shoots straight to Taehyun's dick and he gives you a particularly brutal thrust as a reward, his hand moving from your neck to draw quick circles against your swollen clit, "Yeah? You love my big cock inside of you, don't you, Princess?"

Between his words and his cock and fingers it's no wonder your orgasm slams into you viciously. Everything seizing all at once as you grip his cock like a vice and fresh wetness gushes on both of your thighs and your sheets. Fingernails likely leaving red marks in their wake on his back, but neither of you can bring yourselves to truly care.

Taehyun watches you fall apart beneath him. Your face completely blissed out as he continues to fuck you and, touch your clit. Fuck, you feel fucking amazing and Taehyun finds himself chasing his own release now. Eager to join you.

"You're so fucking hot. So fucking sexy when you cum on my dick," he groans into your neck, messily kissing the skin there once more.

"Tae, w-wait. Too much," you breathe out, feeling overwhelmed by his unrelenting thrusts into you and his fingers which have not let up on your swollen clit, even while you try to deal with the aftershocks of your climax.

"Good fucktoys take whatever they're given," he rumbles against your skin, gritting his teeth as your walls attempt to milk him for his cum.

You've barely ridden out your first orgasm before the second grips you even more viciously. This time, you're sure you've drawn blood from your boyfriend's skin. Tears flowing down your face freely now as the overstimulation completely wrecks you.

That's when Taehyun feels himself seize up as well. Making sure to bury himself to the hilt inside of you as he floods your walls with his seed, hands moving to grip your thighs to ground himself all the while. Broken moans spilling from his lips freely as his hips twitch and weakly move against you as he rides out his own release.

You both feel like human puddles as you lay in each other's arms, catching your respective breaths. Your hands move to stroke his hair while his soothingly massage your hips and thighs.

"How're you feeling?" He asks you quietly, looking up at you and inspecting your face through his bangs to make sure he wasn't too much. A small smile blooms on your face at your boyfriend's concern. Cute. "I'm okay. A little sore but okay nonetheless."

"Okay, good. I thought I might've been a bit too much," he says, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder in-between words.

"No, you were fine. You know I can take it, Hyunnie. You're more than welcome to take your anger out on me at any time," you respond with a coy smile, playing with the ends of his hair.

"Don't tempt me," your boyfriend says with a tone that's mostly joking but, there's an edge to it.

You know you two just had sex but, you can't the want that sits low and heavy in your gut from his words and his voice.

[schrodinger-swriter]

Hello! I just saw your fluff alphabet and would like to request A, I, K, O, P, Q, and U for Sir Pentious. Thank you! :)

I, K, O, P, Q, and U for Sir Pentious

You can find A in the previous alphabet post for Sir Pentious, I hope you don't mind not having it all in one post!

I hope you enjoy this, Anon C:

INJURY:

He would cope.. not very well if you were to get hurt. Given that it was hell that was a likely probability. He often sends one, or even up to three, of his egg boiz with you to keep an eye on you when he isn't around. He may even scold his eggs for allowing you to get hurt, no matter how unfair it would be. He would fret over you, treating the most basic injury as if it were a death sentence. You will more than likely have to tell him that you're not dying, and that he needs to calm down... just a little bit... If he were the one injured, I can see him trying to walk it off in the beginning... but seeing the attention he's getting from you, he might try to milk it.. just a tad. He won't ask you to do every little thing for him or overplay some of the pain, but he will definitely ask for more affection than usual!

KISSES:

He loves taking your hand and kissing it, likely dipping down as he does it to really push the dramatics. He loves kissing you on the mouth, too. Short pecks, long kisses, anything in the middle, he loves it. Going into the relationship he didn't think he had a preference of where he was kissed, but he quickly learns that he loves receiving kisses on his cheeks. Please give him a peck before you go out to do something, his hood will fan out in an instant as a grin tugs itself over his face.

ODDITY:

Everything. He's a creative and an inventor, it's kind of in the job description to be at least a little odd! He will approach you in excitement as he rattles off about an idea for a new invention he's come up with (and also, to seek for your approval if it's not meant to be a surprise for you..)

Sometimes he will go on a tangent about an invention and the skills needed for it, which might lead to him having to explain those smaller details.. has a habit of sometimes overexplaining or underexplaining.. he doesn't mean to, he's just so excited and is a little all over the place as he doesn't get much of a chance to ramble to someone about this interest of his!

He has a habit of tugging on his hood when he's embarrassed or stressed, sometimes even pulling it over his face if he's feeling particularly flustered.

PETNAMES:

"My Darling," "My Dear," "My Love," and above all else, he calls you his Beloved. He almost completely replaces your name with them when you two fully establish your relationship, only reserving your actual name for rare occasion.

As for what he likes being called... Naturally, he has a soft spot for terms of endearment from his time, but I think he would be just as ecstatic if you called him anything sweet. I like to believe he likes to be called "Sweetheart," or any variation of the "Sweet___" nicknames!

QUESTION:

Hmm... this one is a hard one... but I think sometimes he would ask for reassurance. Not just that you still love him, but to confirm things about you. Totally not because he's making something for you... and he wants you to confirm a hype specific question of what your favorite color is down to the pantone code or something along those lines... heh..

I think at some point within the series, depending on where it is in the timeline he might start asking you if you believe it's possible to ascend to Heaven after being sent to Hell. Things about the quickly approaching extermination. A lot of those questions turn into promises of victory.

UPSET:

When Sir Pentious is upset he tends to seek you out, whether he be angry or sad or stressed. He finds comfort in you, and spending time with you is by far the best stress relief for him than anything else in Hell. Usually, to cheer him up you two just talk or do an activity together! Though if he's feeling worse than usual, he might have himself sit alone in his room for a while.. this is more common before the relationship/within the early stages of it.

If you're the one upset he's going to try his best to make you feel better. Making quick inventions to bring a smile to your face, letting you vent to him.. and perhaps, if someone upset you he would try to confront them... that... usually doesn't end in his favor, leaving him bloody and bruised... but hey if he can survive getting blasted into the sky by Alastor, then he can survive most anything!

May send one of his egg boiz to keep an eye on you and/or check in on you if you're upset with him. Being apart is killing him inside, and he feels so so bad. He's already doing way more than he needs to in order to win over your forgiveness. He will grovel, too.

[vaultdwellerbarbie]

dating javi: headcanons

javi rivera (twisters)/reader

content warnings mentions of tornado, one reference to sex

sometimes i feel like it seems like i'm in love with anthony ramos. to set the record straight, this is because i am! but his birthday is 4 days before mind (different year) so i think i'm genetically predisposed to be.

PRIOR to losing his friends, javi was definitely a lot less mature and a lot lazier. that's not to say that he would have been a bad boyfriend at the time, but sometimes you're dragging him out of bed.

he was also a big snacker (he was still a snacker afterwards), those lime hot cheetos might taste good eating them but when you've just brushed your teeth and you go to kiss him and that's the first thing you taste it can be a bit jarring - he thinks it's funny when you make fun of him and tell him 'no more kissing' until he brushes his teeth.

he lets you style his hair for sure, since he has it longer he's definitely willing to let you brush it and style it for him.

he also strikes me as the kind of guy that might be a tiny tiny bit possessive, especially since he was in college at the time, so if he's not trying to leave a hickey he's giving you his clothing so you can wear it around.

he's also very sweet, though. he can be moody in the morning especially when he had been drinking the night before, but even then he tries his best to be nice to you. he for sure falls very hard, so he's going to treat you like you're the only person in the world that matters to him.

he's also going to go out of his way to treat you! i can see this being a few different things. on the spicier end, i definitely think he aims to please and he's not selfish whatsoever. but in general, he's going to buy you things and he's going to treat you to dinner and even if he's too lazy to make his own bed he'll make yours while you're in the shower so you don't have to do it.

you also need to clean his room together because he's too lazy to do that, but it's okay.

AFTER losing his friends, javi is a lot more mature and takes better care of himself but he's also fundamentally changed.

losing people like that makes him a lot more aware of your mortality and the fact that he could lose you in an instant - he's going to be a little clingier, but he's also going to be a lot more protective. if anything seems like it would put you in danger, he's going to be the first one to let you know and the first one to put a stop to it.

he's still possessive, but that paired with him being protective can mean that he's going to argue with someone who dares to look at you the wrong way until you tell him that he should probably stop.

he's neater, but that's something that he developed from being in the military. a lot of his bad habits were unlearned, so he's going to be a lot cleaner and more organized and he tends to wake up earlier in the morning.

even though his hair is shorter now, he seems like a guy who likes the feeling of his partner's fingers running through his hair.

he's still playful, even though he's been through a lot. he has a nice smile and he recognizes that you really like it when he smiles. he's still a total sweetheart to you even though he has his own little issues going on with storm par.

he does try to distance his personal life from his work, mainly because he's not always happy with his work because he's not making a difference like him and his friends had originally planned. he can sometimes get upset when thinking about work.

he also gets upset when thinking about the past, so on an anniversary of what happened, expect that you're going to be comforting him.

if you're ever going through a bad storm together, trust that he's incredibly, incredibly protective. even if you're not particularly scared, he's making sure that you're safe and holding you so you're not in any danger.

just general headcanons, he likes physical affection and he likes to touch you. sometimes it's kissing, sometimes it's holding hands. he does find it cute when you trace his freckles.

you're probably the only person he actually stands up for before leaving storm par if someone on his team says something rude to or about you - eventually, they recognize that you're off limits in terms of insults.

even though his life is pretty busy, i do feel like javi would want a family at some point.

he also does strike me as the kind of guy who pays for every date until you stop telling him to pay for every date because you should both be paying.

he also just likes learning about your interests and he never forgets them. if you tell him about something that just moderately interests you, that's something that he's going to remember and - if possible - it's going to come up as a gift in some way, shape, or form.

javi also seems like a hand kisser, like he's going to kiss your hand. but he's also going to kiss your cheek, and your forehead, and he also probably gets a little awkward when you kiss his cheek because you always always go for the cheek with the most freckles even though it's endearing to him.

[sleepyfireball]

I loved Season 3 so much (Violet Bridgerton Edition)

If you haven't guessed (God help you) Violet is my favourite character and I have a lot of thoughts about her storyline in Part 2.

First her storyline with John and Francesca. Something I really enjoy about Violet is that she is not perfect, and she actively learns from her past mistakes and tries to do better. That being said, she does still make mistakes. While she is significantly better this season at not pushing her children too hard in the marriage mart, she still does push Francesca a bit. I think she recognises that Francesca loves John, but she is not sure if she is in love with John. She is hesitant to speak to the Queen on their behalf, mostly because Agatha point blank tells her that the Queen will sniff out her doubts, even though Violet said her doubts do not matter in the face of Francesca's happiness. However, I do think Violet benefited from hearing that falling in love can look different, it does not always have to sudden and instantaneous and loud. Violet has a habit of expecting her children to experience love the way she did and it is important for her to recognise that her loved experience is not the only experience of true love. Also, Francesca forgave Violet, which I think was really important as well. An important part of growing up is realising that your parents are people too and as such, make mistakes. The scene of the two of them playing the piano together will live happily in my heart forever, as will John's acknowledgement of Violet's role in her children's lives.

I also found it quietly funny that Violet told Francesca she stumbled over her words the first time she met Edmund, then, not 5 minutes later, was stumbling over her words when speaking to Marcus. Not to mention that in part one, Violet had stumbled through her disastrous introduction to Marcus in the first place.

I love love loved seeing Violet and Marcus's story play out. Daniel Francis and Ruth Gemmell have amazing chemistry together and honestly were amazing in their scenes together. The way that he was constantly seeking her out at social events and he came to call on her was so sweet; even if Violet was so horny watching him eat that little dessert. I think Marcus should definitely be the one to tend her garden and I loved seeing them dance together. A romantic dance for the first time in 12 years for Violet. I enjoyed that she looked nervous but also excited to get to dance again. I also enjoyed that they put their relationship on the backburner to sort out their own issues. That's a really healthy outlook and I love that their communication is strong enough that they were comfortably able to talk about it. If I had my way, before season 4 we would get a prequel series about Young Violet and Edmund, paralleled with Violet and Marcus's proper courtship.

Marcus's scenes with Agatha were also top tier. Daniel Francis and Adjoa Andoh blew it out of the water, particularly in the scene where they both want to go after Violet when she's upset at the Mondrich ball. I feel like that scene hit really hard after watching QC:ABS and seeing just how miserable Agatha was in her arranged marriage. Also, seeing Agatha desperately trying to throw widows who are not Violet at her brother in the hopes that he would get distracted was hilarious, but I did appreciate that he did not waver in his feelings for Violet once. That is exactly what Violet deserves, not some wishy washy man who can't commit, like we were worried he would be, due to the rake comments from Part 1. I really appreciated that Marcus went and apologised, to resolve the matter almost as soon as he found out why Agatha was so angry at him. (her holding a grudge against a 10 year old is mildly hilarious, even if it leads to some pretty bad consequences) and that Agatha was willing to accept his apology and looked most pleased seeing him and Violet together after they had made up.

Now, Violet and Agatha's scenes. Oh my god, Ruth Gemmell and Adjoa Andoh give a master-class in acting because the two scenes they share, in Ep7 and Ep8 respectively are truly some of my favourite from across the whole show and spin off. This friendship between Violet and Agatha means so much and it is clear that neither of them want to jeopardise that friendship. The scene is Ep7 where Violet assures Agatha that their friendship is non-transactional is so important because all her life, Agatha has been told that in order to receive love, she has to provide something in return. Violet tells her, in no uncertain terms, that they will remain friends even after there are no more matches to make. For me as someone who struggled to make true friends for the longest time, seeing this relationship onscreen made me cry. And the scene in Ep8 where they finally actually talk about the discoveries made in QC:ABS is amazing as well. The cinematography in particular for this scene, I adored. The moment Agatha acknowledges that she loved Violet's dad, the camera hides away, behind the couch. When looking at Agatha, the camera is hidden away behind Violet's head. It feels like we are barely supposed to see that scene, because the two ladies are barely supposed to be talking about it. The filmography made the scene feel voyeuristic in a way, like the audience was not supposed to see it. This isn't even to mention the insane acting. I genuinely feel like I am just watching a conversation occur naturally between two people, not a scripted scene that is being acted out. The fact that they finally acknowledged everything from QC:ABS is also monumentsl as it means that Violet and Agatha are willing to move past that and continue their friendship, no matter what. Having Agatha say she will choose Violet over Marcus should he handle things wrong felt so wonderful as well, especially when you have the juxtaposition with Penelope and Eloise and Colin. And panning over to the hat at the end of that scene was wonderful. Not to mention the whole rest of that scene focused on Agatha reassuring Violet about Francesca and John as she had been doing all season.

If I could change anything about this I would add in two scenes. 1. Agatha consoling Violet after she runs out of the Mondrich Ball and 2. Getting Violet and Colin talking about the Whistledown reveal, because we were robbed of Ruth Gemmell's wonderful acting for that scene. I also want to know what was in that letter. I also would have liked to see Violet helping out a little more for Colin and Penelope, but I understand why she brought in Kate and Anthony to help him out.i would have loved more bonding scenes between Penelope and Violet and also Penelope and Agatha, but I was just glad we got the small crumbs of those relationships that we did. Three things I loved, when The Queen told everyone who was not a Bridgerton to leave, Agatha stayed right there and the Queen did not dare question her. And Anthony being overprotective over Violet and Kate telling him to chill. I do wanna see his reaction if we get Violet and Marcus seriously courting through. And the rest of her kids reactions to cluing onto Marcus was basically good for her, which I was very happy about and felt really healthy for their family dynamic.

I could talk about these three actors and these plot lines until the sun burns up, but that'll do for now

[bots-and-cons]

Hello! This was my first time asking someone to write something and uhhh... honestly I'm pretty shy when it comes to asking so I hope you don't mind me as anon and I'm not bothering you... Q////Q. Can you please write something about Soundwave and Shockwave when they see their S/O had two stars (like Oshi no Ko (?)) and they turned into black whenever they feel unhappy, angry, sad or other intense negative feelings? I would love if the reader is female, and fluff would do! (I honestly dislike lemons/blgl so-) *insert unknown cringe noises* Thank you so much, you can ignore this if you don't like the idea!

A/N: No worries, you're not bothering me. I assume you mean the eye thing that’s going on in Oshi no Ko? That’s the only star thing I can think of at least. I haven’t seen Oshi no Ko, nor have I read the manga, but you gave a good enough description for me to work with. I decided to do HCs, since that’s easier, not particularly fluffy though

~Shockwave~

•Shockwave noticed that your eyes are a bit of an anomaly compared to other humans

•He’s only really seen humans up close on video, but he can clearly tell your eyes are different

•You have star shaped pupils and your eyes are usually a very bright blue, a bit unnaturally bright even

•Shockwave has also noticed your eyes seem to change to different shades of blue depending on your emotions

•He wasn’t really sure about it at first, so he decided to test it

•He upset you on purpose, to see if your eyes really did darken when you scared

•So he scared you, quite badly to be honest, and you were of course upset with him

•You were so upset your eyes turned totally black and even when he was done with scaring you, you still wouldn’t talk to him

•Shockwave of course explained that this was a test and there was no reason for you to be upset anymore

•But he really scared you, so you couldn’t just get over it like that

•Shockwave doesn’t understand why you can’t just be rational about it, it was an experiment, he didn’t mean any harm

•Just because someone doesn’t mean any harm, doesn’t mean they don’t cause it though

•So he realizes he has to apologize and make it up to you

•Shockwave isn’t good at apologies, mostly because he never does it, because he always feels he’s right

•He does apologize and he notices your eyes start to brighten as he comforts you

•Which is more proof of his hypothesis

•He realizes that was probably the route he should’ve taken in the first place, making you happier to see if your eyes reacted to that

~Soundwave~

•Soundwave thinks your eyes are beautiful, and he thinks the fact that they change shade is interesting

•He has tested how it works by showing you sad videos or something like that

•He always comforts you after though, and you don’t even know he was testing you

•Soundwave loves seeing your eyes light up whenever he does something nice for you

•He can very quickly tell if your eyes change even a shade and what that means for your emotional state

•It’s a very handy thing to be honest, he doesn’t have to guess, and he learned the meanings quite quickly

•Certain shades mean different things and if your eyes go black, he knows either he really messed up or you’re super upset, or both

•It doesn’t happen often, but it has happened a couple of times due to reasons that aren’t because of either of you

•Soundwave hates seeing your eyes go black, because he knows how much pain you must be in for that to happen

•But that moment when he comforts you and your eyes start to lighten, is so rewarding

[cosmos-coma]

heyy i was wondering if you could write the winter soldier x reader? im obsessed with him

i just want something fluffy with him cause im obsessed with him having a soft side for the reader😭😭

Winter soldier fluff HCS

Ahh, sorry! I know I got this SO long ago and I feel bad about this being in my inbox all the time, AND I’ve been struggling to think of a plot for this, so I hope you don’t mind some fuffy Headcannons!

Bucky Masterlist

The winter soldier Is not a man of many words, especially if he can help it.

Instead he prefers to use actions to let you know what he means; Hooking his fingers with yours and tugging you that much closer when he wants to hold you or touching the small of your back when he just wants to be close (his footsteps are always so quiet)

When you first got together he wasn’t actually all that touchy- I mean he had spent decades under other people’s control, doing everything asked of him and getting nothing in return. He doesn’t really understand the concept that that things (especially things he does) can be for his own joy.

So in the Beginning it’s mostly you initiating the touches, just little ones to start- the brushing of fingers and leaning on one another- the last thing you wanted to do was overwhelm him.

You assure him it’s okay to reach out and request you, but It still takes him a little while to get comfortable with it, but once he is he barely wants to let go.

Occasionally he will use words though, a simple “please..?” Low and rough, barely above a whisper, but you hear it loud and clear. It usually comes at the end of particularly rough days, when his own mind seem to degrade and distance himself from everyone and everything… he knows you’re the only one who can bring him back. You never waste a second falling into your place beside him.

On your bad days, he seems to know and understand your feelings in no time. His trained eyes see the furrow in your brow that you didn’t know you were holding, the clench of your jaw you hadn’t felt, or the way you set your keys down just a touch harder than normal.

I should say- he’s not adverse to talking and using his words, he’s just more often a quiet man.

He’ll tug you toward him, away from the stressful loop running in your mind, away from the world outside and pull you close against his chest. His arms fall easily around you, his hand finding your hair instantly.

“Who do I need to get rid of” he’d ask.

It never failed to made you laugh, your chuckle bubbling up from deep in your chest.

The Winter Solider didn’t understand; He was being completely serious, but it made you laugh so he just never stopped asking it. Every time you came home upset or sad he’d ask again. You’d always give a laugh, or at the very least an amused huff, and assure him no one had to die because of your shitty day.

Part of him is waiting for the day he can actually do something about it- your bad days - but for now he’s just happy he can still put a smile on your lips.

[crimeronan]

hunter getting the thought of "camila knows too much about basilisks.." and instead of hitting the obvious "so shes met one" he VEERS into "CAMILA IS A BASILISK PRETENDING TO BE LUZ'S MOTHER WHO PLANS TO USE LUZ'S POSITION OF POWER TO GET A STEADY STREAM OF MAGIC. THE ONLY REASON ME AND LUZ HAVENT BEEN HARMED IS BECAUSE WE ARE MAGICLESS"

and camila. does Not know what to say when shes confronted with this idea. considering telling the truth is Worse.

I HAD THIS THOUGHT TOO. that after clocking that "camila" Fucking Knows About Basilisks, hunter's immediate reaction is just "luz. hang up. hang up the phone right now. luz that's not your mom Hang Up The Phone"

which is. a fucking terrifying thing to say! particularly to someone desperately seeking reassurance from said mom!

and then when luz is like "....what???" hunter starts asking camila really specific questions about things she's said in the past or things they've talked about in private and.... camila can answer them all. with perfect accuracy.

except this too is Fucking Terrifying for hunter. because instead of assuming she's met a basilisk, he is indeed like. she's been a basilisk the entire fucking time?? THE ENTIRE FUCKING TIME????

and then he's like. luz i can explain everything but you have to hang up you Have to stop talking to her. luz Please something is So So So Wrong

and like.... luz does trust hunter. luz trusts him unequivocally. luz KNOWS that hunter knows things that luz herself doesn't, she knows that he often clocks dangerous situations and threats that she's oblivious to. ORDINARILY she would obey unquestioningly. even when she's as upset and confused as she is now.

but. there's a dying basilisk here. she's conscious enough for luz to know she's sentient. and luz doesn't know how to help. and luz didn't know how to help the grimwalker in the basement either.

so she just straight-up asks camila: can you save this woman's life?? can you save her if you come here?? & camila is like baby i'll try. i promise i'll try. i'll do whatever i can, i don't want anyone getting hurt

& luz is like.

....okay.

then you should still come.